Читать книгу Meg Harris Mysteries 7-Book Bundle - R.J. Harlick - Страница 72

I fed the ravenous John-Joe, then stowed him safely in the vast sloped-roof attic still crammed with what remained of my great-aunt’s belongings. With him dragging and me directing, we positioned several of her ancient steamer trunks in an attempt to conceal the door to what was probably once a maid’s room in the time when Great-Grandpa Joe used this cottage as his summer retreat. Afraid to remove any of the mattresses from the downstairs beds in case the police did come looking, I concocted a bed from several very old feather comforters that had been stuffed into one of the trunks.

Unfortunately, the narrow, slanted-ceiling room was unheated. The frigid air, however, didn’t seem to bother John-Joe. Pulling his wool tuque down over his ears, he wrapped himself in several old Hudson’s Bay blankets and promptly fell asleep.

This left me with my next challenge, the disposal of his prison clothes. They appeared to be made from a type of rugged synthetic fabric that would either be difficult to burn or would leave an identifiable residue. That left me with no choice but to toss them anywhere but on my property. The snow might hide the incriminating clothes over the winter, but come spring thaw, they’d be fully revealed. So with a bulging plastic bag in hand, I hopped into my truck.

As I headed along the main road away from the Migiskan Reserve and Three Deer Point, searching for an isolated spot, I had a sudden thought. I’d use the clothing to point the police well away from this area. I’d drive the thirty-five kilometres to Somerset and make it appear as if he were hiding out somewhere in the town. And I knew just the spot.

I encountered no cars as I drove along Thérèse’s street, nor did I see any people. Everyone was barricaded inside against the extreme cold. Even Thérèse. Lights glowed from her apartment. Leaving the clothes behind her place would be too obvious, so I parked my truck close to the neighbouring church, and with a quick glance to make sure no one was watching, wandered around to the back with the plastic bag concealed under my down jacket. If someone did see me, they’d assume I was a very pregnant lady. Luck was with me. A large dumpster stood next to a back door, where the outside light just happened to be turned off.

After another quick glance around, I shook the orange clothes out of the plastic bag into the dumpster and quietly closed the lid. Likely the clothes would never be found, but if they were, then surely the police would put two and two together and look in Thérèse’s direction. Keep the heat on her, I thought. Maybe under intense interrogation she might reveal something incriminating about Pierre.

The drive home was uneventful, except for one minor incident. About ten kilometres out of Somerset, a police cruiser barrelled past me, going towards town. I prayed it wasn’t Sergeant LaFramboise, but if it were, he hadn’t recognized my rusted-out red truck.

John-Joe was still sound asleep when I arrived home. Everything was quiet. No sign that the police or anyone else had been by. After letting Sergei out for his evening walk, I locked the house up tightly, left the outside lights on and headed for bed. All this cloak and dagger activity had left me exhausted too.

* * *

Next morning the news on the radio told me what I already knew; an escaped prisoner of the Migiskan First Nations Reserve was still at large. The newscaster also said the fugitive was considered dangerous and should not be approached, which made me chuckle, considering John-Joe’s present comatose state.

I didn’t hear the announcer voice my subterfuge, that the escaped prisoner was believed to be hiding out in Somerset. Though to be honest, I was being overly optimistic. His prison clothes wouldn’t be found until the next garbage pickup, which would probably be later this week. Then again, they might never be found.

An anonymous tip, however, would certainly point LaFramboise in the appropriate direction, but I didn’t dare call from my own number or any other phone around here in case the call was traced. That meant another trip to a pay phone to Somerset was required. I decided to do this in the afternoon, once I was completely sure that no suspicions were being focused on Three Deer Point.

While John-Joe continued sleeping in the attic, I called Tommy at his office. He answered it almost immediately, but not before I heard the faint click of the call being forwarded to another number. In the background, I could hear people’s voices and a phone ringing.

“Where are you?”

“At the courthouse in Gatineau, waiting for my case to come up.” He then proceeded to ratchet the necessity for my ploy up several notches, by explaining that the police, having had little success in finding their fugitive within the inhabited part of the reserve, were planning to expand their search to the outlying bush. As an extra precaution, Chief Decontie had stationed guards at John-Joe’s hunting camp and a couple of other camps he was known to frequent. But more worrisome, the police intended to search the neighbouring areas. Tommy presented this last information more as a warning than a bald statement of fact, almost as if he knew the actual whereabouts of his client. All the more reason for the anonymous phone call.

I also told Tommy about Pierre’s planned cocaine delivery to John-Joe’s camp the day of the murder. However, in order to protect Tommy’s professional integrity, I didn’t reveal John Joe as the source of this information.

“Unfortunately, doesn’t look like he made it,” replied Tommy. “Police are saying the only fingerprints found at the crime scene are those of John-Joe and Chantal. As I keep telling you, unless real evidence is found to place this man Pierre at the scene, there’s not much I can do with this information.”

“But surely the fact he was supposed to be there is enough to raise a degree of doubt, or whatever you call it, in John-Joe’s defense?”

“Could. Depends on the credibility of the witness.” I groaned. A statement from the accused would hardly be believed. “But couldn’t you at least use this information to get the police to investigate Pierre’s movements for the day of the murder?”

“Yeah, I’ll let Decontie know. Maybe he can do some digging. He did pass on to me that the SQ are looking for this Pierre Fournier, but as I thought, it’s for drug-related offences.” A loud voice interrupted Tommy and was then cut-off by the receiver being muffled. “Look, my case is up next, but before I go, one other thing you should know,” Tommy continued. “Forensics has matched the blood found on the crime scene carving knife to that of the victim’s.”

“It still doesn’t mean John-Joe killed her. Remember my theory about someone cleaning up the place after the murder. It would explain the knife ending up in the kitchen drawer and the lack of Pierre’s fingerprints.”

“Meg, I don’t know how you can continue to believe John Joe innocent. I’m his lawyer and his friend, and I’m finding it hard to believe him. I tell you, I’m having such a difficult time coming up with any kind of a viable defense that I’m seriously considering going after a deal.”

“Don’t give up, not yet. Let’s see if Decontie can find a witness that places Pierre at or near John-Joe’s cabin.” I paused, wondering if I should say anything further, then decided Tommy would want to know his friend was safe. “By the way, just to let you know everything is under control.”

Tommy merely acknowledged this with a brief pause before saying goodbye.

As I placed the phone on the table, I too was beginning to wonder if John-Joe had been playing me for a fool. But no. He’d said he hadn’t killed Chantal, and I still believed him.

While I waited for John-Joe to wake up, I checked to confirm that no item of his had been forgotten in our haste to hide him last night. Lucky I did. His much larger Sorel boots stood neatly placed beside mine on the boot tray by the front door. I snatched them up, then double checked every room on both floors of the house.

With John-Joe’s boots in hand, I headed towards the attic and almost stumbled over Sergei, guarding the closed attic door. Whoops. Another indication of the escaped prisoner’s presence. It would be a challenge to convince the dog to ignore him. Ever-vigilant in guarding his territory, he would no doubt begin barking at the closed door the minute other strangers approached. Unfortunately for him, I would have to keep him locked up in some other room.

I quietly went up the attic stairs, tiptoed into John-Joe’s room, and finding him still asleep, deposited his boots and left, carefully securing all doors behind me. Taking the dog by the collar, I convinced him to come to the kitchen, where I shut him in with me while I did the laundry. But he wouldn’t relax. He’d lie still for a minute or two, then begin pacing in front of the door. Even dog biscuits failed to distract him. I’d have to come up with another solution should someone come to my house.

It was well after lunch by the time John-Joe finally awoke. As predicted, Sergei’s frenetic barking alerted me to the young man’s approach. However, once he’d given this stranger a good onceover sniff, he decided the man was a friendly and quieted down.

“Glad you had a good sleep,” I said. “But I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be wandering about the house. What if someone had been in the kitchen with me?”

I laid out a set of procedures that would hopefully prevent anyone from discovering his presence.

He could leave the attic only with my permission. To minimize accidental traces of his presence, his access would be limited to the kitchen and the bathroom. Whenever he left either room, he was to make sure nothing had been left behind. He was to return to the attic at the first hint of a visitor; the dog barking, the phone ringing, a car in the drive, etc. He would remain absolutely quiet until he got the all clear signal from me. Lastly, while I was out of the house, he was not to leave the attic.

With each new rule, I could sense his growing resistance. Finally, he said, “Worse than jail. I can’t even pee without your say-so.”

“Not at all. You can take one of my great-aunt’s chamber pots up with you to the attic.” From the pantry, I extracted an old porcelain pot with a design of baby blue flowers.

John-Joe screwed up his face. “Jeez. I ain’t no fairy. I’d rather pee in a bottle.”

So I passed him an empty pop bottle and tried not to smile as he glowered in disgust at the narrow opening.

“It’s past breakfast time, but I can still make you some eggs and bacon or even porridge, if you want,” I said, “or give you what I had for lunch, a grilled cheese sandwich.”

“Eggs and bacon are good. And if it’s okay, I’d like some porridge too. And then maybe a sandwich.” He grinned and punched his stomach. “It’s kinda empty.”

As I placed the copper kettle on the cookstove to boil up the water for the instant oatmeal—the only kind I dared make —I realized the fire needed stoking. “Help yourself to the coffee, while I get some more logs.”

A blast of frigid arctic air caught my breath as I opened the door to the back porch. “Sure is cold out here,” I shouted through the opening. “Lucky you aren’t camped out in the bush.”