Meg Harris Mysteries 6-Book Bundle. R.J. Harlick
He went for help.”
“Pierre?”
“Fournier, Chantal’s friend.” And I told him the little I knew about Pierre Fournier. Although I hadn’t intended to, his penetrating glare made me feel so guilty that I ended up telling him about the envelope of money Yvette had found, the one Chantal was supposed to have stolen.
And as I said these last words, I suddenly realized this could be a motive for murder. “Maybe you should be checking Pierre out.”
He wrote something in his notebook, then continued, “You mention this bottle of scotch. Why do you think it is here? I have found nothing.”
Here goes, I thought. Might as well give him my theory. “I noticed tracks leading to the outhouse. They weren’t made by any of us, so it must have been the guy on the snowshoes. Can you think of a better place to hide evidence?”
The cop grimaced. “Okay. We investigate.” On our way, the officer stopped by his skidoo to pickup a long-handled set of pincers. When he unlatched the privy door, the ammonia smell almost knocked me over. Thankfully, the interior was too narrow for both of us, so while I breathed in clean, frosty air a discreet distance away, he searched the insides of the hole with a flashlight.
“You are correct, madame,” he called out in a nasal voice. I heard some grunts, the clink of metal against glass and a very loud “Sacrebleu!” At least the hole’s contents are frozen, I thought to myself. Finally, he emerged holding the neck of a bottle with latex-gloved fingers.
“Is this the bottle?” he asked. “I’ve no idea. John-Joe said Chantal’s friend had given them good scotch, and this label says Highland Park twelveyear-old single malt.” Wouldn’t you know it, I thought to myself, as I recognized Aunt Aggie’s favourite. “Pretty pricy. I doubt John-Joe could afford this.”
He placed the bottle in a large plastic bag. “I will have the lab check this over. Now, madame, direct me to your house to obtain the envelope you say belongs to this man Pierre.”
By the time I reached home on my skis, he was there, standing beside his truck, his covered skidoo loaded into the back. The trampled ground under his feet clearly showed how long he’d been waiting. With a curt nod, he tramped up the stairs practically on my heels and into the house. Ignoring the barking Sergei, he removed his boots and followed me into the kitchen, where I passed him Pierre’s brown envelope. I also gave him Pierre’s phone number and told him about my conversation with Thérèse. Although he didn’t believe Pierre would come after the money, he told me to call Sergeant LaFramboise should Pierre show up. In answer to my question, he said they would not be releasing John-Joe, not until they were convinced of his innocence.
He also cautioned me not to go anywhere in case they wanted to question me further.
“Does this mean you still think I’m a suspect?” I asked.
“You tell me, madame,” was his reply, and he winked.
sixteen
Three nights later, I was scrutinizing my wardrobe, trying to come up with a fitting outfit for my date with Yves, when the doorbell rang. A desperate glance at the clock told me he was early, a half hour early. I ran my fingers through my tangled hair in a hopeless attempt to make it look anything other than wet. On the plus side, I was at least sweet-smelling and clean and not aromatically dirty, as I had been fifteen minutes earlier after a day spent doing household chores.
Remembering a movie in which some young thing found herself surprised in a similar situation, I wrapped a fluffy white towel around my head, being careful to leave out a few sexy tendrils of red hair and hastily added lipstick and mascara. I changed my grubby bathrobe for the yet-to-be-worn silk kimono Mother had given me after the dissolution of my marriage— she’d assumed I needed all the help I could get to capture another man—and sashayed as elegantly as I could to the front door.
I tightened the robe around my bulges to ensure nothing was showing that wasn’t supposed to, planted a welcoming smile on my face and opened the door. But instead of Yves’s debonair leanness, Eric’s burly height stood before me, which shouldn’t have surprised me, since Sergei stood beside me wagging his tail and not barking as he would have with Yves, a stranger.
“I see you are expecting me.” He chuckled and started to step inside.
“You can’t come in,” I said, narrowing the door opening until only my face peered out. I checked to make sure Yves’s Mercedes wasn’t pulling up beside Eric’s muddy Jeep.
As if he hadn’t heard, Eric continued, “I’ve come to take up your offer of dinner. In fact, I’ve brought it with me.” He held up a plastic bag. “Venison steaks, new potatoes and baby carrots.”
“The offer of dinner was rescinded four nights ago. Now if you don’t mind, I’m busy.” I tried to close the door, but Eric stopped it with his boot.
His rugged face projected hurt confusion. “Hey, what’s eating you?”
“You have to ask me?”
“Is it because of the other night? Is that why you’re mad at me?”
With that insipid female voice still loud in my ear, I repeated the forensic cop’s mantra, “You tell me.”
“But I thought you understood that I had this previous engagement.”
His pretend innocence made me see red. I thrust the door against his foot. It barely made a dent in his thick-soled Sorels.
“Is this man disturbing you, Meg?” came a quiet voice from behind Eric, who wheeled around to confront Yves’s concerned face. His hand held a single long-stem red rose.
I felt the heat of a blush creep over my face. “No, he was just going,” I said, opening the door wider, causing the dog to rush out in a barking frenzy. “Glad to see you, Yves. As you can see, I’m not quite ready, but please come in while I make myself beautiful.”
Too embarrassed to look Eric directly in the eye, I made some hasty introductions, then, with a murmured goodbye, I escaped inside, but not before seeing Eric, ever the gentleman, shake Yves’s hand. Then his heavy tread retreated down the verandah stairs. Served him right. Now he knew he wasn’t the only game around here.
Sergei continued barking. I looked back to see Yves standing rigid at the doorstep, his face fixed in fear.
“Sorry, I forgot you’re not keen on dogs.” I grabbed the dog’s collar and pulled him inside.
Yves smiled limply, hesitated for a second, then, bracing his shoulders, he followed me inside. I continued on with the dog down the long hall to the kitchen, where I bribed him with a cookie to keep him quiet and returned to my date.
“Merci,” he said and offered me the rose. “Please accept this small token of summer that pales in comparison to your own sunny beauty.”
I felt my face redden even more. Although the compliment was outrageous, I could get used to this kind of treatment. Only once before had a man complimented me with roses and that, as I later learned, was only because my ex-husband had suffered an unusual bout of the guilts over one of his many love affairs. As for Eric, food was the only thing he ever brought. Mind you, he invariably made some delicious concoction from the ingredients.
“This man, Eric, is a good friend, non?” Yves asked with a bemused smile on his lips.
“No,” I replied, while wondering why I felt compelled to lie. Perhaps there was something in Yves’s focussed gaze that told me he wouldn’t like a positive answer.
Suggesting he make himself comfortable in the living room, I rushed back upstairs to get dressed.
* * *
Although the Auberge du Somerset didn’t come close to meeting Montreal’s fine dining standards, it was the best to be found within the forests of this forgotten corner of the Outaouais. Mind you, since