on him. That’s why it’s important to pinpoint where each suspect was late on Friday.”
Sam took a deep breath. “It’s a pretty horrible way to kill someone.”
“Every way is horrible, but I think I know what you mean.”
“To me it shows hatred, careful calculation, and monstrous premeditation.”
“Not to mention some knowledge of science, of plants and chemicals.”
The clean, polished water tumbler and the tall glasses on the desk reminded Sam of something.
“Eddie told us there were bar chits. Do they give some indication of what Linton drank when?”
“They do. He made two separate visits to the main bar. The first was just before nine o’clock — that’s when he had drinks with his wife. But if she had dropped something in his glass then, it would have taken effect well before midnight. He’d told her he was going to bed early, but there’s another chit from about 11:35. That would fit the time of death perfectly. So far we can’t find anyone, not even a waiter, who remembers seeing Linton around that late … Shall we get out of here and go see Jane Linton?”
“Definitely.”
On the elevator, Paul had a question. “So now that you’re into a murder investigation again, what do you think?”
Sam considered. “You know I never did much on that Gatineau schoolteacher thing you solved. This is a little different. For one thing, it looks pretty complicated. Not some lowlife thug gunning down a couple of retirees.”
“I agree.”
“And I suspect there’s probably some sleazy stuff in the background here — and maybe some politics — so I should feel right at home.”
Paul laughed. “You said it, Sam, I didn’t.”
“I needed a break from the creepy Rockcliffe crowd, and the endless marital backstabbing. I’m a bit tired of trailing horny wives to condos in the west end and motels over in Hull.”
“It’s the wives you chase, then?” Paul asked, with a wink.
“The wives are easier to spy on. They do what their lovers want, and the lovers don’t give a damn about precautions. Most of the wives want to get caught in the end. The husbands are much more careful.”
“The wives get tired of the game?”
“Usually. It starts because they’re bored with their husbands and in search of a little romance. They meet some charming operator who tells them they have beautiful eyes, or a beautiful something else, and they get infatuated. The new guy has more muscles, more brains, or more money than Poppa. They always have something the husband doesn’t. Or else he’s just so kind, so considerate, he understands them. So the wives think they’ve found a new heaven. But romance wears thin very quickly. Most wives give the show away in the end.”
“Or the husbands catch on.”
Sam laughed. “The husbands! Good God! Most of them wouldn’t catch on if their wives did it upstairs while they were having breakfast. They’d be too busy feeding their faces and complaining about the coffee.”
They came out of the elevator and walked some way down the hall, stopping at room 1430. Paul knocked on the door.
“You’re as cynical as most of us Québécois, Sam. Must be your Montcalm ancestry.”
“I’m only cynical about sex and politics — and that’s based strictly on experience.”
Paul nodded. The door of 1430 swung open and a tall woman greeted them. She had a freckled face, broad shoulders, dark red hair in bangs, and very bright blue eyes. She wore a green polo shirt and white chino slacks.
“You’re the policemen? Yes, I can see you are. I’ve already talked to a lieutenant. A nice man. God, this is terrible! Come in.”
“Inspector Berthelet of the homicide branch,” Paul explained, showing his credentials. “This is Mr. Montcalm, a detective from Ottawa who’s working with me.”
“Ottawa?” the woman said. “I’m going down there in a few days. There’s a board meeting — everything in chaos. It’s a godawful nightmare. I still can’t believe it. Can I order you gentlemen something to drink?”
“No, thank you. This won’t take long. Mr. Montcalm and I just wanted to ask you a few more questions.”
Jane Linton waved them into chairs. Fifty something, she must once have been attractive, Sam thought, but she had put on too much weight, and despite her expensive casual clothes, she looked outdated, an ex-hippy, a granola girl, for whom the skimmed milk had turned slightly sour.
“I tried to give that lieutenant clear information,” she told them. “I hope he got it straight. I’m still in a state of shock over what happened to Charlie.”
“I’m sorry to have to run through this again,” Paul said. “But as I understand it, you learned of your husband’s death on Saturday morning. You’d seen him the previous night and he went to his room at about nine o’clock. What did you do after that, Mrs. Linton?”
“What did I do? Well, I didn’t want to go to that dreadful party they had. I couldn’t stand spending time with the Ballards. I had a couple of drinks and went to my own room.”
“You and your husband have been divorced for a few years. Why did you come up here from Toronto — that’s where you live, I believe?”
“Yes. Didn’t that lieutenant fill you in? I’m here because I was and still am vitally involved in the Arbor Vitae Corporation. Charlie and I may not have been very good marriage partners but we agreed completely about Arbor Vitae. We were determined not to let it be used to destroy or radically modify the environment. Unlike Bobbie Ballard and his gang, we didn’t want the big U.S. corporations to take over the process and make millions. As Canadians, we had some notion of public responsibility. On the other hand, the protestors worried us. We thought that Native artist fellow was a bit crazy, a publicity seeker. Why, he never even came to us to talk about our plans for the company! Just started making trouble and scaring the hell out of some of our scientists. I just hope he didn’t really kill poor Charlie. That would set the Native cause back a few years.”
Sam leaned forward. “Do you have any reason to think Daniel Summerways might have killed your husband, Mrs. Linton?”
“No, of course not. He didn’t even know him. Unless he really is an environment nut.”
“Last Friday night, in the bar — what did you and your husband talk about?”
“Let me see, what did I tell that lieutenant?” She smiled at them. “I wouldn’t want to contradict myself, you know.”
“People always contradict themselves,” Sam said. “Life contradicts itself. Just relax and tell us what you remember.”
She cast him a grateful look. He felt sympathy for her, but he doubted that was the kind of thing she would have wanted. She seemed too tough, too strong-minded in her vulnerability; she wore her L.L. Bean rig as if it were J. Crew, and likely never unlearned her
