He might be a good cook, but he sure couldn’t make coffee. I waited for Eric. Only the rain tapping against the pane broke the silence.
Finally, he turned back to me. “There might be a motive.” He paused.
Knowing this was difficult for Eric, I said nothing.
“I don’t think it’s enough to kill someone for, but who knows. Tommy’s been away at school for the last ten years . . . Maybe he’s not the same person who grew up here.”
He shook his head sadly and continued, “Marie came to me a little over a month ago, upset over Tommy. She was worried he’d gotten involved in some shady dealings. He was coming and going at odd hours. Refused to tell her what he was up to. And he had money. Gave her a thousand dollars, which she refused to accept because he wouldn’t tell her its source. I gather they had quite a fight over that.”
Remembering Marie’s words of concern a few days before she died, I nodded. “Yeah, she told me something about it too.”
“Christ, if he’s working for CanacGold, I’ll kill the bastard.”
“Maybe Marie found out?” I suggested. “And challenged him. Maybe she threatened to tell you, and he tried to stop her?”
“He does have a temper, just like his father. But this doesn’t explain Louis’s death.”
“Maybe Louis discovered the killing?”
“Christ. This will tear my people apart.”
I sat for a few minutes more, waiting for Eric to continue, and when he didn’t, I asked, “So where do we go from here?”
“I’ll talk to Tommy.”
“Not the police?”
“Not yet, I want to give him a chance to explain. Could be we’ve read this all wrong.”
“You may be too late. He may have already fled.” And I explained about Tommy’s empty house.
“Possibly, but leave this to me,” he said, getting out of his chair.
After rinsing off his dirty plate, he grabbed his motorcycle helmet and moved towards the kitchen door. I followed, debating if I shouldn’t go to the police myself.
As if reading my thoughts, Eric said, “Look Meg, I know you’re right in wanting to go to the police, but I guess I’m still clinging to the hope Tommy didn’t do it. And I suppose what’s swaying me is his mother’s amulet.”
“How so?”
“It’s missing, wasn’t on her body. And it was Tommy who told me about it. He was quite upset. Wanted to bury it with his mother.”
“How does this help Tommy?”
“She always wore it.”
“Like her red dream scarf?”
He nodded. “The fact the amulet wasn’t on her body means it was probably taken at the time of her death.”
“I can confirm she had it shortly before she died,” I added and told him about Marie’s visit with Dorothy the day she disappeared, when she almost revealed its contents to Dorothy.
“Then her killer took it,” he said. “Now supposing you’re the killer. Would you make a big fuss about it being missing, especially when no one else had noticed?”
“Maybe not, unless you’re devious enough to use this as a means of diverting attention away from yourself,” I countered.
“Yeah, maybe. To tell you the truth, I’ve been puzzling over why someone would steal it. Sure it has sacred value, but only for Marie.”
Outside, the rain had stopped. A few rays of sun were trying to break through the dense cloud. Securing the helmet on his head, Eric walked over to his motorcycle.
“I’ll call you as soon as I talk to Tommy,” he said. “It might take a while to catch up to him, so please, don’t get impatient and go to the police before I call, okay?”
I reluctantly agreed but gave him until lunchtime. If he didn’t contact me by then, I would notify Decontie. No telling how desperate Marie’s son might become when finally cornered.
“Be careful,” I said.
Eric nodded grimly and kicked his Harley into life.
THIRTY-FOUR
The second I placed my key in the front door, the phone started ringing. Convinced it was Eric calling to say he’d already found Tommy, I flung open the door and managed to reach the phone before the messaging system kicked in.
But instead of Eric’s deep resonant voice, I heard a high pitched one with a slight lisp, which asked, “Miss Margaret Harris?”
“Who’s calling please?”
“Wilson McLeod here. Sorry to bother you, but I have an important matter I’d like to discuss.”
The name sounded familiar. “Excuse me, but do I know you?”
“Sorry, my apologies for not introducing myself. I’m the trustee for the Watson property. François Gauthier gave me your phone number.”
Of course, William J. Watson’s lawyer. But, why would he be calling me?
“Miss Harris, I’d like to ask you a question, if you don’t mind?”
“Go ahead.”
“Are you related to a Miss Agatha Harris, formerly of Three Deer Point?”
Not another one of Aunt Aggie’s surprises. “What’s this about?” I asked.
“Please answer my question. Are you Miss Agatha Harris’s beneficiary?”
“Of course, it’s why I’m living here. I’m her great-niece and her heir. Why do you want to know?”
“Do you have documentation to substantiate that?”
“What kind?”
“Notarized copies of your aunt’s will, the deed to Three Deer Point and of course your own identity papers.”
What’s going on? Is this another devious ploy of Gareth’s to get something from me? “Sorry, I won’t give you anything until I am satisfied you are Wilson McLeod.”
“My apologies. I should explain. I have an envelope that was given to my father by the late Miss Agatha Harris a number of years ago. Her instructions were to pass it to the heir of her Three Deer Point property. Before I can give this to you, I am required to establish your legitimacy as her heir.”
“Why didn’t you contact me when she died ten years ago?
“Her instructions were very precise. We were to hand over this envelope only
