could open it. But say it contained something personal for Pierre, something that had absolutely nothing to do with Chantal or her death? What would I do then? Hand it over with profuse apologies about invading his privacy?
My dilemma was solved by an unexpected phone call.
“What ya want?” said a gum-cracking female voice in French. Momentarily confused, I said in English, “Who’s this?” then repeated the question again in French.
“Thérèse. Ya left a message,” she replied in English with barely a trace of a accent other than the slight twang of an Ottawa Valley native.
Thérèse? I didn’t know any Thérèse, then I suddenly remembered. “Thanks for calling back. I want to speak with Pierre Fournier. Is he there?”
“What do ya want ’im for?” Good. John-Joe hadn’t given me the wrong number. I looked at the envelope in my hand. “I have something for him.”
“What?”
“An envelope, small brown one.”
“What ya doing with that?”
“Someone gave it to me.”
“That bitch?”
“Bitch” would never be a word to describe Yvette. “Not sure who you mean?”
“Chantal, that fancy-ass bitch. Is the money still there?”
“Is that what’s inside?”
“Yeah, Pierre’s money. Spoiled brat ran off with it, eh?”
This she punctuated with a particularly loud snap of her gum. The envelope did have the kind of solid feel that a wad of dollar bills would provide. “Is it a cheque or cash?”
“Cash. They don’t use cheques, eh?”
“Who’s they?” But she ignored my question. Instead, she said, “Pierre wants it real bad. Tell me where ya live, and I’ll come get it.” There was no way I was going to pass this envelope of money into the hands of this cud-chewing broad. “Is Pierre there?” I asked.
“He wants his money. Just tell me where ya live, okay?”
I was beginning to wonder who needed the money more, Thérèse or Pierre. “I want to speak to Pierre. If he’s not in, have him call me.”
She didn’t even bother to reply, just cracked her gum and banged the phone down, leaving me convinced she had no intention of passing the message on to him. I would have to call back later in the hope of having the man himself answer the phone.
Although the envelope was now linked to Chantal, I wasn’t sure if I should hand it over to the police. There was no evidence that it was in any way connected to her murder, other than Yvette’s implied association, and I saw it as another reason to speak with Pierre. I tucked it away in a kitchen drawer until I could talk to him.
That left me wondering what more I could do to carry out my promise to John-Joe. I could try to find the owner of the bear paw snowshoes with the red strap. But surely the police would be pursuing that angle. Besides, I didn’t have the nerve to knock on people’s doors and ask to see their snowshoes. Nor did I know what to do if I found them, for I could be facing Chantal’s murderer.
That led me to the next possible piece of evidence, the missing scotch bottle. It must point to her killer. But I doubted, despite Tommy’s insistence, that the police would put much effort into looking for it, so convinced were they of John-Joe’s guilt. That meant it was up to me to find it.
Unfortunately, if the killer had taken it with him, it would probably never be found. But if this mysterious snowshoer was indeed the murderer returning to cover his tracks, the sudden arrival of Eric and myself might have forced him to discard it quickly out of fear of being caught with it in his possession. On the off chance that this guy had thrown the bottle near the cabin, I decided to check it out. I gulped down a quick lunch and changed into my ski clothes. After locking the sorrowful-looking dog in the house—I didn’t want him trampling on potential evidence—I clamped on my skis and headed out. Within seconds, I was schussing through the snow on my way to the start of the Migiskan Marathon Trail, the only way I knew to get to John-Joe’s hunting camp.
The trail, firmly packed by the repeated passage of police skidoos, was in almost as good condition as it would be when the marathon finally took place in February. I slid smoothly over the fast snow, down long loping slopes, up arched hills, over buried marshes and through shrouded woods. If it weren’t for worry over proving John-Joe’s innocence, I would’ve enjoyed the near perfect ski on a near perfect winter day. Bright sun, cold crisp air, infinite blue sky. I encountered no one, heard nothing, not even the angry squawks of a blue jay announcing my intrusion.
I stopped when I reached the place where the snowmobile carrying John-Joe had tumbled off the trail to the open water of a stream about five metres below. Deep ruts gouged the snow where the heavy machine had churned back up the steep slope and onto the trail. Next to the creek, snow had been shoved aside as if the police had believed their prisoner lay buried under its depths. Elsewhere, the white expanse was as untouched as the moment the flakes had landed. Little wonder the police hadn’t immediately realized their suspect had escaped.
An hour and a half later, I turned onto the narrow path leading to John-Joe’s camp. As I approached the narrow valley where his log shack poked through the drifts of snow, my eyes rested on a place just beyond it, where I’d seen tracks the day before. The perfect hiding spot, I thought.
My excitement, however, immediately turned to annoyance at the sight of an empty skidoo with a large metal box strapped onto it. The box was marked with what looked to be the top part of the SQ insignia. The rest was encrusted with snow. I almost turned around, not sure if I wanted to encounter LaFramboise or his men. But the missing bottle could be crucial evidence in pointing the finger away from John-Joe, so I ducked under the yellow tape barring access to the cabin and tramped up the stairs to the door.
The door swung open. But instead of a brown uniformed SQ cop, a snowman with an incongruous black face filled the open doorway. His full body suit, made of what looked to be white paper, rustled with his movement. I debated making a hasty retreat.
“Pourqoui vous êtes ici, madame?” The snowman shoved his hood further back from his face, revealing an expansive bald pate above his querying black eyes.
“Peut-être il faut que je—” I gave up, unable to wrap my mind around the French. I continued in English, “Perhaps I should be the one asking why you are here.”
“I have more reason than you, madame,” he replied in a far better English than my French. He held up his police badge. “Sergeant Jacques-Louis Lespinasse with the Forensic Investigation Unit of the Surêté du Québec. Your name, please.”
Without moving from the doorway, he wrote down my name, address and my phone number, then said in the same crisp, unyielding manner, “You live in this province, madame, and you do not speak French?”
“I’m learning,” I said, feeling somewhat embarrassed, for he did have a point. “Just not quite there yet. Besides, I thought you were supposed to serve us in both official languages.”
“You forget, madame, there is only one official language in Quebec. Now, you will tell me why you
