of the shack until the police arrived. Needless to say, I didn’t dare tell him that their suspect had come to my place after his escape. “But you should already know this. I left my statement yesterday at the Migiskan police station.”
He made no indication as to whether he’d read it or not. “You have still not told me why you are returning.”
“To look for a bottle of scotch.”
“What bottle of scotch?”
“The one Chantal and John-Joe were drinking from.”
“This is the first I learn of this. How do you know?” I hesitated, fearing his response if I told him the entire truth. So deciding that half the truth would do, I recounted my conversation with John-Joe, but left the impression it had taken place in this hut and not at Three Deer Point.
“You are good friends with this John-Joe, eh?” I acknowledged that I knew him. “How do I know that this is not something you invent to help your friend? Perhaps you have helped your friend in other ways?”
“What are you talking about?” I shot back a little too quickly, fearful he somehow knew about last night.
He gave me a thoughtful look. “You tell me, madame. I find it curious that you are so well informed about what took place at the time of this murder.”
“John-Joe told me.” I paused. “While we waited for the police to arrive.” Not exactly a lie. John-Joe had ended up back in police custody.
The sergeant remained silent. His cold eyes bored into mine, while the edges of his lips curled in a knowing smile.
I shuffled my feet, unsure of what more I could say. Did he want me to admit that I’d hidden the fugitive? Then it hit me. “Are you suggesting I had something to do with Chantal’s death?”
He shrugged his shoulders and repeated his mantra. “You tell me, madame.”
Appalled by the twist this had taken, I kept my mouth shut.
“How well did you know this young woman?”
“I hardly knew her.”
“Ah…so you admit you knew her.”
“Of course, why wouldn’t I?”
He stepped back from the door. “Come inside. I want you to tell me about your relationship with Chantal Bergeron.”
Worried I could dig myself into a deeper hole, I hesitated. Then I saw the smug glint in the cop’s hooded eyes and knew that if I refused, I might find myself occupying the cell next to John-Joe. So displaying a nonchalance I didn’t feel, I entered the shack and walked over to where I’d sat yesterday with John-Joe, at the small table by the cracked window, while he removed what I now realized was probably a form of protective clothing for forensic investigations. I proceeded to answer his questions.
My brief acquaintance with the murder victim triggered no interest until he reached the evening of her death. When the sergeant found out I’d been no more than three or four kilometres away as the crow flies, he sat upright.
“And you say you have no one to provide you with an alibi for this five or six hour period other than Yvette Gagnon. And she was unconscious at the time, correct?” he said.
“Yes, but Chief Eric Odjik rescued us about seven o’clock or so. He can prove I was there.”
He pursed his lips as if he didn’t quite believe me but wrote it down anyway.
“Oh, yes. And Pierre came across us. Not sure of the exact time. Around five. 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
