before you arrived.”
“Not quite, I saw you going into the barn.”
He shot me a startled look, then laughed. “My sisters play games. I was told that you were coming to visit Yvette in the afternoon. Can you forgive me?” His hand reached across the linen tablecloth to mine.
“Not your fault.” I clasped his hand and squeezed back. Unlike my hand, which had become toughened from too much outdoor work, his was soft and smooth. His fingers, like his physique, slender and elegant.
“You should’ve been a musician,” I said. “You have the hands.”
He swirled the straw-coloured wine in his glass and laughed again. “You know my secret. Please do not tell my father. It is bad enough that I ran off to the city to become a financier. If he knew I wanted to be a musician, he would make the priest say a Requiem Mass for me.”
“Seriously?”
“I exaggerate a little, but Papa would be happier if I am a farmer like him.”
“But, he doesn’t seem to hesitate accepting your money.”
He raised his eyebrows in puzzlement. “I do not understand.”
“I’m talking about the modern kitchen and that entertainment centre. I think you bought those.”
“The kitchen, yes. I bought it for Yvette.”
What a generous brother, I thought. Which was more than I could say about the father.
“But Papa bought the big television for himself. I’m afraid he had a passion for the TV show that all Quebec watched, La Petite Vie. Sadly it is no more, but he still has his Saturday Night Hockey with Les Canadiens.”
“I’m surprised. I didn’t think farming in this cold rocky country was very profitable.”
“He earns enough. His year-round market garden produces a good income.”
“Yes, I’ve enjoyed the wonderful vegetables that Yvette has brought me.”
“And of course he has his timber lots.” He sipped his wine and smiled. “Ambrosia, the nectar of the gods.”
I joined him in savouring the fine white Burgundy. Its rich citrus taste seemed to explode in my mouth.
He took another sip. “I was most distressed to learn of the death of Chantal Bergeron. Such a tragedy, such a beautiful young woman. Her life, poof, no more…” He swirled his wine again, his gaze lost to introspection. Then he shook himself and returned to the present. “Her father is, how you say, distraught.”
“Yes, it must be difficult for him. Did you know her well?” “Non. We meet one, two times. A charming young woman, so full of life, joie de vivre, we say in French. But I know she caused her father problems. Although she was educated by the nuns, she was, as you English say, a bit wild. Many of her friends were not of the sort a father wants for his daughter.” He placed his glass on the table. “Is it true, what I read in the newspaper? The police have arrested a suspect, an Indian from the reserve.”
“John-Joe MacGregor. But he didn’t do it. It looks as if he was framed. Possibly by a friend of Chantal’s.” I tried the vegetable terrine that had just been placed in front of me. “Hmm, délicieux.”
“I see that my sister has taught you good French.” He laughed, then started into his terrine, but after a few bites, he laid down his fork.
“Oh, dear, you don’t like it?” I asked, trying to pretend I wasn’t scraping the last tangy morsel onto my fork.
“As you say, c’est délicieux, mais, I am not so hungry. But please tell me, why you believe this Indian was framed? I think the newspaper said Chantal was found in his cabin.”
“Yes, that’s true, but…” and I told him my theory about the discarded bottle of scotch.
“You say it is possible a friend of Chantal’s did this. Do you know who?”
“No. But there is mention of a possible boyfriend. Maybe he got jealous. After all, Chantal was having an affair with John-Joe. In fact, the two of them were in bed at the time of the murder.”
“Vraiment? I find it curious that you should know so much.”
“Easy, a friend and I and found the body, and I’ve talked with John-Joe.” I told him about the discovery but didn’t bother to mention that the friend was Eric.
“Such a dreadful thing to see. You must have also been very afraid finding this John-Joe with the dead girl.”
“No, he wasn’t with the body. He came back later while I was waiting for the police. And yes, at first I was frightened, but his actions convinced me he didn’t kill her. He’s really just a very scared young man who’s found himself in an impossible situation. That is why I am trying to help him.”
“You are very kind. But I think you should leave these matters to the police, non?”
“I would if I thought they’d look elsewhere other than directly at John-Joe for the murder. But they won’t without strong evidence to the contrary. That’s what I’m trying to do. Find proof that someone else either did it or had reason to and let the police take it from there.”
“Be careful, ma chère Marguerite. Interfering in police matters can be dangerous. I would not want to see you get hurt.” He reached for my hand again and squeezed it harder, as if to emphasize his concern. “Now let us eat our dinner. It is getting cold.” Yves turned his attention to the plate of salmon that lay waiting before him.
“Bon appétit,” he offered with a smile. “You will enjoy this.” Rather than diving in as a ravenous Eric usually did with lip smacking gusto, Yves sampled a small piece, chewed it thoughtfully, then frowned and declared it overdone. He hailed the waitress and asked her to provide salmon that was cooked à pointe, not like this shoe leather. Although my dish was partially eaten, he insisted mine be returned also.
“Why pay for perfection when it isn’t,” he said.
Reluctant to spoil our growing rapport, I didn’t disagree, even though my salmon had been perfectly acceptable.
Possibly he sensed my unease, for he said, “I am sorry. I am too hasty. I should not assume that your salmon was not to your taste.” This time he caressed my hand as one would a priceless piece of porcelain. “Please, can you forgive me?”
His touch ignited an electrical current that spread from my fingertips up my arm to the hair on the back of my neck. Worried I might make a fool of myself, I withdrew my hand and drank my wine instead.
“Tell me about Montreal,” I said. “Especially my favourite part, Old Montreal.”
“Ah… le vieux Montréal, a place for lovers, non?” he said, mirroring my own thoughts.
Then he recounted its delights, and he did it as if we were lovers wandering hand-in-hand along the narrow cobbled streets, glancing through store windows cluttered with antiques, sitting
