know it doesn’t make sense. I tried to tell the police as much, but that damn LaFramboise is so focused on her being Louis’s killer that he’s convinced she’s trying to evade capture.”
“Come on, Eric. Do you believe she killed Louis?”
Eric got up from his chair and walked over to the window. He stood, his back to me, facing the distant shore of Whispers Island. “It doesn’t matter what I think.”
He continued looking out towards the island, then he turned around. “What matters is the evidence points in that direction. The bracelet, her being seen with Louis before he died and, of course, the fact she’s missing.”
“Maybe the killer shot her at the same time and hid her body. Anyone think of that?”
“Yeah, I had Decontie search the grounds around their place. He found nothing. Want some more coffee?” Without waiting for an answer, he returned to the table with the coffee pot in hand.
“Eric, can’t we assume that whoever killed Louis used a truck to dump those logs on top of his body? If so, then Marie couldn’t have done it. She doesn’t drive.”
“I had the same question. But that SQ SOB brushed it off by saying under stress anyone can do anything.”
“Where’s the damn truck, then? Find the truck, and you’ve found the murderer.”
“Yeah, that’s the most damning piece of evidence. The police found Louis’s pickup near the start of the trail to his camp. Still had some logs in the back, and worst of all, Marie’s fingerprints were all over it.”
“What would they expect? She’s in the damn thing as much as Louis,” I said in exasperation.
“I know it’s hard to accept. We all like Marie and have certainly sympathized with her over the years. But it’s not the first time one of my people has retaliated when pushed to the wall by an abusive relationship, and I know it won’t be the last.”
I sat back down on the chair feeling very deflated. If Eric was thinking Marie could have done it, what about others? “Is that what most people in the reserve think?”
Eric nodded.
I persisted. “But Louis wasn’t exactly your upstanding citizen. There’s got to be someone else who wanted him dead more than Marie?”
“Although quick with his fists, Louis was basically harmless. No one took him seriously,” Eric replied.
“Like Charlie Cardinal?”
“Meg, one thing you should realize. This isn’t the city. The only crime that ever happens around here is domestic. My people are basically good. They just sometimes have problems dealing with the tough conditions they live in.”
Maybe Eric was right. He knew his people. I didn’t. Still, he could also be too close to his people. Maybe his judgment in this instance was blinded by his desire to protect them. Maybe there really was a bad apple in the reserve.
“What’s Tommy saying?” I asked.
“Not much, he’s as shocked as the rest of us.”
“What happens if the police don’t find her? Can she survive for long alone in the bush?”
“For a while. My guess is she has Louis’s missing rifle, so she can hunt for food. Don’t worry, Meg, I’ll make sure Marie is okay.”
I started to ask how, but from the shuttered look on Eric’s face, I knew he wouldn’t answer. I got up to make more coffee.
We continued talking as the sun gradually filled the kitchen with healing warmth, while the pounding in my head slowly diminished to a dull ache. Eric, whose dirt threshold was obviously lower than mine, insisted on doing not only the breakfast dishes, but also the food-encrusted stack from the last few days. Embarrassed by my lax housekeeping habits, I insisted on doing what I thought was the worst job, the wash-up.
After he left, I went to bed. I figured an hour’s sleep would completely cure me, then I’d be fit to face Tommy with some as yet unanswered questions.
A couple of hours later, feeling somewhat more human, I turned my truck into the Whiteduck drive. Marie’s home looked as dismal as ever. The only brightness was the yellow security tape fluttering from several trees. I tried not to visualize Louis’s battered body as I drove past the firewood now neatly stacked at the side of the drive. At least the flies had gone.
My knock rang hollowly through the dark and silent shack. I knocked again and finally saw Tommy’s dishevelled figure approaching through the door’s tiny window. He was clad only in an old pair of jeans. Glowering at me, he opened the door a crack.
“What do you want?” he said rubbing his eyes.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you, but I want to know about your mother. And, Tommy, I’m sorry about your father.”
He pushed his thick black hair from his forehead and replied, “Yeah, well . . . it had to happen sometime, too bad this way.”
“You know the police think your mother did it.”
“I don’t know what to think.”
We stared uncertainly at each other until I asked, “Do you mind if I come in?”
Tommy looked back into the room, then opened the door a fraction wider. “Excuse the mess, I had some visitors.”
I pushed it open and followed him into the room.
He was right. It was worse than the mess that was growing exponentially at my place. Clothes and newspapers were strewn across the floor. The chesterfield, pushed onto its back, revealed a split in the underside where the stuffing squeezed out. Empty beer bottles littered the Arborite table.
“Wow, some party,” I said.
Tommy glared at me. “Party? I wish. Nope, someone broke in while I was gone.”
With my eye on the beer bottles, I decided not to challenge him and instead asked “Anything taken?”
“So far the only thing I’ve discovered is a broken window out back. I haven’t had a chance to check if anything was stolen. Though I did notice my great-grandparents’ picture is gone from top the TV. But it’s probably just buried somewhere under this mess.”
“What did the police say?”
“Nothing. I’m not going to involve them.”
“But don’t you want to find out who did it?”
“I’m sure it’s just kids from the rez high on something looking for a thrill. Who else would be dumb enough to think there was something worth stealing from this hole?”
He did have a point.
Now that I was face-to-face with Tommy, I hesitated asking my question. I wasn’t sure what his reaction
