Island? What’s Aunt Aggie got to do with it?”
“I’m afraid I’m not in a position to answer your question. The contents were sealed before my time and are only to be opened by Miss Harris’s heir. When would be a convenient time to come to my office?”
Could Gareth really be behind this? “Are you trying to tell me Aunt Aggie owns the island?”
“Not to my knowledge. Our records have Mr. Watson as the sole owner.”
“Even though he’s dead?”
“Yes, miss, but keep in mind that the ownership is under the trusteeship of my firm Bingham, McLeod and Tetro. It will remain in effect until his death is officially confirmed. Would a week from today be convenient for you to come to my offices? This will give you sufficient time to verify that I am indeed Wilson McLeod, a respected member of the Bar.”
Maybe this guy really was on the up and up. And if so, I needed to know what Aunt Aggie had placed inside that envelope now, not a week from now. “You’re in Ottawa, aren’t you? I can be there within a couple of hours.”
“Unfortunately, I will be out of town for the rest of the week.”
I tried to convince him to courier Aunt Aggie’s envelope to me or have one of his partners give it to me directly, once satisfied of my identity, but he ruled out both options, so I was forced into accepting his first available time slot, which turned out to be the following Monday, in six days. I hoped it wouldn’t be too late.
Mr. McLeod did, however, allay my biggest fear, when I asked my last question. “You didn’t happen to tell Gareth Patterson about this envelope?”
“Please, miss,” he replied in a voice bristling with indignation. “I am a well-respected lawyer. I would never step beyond the bounds of client-solicitor confidentiality.”
I immediately phoned François to tell him about the new development. He saw no difficulty in waiting a week, since the injunction with CanacGold would be in force until the ownership was resolved to the satisfaction of the courts. He also removed the last of my suspicions by confirming that Wilson McLeod did indeed speak with a lisp. He finished the conversation by saying in a somewhat sour tone that he doubted that the envelope contained documents related to the ownership of Whispers Island, since Agatha Harris, a most valued client, would never have consider employing another firm for her property transactions.
At this point, I didn’t know what to believe. At the first threat of the gold mine, Eric had said that Aunt Aggie might have owned Whispers Island. François had said it was impossible. And I hadn’t found any connection, not even a hint that my great-aunt had considered the large island as more than a nice place to picnic. That is, until McLeod’s call. Maybe, contrary to François’ misguided belief, this long hidden envelope would finally reveal that she really had acquired it from William J. Watson.
Unfortunately, I wouldn’t know the truth for six days.
While I waited for Eric’s promised call about Tommy, I did some much-needed house cleaning. By the time noon struck, I might have had a much cleaner ground floor, but I’d heard no word from Eric. I waited another half-hour then phoned the Council Hall and was told he was out. I got no answer at his house. Eric could be persistent. I knew he wouldn’t give up on Tommy until he was convinced he’d done everything possible to give Marie’s son a chance to explain. I also didn’t think Tommy would harm Eric, his friend and mentor. So I decided to give Eric until one-thirty, then I’d call Decontie.
I was washing up my lunch dishes when Eric finally arrived on his bike. He looked discouraged. I invited him inside, but he refused, saying he’d only come to tell me the news, what little there was. Tommy was nowhere to be found on the reserve. Someone remembered seeing him take off in his car shortly after his mother’s funeral. He’d not been seen since, nor did he leave word of where he was going. And to make matters worse, Eric’s questioning had begun to arouse suspicions within the band.
“I hate to say it,” Eric said. “but it looks as if you were right. I’ll notify Decontie.”
“I’m sorry, Eric, truly sorry, not only for your sake but also for Marie’s,” I replied. “Maybe I should’ve left well enough alone. Everyone was satisfied with the murder-suicide verdict. And I’m sure Marie would be resting easier in her grave. But I can’t accept it. I’m sorry. If Tommy killed his parents, he should be held accountable.”
“I’m with you on this. I just find it hard to accept that he could betray the hope and pride of our people,” he replied, angrily snapping his helmet back on. He kicked his bike back into action.
“Don’t go yet,” I shouted above the noise. “I want to tell you about a very interesting phone call.”
He turned off the engine. His smile got broader and broader, the more I revealed about my conversation with Wilson McLeod. However, when I mentioned Gareth, he frowned.
“Meg, don’t dismiss Gareth too quickly,” he said. “Remember, you thought he was behind your break-in.”
“Are you suggesting that Gareth somehow found out about the envelope and sent Charlie to steal it?”
“Maybe not the envelope per se, but its contents.”
“But how would he know? Even I don’t.”
“From Charlie. His grandfather was chief in the thirties. As a result, Charlie probably knows as much if not more than me about your great-aunt’s connection to Whispers Island.”
“Damn the sneaky bastard. Playing lovey-dovey with me while knowing all the time. He was probably waiting for the right moment to search my house and had to resort to Charlie after I kicked him out.”
Eric’s brow creased in worry. “To be on the safe side, Meg, I suggest you tell no one about that phone call.”
I agreed, knowing it wouldn’t be difficult. With Marie gone, I’d already told the only other person close enough to confide in, Eric.
With my promise to join him later for a drink at the Fishing Camp, Eric roared off on his bike, while I returned to my housecleaning.
THIRTY-FIVE
Late afternoon shadows were creeping across Three Deer Point by the time I finished cleaning the second floor of my too-large cottage. Although it didn’t quite meet Marie’s high standards for cleanliness, I felt very proud of my efforts. But once was enough. I’d have to begin the search for a new housekeeper soon.
When I entered the kitchen to return the cleaning paraphernalia to the pantry, I found Sergei whining to go outside. He raced off through the opened door and disappeared into the trees, yelping shrilly, which meant deer in sight. I hoped he wouldn’t go far. I was more than ready to relax with Eric at the Fishing Camp.
Deciding hunger would soon bring the dog back, I placed his food bowl outside. I showered, then changed into a more presentable set of clothes. When I was ready to leave, Sergei still hadn’t returned, nor had his bowl been touched. I called his name. A muffled bark answered. I waited a few seconds, but he didn’t come.
I called again. Another bark, but no dog.
