LITMIR.BIZ

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cups were passed across the counter. Hélène brought out her bottle, quickly replenished them and added more coffee. She put the money with the rest in her pocket.

      “I hear they found a bracelet,” she said. All eyes turned towards her. “Clutched in Louis’s hand.”

      “I didn’t see no bracelet,” Frosty said suspiciously. “Who’d ya hear that from?”

      “From one of the cops when they were here earlier. They thought it was Marie’s.”

      “What did it look like?” I asked afraid of the answer.

      “Orange beads with black horn and real turquoise. I’m sure you’ve seen it, Meg. It was the one she bought at last year’s Pow Wow.”

      My heart sank. I knew it too well. I’d even remarked on its fine craftsmanship.

      “Did the police say anything else?”

      “Nope, but I got the impression they think Marie was there when Louis died.”

      Shit.

      I hesitated, but I had to know. “Do they think she was killed also?” I asked.

      Hélène dropped her gaze to the counter. “I don’t think that’s what they meant.”

      I looked at her with alarm at where this was leading. “Are you saying they think she killed him?” I asked.

      “Can’t say. Look, we all know Marie wouldn’t do a thing like that, eh?” Hélène looked towards the others, as if seeking agreement. “But, hell, if she did do Louis in, she had good cause, that’s for sure.”

      SIXTEEN

      I didn’t wait to hear another word. Yelling at Hélène to put it on my tab, I rushed from the store and drove straight to the Council Hall. Fortunately, Eric’s Harley was still parked outside, right next to the reserve’s police cruiser, which should have made me wary, but didn’t. Instead, intent only on sticking up for Marie, I raced through the halls of the large cedar building to Eric’s small office tucked into a far back corner.

      Without bothering to knock, I burst into his room. “What’s this about the police accusing Marie? There’s no way she could have killed Louis.”

      A bemused Eric peered at me from behind a desk littered with papers.

      “Slow down, Meg,” he said, pointing behind me. “You know Police Chief Decontie, in charge of our police detachment. And this is Sgt. LaFramboise with the Surêté du Québec.”

      I gulped and turned around to find both policemen coldly appraising me. They filled the only two chairs in Eric’s office. Sgt. LaFramboise sat bolt upright in his impeccable brown SQ uniform with his chair shoved against the back wall. He said a crisp “Bonjour” and turned his long pointed nose back to Eric. Chief Decontie, slouching forward in his chair, seemed less intimidating in the slightly wrinkled navy blue uniform of the Migiskan Police Department. He at least smiled.

      Embarrassed, I turned to leave.

      “Meg, since you’re here, you might as well stay,” Eric said. “I was just telling these officers myself that Marie couldn’t be involved.”

      “Madame, you are called Marguerite Harris, n’est-ce pas?” Sgt. LaFramboise interjected in his thick Quebecois accent.

      Distrustful of his reasons for asking, I hesitated before admitting I was.

      “Bon. I believe you are the last person to speak to Madame Whiteduck?”

      “Not exactly. She left a message on my voice mail.”

      “You have not—how you say—removed this message?”

      “No.”

      “Bon. Do not remove it, s’il vous plaît. You will wait at your house. Chief Decontie, and I will come when we finish with Chief Odjik.”

      I glanced back at Eric to see if he knew what Sgt. LaFramboise wanted. But Eric just shrugged his shoulders and with a slight nod suggested that I should probably leave.

      “Okay, I’ll go home, but I’d like to know how long you’ll be.”

      “When we finish here,” LaFramboise replied, and as a final dismissal, turned his focus back to Eric.

      Annoyed by his arrogance, I shot back, “You should be looking for Marie, instead of wasting your time on me. For all you know, Louis’s murderer may have killed her too.”

      Chief Decontie looked thoughtful, while Sgt. LaFramboise glared back at me and said, “Madame, do not concern yourself with the business of the police.” And standing up, he showed me to the door.

      My immediate reaction was to dig in my heels, but a quick look at Eric told me there was no point. I’d have to wait until we were both finished with the police before I’d learn what was really going on.

      Despite what I’d said to LaFramboise, I didn’t really believe Marie was dead. Nor could I ever accept that she had killed Louis. Instead, as my truck bumped over the rutted roads towards home, I came to the conclusion that Marie had fled to the hunting camp because she feared she’d be killed after witnessing Louis’s murder.

      I figured that as long as she was hidden deep in the bush she was safe, not only from the killer but also the police. With Tommy, her lawyer son at her side, she’d be even safer. He’d quickly quash any snap police conclusions and ensure the real story behind Louis’s killing was told.

      By the time I parked my truck in front of the house, I was feeling more confident that Marie would come through this unharmed. Therefore, with an hour or two to kill before the police arrived, I decided to resume my search for any documents that might resolve the ownership of Whispers Island.

      The previous evening, while Eric and I had sat in the bar of the Fishing Camp unwinding after our confrontation with Charlie Cardinal, Eric had told me about an old survey map of railway right-of-ways that he’d found in a box of old files. Although it wasn’t dated, he believed it was made in the early 1870s, when railways were mapping the area.

      Even though the map’s printed boundaries for the reserve did not include Whispers Island, there was a pencilled-in circle around the island with an arrow drawn towards the reserve and the date 1935. From this, Eric concluded that although the island was not part of the original territory establishment under the Act of 1851, it did become part of it in 1935.

      And, he said, more importantly, there was clear evidence that Agatha Harris had been involved, for the initials “A.H.” were written over Whispers Island. While I wasn’t convinced that this meant Aunt Aggie owned the island, I did promise Eric to continue my search through her records. He in turn intended to present this map to Indian Affairs as evidence the island belonged to the reserve.

      And a fat lot of good that’d do, I thought as I headed up the stairs to the attic. Those damn bureaucrats in Ottawa cared more about keeping tax paying miners happy than a bunch of tax consuming Indians.

      Halfway up the stairs, the phone rang. I raced back down in time to catch my notary on the other end of the line.

      “Please, François, tell me this call means you have good news,” I said.

      “Oui et non, Madame Harris,” he replied. “Which would you like first?”

      “The good news, I need something to cheer me up.”

      “Bon. Although it is not completely good news, it is—how you call—promising. I am almost certain this island is not government land. It is not listed in any of the official government land registries.”

      “But why would Indian Affairs lie about it?”

      “The Migiskan Reserve was established many years ago, when the government preferred

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