LITMIR.BIZ

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      “You may be too late. He may have already fled.” And I explained about Tommy’s empty house.

      “Possibly, but leave this to me,” he said, getting out of his chair.

      After rinsing off his dirty plate, he grabbed his motorcycle helmet and moved towards the kitchen door. I followed, debating if I shouldn’t go to the police myself.

      As if reading my thoughts, Eric said, “Look Meg, I know you’re right in wanting to go to the police, but I guess I’m still clinging to the hope Tommy didn’t do it. And I suppose what’s swaying me is his mother’s amulet.”

      “How so?”

      “It’s missing, wasn’t on her body. And it was Tommy who told me about it. He was quite upset. Wanted to bury it with his mother.”

      “How does this help Tommy?”

      “She always wore it.”

      “Like her red dream scarf?”

      He nodded. “The fact the amulet wasn’t on her body means it was probably taken at the time of her death.”

      “I can confirm she had it shortly before she died,” I added and told him about Marie’s visit with Dorothy the day she disappeared, when she almost revealed its contents to Dorothy.

      “Then her killer took it,” he said. “Now supposing you’re the killer. Would you make a big fuss about it being missing, especially when no one else had noticed?”

      “Maybe not, unless you’re devious enough to use this as a means of diverting attention away from yourself,” I countered.

      “Yeah, maybe. To tell you the truth, I’ve been puzzling over why someone would steal it. Sure it has sacred value, but only for Marie.”

      Outside, the rain had stopped. A few rays of sun were trying to break through the dense cloud. Securing the helmet on his head, Eric walked over to his motorcycle.

      “I’ll call you as soon as I talk to Tommy,” he said. “It might take a while to catch up to him, so please, don’t get impatient and go to the police before I call, okay?”

      I reluctantly agreed but gave him until lunchtime. If he didn’t contact me by then, I would notify Decontie. No telling how desperate Marie’s son might become when finally cornered.

      “Be careful,” I said.

      Eric nodded grimly and kicked his Harley into life.

      THIRTY-FOUR

      The second I placed my key in the front door, the phone started ringing. Convinced it was Eric calling to say he’d already found Tommy, I flung open the door and managed to reach the phone before the messaging system kicked in.

      But instead of Eric’s deep resonant voice, I heard a high pitched one with a slight lisp, which asked, “Miss Margaret Harris?”

      “Who’s calling please?”

      “Wilson McLeod here. Sorry to bother you, but I have an important matter I’d like to discuss.”

      The name sounded familiar. “Excuse me, but do I know you?”

      “Sorry, my apologies for not introducing myself. I’m the trustee for the Watson property. François Gauthier gave me your phone number.”

      Of course, William J. Watson’s lawyer. But, why would he be calling me?

      “Miss Harris, I’d like to ask you a question, if you don’t mind?”

      “Go ahead.”

      “Are you related to a Miss Agatha Harris, formerly of Three Deer Point?”

      Not another one of Aunt Aggie’s surprises. “What’s this about?” I asked.

      “Please answer my question. Are you Miss Agatha Harris’s beneficiary?”

      “Of course, it’s why I’m living here. I’m her great-niece and her heir. Why do you want to know?”

      “Do you have documentation to substantiate that?”

      “What kind?”

      “Notarized copies of your aunt’s will, the deed to Three Deer Point and of course your own identity papers.”

      What’s going on? Is this another devious ploy of Gareth’s to get something from me? “Sorry, I won’t give you anything until I am satisfied you are Wilson McLeod.”

      “My apologies. I should explain. I have an envelope that was given to my father by the late Miss Agatha Harris a number of years ago. Her instructions were to pass it to the heir of her Three Deer Point property. Before I can give this to you, I am required to establish your legitimacy as her heir.”

      “Why didn’t you contact me when she died ten years ago?

      “Her instructions were very precise. We were to hand over this envelope only if approached on the matter of the ownership of the property you know as Whispers Island.”

      “Whispers 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

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