LITMIR.BIZ

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holes and sewed them correctly into the design. Amazing. I, with my almost twenty/twenty vision, couldn’t even sew on a button properly.

      “When I was little, Kòkomis could see,” Ajidàmo said. “The doctor says she got carrot cats.”

      “Cataracts?”

      “Yeah, that’s it. He says he can get rid of them, but she says no. She’s got a medicine tea she makes from mashkìgwàtig.”

      “What’s that?”

      “It’s a tree. I don’t know its name in English, but it’s like a pine tree, ’cept it loses its needles like a maple tree.”

      “I think it could be a tamarack. How does she make it?”

      “She boils the bark in water and lets it sit for a very long time.”

      “Well, I suppose it might work.”

      “Yeah, maybe… But if the doctor gets rid of them, it’ll make the spirits angry, and then something terrible will happen, like it did with Noshenj.”

      “Noshenj?”

      “Auntie, John-Joe’s mom.”

      My ears perked up at the mention of John-Joe. Perhaps I could use this as an opening. “What happened to your auntie?”

      “She went to the hospital for osipation and died.”

      “You mean operation.” He nodded vigorously. I continued, “I’m sorry to hear that, but your Auntie was probably very sick, not like your Kòkomis, who looks pretty healthy to me. Don’t you think the doctor would only suggest the operation if it was going to make her better?”

      Ajidàmo acknowledged my suggestion with a slow thoughtful nod, but kept his eyes locked onto the floor. His grandmother had been listening intently. It was difficult to tell if she’d understood any part of our conversation. I decided to take the plunge. “So you and John-Joe are cousins?”

      He glanced back at me and grinned. “Yup, my nìtàwis.”

      “You like him?”

      “You bet. Takes me fishing and hunting. Let’s me play games on his computer. And he gives me stuff, lots of stuff.”

      “But he doesn’t give you drugs, does he?” He shot me a startled glance, then whistled to the dog and raced outside.

      I remained fixed to my chair, not wanting to believe what his silence could mean, while across from me his grandmother announced, “Goood dog. Ajidàmo happy.”

      eighteen

      The minute I returned home, I called Tommy to forewarn him of this potentially lawyer, with ready access to the Somerset jail, he could ask his client about the extent of his involvement in drugs. Once armed with this knowledge, Tommy could hopefully come up with a way of minimizing its impact. I hoped that John-Joe was only a gofer, nothing more, who occasionally sold drugs for a much bigger dealer. Maybe he could even use the revelation of the dealer’s identity to his advantage. But when I reached Tommy, he silenced me with his first words.

      “John-Joe’s escaped.”

      “The dumb, stupid idiot,” was all I could think in reply.

      “Stupid’s right,” Tommy said. “I’ve only just managed to convince the police not to charge him for the first escape.”

      “What happened?”

      “The fool got involved in a brawl in the shower early this morning. While the doctor was examining him, something happened outside the examining room that caused both the police guard and the doctor to rush outside to investigate. When they came back, John-Joe was gone, through another door that was supposed to be locked.”

      “Damn him. Why? Is this saying he really is guilty of the murder?”

      “Sorry, can’t comment on his guilt, but I can say that his case isn’t looking too good. The initial tox report on the victim doesn’t support his story about being drugged by anything other than marijuana and scotch, and she sure had enough of both in her system.” He sighed. “Sure could do with some of that scotch right now.”

      Ditto. “Could that combination have put them out?”

      “Doubt it.”

      “Maybe John-Joe was the only one who took this other drug?”

      “Maybe, but it’s too late to test for that now.”

      “You said initial tox report. What does that mean?”

      “Forensics has a basic set of toxicology tests it runs for common substances. And before you ask the next question, the answer is yes. I’ve asked them to do a more in-depth analysis, in case this mystery drug couldn’t be picked up by the first tests.”

      “Good. That leaves the bottle of Highland Park Scotch. Does the analysis reveal anything? And the vomit? Mustn’t forget that. Surely that would reveal something?”

      “Still waiting on the results on both. Should be out in a few days.”

      “And what about the marijuana? Maybe it was doctored like the stuff the kids took.”

      “Look, Meg, I think it’s looking more and more probable that John-Joe lied to us. There are a few other things you should know. First, according to the police, the victim had almost a thousand dollars on her, money she stole from her father. She wasn’t exactly an upstanding daughter. It’s missing. The police found almost the equivalent amount on John-Joe when they arrested him. Needless to say, despite his denials, they’ve put two and two together.

      “Second, although they found no blood match on John Joe’s hunting knife, they did find traces of blood on one of the carving knives in his kitchen. I’m also waiting for the DNA results on that.”

      “Yes, but surely blood on a carving knife could just as likely be from moose meat, bear or anything else John-Joe hunted. And even if it does prove to be Chantal’s, it still doesn’t prove he killed her. Remember, the unknown snowshoer might have been Chantal’s killer returning to clean up the place. What better way to frame John-Joe than to leave the knife in the cabin? Besides, do you really think that if he did kill her, he’d be stupid enough to leave the weapon lying around?”

      “I agree, but it’s difficult to use as a defense. Now you know what I’m up against. Unless we get some concrete evidence that proves his innocence, it’s going to be very hard to come up with a good defense.”

      I didn’t bother to reply. The empty pit in the bottom of my stomach was answer enough for me. Nor did I bother to mention to Tommy the possibility of his client being involved in drugs. The young man already had enough nails in his coffin. He didn’t need more.

      “I have to run,” Tommy said. “I just want to remind you that if the stupid idiot does turn up at your place, you call me immediately. And don’t do anything foolish. You can be charged with harbouring a fugitive.”

      I eased the phone down onto the table. I’d been so convinced of John-Joe’s innocence. Now I didn’t know what to think. If the police could definitively prove John-Joe stole Chantal’s money, and the tests failed to reveal any sleepinducing drug, Tommy might as well negotiate a plea bargain. But despite this mounting evidence against him, I tried to read guilt into my memory of John-Joe’s agonized confusion, when he’d told me about waking up to find himself drenched in blood and vomit and Chantal dead. And couldn’t. I hadn’t seen remorse or defiance in his eyes, only shock and disbelief. Nor could I come up with a viable motive. The police might think the theft of money was reason enough to kill, but that didn’t explain the savagery of the killing. A savagery that spoke of rage sparked by sex, and not the cold calculation of robbery. They hadn’t seen the gentle kiss John-Joe had placed on Chantal’s cold forehead or the adoration that spilled from his eyes. Nope, I really didn’t think it was in him to kill his movie star, his Marilyn Monroe. I couldn’t let this young

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