Meg Harris Mysteries 7-Book Bundle - R.J. Harlick A Meg Harris Mystery

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of jeans and turtleneck. In my haste to get to Marie’s that morning, I’d picked up the first thing that had caught my eye, the previous day’s clothes lying in a heap on the floor.

      When I returned to the living room, Eric was bending over the coffee table, peering at Aunt Aggie’s wedding photograph, which I’d removed from the broken frame the evening before. Sergei, still glued to his side, looked at him longingly.

      “I see you’ve acquired a new friend,” I said, glad the dog, who could be a pest at times, was looking elsewhere for attention.

      Eric laughed and gave Sergei another vigorous pat.

      “Before I forget, Meg,” he said, becoming serious. “Looks as if your man in yellow didn’t dock at the Fishing Camp yesterday.”

      “Where could he have landed then?”

      “One of my guys found a Fishing Camp boat abandoned on band lands, close to Indian Point. Probably his.”

      I was surprised at the answer. I’d never considered that it could be a member of the band. It also meant there might be another reason for the attack other than keeping me away from the gold.

      “I know some of your people would prefer I hightail it back to Toronto,” I said. “But I never thought any of them would try to drive me away.”

      “I don’t like it either. Leave it to me. I’ll get to the bottom of this and make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

      I wanted to ask him if he had any suspects, but the closed look on his face convinced me not to. I turned to leave.

      “A moment, Meg,” Eric called our. He held Aunt Aggie’s photo in his hand. “I never knew your great-aunt had been married.”

      “Neither did I.”

      “Any idea who the husband was? Sure had a bad scar.”

      “Scar? What scar?” I grabbed the photo from Eric’s hand. Where the smudge of dirt had covered part of the man’s face, a long ugly scar ran from his right eye to the tip of his mouth.

      “I’m surprised he still has an eye. Wonder how he got it?” I said.

      “Given the age of this picture, it could be a war wound, maybe from a bayonet. Or possibly a sword.”

      “Bayonet, maybe, sword hardly likely. This injury may have happened a long time ago, but it certainly wasn’t when people fought with swords.”

      “Seriously, it could be. I’ve seen pictures of men with scars like that. Prussians. They used to have dueling clubs where they’d fight with bare sabres until blood was drawn. A scar like this was considered the ultimate badge of manhood.”

      “You mean like yours?”

      He looked at me in surprise, then reached up and touched the small scar under his eye and laughed. “Yeah, I suppose you could say that. You know Meg, this guy looks vaguely familiar. It’s that scar. I’m sure I’ve seen it before,” he continued.

      “Where?” I asked in surprise. The last place I’d expected to find an answer to the identity of this secret husband was from our area.

      “Nothing immediately comes to mind, but the more I look at this guy the more I’m convinced I’ve seen his face somewhere else.”

      “What about a name like Winter, Waters, something like that? Sound familiar?”

      He thought for a few minutes, then shook his head. “Nope, doesn’t.” He continued studying the picture then placed it back on the table. “We better go, or my men will start looking for the gold without us.”

      Eric’s aluminum boat hammered through the chop towards Whispers Island, directly into the eye of a strong west wind. Each plunge whipped more spray into the air. I huddled in the seat in front of Eric with the hood of my GoreTex jacket snug around my head and attempted to keep my back to the cold, drenching spray. I rubbed the back of my legs, bruised and sore from yesterday’s encounter. I moved closer to Eric. Once on the island, I intended to stay glued to his side and let him handle any confrontations with men in yellow.

      Trouble, however, seemed to be far from Eric’s mind. With the tiller firmly clenched in his hand, he was smiling broadly into the wind, ignoring the spray. His mane of hair streamed behind him like a triumphant flag. He was in his element, meeting the challenges this northern land flung at him.

      His gaze turned towards me. “That’s a nasty cut. You should have the nurse look at it.”

      I touched it. It hurt. But not wanting to dwell on it, I said, “I can’t stop worrying about Marie. What if Louis did hurt her, and she can’t walk out on her own?”

      “If he needs help, Tommy can use the satellite phone I gave him. But I don’t believe she’s hurt. Remember, she hiked in with Louis.”

      “Yeah, you’re right. What if Louis’s drunk? How’s Tommy going to deal with him?” I stuck my freezing hands into my sleeves.

      “Don’t worry. Tommy knows how to handle his father.” He looked at me with the kind of look people should only give sick puppies. “Meg, everything’s going to be okay. Trust me.”

      Although I nodded in acceptance, I wasn’t completely convinced. Eric hadn’t seen the kitchen. Marie would never have left that mess willingly nor, despite what Tommy had said, would she have left her dream scarf behind.

      To take my mind off Marie, I watched the cliffs of Three Deer Point merge with the vibrant colours of the surrounding hills. Although the maples still wore their autumn splendour, patches of bare branches were beginning to eat into the gold. A “V” line of Canada geese, fleeing south, was fast disappearing beyond the furthest ridge.

      I could just make out what looked to be someone wearing purple at the edge of the Lookout, a granite outcrop high in the hills behind Three Deer Point. I was surprised to see someone using my favourite retreat. But I supposed, even if it was my land, there was no reason why others couldn’t take advantage of the marvelous view. Still, I was surprised. I’d never seen anyone there before.

      Eric beached his boat on the north point in the lee of a clump of birch and young pine. His guys had waited, four of them. They stood in a group stamping their feet and flapping their arms against their bodies to keep warm.

      I recognized John-Joe, the bartender at the Fishing Camp. You couldn’t miss the orange baseball cap clamped low over his forehead. I wasn’t sure whether he wore it low to avoid noticing customers’ requests or to hide behind. Although with his sculpted cheek bones and cougar eyes, I wasn’t sure why he would want to hide. His looks would make any girl’s heart flutter. They did this one, even if he was a bit too young.

      Eric quickly introduced the other guys: Pete, in a black and orange Migiskan hockey jacket; Gerry, who obviously liked his beer; and Jacques, whom I remembered seeing at the General Store yesterday. He’d followed Frosty out the door when Charlie Cardinal had arrived.

      “Eric, take a look at this.” John-Joe walked to the end of the narrow point and kicked at a wooden stake hammered into the loose pebbles. A brass plate with a series of numbers was screwed into the end.

      “It’s a claim stake with a registration number,” answered Eric. “I found a couple yesterday on the other end of the island. There’s probably at least one other at this end. Needs to be four to make it official.”

      More concerned about the looming threat, I cut in, “What are we going to do if we run into the guy that came after me yesterday?”

      “Kick him off the island, eh guys?” Eric grinned.

      “You bet,” came back the replies.

      But Gerry answered, “It’s our gold, no way they can take it,” which made me nervous. I’d been naïve enough to assume that if we proved this wasn’t crown

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