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

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me. This was about Marie.

      “We’ve found the body of—”

      I closed my ears. I didn’t want to hear her name. If I hadn’t been so drunk, she’d still be alive. I grabbed Aunt Aggie’s chair and sat down. Shit. Marie. Dead. Because of me.

      “I hope you caught the bastard,” I lashed out.

      “Who’re you talking about?”

      “Louis, of course.”

      “Meg, you aren’t listening. It was Louis’s body that was found.”

      “Louis?” I cried out, not quite believing my ears.

      “Yes, Louis.”

      “Not Marie?” I still wasn’t entirely convinced.

      Eric patiently said no.

      “Thank God.” I relaxed. Too bad Louis was dead, probably drowned, or maybe his liver had packed it in. What did it matter how he died. Marie was alive. “What about Marie, Eric, is she okay?”

      “Don’t know. I haven’t been able to reach Tommy on my satellite phone, which means he’s turned it off.”

      “Wait a minute, didn’t Louis die at his hunting camp?”

      “No. Frosty found his body this morning at their homestead.”

      “What was he doing there? He was supposed to be at the hunting camp with Marie.”

      “No idea, but I’m sure the police will find out during their investigation.”

      “Police? Does this mean someone killed him?”

      “Looks that way, shot twice.”

      “Do they know who shot him?” I asked.

      “Not yet. Meg, I’m going to have to return to the Council Hall. You going to be okay?”

      I nodded yes but didn’t feel it.

      “What about Marie?” I asked. “Does this mean she didn’t go to Louis’s camp either?”

      “We won’t know until we hear from Tommy. For the moment, I’m assuming she’s there, and for some reason, Louis returned home.”

      “I sure hope she’s okay,” I said and left it at that. I didn’t want to voice my real fear—that she’d been killed too, and her body lay hidden waiting to be found.

      As if reading my thoughts, Eric answered, “Don’t worry, I know it looks bad right now, but she’ll come out of this unharmed. Marie’s a survivor.”

      He gave me a pat on the arm and left.

      Deciding that Marie had greater priority than the ownership of Whispers Island, I gulped down my food and drove to her cabin to find out more. However, a line of yellow tape and a cop stopped me. Close-lipped, he gestured for me to turn around and go back the way I’d come. I drove instead to the General Store, knowing the rumour mill would be running full throttle.

      And I was right. The store was humming with excited voices. Hélène, decked out in a vermilion sweatshirt with I

NY etched in black sequins, perched smugly atop her stool as if she were their reigning queen.

      This time, my presence didn’t stop the conversation. In fact, no one paid attention to me as I walked up to the coffee counter. They were too busy firing questions at Frosty, my coffee drinking buddy with the missing fingers. Unlike the other day, this group was older, closer to my age, a half dozen men and women from the reserve and a couple of local farmers. I said hi to those I recognized and grabbed a vacant stool. Without my asking, Hélène poured some coffee into her special Harrods mug, placed a thick chocolate doughnut on a china plate and passed them to me. I leaned back and listened.

      “Cops say I can’t discuss the case, but seeing as how you’re my friends, I don’t see no harm in it.” Frosty’s preening voice rose above the crowd. “Sure could use some fuel, though.”

      Frosty’s hand with the missing two fingers passed a coffee cup across the counter towards Hélène. With her eye on me, she laughed, reached under the counter and brought out a half full bottle of rye. She poured a good measure into his cup and quickly returned it to its hiding spot. Another hand with all its fingers slammed a couple of bucks down, which were quickly snatched up by Hélène and hidden away in her pocket.

      I stared at her in surprise, then passed my mug over. What did I care if she had a little something going on the side.

      “It was them flies,” Frosty began. “Crawling all over them logs. I figured something was dead, eh? Sure smelled like it too. But I figured it was a raccoon got caught. So I started moving them logs. Had to anyways, couldn’t drive around ’em, eh? Then I sees this hand. Damn near made me piss my pants. I—”

      “Excuse me, Frosty,” I cut in, suddenly realizing which wood he was talking about. “Are you talking about that pile of firewood in the middle of Louis’s drive?”

      “Yup, big pile. Anyways, I got rid of more logs. And next I knowed, Louis was staring back at me with those funny blue eyes of his. ’Cept they was dead eyes, bulging out of his head.”

      I shivered. I’d walked by that wood, twice, only yesterday. I’d even noticed the flies.

      Frosty stopped, took a careful look around to make sure we were all listening and continued. “Once I seen Louis, I knowed I gotta get the Police Chief. So I hotfooted back to the detachment office. Decontie says I was an important witness, eh? So I had to go back to Louis’s with him. He even called in them provincial cops, the SQ, it was that important, eh? I watched them take all them pictures, even do that fingerprinting stuff. Sure a bunch of hocus-pocus, you ask me. Anyone could see weren’t nothing there to tell ’em who done it.”

      “Do the police know when Louis died?” I asked.

      “Ain’t sayin’,” Frosty replied.

      Maybe the police didn’t know yet, but I had a pretty good idea. It could only be between the time when Louis picked up Marie after her phone call to me and when I saw the log pile the following night.

      “Shot in the back he was, eh?” Frosty continued. “Jeez, what a way to go. Probably didn’t even know what hit him. Poor sucker. Decontie figured it was a rifle done it, eh? Gotta be a Winchester for sure, since that’s the only kind good for killing. Why, my own Winchester can kill a moose from three hundred paces. But weren’t no gun there. They even searched them logs. Kinda messy, where Louis was rottin’. Guess he been there awhile.”

      The timing started me thinking. If, as Eric said, it took a day to hike into Louis’s hunting camp, then it was impossible for Louis to go to his camp with Marie that night and return home by the next morning. He must’ve stayed behind.

      “They know who done it?” Hélène asked. She held up the rye bottle. Several cups stretched toward it, including my own.

      “Think they got an idea, but they ain’t sayin’,” Frosty replied.

      I prayed that Marie had started out on her own, expecting Louis to catch up later. I didn’t want to think of the possibility of her being there when Louis was killed.

      “I hear the wood came from Crapper’s bush, think he done it?” piped up a squeaky voice.

      “Why he wanta kill him? He hardly knowed Louis. Couldn’t have done it, anyway. Laid up with back trouble,” Frosty answered.

      “What’s that no-good Louis buying wood for when he got a wood lot full to bursting with deadfall from the ice storm?” someone asked.

      “And where’d he get the money to buy it?” another voice added.

      But

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