LITMIR.BIZ

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than Yvette’s implied association, and I saw it as another reason to speak with Pierre. I tucked it away in a kitchen drawer until I could talk to him.

      That left me wondering what more I could do to carry out my promise to John-Joe. I could try to find the owner of the bear paw snowshoes with the red strap. But surely the police would be pursuing that angle. Besides, I didn’t have the nerve to knock on people’s doors and ask to see their snowshoes. Nor did I know what to do if I found them, for I could be facing Chantal’s murderer.

      That led me to the next possible piece of evidence, the missing scotch bottle. It must point to her killer. But I doubted, despite Tommy’s insistence, that the police would put much effort into looking for it, so convinced were they of John-Joe’s guilt. That meant it was up to me to find it.

      Unfortunately, if the killer had taken it with him, it would probably never be found. But if this mysterious snowshoer was indeed the murderer returning to cover his tracks, the sudden arrival of Eric and myself might have forced him to discard it quickly out of fear of being caught with it in his possession. On the off chance that this guy had thrown the bottle near the cabin, I decided to check it out. I gulped down a quick lunch and changed into my ski clothes. After locking the sorrowful-looking dog in the house—I didn’t want him trampling on potential evidence—I clamped on my skis and headed out. Within seconds, I was schussing through the snow on my way to the start of the Migiskan Marathon Trail, the only way I knew to get to John-Joe’s hunting camp.

      The trail, firmly packed by the repeated passage of police skidoos, was in almost as good condition as it would be when the marathon finally took place in February. I slid smoothly over the fast snow, down long loping slopes, up arched hills, over buried marshes and through shrouded woods. If it weren’t for worry over proving John-Joe’s innocence, I would’ve enjoyed the near perfect ski on a near perfect winter day. Bright sun, cold crisp air, infinite blue sky. I encountered no one, heard nothing, not even the angry squawks of a blue jay announcing my intrusion.

      I stopped when I reached the place where the snowmobile carrying John-Joe had tumbled off the trail to the open water of a stream about five metres below. Deep ruts gouged the snow where the heavy machine had churned back up the steep slope and onto the trail. Next to the creek, snow had been shoved aside as if the police had believed their prisoner lay buried under its depths. Elsewhere, the white expanse was as untouched as the moment the flakes had landed. Little wonder the police hadn’t immediately realized their suspect had escaped.

      An hour and a half later, I turned onto the narrow path leading to John-Joe’s camp. As I approached the narrow valley where his log shack poked through the drifts of snow, my eyes rested on a place just beyond it, where I’d seen tracks the day before. The perfect hiding spot, I thought.

      My excitement, however, immediately turned to annoyance at the sight of an empty skidoo with a large metal box strapped onto it. The box was marked with what looked to be the top part of the SQ insignia. The rest was encrusted with snow. I almost turned around, not sure if I wanted to encounter LaFramboise or his men. But the missing bottle could be crucial evidence in pointing the finger away from John-Joe, so I ducked under the yellow tape barring access to the cabin and tramped up the stairs to the door.

      The door swung open. But instead of a brown uniformed SQ cop, a snowman with an incongruous black face filled the open doorway. His full body suit, made of what looked to be white paper, rustled with his movement. I debated making a hasty retreat.

      “Pourqoui vous êtes ici, madame?” The snowman shoved his hood further back from his face, revealing an expansive bald pate above his querying black eyes.

      “Peut-être il faut que je—” I gave up, unable to wrap my mind around the French. I continued in English, “Perhaps I should be the one asking why you are here.”

      “I have more reason than you, madame,” he replied in a far better English than my French. He held up his police badge. “Sergeant Jacques-Louis Lespinasse with the Forensic Investigation Unit of the Surêté du Québec. Your name, please.”

      Without moving from the doorway, he wrote down my name, address and my phone number, then said in the same crisp, unyielding manner, “You live in this province, madame, and you do not speak French?”

      “I’m learning,” I said, feeling somewhat embarrassed, for he did have a point. “Just not quite there yet. Besides, I thought you were supposed to serve us in both official languages.”

      “You forget, madame, there is only one official language in Quebec. Now, you will tell me why you visit this crime scene.” I explained how I’d found the dead girl yesterday and spent an hour or so with the owner of the shack until the police arrived. Needless to say, I didn’t dare tell him that their suspect had come to my place after his escape. “But you should already know this. I left my statement yesterday at the Migiskan police station.”

      He made no indication as to whether he’d read it or not. “You have still not told me why you are returning.”

      “To look for a bottle of scotch.”

      “What bottle of scotch?”

      “The one Chantal and John-Joe were drinking from.”

      “This is the first I learn of this. How do you know?” I hesitated, fearing his response if I told him the entire truth. So deciding that half the truth would do, I recounted my conversation with John-Joe, but left the impression it had taken place in this hut and not at Three Deer Point.

      “You are good friends with this John-Joe, eh?” I acknowledged that I knew him. “How do I know that this is not something you invent to help your friend? Perhaps you have helped your friend in other ways?”

      “What are you talking about?” I shot back a little too quickly, fearful he somehow knew about last night.

      He gave me a thoughtful look. “You tell me, madame. I find it curious that you are so well informed about what took place at the time of this murder.”

      “John-Joe told me.” I paused. “While we waited for the police to arrive.” Not exactly a lie. John-Joe had ended up back in police custody.

      The sergeant remained silent. His cold eyes bored into mine, while the edges of his lips curled in a knowing smile.

      I shuffled my feet, unsure of what more I could say. Did he want me to admit that I’d hidden the fugitive? Then it hit me. “Are you suggesting I had something to do with Chantal’s death?”

      He shrugged his shoulders and repeated his mantra. “You tell me, madame.”

      Appalled by the twist this had taken, I kept my mouth shut.

      “How well did you know this young woman?”

      “I hardly knew her.”

      “Ah…so you admit you knew her.”

      “Of course, why wouldn’t I?”

      He stepped back from the door. “Come inside. I want you to tell me about your relationship with Chantal Bergeron.”

      Worried I could dig myself into a deeper hole, I hesitated. Then I saw the smug glint in the cop’s hooded eyes and knew that if I refused, I might find myself occupying the cell next to John-Joe. So displaying a nonchalance I didn’t feel, I entered the shack and walked over to where I’d sat yesterday with John-Joe, at the small table by the cracked window, while he removed what I now realized was probably a form of protective clothing for forensic investigations. I proceeded to answer his questions.

      My brief acquaintance with the murder victim triggered no interest until he reached the evening of her death. When the sergeant found out I’d been no more than three or four kilometres away as the crow flies, he sat upright.

      “And you say you have no one to provide you with an alibi for this five or six hour period other than Yvette Gagnon. And she was unconscious at the time, correct?” he said.

      “Yes, but Chief Eric Odjik rescued us about seven o’clock or so.

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