I was about to suggest that he wait until I dressed so I could help her. But he pre-empted me by passing her a long stick and ordering her to get moving. He then flung the moose hide to one side while she struggled out the entrance. The opening closed shut behind them without another word.
I frantically donned my own cold, damp clothes and raced along the narrow path after them as best I could in my bare feet, bare only because my trail shoes now lay on the bottom of the pond. But when I caught up, it looked as if my support was no longer necessary. Marie-Claude had found the inner strength to walk, if not spryly, at least determinedly with her head held higher.
I bade them as hearty a farewell as I could muster when we reached the house. While Jeff merely acknowledged with a grunt, Marie-Claude flung her arms around me and kissed me on both checks in Quebecois fashion.
She thanked me profusely in French for all I’d done and said without bothering to lower her voice that if I wanted to speak with her daughters, today was the best day. Every Monday they attended the Algonquin cultural school that Summer Grass Woman ran. I could meet them there.
I glanced nervously at Jeff to ascertain his reaction, but from his disinterested stance, I realized he’d never bothered to learn his wife’s native language as she had his.
“Good,” I answered in French. “I’ll pick them up at their regular school and drive them.”
“And bring your dog. He would help you gain their trust.”
I left feeling a bit more confident that Marie-Claude might be able, if not to overcome, at least to live with her demoralizing guilt. But her husband’s harsh treatment bothered me, particularly after I saw his reaction when she reached out for support after losing her balance. He recoiled as if bitten by a snake. I thought back to the few times I’d seen them together since their daughter’s disappearance and realized he always held himself at a distance from his wife. He could no longer bear to touch her.
I thought back to my own long-dead marriage. Jeff was acting like Gareth had. Once Mother had told my then husband what I’d done, he couldn’t bear to touch me either, and when he did, it was not without some infliction of pain.
I started worrying about Marie-Claude for another reason.
Chapter
Seventeen
I was waiting by the front door of the Migiskan School when the bell announced the end of the school day. Although Sergei was sitting calmly by my side as commanded, I knew he’d be running up to the first child that came out that door. He loved kids, loved to play with them. Sure enough, with the first rush, he bounded, albeit a bit creakily, from my side and romped amongst them amidst cries of “Nice dog,” “Isn’t he cute,” “Want to play fetch?” and so on. I was hard pressed to keep track of him while watching out for Marie-Claude’s daughters. Ajidamo came to the rescue.
Ever since a frigid winter day a couple of years ago, when Sergei had kept the unconscious Ajidamo warm while I skied for help, the two of them had become the best of buddies. I too had developed a fondness for the orphan boy, whose name meant Little Squirrel. Jid, his friends called him, as did I. Although he still retained the impish traits of a squirrel, he’d taken on a maturity beyond his young years, particularly after his beloved grandmother died. I’d wanted to adopt him, but the band had decreed that he live with his aunt, to maintain his Algonquin heritage. Nonetheless, he often visited, and we’d become more than good friends.
With a yelp, Sergei bounded up to his buddy, who shouted with almost as much glee and buried his face in the dog’s black curly fur. Jid, who was able to get Sergei to do things I never could, decided to put him through his paces. Soon there was a small audience of kids intently watching Jid make the dog lie down, roll over, and shake-a-paw. I noticed Neige, Marie-Claude’s youngest daughter, among them. I waved, and she smiled back shyly. I didn’t see the older daughter, but since they were both going to the Cultural Centre, she would probably arrive soon to fetch her sister.
As the other kids gradually moved off, Neige continued to watch. I could tell she wanted to pat Sergei but was afraid to. A word to Jid, and the boy grasped the dog by his collar, and with a broad smile, a twinkle in his eye and a swagger in his step, he walked Sergei over to the slim girl. Although Neige was a bit taller than Jid, I thought they must be close in age, around eleven, and might even be in the same class.
Jid made Sergei sit while Neige gingerly patted his head. When the dog nuzzled her for more, she was emboldened and used both hands. Soon she was smothering her face in his soft, curly locks. Jid stood back and beamed proudly at his protégé’s good behaviour. But when his eyes kept resting on Neige, I began to wonder if the object of his admiring smile wasn’t in fact his pretty schoolmate.
I wasn’t certain if Marie-Claude had managed to tell her daughters that I would be taking them to their Algonquin lessons, so I wasn’t quite sure how to approach them. Although we knew each other, I wasn’t exactly a close family friend.
“You gonna take Neige and me to our Anishinabeg lessons?” Jid suddenly asked. “That way we get to spend more time with Sergy.”
Problem solved. “Sure, if you want. We can take the truck or walk.”
The sun had managed to push away the heavy rain clouds, warming up the afternoon quite comfortably for the kilometre or more walk to the Cultural Centre.
“Let’s walk. It’ll take more time.” His face broke out into a shameless grin.
“Where’s your sister, Neige? I think we should probably wait for her.”
Neige continued to pat the dog, who was preening with the attention. Bringing him had clearly been a good idea.
“She’s gone on ahead with Kathy,” she said.
A minor glitch, but not a serious one. Perhaps it would make sense to question the sisters separately. Alone, they might more readily divulge the secrets they could be hiding about their missing sister.
The four of us started down the path that cut through the woods to the Cultural Centre. The sun filtered through the changing leaves on the trees, while our feet crunched through the freshly fallen leaves. Under Jid’s direction, Sergei was walking obediently between the two children, who were chatting amiably together. I hated to interrupt their fun but felt with Jid and the dog making Neige feel more relaxed and comfortable, she might be more willing to open up. The trick would be how to broach the subject without being obvious.
Once again Jid came to my rescue. I was even beginning to wonder if he could read minds.
“Auntie, tell Neige that her sister is coming home. She says Fleur’s never coming back.”
One pair of eyes shone with hope. The other pair reflected only despair. I knew I had to be as upbeat as I could without glossing over the real situation.
“We don’t know when, kids. All of us are hoping and praying she’ll be found soon. The police are doing all they can.”
“No, they aren’t,” Neige shot back. “My dad says they don’t want to look for her because she’s an Indian.”
“I think it has more to do with the police thinking Fleur ran away from home and doesn’t want to come back. What do you think, Neige? I know she and your mother had an argument.” I saw her eyes flash in acknowledgement. “Do you think she’s so angry with your mother that she never wants to come home again?”
Although the girl remained silent, she kept staring at me as if willing me to go on.
“We know she hasn’t called your parents, but maybe she’s called someone else to let them know she’s okay.”
I thought I saw a glimmer of admission in her amber eyes before she shifted her gaze onto the dog.
“Your parents are sick with worry, particularly your mother. It would really help her just to know that Fleur’s all right. So if she has called someone, that person should let your mother know. It would make her feel so much better. And I know she won’t be angry with that person for not telling her sooner. She just wants to know Fleur is safe.”
Jid’s eyes remained fixed on his friend, almost as if he knew
or had guessed at something.
“Your mother’s very sorry for what she did to your sister. She won’t punish her. She only wants her home.”
By this time the round, teepee-like wooden building of the Cultural Centre could be seen through the trees. Neige gave me one long last stare then ran off. Flinging a rushed “I’ll talk to her,” back at me, Jid chased after his friend, and unfortunately so did Sergei.
I followed at a more leisurely pace. I felt it best to leave them alone. I’d planted the seeds and there was nothing more I could say to the girl. By the time I arrived at the front door, the two children had disappeared inside. But Sergei, thankfully, was sitting on guard by the door, probably obeying Jid’s command to stay. He wagged his tail eagerly but remained in position until I gave him his reward, a dried piece of venison liver, his favourite treat.
We had a leisurely walk back through the woods to the truck. At least I had a saunter, while Sergei, nose to the ground, pursued one smell after another. He did manage to rouse a tiny red squirrel who’d become too focused on some seeds on the ground. But luckily the squirrel realized the dog was almost upon him and made good his escape to a nearby maple. He scampered up to a safe branch, where he soundly scolded Sergei until I managed to drag the barking dog away from the tree.
On my way home I stopped at the Migiskan General Store to buy dinner, one of their delicious venison and cranberry pies that would go nicely with the bottle of cabernet I’d picked up the other day. These ready-made pies prepared by the reserve’s best cooks were the brainchild of the store manager. After a recent trip to Montreal, she’d come back full of ideas to improve the store’s products and to help provide another source of employment within the community. She used as the main ingredient, venison, duck, moose or any of the other wild game the community hunters had shot. Needless to say, I relied heavily on these tantalizing microwaveable specialties.
I headed home intending to enjoy my evening while I waited. There was no need to bring in the help of Summer Grass Woman, nor did I need to talk to Moineau. Her younger sister would do that for me. If anyone could convince the sisters to reveal what they knew, it was Jid. He could charm the quills off a porcupine. I just had to be patient and see what my seeds would yield.
In the end it came from a wholly unexpected source.
Around ten o’clock that night I was roused from my TV watching by the rumbling racket of a motorcycle at the front of the house. There was only one person I knew who drove a motorbike. Eric.
After several bracing gulps of wine, I walked as slowly as I could down the long hall to the pounding on my front door, which of course had elicited frenetic barking from Sergei. I was so certain that I would see Eric when I opened the door that it took me a few seconds to realize that the thin, wiry man with the threatening black eye-patch standing in front of me was Marie-Claude’s biker brother, J.P.
Chapter
Eighteen
My immediate reaction was an overriding desire to slam the door in the biker’s face, so fearful was I of being alone in the middle of the night miles from the nearest help with a full patch member of Les Diables Noirs. But my childhood etiquette training won out, as well as the realization that this one-eyed man likely didn’t mean me any harm, so I kept the door open, but only enough to carry on a conversation, and asked him what he wanted. I didn’t feel secure enough to invite him into my house. Sergei, however, felt no such need to be polite. He continued to bark and even bared a tooth or two. I let him.
“Moineau sent me,” the biker rasped.
“I’m surprised. I thought her father told his kids to have nothing to do with you.”
So black was the night that I could barely make out the faint gleam of his bike parked just beyond the range of the porch light.
“She’s a girl, eh? Don’t always do what her papa say.”
“How do I know she sent you?”
“It’s about the phone call Fleur make.” He placed his hand on the door. “Let me in. I tell you.”
So my planted seeds had born fruit. But I still didn’t feel comfortable enough to let him inside my house. Too many of my great-aunt’s valuable belongings would be in full view of his assessing eye. “Tell it to me here.”
“Tabernac, you think I gonna rape ya? Fuck. You ain’t my kinda woman.”
Wearing a wry, wonky smile, he held up his arms as if to prove he was harmless, that he wasn’t carrying any weapons. More importantly, I didn’t have any either, other than Sergei, who fit the all-bark-and-no-bite adage a little too perfectly.
“If you don’t wanna talk to me, I’m gonna leave. Marie-Claude say you care about Fleur. I see you don’t.” He turned on his boot heels and started tramping back down the stairs.
Damn. I’d made a promise to Marie-Claude that I would do all I could to help find her daughter. This could be a valuable clue. I was being a silly scaredy-cat….
Clutching a growling Sergei by his collar, I called out to the biker as he was strapping on his Nazi helmet. “I do care about Fleur.”
I opened the door fully while he placed the helmet back on the seat. A faint animal cry, possibly an owl or even a wolf, drifted in on the rising wind. The roar of the surrounding pine trees filled the night air, while the sound of leaves skittering along the ground came to me through the darkness. The solitary blotches of light coming from a pole by the woodshed and from the house only served to remind me how utterly isolated I was.
He tramped back up the stairs into the full glare of the porch light. His solitary pale blue eye seemed to be laughing at me, but I didn’t sense any threat or danger lurking behind the amusement. Sergei continued to emit a low, throaty growl, but he stopped when the biker offered him his hand to sniff, followed by several pats. Some watchdog, eh, when he could be bought off that easily. But I hadn’t bought him as a guard dog. I’d bought him to keep me company during the waning days of my miserable marriage and to defy Gareth, who hated dogs and was in fact afraid of them, as I’d gleefully discovered.
J.P. whistled. “Merde, ya got a nice place here, that’s for sure.” His eye roved along the hall into the doorways of the living and dining rooms, where my Aunt Aggie’s treasured antiques and paintings lurked in the darkened rooms.
I hastily led him to the brightly light kitchen. “I’m going to make myself some coffee, do you want some?” I reached into a cupboard for the coffee tin.
“Got any more of that?” He pointed to the empty bottle of wine standing on the counter.
Despite my good intention of having only a glass or two, I’d ended up drinking the whole bottle. I could still feel the buzz. Maybe that had fueled my overreaction to J.P.
“Sorry, just coffee … or tea, if you’d prefer that,” I suggested, although he didn’t exactly fit my image of a tea drinker.
“Yeah, tea good. Coffee keep me awake.”
I ended up making tea for both of us and added a plate of the cookies.
In the brilliance of the overhead lights, he didn’t appear quite so threatening as he sat hunched over the kitchen table slurping his tea. Although he was supposed to be younger than Marie-Claude, the scars and the lines on his ravished face made him look twenty years older. Clearly a biker’s life wasn’t easy. I noticed the hand clutching the mug was missing the tip of a finger. I was beginning to feel a bit embarrassed about my treatment of him.
“So Fleur phoned Moineau, did she?” I asked.
“Oui,” he mumbled between mouthfuls of chocolate chip cookie. The nasal “oway” sounded more like a duck quack than the refined “we” of Parisian French.
“Did she say when?”
“Yeah, when she was in Trois-Rivières. The girls visit with their grandmère in the summer, eh? It is something they do since they were p’tites filles.”
“Do you know if this was after Fleur was reported missing?”
“Oui. It is why I come tell you.”
“How long after?”
“Moineau say it was on her birthday. Fleur
wanted to wish her bon anniversaire.”
“And when’s the birthday?”
“July 28. I always send her a card. Send all the girls cards on their anniversaires.”
I grabbed the calendar off the wall and flipped back to July. “The police think Becky was killed about five weeks before her body was found, which would make it the third week in July. So this phone call suggests that Fleur was alive the week after Becky was murdered.”
“C’est bon ça. Good news, eh?”
“Let’s hope so. Did Moineau say whether her sister said anything else?”
“I think the call was pretty quick. But she tell Moineau to tell nobody. It is why she say nothing to Marie-Claude, eh?”
“And she didn’t say where she was calling from?”
He shook his head.
“And she didn’t give her a phone number or an address?”
“’Sais pas. Maybe it is better you talk to her.”
“Do you know if she told her mother?”
“She’s afraid. She don’t want to make trouble between her mother and that bastard.”
“You mean Jeff. You know Marie-Claude tried to kill herself again this morning?”
“Tabernac! I tell her leave the guy. He nothing but trouble. But she don’t wanna.”
“She’s probably afraid to.” The same way I was afraid to leave Gareth until fear for my safety finally took over.
“I fix that pretty quick. I get some of my brothers.” He crammed another cookie into his mouth. “Tien, I take you to Moineau. Is better you talk to her, eh?”
“But what about her father?”
“No problem. She sleep at house of girlfriend.”
I glanced at the clock. It was close to eleven. A bit late to go visiting.
As if reading my mind, he said, “I tell her you coming, okay?” He pulled out his cell.
“Use my phone. We don’t have cell coverage here.”
A Green Place for Dying Page 9