“Did you see anyone on the trail who might’ve found it?”
He shook his head. “You know, I still can’t believe I slept through her murder.”
“I’ve been wondering about that myself. Surely smoking a bit of grass wouldn’t put you into that deep a sleep. Did you take any other drugs?”
“Nope, just the pot. We were drinking scotch, too.”
“Scotch? I didn’t see any.”
“Chantal brought it. A friend gave it to her. Real smooth, not like the cheap stuff I usually drink.”
“Is that the bottle you were talking about?”
“Yeah, left it on the table with the glasses, like I told you.”
“So you’re sure you didn’t get rid of it?”
“Yup, me and Chantal had some, then we…” He cast an embarrassed glance in my direction. “Hell, you know what we were doing. ’cept I don’t remember doing it. We musta gone to sleep. I just remember wakin’ up cold and well…naked, and…hell, you know the rest.”
“Means someone else removed it, and I have a pretty good idea who. The guy on the snowshoes. And I’m thinking he did it just before Eric and I arrived. Curious, isn’t it? I bet that bottle contained something in addition to pure scotch.”
“You saying it was doctored?”
“Possibly. Something put you out.”
“Might be something in that. I remember feeling sort of dizzy, like I wanted to puke. Chantal too.”
“I noticed some vomit on the bed. Maybe it was caused by knock-out drops, or whatever people use to put someone to sleep.”
He shrugged. “Too much booze can make you sick too. And Chantal was sure drinking the stuff like it was water.”
“What about you?” I asked, trying not to think of my own recent episode.
He grinned.
And too much liquor could knock you out too. I should know. Still, there had to be a very good reason why that bottle of scotch had disappeared. “Did she mention the name of this friend?”
“Nope.”
“Any idea?”
“Not really.” He paused. “Maybe Pierre. That’s how I met Chantal.”
“You mean Pierre from the trail clearing?”
“Yup. Him and Chantal are friends.” He paused. “Guess I should say ‘were’.”
“Could he have killed her?”
“Nah, no way. They’re drinkin’ buddies, that’s all.” And even though drinking buddies could always have a falling out, I was inclined to agree with John-Joe. Pierre’d had plenty of opportunity on the trail to kill Chantal and hide her body so that it would never be found. Unless, of course, he’d had a reason to delay her murder.
“And you get along with Pierre okay?”
“Sure. We’re drinking buddies too. Like to have a few laughs together.”
“And there’s no reason you can think of why he would want to frame you for her murder?”
“Nope, I—” He glanced at the darkness beyond the window as if something had caught his attention, then after a few seconds he returned his gaze to the brightness in the kitchen. He saw me staring at him. “Thought I heard something,” he muttered, then continued, “I don’t know Pierre that good. Met him a few winters back at the hockey arena in Somerset. We get together every now and then for a beer or go to a hockey game. That’s all.”
“Then it must be another friend who gave Chantal the scotch. Did she have any other drinking buddies?”
“I forgot. Took Pierre huntin’ once,” he added, then continued in a more subdued voice. “I think she mighta been seein’ another guy. She stood me up one day. I even took a day off work to take her to some movie she wanted to see. And then she doesn’t show. Gives me a dumb excuse about a sick aunt. I didn’t believe her. Figured I’d done somethin’ wrong.” He pulled on his choker. “I was always doin’ somethin’ wrong. You know, livin’ on the rez I don’t meet many white chicks. And, well, I guess you treat ’em different.”
“I would’ve thought all you had to do was flash those pearly whites of yours, and she’d be purring.”
His rooster cockiness returned as he flashed his star-making smile.
“You wouldn’t happen to know the name of this guy?” I asked.
“Nope, but I did see her kissin’ some guy in Somerset, about a week or so ago. He was riding one of those slick motor bikes.”
I tensed. “Wasn’t Eric, was it?”
“No way. The guy was dressed in the kinda yuppie biker’s gear Eric wouldn’t be caught dead in. Full leathers and one of those fancy helmets with yellow flames on the sides. Besides, this guy’s bike was a Suzuki, not the chief ’s big Harley.”
“Maybe Pierre would know. Any way I can contact him?”
“Yeah, I know his phone number.”
I wrote it down, planning to follow-up once John-Joe’s situation was sorted out.
* * *
I hadn’t seen Tommy since he’d moved to Ottawa two years ago to begin his career as a lawyer. Although he probably came back occasionally to check out his parental home and to visit with friends, our paths hadn’t crossed. He used to resent me for my family’s long history of what he felt was our white man’s interference with his family, so I wasn’t sure how he would accept my involvement with John-Joe.
But I needn’t have worried. His broad smile was open and friendly, his handshake warm.
“This place brings back so many memories, good and bad,” he said as he sauntered through my front door. “I’ve been reluctant to pay you a visit, but now that I’m here, it’s like coming home. I feel the comforting presence of my mother’s and grandmother’s spirits.”
Although his success as an up-and-coming lawyer had erased his cynical student demeanour, he still displayed the eager determination that had enabled him to overcome the many obstacles on his road to becoming one of the few native lawyers. His informal clothing style remained the same, with only a minor adjustment; a leather bomber jacket had replaced his student sweatshirt. And his hairstyle didn’t conform to the white man’s conservative legal world either. He proudly wore his dark brown hair in two long braids. Only his startling blue eyes betrayed a European contribution to his ancestry.
“Hi, John-Joe,” Tommy said, without surprise. “Figured I would find you here.”
They greeted each other not as lawyer and client, but as two friends who’d grown up together.
“So what in the hell kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into now?” Tommy said, giving his friend a playful punch.
“Just like old times, eh?” John-Joe said. “Nothing you can’t get me out of.” He grinned.
We went into the living room, where John-Joe told Tommy about his tryst with Chantal and waking up to find her dead.
At the end, Tommy said bluntly, “Looks kind of stacked against you, doesn’t it? Any idea who could’ve killed her?”
“Nope,” came the quick response.
“But we have leads,” I added and told Tommy about the disappearing snowshoer, the lost-then-found orange baseball cap, the overly clean room with the missing bottle of scotch, our suspicions that John-Joe was being framed,