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

cocaine delivery to John-Joe’s camp the day of the murder. However, in order to protect Tommy’s professional integrity, I didn’t reveal John Joe as the source of this information.

      “Unfortunately, doesn’t look like he made it,” replied Tommy. “Police are saying the only fingerprints found at the crime scene are those of John-Joe and Chantal. As I keep telling you, unless real evidence is found to place this man Pierre at the scene, there’s not much I can do with this information.”

      “But surely the fact he was supposed to be there is enough to raise a degree of doubt, or whatever you call it, in John-Joe’s defense?”

      “Could. Depends on the credibility of the witness.” I groaned. A statement from the accused would hardly be believed. “But couldn’t you at least use this information to get the police to investigate Pierre’s movements for the day of the murder?”

      “Yeah, I’ll let Decontie know. Maybe he can do some digging. He did pass on to me that the SQ are looking for this Pierre Fournier, but as I thought, it’s for drug-related offences.” A loud voice interrupted Tommy and was then cut-off by the receiver being muffled. “Look, my case is up next, but before I go, one other thing you should know,” Tommy continued. “Forensics has matched the blood found on the crime scene carving knife to that of the victim’s.”

      “It still doesn’t mean John-Joe killed her. Remember my theory about someone cleaning up the place after the murder. It would explain the knife ending up in the kitchen drawer and the lack of Pierre’s fingerprints.”

      “Meg, I don’t know how you can continue to believe John Joe innocent. I’m his lawyer and his friend, and I’m finding it hard to believe him. I tell you, I’m having such a difficult time coming up with any kind of a viable defense that I’m seriously considering going after a deal.”

      “Don’t give up, not yet. Let’s see if Decontie can find a witness that places Pierre at or near John-Joe’s cabin.” I paused, wondering if I should say anything further, then decided Tommy would want to know his friend was safe. “By the way, just to let you know everything is under control.”

      Tommy merely acknowledged this with a brief pause before saying goodbye.

      As I placed the phone on the table, I too was beginning to wonder if John-Joe had been playing me for a fool. But no. He’d said he hadn’t killed Chantal, and I still believed him.

      While I waited for John-Joe to wake up, I checked to confirm that no item of his had been forgotten in our haste to hide him last night. Lucky I did. His much larger Sorel boots stood neatly placed beside mine on the boot tray by the front door. I snatched them up, then double checked every room on both floors of the house.

      With John-Joe’s boots in hand, I headed towards the attic and almost stumbled over Sergei, guarding the closed attic door. Whoops. Another indication of the escaped prisoner’s presence. It would be a challenge to convince the dog to ignore him. Ever-vigilant in guarding his territory, he would no doubt begin barking at the closed door the minute other strangers approached. Unfortunately for him, I would have to keep him locked up in some other room.

      I quietly went up the attic stairs, tiptoed into John-Joe’s room, and finding him still asleep, deposited his boots and left, carefully securing all doors behind me. Taking the dog by the collar, I convinced him to come to the kitchen, where I shut him in with me while I did the laundry. But he wouldn’t relax. He’d lie still for a minute or two, then begin pacing in front of the door. Even dog biscuits failed to distract him. I’d have to come up with another solution should someone come to my house.

      It was well after lunch by the time John-Joe finally awoke. As predicted, Sergei’s frenetic barking alerted me to the young man’s approach. However, once he’d given this stranger a good onceover sniff, he decided the man was a friendly and quieted down.

      “Glad you had a good sleep,” I said. “But I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be wandering about the house. What if someone had been in the kitchen with me?”

      I laid out a set of procedures that would hopefully prevent anyone from discovering his presence.

      He could leave the attic only with my permission. To minimize accidental traces of his presence, his access would be limited to the kitchen and the bathroom. Whenever he left either room, he was to make sure nothing had been left behind. He was to return to the attic at the first hint of a visitor; the dog barking, the phone ringing, a car in the drive, etc. He would remain absolutely quiet until he got the all clear signal from me. Lastly, while I was out of the house, he was not to leave the attic.

      With each new rule, I could sense his growing resistance. Finally, he said, “Worse than jail. I can’t even pee without your say-so.”

      “Not at all. You can take one of my great-aunt’s chamber pots up with you to the attic.” From the pantry, I extracted an old porcelain pot with a design of baby blue flowers.

      John-Joe screwed up his face. “Jeez. I ain’t no fairy. I’d rather pee in a bottle.”

      So I passed him an empty pop bottle and tried not to smile as he glowered in disgust at the narrow opening.

      “It’s past breakfast time, but I can still make you some eggs and bacon or even porridge, if you want,” I said, “or give you what I had for lunch, a grilled cheese sandwich.”

      “Eggs and bacon are good. And if it’s okay, I’d like some porridge too. And then maybe a sandwich.” He grinned and punched his stomach. “It’s kinda empty.”

      As I placed the copper kettle on the cookstove to boil up the water for the instant oatmeal—the only kind I dared make —I realized the fire needed stoking. “Help yourself to the coffee, while I get some more logs.”

      A blast of frigid arctic air caught my breath as I opened the door to the back porch. “Sure is cold out here,” I shouted through the opening. “Lucky you aren’t camped out in the bush.”