Like many businesses situated in rural areas, the restaurant was located in an old house. In this case, a particularly fine example of an Edwardian brick house that had probably belonged to a lumber baron. Although it had been run as a boarding house for a number of years, the present owners had managed to restore the elaborate wood moldings back to their natural elegance. Paint and floral wallpaper hid the damage that couldn’t be repaired.
The restaurant hummed with the kind of energy and chatter to be expected on a Saturday night. Yves and I were shown to a reserved table tucked into a quiet alcove off the main dining area.
I tried to make my bottom fit more comfortably into the narrow wooden chair but knew it was useless. It wasn’t that the wicker seat was too small. It was that my bottom was too large and likely to remain so. My eyes had a tendency to focus only on those items on the menu guaranteed to be loaded with calories.
“I will order for you, non?” Yves said more as a statement than a question. He proceeded to select those foods my eyes had passed over; a Mediterranean vegetable terrine instead of the buttery escargot I’d been eyeing and Atlantic salmon with a mango salsa instead of the filet mignon smothered in bernaise sauce.
Even if Yves was making a comment on the fullness of my figure, I wasn’t bothered. A few months of his company would probably slim me down to the trimness of my late thirties, about the age Yves must be, which made me wonder what an elegant catch like him saw in a fortyish frump like me.
The soft candle light captured the sparkle in Yves’s eyes. And as if reading my thoughts, he said, “I am hoping you can consider me as something more than the brother of Yvette.”
“And here I was worrying that you thought of me only as an older sister.”
His brown eyes smiled. “I only have one older sister, and she is much older than you.”
While his fine features and almond-shaped eyes bore a resemblance to this older sister, his expression was relaxed and friendly, a sharp contrast to Sister Yvonne’s stern and shrouded countenance.
“How much older is your twin than you?” I asked. “Five minutes.” I held his gaze and smiled back. I rather liked this kind of flattery. “To what the future may bring.” I toasted him with a glass of the superb 2001 Chassagne Montrachet he’d ordered.
Yves did like fine wine. If I hung around him long enough, I might reacquire my taste for the kind of refined living my exhusband had introduced me to. It could be a welcome change to the backwoods lifestyle I’d been living for the past three years. That is, as long as it didn’t lead to the excessive drinking from which Eric had weaned me. Still, a glass of good wine now and again could be viewed as a fitting reward for my stellar abstinence.
“I am very sorry I was not able to visit with you when you came to my father’s house the other day,” Yves said.
“Me too. I half-hoped you would come inside to say hello before you left for Montreal.”
“But I was gone before you arrived.”
“Not quite, I saw you going into the barn.”
He shot me a startled look, then laughed. “My sisters play games. I was told that you were coming to visit Yvette in the afternoon. Can you forgive me?” His hand reached across the linen tablecloth to mine.
“Not your fault.” I clasped his hand and squeezed back. Unlike my hand, which had become toughened from too much outdoor work, his was soft and smooth. His fingers, like his physique, slender and elegant.
“You should’ve been a musician,” I said. “You have the hands.”
He swirled the straw-coloured wine in his glass and laughed again. “You know my secret. Please do not tell my father. It is bad enough that I ran off to the city to become a financier. If he knew I wanted to be a musician, he would make the priest say a Requiem Mass for me.”
“Seriously?”
“I exaggerate a little, but Papa would be happier if I am a farmer like him.”
“But, he doesn’t seem to hesitate accepting your money.”
He raised his eyebrows in puzzlement. “I do not understand.”
“I’m talking about the modern kitchen and that entertainment centre. I think you bought those.”
“The kitchen, yes. I bought it for Yvette.”
What a generous brother, I thought. Which was more than I could say about the father.
“But Papa bought the big television for himself. I’m afraid he had a passion for the TV show that all Quebec watched, La Petite Vie. Sadly it is no more, but he still has his Saturday Night Hockey with Les Canadiens.”
“I’m surprised. I didn’t think farming in this cold rocky country was very profitable.”
“He earns enough. His year-round market garden produces a good income.”
“Yes, I’ve enjoyed the wonderful vegetables that Yvette has brought me.”
“And of course he has his timber lots.” He sipped his wine and smiled. “Ambrosia, the nectar of the gods.”
I joined him in savouring the fine white Burgundy. Its rich citrus taste seemed to explode in my mouth.
He took another sip. “I was most distressed to learn of the death of Chantal Bergeron. Such a tragedy, such a beautiful young woman. Her life, poof, no more…” He swirled his wine again, his gaze lost to introspection. Then he shook himself and returned to the present. “Her father is, how you say, distraught.”
“Yes, it must be difficult for him. Did you know her well?” “Non. We meet one, two times. A charming young woman, so full of life, joie de vivre, we say in French. But I know she caused her father problems. Although she was educated by the nuns, she was, as you English say, a bit wild. Many of her friends were not of the sort a father wants for his daughter.” He placed his glass on the table. “Is it true, what I read in the newspaper? The police have arrested a suspect, an Indian from the reserve.”
“John-Joe MacGregor. But he didn’t do it. It looks as if he was framed. Possibly by a friend of Chantal’s.” I tried the vegetable terrine that had just been placed in front of me. “Hmm, délicieux.”
“I see that my sister has taught you good French.” He laughed, then started into his terrine, but after a few bites, he laid down his fork.
“Oh, dear, you don’t like it?” I asked, trying to pretend I wasn’t scraping the last tangy morsel onto my fork.
“As you say, c’est délicieux, mais, I am not so hungry. But please tell me, why you believe this Indian was framed? I think the newspaper said Chantal was found in his cabin.”
“Yes, that’s true, but…” and I told him my theory about the discarded bottle of scotch.
“You say it is possible a friend of Chantal’s did this. Do you know who?”
“No. But there is mention of a possible boyfriend. Maybe he got jealous. After all, Chantal was having an affair with John-Joe. In fact, the two of them were in bed at the time of the murder.”
“Vraiment? I find it curious that you should know so much.”
“Easy, a friend and I and found the body, and I’ve talked with John-Joe.” I told him about the discovery but didn’t bother to mention that the friend was Eric.
“Such a dreadful thing to see. You must have also been very afraid finding this John-Joe with the dead girl.”
“No, he wasn’t with the body. He came back later while I was waiting for the police. And yes, at first I was frightened, but his actions convinced me he didn’t kill her. He’s really just a very scared young man who’s