Seven Days Dead (25 page)

“What do you know about him? See, that’s unexpected. I’d want to keep tabs on something like that. What you know, let’s say, or what you think you know.”

“You’re surprised that I’ve done my research.”

“You know what they say.”

“Tell me.”

“A little knowledge can be a dangerous thing. Yet I’m surprised you know anything about us.”

Yes, Cinq-Mars acknowledges to himself, knowing what he knows about police work, it is surprising if a policeman is aware of anything.

“What can you tell me about your discovery?”

“Nothing I haven’t told the Mounties.”

He thinks about that answer. He has a hunch. If he can relate to this man and detect the depths of an uncanny intelligence in him, then Roadcap may well be able to do the same with him. What he might say to a local policeman or a relatively local Mountie from the mainland, and what he might be willing to impart to him, could provoke two very different lines of inquiry. He has some trust building to do, perhaps years of distrust to tear town. None of that can be accomplished or even broached with so many ears nearby, and he isn’t sure that the other man, with his manner as much as anything, isn’t suggesting as much. Pete Briscoe, for one, eyes them closely, and Cinq-Mars can tell that he wants to get closer to this confab, that he resents giving them so much space. Still, the whole of the Whistle is a small area, and others, ears straining, eavesdrop.

“Any thoughts on Professor DeWitt?”

“I don’t run in his circles,” Roadcap stipulates. “Didn’t really know the man, although I met him. Maybe he jumped. Not many around had much to do with him. I never heard that he had much to do with us.”

If Émile had to qualify the man’s reply, he’d mark it down as being careful. Plotted. Circumspect. Indeed, if he doubted the man’s mind, he might conclude that he was coached by a legal representative, that this governs the quality of his response. Since he does not doubt the man’s mind, Cinq-Mars concludes that he coached himself.

“You harvest dulse for a living. A little bird told me that.”

Roadcap nods, sips from his beer, and sweeps the neck of his bottle to indicate the bay. “The beauty of this place never leaves me. I’d rather cut seaweed from a rock than sit in a chair all day.”

An acknowledgment that he has options in life he’s dismissed.

“Perhaps I could watch you work someday. I know nothing about dulse.”

He’s asking for a private interview, which the other man has anticipated.

“I’m out on the flats at Dark Harbour, the low side of any tide.”

Just like that, they’ve agreed to meet again, and privately.

Roadcap briefly rubs one eye, then the other, an indication of weariness.

“All right,” he says, confirming that. “Short and sweet. I’ll see you around.”

He walks back up the hill again and a man Cinq-Mars assumes is his driver traces his steps. Moments later, he hears an engine start up, a pickup by the sound of the growl. Raymond wanders closer to him again, and conversations regain their currency around them.

“Quite a place,” Cinq-Mars mentions. “The Whistle. This island.”

“It is,” Raymond agrees with some conviction. “What’s going on, nobody needs that. Nobody’s for that. We’re all every one of us against it.”

Cinq-Mars accepts the sentiment as intended. He doesn’t bother to say that while it may be true, somebody thinks differently and favors the killings, given that one or more people, jointly or in collusion, caused two murders and possibly a third to occur. The oddity of the case is that one killing was precipitated by a knife’s rapacious blade, one by suffocation, and a third death, a murder or not, from a fall. Cinq-Mars has seen the photos of Lescavage’s death, a grotesque killing, yet not a crime of passion in his deliberation, for the knife’s stroke was straight and therefore swift from the apex just under the center of the rib cage down almost to the hip bone. Then, while the victim would have been roiling in the horror of that incision, strapped upright to a tree trunk, a matching slice was ripped down the opposite side of his solar plexus, the third line of a triangle. The swipe across the belly was more savage in a way, less precise. It might have occurred first, causing the man’s intestines to spill out. Possibly three murders. With that kind of disparity in method—blade, suffocation, a fall—he has to think that more than one person is responsible for this havoc. Raymond’s claim that nobody wants what is happening derives only from one man’s wishful thinking.

Studying the photos, Émile had consoled Louwagie. “No big surprise that you got sick.”

Anyone who witnessed the scene in person, and that would include Aaron Roadcap, or through the photographs, knows that a person capable of extreme horror is on the loose. No fanciful island serendipity about how people on the island aren’t like that is going to will that fact away.

At the outset of his investigation, Émile accepts that whichever person he is talking to at any one moment might be the person capable of such butchery.

TWENTY

In early morning light, Émile and Sandra repeat the walking tour at their end of the island. They have no plan to do the whole trail, as Émile intends to examine the ground where they spied Pete Briscoe shoveling. Still, the stroll provides the joy of birdcalls and pliant sea air and soon they rhapsodize about a return trip to Grand Manan one day, which might include a boat ride out to view the puffins, an excursion on a lobster boat, another to be up close and personal with whales. Émile wants to investigate the salmon farms to make up his own mind on their pros and cons, sick fish being a major con, and he wants to visit a weir to learn more of how it operates. Sandra teases him that all he really wants is a net
that
big, for criminals, not herring. She has a point, for the genius of a weir is that the fish find their way in easily enough but can’t find their way out because they keep swimming in circles in one direction only. How great would it be if criminals marched their way into prison, and even though the door remained wide open they couldn’t use it, because they kept marching in a circle around the yard.

They speak also of spending a whole glorious day sitting on a beach—but only after this nasty business is behind them. They kiss, a pause on their walk to commiserate with each other for failing, once again, to have a holiday.

“Don’t worry about it, Émile,” Sandra says.

From a precipice, they observe a fish boat motor out, gulls surrounding it in a feverish cry for scraps. They earn a few, as a crewman culls the bait box and tosses wastage into the sea. Then the truly rambunctious bickering begins.

“I imagine they’re company,” Émile ponders. He’s mesmerized by the scene, the richness of the color, the example of proud, tenacious work. “Like barn cats to a farmer. Lonely work. Must be. The gulls are company, I suppose.”

Locating Pete Briscoe’s spot is not difficult. They had certain pines to pinpoint, and that proves easy. Ascending a rise, they see where holes have been dug, then backfilled, the surface smoothed over. Rain, sunlight, and vigorous grass will conceal Briscoe’s labors over time, but they’ve come early enough to be successful archaeologists.

Émile has brought along a garden spade nicked from the shed by his cottage in order to scratch the earth. He digs a patch separate from Briscoe’s handiwork to give himself an idea of what the undisturbed terrain looks like when turned over, its texture and density. He can then revisit the other man’s excavations and sort out any differences. Going deeper, he will be able to determine the limit of Briscoe’s foray. His theory works, for in a couple of the old holes Briscoe soon struck solid rock. When Émile does find a deeper hole, nothing is in it.

He tries elsewhere.

No luck.

In all—and Émile walks a wide berth to confirm that he’s missed nothing—Briscoe dug eight separate patches. Only in one is anything found, and Émile would rather not have made the discovery—a long stool has been left behind.

“He was going to the bathroom?” Sandra asks. “That’s why he was digging?” By itself, that makes no sense.

“Can’t be. Who walks a mile into the woods when there are public toilets in town? If he came here with a shovel it wasn’t to dig an outhouse. His waste is incidental.”

“Nothing’s here. You only have one more to dig.”

Nothing shows up in that hole either. He hits rock eight inches down.

On the walk back they puzzle it through. The consensus between them is that Briscoe might have buried something. When spotted by Émile and Sandra, he opted to dig it back up again. Still, that fails to explain the need for eight separate holes. Sandra proffers the habit of squirrels, who bury their precious nuts then fail to remember where. The critters hope that enough of them bury a sufficient quantity of nuts that they’re bound to sniff one sometime by digging around. Émile quietly takes that in, and Sandra needs time before she grasps that he isn’t being his usual pensive self. His mind has gone off somewhere.

“Émile? What is it?”

“He could have been burying something,” the detective explains. “Or he could have been digging something up. There’s a third option.”

Given his general parameters, she can’t think what that might be.

“At the crime scene, somebody tried to dig a grave. Okay, that’s my conjecture, but somebody was digging for some reason and didn’t get very far. Here, the digger had some success and some failure. There are holes where the earth remains soft enough and deep enough under the surface, where Briscoe could have gone deeper. Then there are holes that hit solid bedrock.”

“What does that imply?”

He doesn’t want to say. “Suppose somebody had that problem originally. A grave can’t get dug when it’s necessary. So Lescavage is strapped to a tree instead and savaged. Now suppose that somebody wanted to do such a thing again. What would the killer think to find out before committing to a second time around?”

Sandra gets it. “He’d want to make sure he could dig a grave. So Pete Briscoe was experimenting? Making plans? Émile, is he your killer?”

Émile cocks his head from side to side, makes a face. “His alibi has holes. I haven’t gone over it carefully, or tried to break him down. Those aren’t the questions foremost on my mind at the moment.”

“What are?”

“Why the hell was Pete Briscoe up here shoveling if he’s not our killer? What other explanation might he have? If so, what was it he didn’t want us to see? What did he feel so strongly about that he has since removed the evidence? And if he is probing for an easy-to-dig burial ground, who does he plan to inter? I don’t believe he came all the way up here only to shovel his own shit, although apparently he did that, too.”

Back at the cottage, they enjoy a simple lunch of salmon sandwiches and chips, followed by cherries and cool lemonade. Émile then absconds with the Jeep and heads to the primary general store on the island. The young woman who works there found a dog’s owner quickly, and Wade Louwagie let on that she subsequently helped him out when an “episode” shattered his nerves. She knows stuff, Émile is certain. She knows people, their place and their histories. He needs to acquire local knowledge and Margaret of the General Store strikes him as a bountiful source.

Confirming that, she knows who he is this time and what he’s been up to. Island news is making the rounds only a whiff slower than the speed of light.

“So I heard you’re, like, famous, like a Sherlock Holmes–type guy.”

“Not by a long shot.” He wants to explain that he doesn’t think of himself as particularly bright, merely diligent, with a missile’s guidance system for the truth. That might take time and still not be understood. “Our Corporal Louwagie could use a hand at the moment, so I’m pitching in.”

“You can say that again, poor guy.”

“You were kind to him.”

“Maybe too kind. He might have ideas now.”

“Would that be so terrible?” he asks.

The hint of a blush slips onto her skin, even as she shrugs. He studies her. Sometimes even the most humble of people exude a warmth and honesty that transcends the usual quagmire in which humans perpetually bathe. She is one of these, spry and witty and cogent, and probably a real tease in her way to any boy who’s not prepared for cleverness. He cannot say if Margaret’s a gossip—she may or may not be—although she is a bona fide gatherer of gossip, he imagines, given that her workplace is a hub for the island sport. He’s hoping that she discriminates between information that is truthful and what ought to be held up to the light.

“Any chance that you can take time off for a chat?”

“My boss is a stickler.”

“I see. I don’t mean to impose, but when is your next break?”

“Of course…” she says, and lets her voice trail off in a telling way.

“‘Of course…’” Émile encourages her.

“If you think that I could say to him that this is police business.”

“It is. Let him know that. If you prefer, I’ll tell him myself.”

At that, she takes his hand as though he’s a pupil and she his teacher guiding him to the principal’s office, in this case her boss’s. She knocks.

A voice shouts back, “Open!”

She shoves him through the door ahead of her, hanging back. When Émile utters the phrase, “police business,” she repeats it for her boss’s benefit, which prevents Émile from getting to the point.

“What police business?” the boss inquires. He seems pleasant, not a pariah.

“I need to ask Margaret a few questions.”

“About the murders?” He’s more than surprised. He almost takes umbrage. “She doesn’t know anything.”

“About the island,” Cinq-Mars counters. “She can help me out on several fronts. I need to talk to her precisely because she’s not in any way associated with the murders. I don’t want this conversation with anyone who might be even remotely involved.”

He understands, and changes his tune. “About the island, Margaret knows everything. What she doesn’t know, she can invent and still be right.”

“Police business,” Margaret repeats, as if she’s won a prize.

“All right,” the owner allows, “take her away. Just bring her back in one piece, if you don’t mind. The truth is, I don’t know what I’d do without her.”