Page 3 of Miss Wolcott’s Ghost

Armand waved him in.

“Go on,” he said to the Sûreté agent on the other end of the line.

“The phone is registered to a C. Morrow.”

“What?” Reine-Marie and Jean-Guy said together on seeing Armand’s face. They looked at the pad where Armand had written a note. A name. Then at each other.

C. Morrow?

“Can you repeat that, please,” said Armand.

“The phone that made the call to you, patron, is registered to a C. Morrow, living in Three Pines, Québec.”

“Merci.” He hung up.

Rubbing his hand over his face and feeling the stubble, he looked out the study window, past the dark front garden, across the green, past the three huge pines that gave his village its name, to the home of one C. Morrow.

While still too dark to see, he knew it was there. He’d been in it many times with Reine-Marie. With Jean-Guy. With family and friends. For meals, for drinks, for years. Sometimes just to sit in front of the fireplace in winter, and in the cheerful perennial garden in summer.

C. Morrow, Clara Morrow, was their friend and neighbor.

“What the fuck!?” Clara sat up and reached for something by her bed.

“Shhh,” whispered Jean-Guy. “It’s us. Keep the light off.”

“It’s not the light I was reaching for.” In her hands was a bat.

Armand and Jean-Guy had already searched outside the house and found nothing. Then they’d entered and immediately gone to her bedroom.

“What the hell—”

Armand put his finger to his lips, and while Clara’s mouth closed, her eyes widened considerably.

“Come with us,” whispered Armand. “Come, quickly.”

“What’s happening?” But there was no answer as she followed them downstairs and through the dark living room.

Armand gestured to Jean-Guy to lock the back door into the garden while he escorted Clara through the kitchen toward the front door.

“Where’s your phone?” he whispered.

She put her hand in the pocket of her robe and held it out. To her surprise, he took it, then opened the door and gently moved her onto the covered porch.

He glanced out. It was a cool, wet late June morning. Taking off his coat, he gave it to her.

“Stay here.”

She pulled the huge coat, warm from his body and smelling slightly of sandalwood and rose water, around her. What in the world was going on? Whatever it was, it seemed to be happening in her home.

Clara turned full circle. They were approaching the summer solstice, and while it was just before four in the morning, there was already a very slight glow in the sky above the forest that surrounded the village in the valley.

A light rain was falling. Mist had settled on the tops of the trees, tugging away at the tip-tops like tissue. The soft light gave the village an almost mystical feel.

She moved her eyes instinctively to the bookstore and the loft above it, wondering if Myrna was awake. But like the rest of Three Pines, Clara’s best friend and the owner of the New and Used Bookstore was asleep.

Before long, lights would appear over at Gabri and Olivier’s B&B, and soon after that, Olivier would jog through the light rain, trying, like a cat, to avoid any puddles. He’d unlock the bistro, that is if Gabri had remembered to lock up, and would get to work on breakfasts.

There’d be fresh, warm croissants. French toast and crêpes and maple syrup drawn from trees they could see from their windows. There’d be eggs Benedict and smoked salmon on St-Viateur bagels. There’d be granola made by their friend Mellissa.