Page 8 of Miss Wolcott’s Ghost

“You think it’s murder,” said Reine-Marie.

“Why else call me? But if it was murder, I don’t think he was responsible. Or if he was, it wasn’t planned.”

“Then why not say more?” Isabelle asked again.

“I don’t know,” said Armand. “But the voice seemed familiar, though that might have just been the tone. He was frightened.”

Jean-Guy and Isabelle nodded. They’d heard fear before.

“If anyone knows Lost Nation, it’d be Billy.” Myrna placed a call. “He’s on a job in the Abitibi.”

They watched as she spoke to her partner. Then her eyes widened slightly. “Can you repeat that?”

She listened, thanked him, and hung up. “He’s heard of it, from his grandparents. But they used it as a threat. If they were naughty, they’d be sent to Lost Nation.”

“So it doesn’t actually exist?” asked Clara.

“Oh, it does. Billy said they went looking for it once, but got scared. It’s somewhere around here, and—”

“Yes?” said Gabri. “What?”

Myrna grimaced. “He said it’s cursed.”

In the bright sunshine, sitting outside sipping a lemonade or beer, listening to the birds calling, they might not have believed it. But on a misty, moody morning, this did not sound quite as far-fetched.

“Come on,” said Jean-Guy, though his bravado was razor-thin.

“Well, if it’s cursed and close by,” said Isabelle. ‘There’s someone who might know.”

“Dear God,” said Clara. “Don’t say—”

“Ruth.”

CHAPTER 4

“No, you can’t come in. You’re wet. You’ll get water all over the floor.”

Armand looked through the window at the querulous old woman. Not two inches away through the dirty glass, she stared, glared back.

If a land mine and a migraine had a child, it would be the poet Ruth Zardo.

The government had given Ruth Zardo the Order of Canada and named her Poet Laureate, describing her as a national treasure.

“Though sadly not a buried treasure,” Gabri had muttered at the ceremony.

“For Chrissake,” yelled Jean-Guy. “You have a duck in there. How clean can the floors be?”

“I didn’t say clean, I said wet. I’m a frail old woman, I could slip and fall. Break a hip. End up in hospital. Then need to live with you while I recovered.”

A grin spread wrinkles across her face as the full horror dawned on Jean-Guy.

“We’ll stay out here,” said Armand.

“Suit yourself.” Ruth turned and began walking away.

The Sûreté officers looked at each other.

“Lost Nation,” Armand called through the closed door. He saw her stop. Turn. Look at them with rheumy eyes that held intelligence and perhaps a little madness. Perhaps more than a little. “You know it, don’t you. Please, Ruth, this’s important.”