A Very Tranquil Murder

Chapter 23

Although their rooms were booked for an entire week, I'd expected Carmela's gang to check out of La Tranquilité after Jerry's funeral. I didn't see what could possibly keep them here, after a family tragedy and a cancelled wedding; but it turned out they each had their reasons for staying.

Mrs. Monk had returned to the hospital, where she was scheduled for an MRI the following day. The hospitals in Montreal, overwhelmed with coronavirus patients, had cancelled all elective procedures. At least here in the Laurentians, she had a bed, some nursing care, and the chance of getting surgery if she needed it. Carmela and her father were staying close by her side while they figured out what to do next.

Agnes DePaor was staying put until she heard news of her son Damion. Without a cell phone, she'd be incommunicado for two days if she drove home to New Brunswick. Although she mistrusted government and law enforcement, she had a paranoid conviction of their ability to track down their own citizens. If Damion didn't show up, it meant the government had 'done away with him,' she'd told me, on returning to the B&B. I had a feeling that no good news awaited Ms. DePaor; still, I didn't tell her about the body in the woods. Let Sgt. Toussaint do that particular piece of dirty work.

That left Eric, Darlene and Angélique. It was clear that Darlene wanted to pack up and leave as soon as possible. But Eric, who'd been dragged here against his will in the first place, didn't want to waste his room booking and the good money he'd spent on a ski pass. I'd heard them arguing about it after I'd left Jerry's room, lugging a linen bag stuffed with dirty bedsheets down the hallway.

"I wasted my vacation time on this goddamn trip!" he shouted from behind the closed door. "You think I'm gonna let that drunken loser ruin my ski holiday?"

Later that evening, after I'd checked in my new ski guests, I found Darlene curled on a sofa in the common room, red-rimmed eyes wandering over the pages of a home decor magazine. I approached her with two glasses of wine and my phone set to 'voice recorder' in my pocket.

I placed a glass of wine in front of her.

"Thanks." She managed a listless smile. "And thank you for coming to the funeral."

"I'm sorry about what happened."

"It wasn't your fault." She took a sip of wine.

I braced myself for the unpleasantness that I was about to introduce into the conversation.

"I found something when I was cleaning up Jerry's room." I placed the fake fingernail on the coffee table in front of her. It took a few moments before recognition dawned in her face. She raised her eyes to me, but didn't speak.

"I should take this to the police," I said.

"Why?"

"You lied to them. You said you went straight to bed after leaving the spa. Clearly, you didn't."

"Jerry and I had a night cap. So what?"

"I found your fingernail in his bed. It had clearly been the scene of — how shall I put it? — an amourous encounter."

Darlene took a gulp of wine and slumped back in her chair. "So I slept with Jerry. What does it matter now?"

"Do you know what else I found in his room? " I persisted. "Two tablets of Zyprexa. It's not a common drug."

"He had anxiety. He wanted something to help him sleep. I didn't think it would do any harm."

"It's a serious anti-psychotic medication."

"All I know is that, for Eric, it calms him down. It helps him deal with things."

"Maybe it helped him deal with Jerry."

A few drops spilled as she set down her wine glass.

"What are you talking about?"

"You were in Jerry's room the night he died. What if your husband found out you were having an affair? He drugged Jerry with Zyprexa, and drowned him in the hot tub."

"No, that's not what happened."

"Maybe I should leave that to the police to decide."

"I'm telling you, that's not what happened. Why are you doing this to me?" Darlene reached for her glass but her unsteady hand made the wine tremble. She set it down without drinking. Her face was the colour of cold ashes. Burned out. I made an effort to soften my voice. She was my guest, after all. This wasn't a police interrogation.

"I don't want to drag you through the mud, Darlene. But Jerry's father is suing me for five million dollars over his son's death. Apparently I could be held liable because it was an accident that happened on my property. If his death wasn't an accident, that changes everything."

"He's suing you?"

"Yeah. So if there's evidence that points to a different cause of death, I need to have it investigated."

I gave her a moment to let that land. She raised her hand to her mouth, gnawed at her ravaged pinky nail. Grasping the wine glass by the bowl instead of the stem, she slugged the rest of it down.

"Eric didn't murder Jerry," she said. "Jerry committed suicide."