Joaquin Moralès parked outside the auberge. Sébastien’s car wasn’t there. He went inside, dropped his bags of groceries in the kitchen, crossed the dining room and climbed the stairs, glancing at his watch as he walked down the corridor to his apartment. Under one arm he had the file Lefebvre had given him that lunchtime and a notepad from his car that he had used to jot a few things down from his interviews that day – Jimmy Roberts’ resentment, his father’s nostalgia and Clément Cyr’s latent guilt – but he wouldn’t have time to write it all up before dinner.
Suddenly, he stopped and held his breath. There was a noise coming from inside the apartment. He put the file on the floor, took his revolver from its holster and double-checked it was loaded. The door was three steps away. Moralès crept forward and pricked his ears. Someone was rummaging around his apartment. He remembered leaving most of the case file on the kitchen table. He reached for the door handle and turned it slowly without a sound. It wasn’t locked. He inched the door open. For a second, there was only silence, then Moralès thought he heard the sound of water, a gentle lapping.
He glanced warily around the room. The intruder was leaning over the detective’s work table with a look of intense concentration, head covered with a colourful bandana Moralès recognised immediately. He swiftly holstered his weapon, picked up the file again and pushed the door wide open.
The young woman jumped and took three steps back. ‘Oh, hello Joaquin. You scared me.’ I was just giving your kitchenette a clean. Have you had a good day? Is your investigation going well?’
The bandana was holding her hair back from her face, and sweat was pearling on her throat. She had a bucket of soapy water at her feet and was holding a wet rag in one hand. There was a broom leaning against the wall just inside the doorway.
‘Thank you, Corine, but I’d rather you dropped the cleaning routine until the investigation’s over.’
She put on an overly formal smile. ‘Ah, this is all highly confidential. I understand.’
Moralès strode into the room and placed the file on the table with authority. As she wasn’t showing any signs of moving, he walked back to the door and put the broom out in the corridor. Then he stood back and waited until she finally got the message that he was showing her the door.
‘Thank you,’ he said curtly as she left the room.
She forced a rigid smile and scurried away. A second later, Moralès cursed himself. He really wasn’t acting very courteously or tactfully towards women lately, was he? He stepped out into the corridor and hurried after her.
‘Corine?’
She stopped and turned around.
‘I think I was a little short with you. I’m sorry.’
She gave a little nod, but said nothing.
‘Do you have any dinner plans?’
She hesitated. ‘Is it the detective who’s asking?’
He shrugged apologetically.
She thought for a moment. ‘Shall we meet in the kitchen?’
Moralès agreed. He returned to his apartment and hung up his jacket. It had been a bit over the top for him to draw his weapon and kick into action when it was just Corine doing a bit of cleaning. Of course, you could never be too careful, but still he felt ridiculous to have overreacted. To think he’d been ready to pull the trigger on an auberge owner who was tidying up the mess he and his son had created. From now on, he would keep the case file with him. That would eliminate any concerns.
Moralès went downstairs to the kitchen. He had tried to reach Cyrille, but no one had answered the phone. Corine wasn’t there yet. He was taking out the ingredients for his recipe when he saw Érik Lefebvre park in front of the auberge and stroll in through the front door.
‘Reporting for duty, boss!’
Moralès smiled. ‘Have you eaten, Constable Lefebvre?’
‘Is that an invitation?’
‘If you like chilli.’
‘Not only do I love chilli, but I think I also deserve a beer.’
The constable went to fetch a couple of bottles from the bar.
‘I understand Dotrice Percy gave you the run-around?’ Moralès said.
Lefebvre opened the bottles and took a long swig of his before collapsing on a chair at the corner of the service counter. ‘Some people live in parallel worlds, Moralès. You’ll never believe it.’
‘Hurry up and tell me what she said. Corine and Sébastien will be here soon.’
‘It’s a sin to spare you the details of the decor in her meditation room. You really missed something there. Anyway, remember what you asked me to look into? It turns out lunar cults are a thing. Apparently the moon worshippers get quite excited on equinox nights. There are cults in the Middle East, cults in China, cults in…’
‘Gaspé? Was there a cult thing here last Saturday?’
Lefebvre was disappointed; he didn’t appreciate being rushed. ‘Dotrice spent the night meditating at L’Anse-aux-Amérindiens cove, out on the whale-watching point.’
Moralès cast him a sideways glance. ‘Is that all?’
‘Yes and no. She said the moon had revealed some things to her – woo woo! – but she would only talk to the detective in charge.’
‘You did tell her I was too busy?’
Moralès saw Sébastien’s car pulling into the parking area and wondered how his fishing had gone that day.
‘I laid it on as thick as I could, but she wasn’t hearing any of it. As it was, she made me wait for an hour on the doorstep before she finally opened up, then as soon as I got a foot in the door she threw me out and cast a spell on me.’
‘Did she have anything to tell you besides her tale of the naked monster?’
Sébastien walked into the dining room. Just as he was saying hello, Corine came downstairs.
Lefebvre mumbled a hasty reply. ‘I’m afraid I can’t answer that question right now, even if you are the detective in charge, because there are civilians present. Oh, hi Corine! Can you put these two beers on my tab?’
Corine had changed into a pretty autumn dress. Sébastien turned to look at her. ‘Did you finish your stocktaking?’
‘Yes…’ She neglected to mention that she’d done some cleaning as well. ‘Your hands are empty. Fish weren’t biting, then?’
‘No. Not even a nibble. Tomorrow morning, I’m going down to the Grande-Grave wharf, in the park. That’s where they’re biting, I hear.’
‘Good plan,’ Lefebvre chimed in. ‘Hey, am I the only one who’s hungry?’
Moralès smiled. ‘I’m working on it. You’ll have time for another beer.’
Saturday 29th September
‘Good morning, Moralès. This is your favourite constable calling. Clément Cyr’s down at the station. He says he has to speak to you, and he’s not taking no for an answer.’
Joaquin looked at his watch. Barely eight o’clock. He and his son had just got back from their run.
‘Where are you, Érik?’
‘On my way into work.’
‘Set him up in an interview room when you get there. I’m on my way. Make sure you record—’
‘Relax, this isn’t my first rodeo, cowboy.’
Twenty-five minutes later, Moralès gained entry to the police station with unusual ease. Thérèse Roch wasn’t working the front desk that Saturday. A young, cheery receptionist was sitting in her place. She buzzed him in without batting an eye. A female officer he had crossed paths with a few times that week came to greet him and walked him to the interview room. There the detective found Clément Cyr, sitting on a chair that was too small for him, rubbing a nervous right hand against his thigh.
He stood and took a step towards Moralès. ‘I’m sorry, I know it’s Saturday, but I have to speak to you. It’s important.’