Nightshade. Tom Henighan

gallery patrons: each picture would thrust its meaning toward him, and he would reach out his mind and senses and wrestle with what the artist had concocted. Sometimes in such excursions he understood everything at once; sometimes he was bored or baffled and walked away frustrated; sometimes he knew he’d have to return and work harder to understand an object or a picture that intrigued him.

      Daniel’s work — mostly using tree imagery and tree products — was occasionally obvious, as the nude seemed to be, but all of it was clever and ironic, and a few pieces were amusing. Sam stood reading what purported to be a letter from Daniel’s uncle (written on birchbark) describing how his woodland village had sold some forest land to a large company and was enjoying the benefits of civilization: large-screen televisions, ATVs, snowmobiles, cellphones, microwave food, booze, and dope.

      Just then, two male students entered the gallery space and began an animated dialogue, in French, about the Belladonna. Sam was straining to catch the drift of their rapid-fire talk when a nearby door marked PRIVATE swung open, and a thin blonde woman emerged. She fixed an uncertain, probing gaze on him, and advanced tentatively toward him.

      “Are you Mr. Montcalm?”

      “That’s right.”

      “When I asked the way to this exhibition, one of the attendants asked for my name. I was a little surprised, to say the least. But a gallery official appeared and told me you were in the building and that I should try to connect with you. Apparently, the police contacted them and passed the message. I’m Anne Sergeant. Weren’t you supposed to be looking for me?”

      Sam nodded and smiled. “Nice to meet you, Dr. Sergeant. Actually, I wanted to see the exhibition first. And I also wanted to see Daniel Summerways. I figured I could catch you either here or at the hotel. The police weren’t too happy that you didn’t wait for them.”

      “That’s too bad. I have my own agenda. As for Summerways, I already asked. He isn’t here. And that’s fine with me. If he were, I’d have to tell him what I think of his art — and of his attitude to science.”

      “I gather you’re not a fan.”

      She gave him a scornful look. “I don’t like art that unfairly attacks intellectual progress, and pays no attention to functional beauty. There was enough of that kind of nonsense in the sixties. I can see you’re an intelligent policeman — or maybe not a policeman at all, by the way you refer to the force — that’s why I’m telling you this up front.”

      “I’m a private detective from Ottawa, hired by Clara Kincaid, Daniel Summerways’ partner. I’m working with an old friend of mine, Inspector Berthelet of the Quebec police. Can we go somewhere and have a coffee?”

      Five

      They sat on a bench above the river, at the edge of the wide plain that extended beyond the museum — the Plains of Abraham, complete with running track, picnic tables, and observation platform. Joggers circled the track and some kids kicked a soccer ball, nearly lost in the middle of the wide greensward. A couple of ancient residents chatted and steered their poodles toward the Grand Allée, headed, no doubt, for late afternoon tea or coffee in one of the nearby cafés.

      Annie Sergeant kept her restless gaze on Sam long enough to let him feel it. He found her very attractive — skinny but shapely and strong looking, with short blonde hair, piercing blue eyes, and a whipcrack voice that was stimulating rather than hectoring. As she spoke, she turned her paper cup round in her thin hands, as if she were moulding something in clay — her spirit, or her soul, perhaps. He was intrigued; he thought she looked terrific in her green sleeveless boat neck dress. She didn’t drink coffee, she’d explained, and hated cafés. She liked herbal tea, running, rock climbing, and contemporary female vocalists. She had mentioned the names of a few singers, but Sam had heard of none of them. She was only vaguely aware of Mahler and Shostakovich.

      Now she was trying to make a point about the perils of being a lab scientist in the twenty-first century.

      “You’ve got to understand the problem,” she insisted. “Every researcher who works with animals is in danger these days. There’s an awful lot of nuts out there. They’d murder human beings rather than see a rabbit’s belly cut open. That’s why we try to keep a low profile.”

      He shrugged. “You wouldn’t think tree research would cause any problems. You don’t actually cut them down, like the lumber companies, do you? And the trees wouldn’t scream if you did. I can’t believe that Daniel Summerways would turn violent to protest against some pretty vague genetic modification of the forest growths. Hell, there are so many more important things to get incensed about.”

      “They’re irrational, those people — that’s the main point,” she countered. “You can’t use two plus two logic when you deal with them. I’ve seen them in action. One of our Boston labs was bombed. A well-known researcher working on malignant growths was beaten up. It was an eco-fanatic that got Dr. Charlie, I’m sure of it. Maybe it was the Indian guy, maybe not. But it’s up to you — and the Quebec police — to find the bastard.”

      Sam nodded, almost dutifully, and when she shifted on the bench, swinging her body around, closing her eyes and inhaling the clear air, his glance rested for a few seconds on her well-tanned, wiry arms and shapely legs.

      She was an intriguing package, he thought, with her intensity, her honest wrinkles, and quick hands. In the past he had worked for women like this, women on the other side of thirty-five, attractive, experienced, restless, always looking for something intangible. But recently there had been fewer of them. Perhaps it was a disappearing species. In any case, he’d been feeling deprived — of complex female contact — and decided that this interrogation might just have a sequel. He even regretted that Paul and Ginette had him booked solid for dinner. Paul had suggested — no doubt with a sly sense of humour — that he should turn his charm on Annie, but Sam knew, and was glad, that some practised charm, perhaps intentionally, was being turned on him.

      “Tell me,” he cleared his throat and tried to strike a note that suggested neither official interrogation nor idle curiosity, “did you always want to be a scientist?”

      “Does it really interest you?”

      “Sure.”

      “Okay … Yes, pretty much. My mother and father were both science students and I was an only child. My father became a chemist, a pretty successful one. I grew up in California, and I got into sports — swimming and running especially — but when the chips were down I opted for chemistry.”

      “Your father worked at a university?”

      “No, he worked for a private lab. His specialty was analysis of new food products.”

      “When did you first meet Dr. Linton?”

      “About two years ago.”

      “Is that when you became part of the Arbor Vitae group?”

      “Yes.”

      “Your specialty is plant chemistry? And you’re on the AV corporate board as one of the main stockholders and stakeholders?”

      “Yes on both counts. And believe me, as great a shock as Charlie’s death has been to all of us, we’re going on with this.”

      “Are you on good terms with all the others — Bob Ballard and Jane Linton, for example?”

      She stood up, faced Sam, and began doing some arm stretches and knee bends, in very slow motion. Beyond her were the wall and the steep drop to the river, so that when Sam looked up at her, her head and shoulders were outlined against the sky. Smilingly, she told him, “I get on very well with Bob, but Jane is another story. Who the hell could get on with her? She’s a narrow-minded, grasping bitch.”

      Sam laughed. She sat down again beside him, a little closer than before. “Do you know anything about Bob Ballard’s Washington connections?” he asked.

      “His what?”

      “You must know that there’s some interest from