Nightshade. Tom Henighan

you do want to help Clara — and me,” Paul said.

      “Oh, sure. If I can just learn to keep my mouth shut.”

      Paul laughed. “McCarthy’s a bit touchy. And you’re not exactly benign. He knows we don’t want him here — the damned FBI. But it was orders from the provincial level, or the feds, probably all worked out by the higher-ups in the RCMP. They liaison with the FBI; we don’t. They want this thing solved. They want to keep the Americans happy, and so do we. American tourists come here in droves, as you can see.”

      “You think that’s all it is?”

      “What more have you got?”

      “Plenty. A corporation has been formed. They’ve got what sounds like a grip on some fundamental genetic changes, things that will affect the environment big-time. Some powerful folks have a stake in this. The Canadian and U.S. governments, the big international economic players, the scientists themselves, the environmentalists, everybody has an agenda. McCarthy is here to look out for more than tourism.”

      They entered the hotel and Paul began reaching for his police ID. “I hear you,” he told Sam. “I’ll see if I can find out anything else about that guy.”

      Paul fetched the key to Dr. Linton’s still vacant room and they made their way through the crowd to the elevator. Considering the size of the hotel, the lobby was not a large space, and everything seemed so plush, so polished, and so upholstered that Sam felt almost claustrophobic.

      “We’ll take a quick look at the place where they found the body, then go and see Jane Linton,” Paul told him. “That’s Linton’s ex-wife. She’s a couple of floors up and waiting for us, I hope”

      “What’s she doing here … if they’re divorced?”

      “She told us she and her husband still had a few issues to settle. Something about their son, who’s just entering college, a property, and also her share of the Arbor Vitae project.”

      “What’s she like?”

      Paul shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll let you form your own impression. Well, here we are — 1212, this is Linton’s room. We’ve already picked it clean, and the hotel’s putting it back in circulation later today.”

      He flicked on all the lights and they looked around. “A very nice room, as you can see. Here’s the writing desk and the chair. They found Linton on the carpet just about here, somewhere near 1:00 a.m. He was reading some scientific paper — you can see it later, if you want to — when the poison started to take effect. He got up, knocked over the chair, and collapsed beside the desk. The effects of atropine are quite severe, they tell me, and things happen quickly. Dilated pupils, dryness of the mouth, and increased heart rate, for a start, probably followed by muscle failure, delirium, hallucinations, general paralysis, coma, and then finally death. The official C.O.D. is respiratory failure. It probably took only about a half an hour after he swallowed the stuff for it to start working on him. That’s why it’s important to pinpoint where each suspect was late on Friday.”

      Sam took a deep breath. “It’s a pretty horrible way to kill someone.”

      “Every way is horrible, but I think I know what you mean.”

      “To me it shows hatred, careful calculation, and monstrous premeditation.”

      “Not to mention some knowledge of science, of plants and chemicals.”

      The clean, polished water tumbler and the tall glasses on the desk reminded Sam of something.

      “Eddie told us there were bar chits. Do they give some indication of what Linton drank when?”

      “They do. He made two separate visits to the main bar. The first was just before nine o’clock — that’s when he had drinks with his wife. But if she had dropped something in his glass then, it would have taken effect well before midnight. He’d told her he was going to bed early, but there’s another chit from about 11:35. That would fit the time of death perfectly. So far we can’t find anyone, not even a waiter, who remembers seeing Linton around that late … Shall we get out of here and go see Jane Linton?”

      “Definitely.”

      On the elevator, Paul had a question. “So now that you’re into a murder investigation again, what do you think?”

      Sam considered. “You know I never did much on that Gatineau schoolteacher thing you solved. This is a little different. For one thing, it looks pretty complicated. Not some lowlife thug gunning down a couple of retirees.”

      “I agree.”

      “And I suspect there’s probably some sleazy stuff in the background here — and maybe some politics — so I should feel right at home.”

      Paul laughed. “You said it, Sam, I didn’t.”

      “I needed a break from the creepy Rockcliffe crowd, and the endless marital backstabbing. I’m a bit tired of trailing horny wives to condos in the west end and motels over in Hull.”

      “It’s the wives you chase, then?” Paul asked, with a wink.

      “The wives are easier to spy on. They do what their lovers want, and the lovers don’t give a damn about precautions. Most of the wives want to get caught in the end. The husbands are much more careful.”

      “The wives get tired of the game?”

      “Usually. It starts because they’re bored with their husbands and in search of a little romance. They meet some charming operator who tells them they have beautiful eyes, or a beautiful something else, and they get infatuated. The new guy has more muscles, more brains, or more money than Poppa. They always have something the husband doesn’t. Or else he’s just so kind, so considerate, he understands them. So the wives think they’ve found a new heaven. But romance wears thin very quickly. Most wives give the show away in the end.”

      “Or the husbands catch on.”

      Sam laughed. “The husbands! Good God! Most of them wouldn’t catch on if their wives did it upstairs while they were having breakfast. They’d be too busy feeding their faces and complaining about the coffee.”

      They came out of the elevator and walked some way down the hall, stopping at room 1430. Paul knocked on the door.

      “You’re as cynical as most of us Québécois, Sam. Must be your Montcalm ancestry.”

      “I’m only cynical about sex and politics — and that’s based strictly on experience.”

      Paul nodded. The door of 1430 swung open and a tall woman greeted them. She had a freckled face, broad shoulders, dark red hair in bangs, and very bright blue eyes. She wore a green polo shirt and white chino slacks.

      “You’re the policemen? Yes, I can see you are. I’ve already talked to a lieutenant. A nice man. God, this is terrible! Come in.”

      “Inspector Berthelet of the homicide branch,” Paul explained, showing his credentials. “This is Mr. Montcalm, a detective from Ottawa who’s working with me.”

      “Ottawa?” the woman said. “I’m going down there in a few days. There’s a board meeting — everything in chaos. It’s a godawful nightmare. I still can’t believe it. Can I order you gentlemen something to drink?”

      “No, thank you. This won’t take long. Mr. Montcalm and I just wanted to ask you a few more questions.”

      Jane Linton waved them into chairs. Fifty something, she must once have been attractive, Sam thought, but she had put on too much weight, and despite her expensive casual clothes, she looked outdated, an ex-hippy, a granola girl, for whom the skimmed milk had turned slightly sour.

      “I tried to give that lieutenant clear information,” she told them. “I hope he got it straight. I’m still in a state of shock over what happened to Charlie.”

      “I’m sorry to have to run through this