his gifts. “Je suis un homme content.” Rouleau automatically translated in his head, “I am a happy man.”
The tradition was the same. After his father opened the gifts, they’d walk the block to his dad’s favourite pub and have lunch. His dad would insist on buying both the turkey special and a bottle of burgundy. After the meal, they’d walk back to the apartment and a bottle of single malt would ceremoniously appear for a short tipple before Jacques drove back to Ottawa in the late afternoon. The remainder of the bottle was his parting gift. Rouleau always locked it in the trunk of his car in case he got pulled over.
Today, as every Christmas Day, their lunch was served by Lottie McBride, owner and barkeep of the Bide a Wee Pub.
“Ye enjoyed the turkey, I see,” she said before whisking away their empty plates. She returned with two bowls of trifle, coffee, and a plate of homemade shortbread cookies she baked for his father. Rouleau knew there’d be a full tin waiting for his dad on their way out the door.
Rouleau sat back and patted his stomach. He smiled at his dad. “You made a good choice of restaurant for once.” The same joke every year. His father never considered going anywhere else. He looked down. “Your foot’s more swollen, Dad. Are you in much pain?”
“Not really. They’ll be operating in the spring.”
“I’m glad. I’ll get some time off and come stay with you.”
“I don’t want to be any trouble.”
“No arguments, Dad.”
“How are you doing, son? Last time you were down, you said you might have made a mistake taking that job. Do you still feel that way?”
“Most days. We have a murder case that’s giving us some profile, but it’ll likely be taken away after the holidays.”
“You should find somewhere that makes you happy. Life’s too short to have regrets.”
“I wish it were that easy. How’s your book coming? Do you still have your office at the university?”
His dad nodded. “They’ve even loaned me a research assistant. I’ve nearly completed the opening chapter. It’s a fascinating subject, the making of the canal system. We’ve dug up some new material, if you excuse my pun. Even unearthed a murder to spice up the narrative.”
“Solved?”
“No, unsolved. I hope you have better luck with yours.”
“Solving this case could be the unit’s only chance.”
Lottie refilled their coffee cups, humming “Jingle Bells” under her breath while she swung the pot from Rouleau’s cup to his father’s. She patted his dad on the shoulder before slipping away.
His dad watched her go with a smile on his face. He sipped from his cup and set it down. “Frances came to see me.” He paused and studied Rouleau from under his shaggy white eyebrows.
Rouleau was surprised at first but then not. Frances loved his dad and would have wanted to see him before she got too sick to make the trip. “Did she tell you…?”
His dad nodded. “How are you doing with this?”
“Not well. It’ll be hard to imagine the time when she’s not in this world.”
“I know, but dying is part of life. I told her she should tell you that she was ill. I hope that was the right thing to say.”
“Yes. We met a few days ago. I told her to marry Gordon.”
“I’m sorry, son. That must have been difficult.”
“The finality of her death is difficult. I already lost her to Gordon a long time ago.”
He hugged his dad longer than usual before leaving to retrieve his car. His father stood in the doorway as he drove by, a tall man, stooped at the shoulders, with a shock of white hair and blue eyes that were brilliant still. Rouleau waved and his father raised a hand before turning away.
The snow finally had stopped early morning and the roads were clear. Rouleau pushed in a Bonnie Raitt CD and set the cruise control. He settled back in the seat and let his mind wander. Traffic was light and he made good time, stopping once at a truck stop in Smiths Falls for coffee.
At close to four thirty he pulled into his driveway. The sun was already a silvery line on the horizon and his house a dark outline beyond the cedar hedge that cut across his property. Snow covered the bushes like a thick coating of frosting. It was good to be home.
He stepped out of his car and heard a door slam across the street. He turned his head and squinted through the darkness. A woman stopped to let a car pass by before running the distance to his driveway.
“Sir,” she called, and he recognized Kala Stonechild. “I was going to wait ten more minutes and then leave. Good timing!”
He felt an unexpected lightness at the sight of her. “Kala,” he said. “Merry Christmas.”
She made it to where he stood and stopped in front of him. Her black hair was loose on her shoulders, making her look young and softening the angles of her face. “Merry Christmas, Sir. I want to run something by you about the murder if you’ve got a moment. I think it’s important.”
“Only if you come in for a drink and some supper. That’s the deal.”
She bowed her head. “Thank you, Sir.”
“The other part of the deal is you call me Jacques, or Rouleau if you prefer. No more ‘Sir.’”
He unlocked the side door and they stepped into the kitchen. He flicked on the light and was relieved to remember that he’d done up the dishes and taken out the garbage before leaving for Kingston. He took her coat and invited her to look around while he started cooking. “Maybe pick out some music. The record player is in the living room.”
“You still play records?” she asked.
“I like the sound quality. I guess I’m a dinosaur.”
“Not nearly as extinct though.”
He could hear her walking around in the other room as he turned on the oven and started preparing the prime rib, rubbing a mixture of spices on the outside and spreading onions, potato wedges, and garlic in the pan. He was sliding the pan into the oven when Willie Nelson’s voice poured through the speakers above the cupboards.
A few seconds later, Kala walked into the kitchen, a wide smile on her face. “Sorry I took so long. You must have five hundred albums. What a treasure trove! I think you have every Rolling Stone and Beatles album every made.”
“I have five hundred and sixty-four albums to be exact, and those albums you mentioned are all first release.” He gave the corkscrew and final push and the cork popped free. He held the bottle toward her. “Glass of wine?”
“I don’t drink alcohol but please go ahead. Do you play any instruments?”
“Guitar. I used to be lead singer in a local band, but that is absolutely not to be repeated.” He smiled. “The lads at the station would have a field day. How about some soda and orange juice?”
“Perfect. Thanks. So what was the name of your band?”
“You probably will wonder what we were thinking.”
“Try me.”
“The Gars.”
“The Gars?”
“Short for Garçons. Two of us were French and we liked the fact that gars rhymed with cars, a band we modelled ourselves after.” He finished mixing her drink and handed it to her. “Cheers.”
“Did you sing as well?”
“I was lead singer more by default than anything, but that was all a very long time ago. Let’s sit in the living room and talk about the case.