Roxanne Bouchard - We Were the Salt of the Sea

Langevin dug a hole.

‘The next day, when the coroner heard Marsil’s safe had been stolen, he put two and two together and figured it must have been Lapierre. More importantly, though, Lapierre gathered it was Robichaud who killed Marie Garant. So, he made a deal with him. The two men gave each other an alibi: they’d say they were playing cards together that night. Meanwhile, the coroner persuaded Lieutenant Forest, who fancies her chances with him, to put his nice Joannie in charge of the safe heist so he could lead her to his own conclusion.’

Langevin dropped the animal into the hole and proceeded to bury it.

‘As for the sailboat, Robichaud had been planning to bring it in the next day, but Yves Carle beat him to it overnight. Robichaud brought it in all the same, and he seized the opportunity to smear his fingerprints all over the place. That way his prints would be excluded when the case was examined.’

‘Heee… Now you’re talking like a real detective…’

Using the back of the spade, Langevin patted down the mound of earth before returning to his car with a satisfied smile.

‘They’re searching Lapierre’s house right now. Robichaud has stepped down, young Joannie is beside herself and Lieutenant Forest doesn’t know whether she’s coming or going. They’re bickering over the details, but if you ask me, we should be hauling the coroner in for questioning. I’m still new around here though, so I’d rather let them all air their dirty laundry together.’

‘Heee… Sometimes I tell myself a man’s worst punishment is a life without love.’

Langevin started the car and drove away from the cemetery. The moon was rising.

Moralès turned to Cyrille. ‘I don’t know who stole the box of Marie Garant’s things that were evidence, but I think it was Catherine.’

‘Heee… if the investigation’s over, they’re not much use to you anymore.’

‘I do still have one question, Cyrille.’

‘Heee… What’s that?’

‘Who pillaged the grave?’

‘What grave?’

‘Someone dug up and made off with Marie Garant’s body.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, but surely it can’t have been me! Heee… I wouldn’t have the strength.’

Moralès spent a while contemplating the shadow of Cyrille on his death bed.

‘You were right, Cyrille. Marie Garant deserved to go back to the sea.’

The old man arched an eyebrow.

Moralès cut to the chase. ‘You did the right thing, the two of you.’

Cyrille Bernard nodded, then closed his eyes.

Beyond the window, it was a clear night. A night for will-o’-thewisps and ghosts to rest in peace.

That night, Joaquin Moralès didn’t go to Catherine’s house. Nor did he go to Renaud’s bistro. He went home and let the clock tick around until daytime. Sarah tried to reach him, but he didn’t answer. He just needed some time to firm up his decision.

He dined alone on a marinated salmon fillet, reflecting on the fine balance between the grace of love and the craving for comfort. The clouds had parted to reveal a bright, pure sky awash with stars, and Moralès settled down with a glass of red wine on his patio overlooking the sea. He thought about Paul Lapointe again, so he picked up the phone and gave the architect a call.

‘Sergeant Moralès? How are you doing?’

‘I’ve had to review the findings of the investigation. Marie Garant was killed accidentally.’

‘Accidentally?’

‘Yes, it appears a spurned lover pushed her over the edge.’

Sitting on the edge of his bed, Lapointe was sipping a glass of white port. The door to the ensuite bathroom was ajar and he was watching his wife take off her makeup with delicate, airy strokes.

‘A spurned lover? At her age? Marie Garant must have been a real stunner.’

‘Like her daughter.’

She started with her foundation. She used a damp washcloth to wipe away the colour, laying bare the contours of her face.

‘Catherine is a lure, monsieur Moralès.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘The beauty of a young woman is always deceiving. When my assistant, Isabelle, walks into my office, I know my clients are going to sign on the dotted line. She entraps them with her beauty.’

Moralès wanted to tell him he had taken Catherine in his arms, swept her off her feet, carried her into the house and showered her with kisses and caresses; he wanted to say how young he had felt, like he was riding a wave. A whole new wave! Instead he settled for saying, ‘I remember, you talked to me about the grace of love.’

Paul Lapointe’s wife took a corner of the washcloth, opened her lips wide and wiped her rouge away.

‘It’s real, monsieur Moralès. And when she takes off her makeup in front of you, it’s smothering.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Does your wife wear makeup?’

They didn’t take it any further. Catherine had rejected him, delicately. She’d said no. She’d gone on to say she’d had enough of all the lies and the deceit and only had eyes for good deeds and a clear horizon. He’d understood.

‘I’m getting a divorce.’

There, he said it. That was why he’d called Paul Lapointe, to say it out loud. To hear the words come from his own lips so they’d feel real when he told Sarah the news.

‘Is your mind made up?’ In the sliver of light, Lapointe could see his wife gently rubbing her eyelids.

‘Yes.’

Joaquin had even planned out in his mind what he was going to say to Sarah, tomorrow. A torrent of reproaches about the extended urban sojourn she was sharing with the insufferable Jay-Pee, followed by him giving moving testimony about his yearning for youthfulness and passion. Because he wanted to feel the same fulfilment she did. He had sacrificed it all for her, and now it was time for him to take care of some ‘personal things’ of his own. He was ready for his second wind in life and in love.

‘You should sleep on it, monsieur Moralès.’

Paul Lapointe’s wife rinsed her face with running water, patted it dry, noticed her husband was watching. She smiled. The architect hung up.

A southwesterly wind had risen over the Baie-des-Chaleurs, and it heartened Moralès to see a sailboat in the distance, its wake slicing a right angle with the sliver of moon on the water. He finished his glass, went to bed and drifted into the impatient sleep of a young man in love.

No, he didn’t get much sleep. He got up early, being in such a hurry to change his life. He tried to call Sarah, to get these conjugal formalities that had been nagging at him over and done with as soon as possible, but he got the answering machine. She must be otherwise occupied with the insufferable Jay-Pee, he thought. Joaquin left her a curt message – ‘Call me back.’ – and went down to the wharf.

Pilar was absent, but he wasn’t concerned. Catherine must be out for a quick sail. He wandered over to the Café du Havre to await her return. When she docked, he would go over and invite her to dinner. She would understand.

He pushed the café door open.

‘Let me tell you, she’s only gone and done the same as her mother!’

‘In truth, she has.’

Renaud Boissonneau and Father Leblanc were fretting over their half-eaten veggie omelettes.

‘Inspector! You’ll never guess what!’

The cook’s helper from the bistro had tears in his eyes. Moralès smiled. Boissonneau did have a gift for drama.

‘What’s up, Renaud?’