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Flossy Fuller and Solange Péladeau?
CHAPTER 21
After hanging up, Dr. Lagacé again sat back in her chair, rocking slightly.
She was pleased that the Chief Inspector was keeping her in the loop. That helped.
She couldn’t believe that Miss Wolcott’s plant had been found. And that it had grown up around the body.
What could that mean? And if Daisy Wolcott’s plant was there, could her notebook be far behind?
She’d dug the sample carefully into the Chief Inspector’s garden. It was vital that the plant did not die.
At just after midnight, Armand turned out the study light and went upstairs to bed, hoping he’d awake to more information than he had when he laid his head down next to Reine-Marie’s.
One question that was in danger of getting lost amid all the other oddities in this investigation was, who had called them at three in the morning?
Who had found the body?
And why hadn’t he made himself known? And why had the voice sounded familiar? Was that real or just his imagination?
Armand hoped the man would call back, but …
That was as far as he got before sliding into a deep sleep.
There was indeed information the next morning.
Armand sat in his study with a coffee and read a message from Dr. Lagacé. She reported that she’d contacted colleagues from universities in various countries who might have more information on the mysterious plant.
The botany department at a university in the Savoie region of France, where Miss Wolcott once had an estate, had been gifted several of her boxes, Dr. Lagacé’s message read. They’ll look for them, but suspect they’ve been auctioned off, or perhaps even thrown out as worthless when the university needed more storage space.
The same message came back from Cambridge.
As far as anyone knew, Daisy Wolcott had never been to North America. Though why she’d skip over an entire continent in her botanical searches was unclear.
But the most promising message, if that was the word, came from Clara.
Armand was walking down the path to his car, preparing to drive into Montréal for meetings with his department, when she stopped him.
“Bon matin,” he said, as she approached.
“Yes, it is.” She looked up into the pastel blue sky. “My gallery owner says you have an appointment with him to discuss Brian Fillmore.”
“True. Jean-Guy set it up.”
“I have something for you. I got a message from Jeanette this morning.”
Armand, his hand on the car door, turned. “Really? What does she say?”
“I’ll send it to you, but she apologizes for not being in touch and says the article on Peter should be published soon.”
“But?” For Armand could hear a “but.”
“The tone of the email was strange. As though we were best friends. You’ll see. It’s probably nothing.”
“You’re wondering if someone else sent it?”
“Or was even AI-generated.”
