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Armand unfolded the article Reine-Marie had printed out from the newspaper archives. He placed it on the table beside the old Sûreté report.
Two Local Women Killed in Fiery Crash, said the newspaper headline. There were photos of the two women.
“Oh, no,” sighed Ruth.
“Flossy?” said Myrna.
“And the interviewer,” said Reine-Marie. “Solange Péladeau. She was twenty-two. A library sciences student at Université de Montréal.”
The same course she herself had taken a few years later.
“Killed the day after that tape recording was made,” said Jean-Guy.
And then there was the murder.
“According to the Sûreté report, their car hit a patch of black ice and ran off the road,” he continued. “They considered it an accident. There was no further investigation.”
Reine-Marie studied Armand as he studied the report.
His own parents had been killed in a car accident when he was a child. He looked stern but not personally shaken.
“I see” was all he said.
“The old records are sketchy. I’m trying to get more information,” said Jean-Guy.
Just then Isabelle’s phone rang. “It’s Dr. Lagacé. Oui, allô?”
“I hope I’m not interrupting. I’m just driving back to Montréal. Almost there, but I wanted you to know that I spoke to some colleagues in the UK and elsewhere about Miss Wolcott’s Ghost. I have the information you asked for.”
“About the plant and why it’s extinct,” said Isabelle.
“Well, yes. But to understand that, you need to know who Miss Wolcott was.”
“Tell her we’ll call her back once she gets to her office. A video call,” said Armand, and Isabelle did.
Armand paid for the drinks and sandwiches. “Take one,” he said to Ferdinand. Then the Sûreté officers headed back to the Old Train Station, leaving the others to talk.
A few minutes later, Aimée Lagacé was up on the laptop screen.
Behind her, they could see, through her office window, the magnificent Botanical Gardens. A riot of spring greens and bright color.
“This is one of the most exciting finds in a long time,” said Aimée Lagacé. “Too often we see animals and plants going extinct. It’s wonderful to have one that has risen from the dead.”
Well, through the dead anyway, Jean-Guy thought but didn’t say.
“And one so beautiful,” said the botanist.
Miss Wolcott’s Ghost was many things, thought the Sûreté officers, but beautiful it was not. Ungainly. Prickly. Grey like a ghost. Which they assumed was where it got its name.
But they were wrong.
CHAPTER 19
Daisy Wolcott hated her name.
The only child of a wealthy industrialist who’d made his fortune in the Industrial Revolution in England, the girl had many qualities. She was inquisitive, sensitive, smart, shy, but chief among them was that little Daisy Wolcott was a snob.
As far as she was concerned, “Daisy” was a maid’s name. There was good reason for her to think that. They had a maid named Daisy. And an under-housemaid named Fern.
