A doctor uncovers a world of drugs, lies, and violence hidden beneath the picturesque Quebec town in which she has built a tenuous peace for herself.
Ottawa author Amy Tector’s latest novel, HONOR THE DEAD, is the third in the Dominion Archives Mystery series — stories of murder and mayhem set in and around a fictional national archive. Crime writer Louise Penny called THE FOULEST THINGS, the first book in the series, “A literary joy-ride!” Below is the opening chapter of HONOR THE DEAD.
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Cate was irritated by the soft plushness of the wicker loveseat and wanted to silence the soothing chirp of the crickets. She shifted in her seat and took a glug of wine. She missed the city’s noise and distractions. The stillness offered too much room for reflection.
A low rumble interrupted her thoughts. A police car roared past the farmhouse, lights flashing. Crows startled from the trees, and the vehicle kicked up swirls of dust along the dirt road. Cate spilled the last of her wine hurrying to the edge of the porch in time to see the car skid through the gravel, barely slowing at the sharp curve by the big oak tree. It disappeared around the bend.
The MacGregor farm was the only house down that way. After that, Pelletier Road petered out into a dirt track leading to the Pekeda River. After staring in the direction of the car’s path for a moment or two, Cate lit a cigarette. Whatever was happening at the farm was none of her business.
The dust settled in the late afternoon sun, and the siren faded. The crickets returned, and with them the peaceful, lazy vibe, but Cate wasn’t fooled. Something was afoot. In the month she’d spent in Québec’s sleepy Pekeda Township she’d never seen so much as a jaywalker, let alone heard a police siren. What was going on at MacGregor’s?
A bright-yellow ambulance, its siren screaming through the afternoon quiet, now bellowed past, followed by a second cop car. She stubbed out her cigarette. The ambulance changed the equation. As a physician, she could be helpful at the scene. Thankfully, that merlot was only her first of the evening. She hurried to the living room, double-checking that her medical bag held the necessities for an emergency.
The drive took a couple of minutes. The MacGregor house looked a lot like her own place: a neat wood-frame home with a wraparound porch. It even had the same hydrangea bushes blossoming pinky-white in the late September sun. Where it differed was the modern equipment shed behind the house and the rows and rows of apple trees stretching around it.
Cate parked beside the ambulance and hurried to the porch. A peek through the screen door told her the living room was empty. “Hello,” she called.
She glanced around. Where had everyone gone? They could be in the shed, the fields leading to the river, or the orchards. Her Airbnb host had told her that Thomas MacGregor owned a huge swath of land, extending from her rental all the way to the river. A good portion of it was given over to apple orchards. Hundreds of mature fruit trees spread up the hill, drifting back toward her house.
She jogged around the side yard noting that this house had the same view as hers: soft rolling hills ablaze with the golds and reds of an Eastern Townships autumn.
Through the apple trees, Cate spotted the yellow flash of a medic’s coat. She hurried toward it and was soon surrounded by the tall, gnarled trees, the blue sky obscured by the overhanging branches laden with bright-crimson fruit. A mellow, sweet smell filled the air: ripe apples. She stepped on a fallen fruit. The sensation was unsettling. The apple was still firm, and her ankle rolled, but at the same time she sank toward the ground, feeling the fruit’s flesh break under her weight.
She strode toward a group of people: paramedics, two police officers, and a tall, older man with a mane of silver hair and an enormous beard in a reflective jacket. This was Thomas MacGregor. Over the past month, he’d often thundered past her place in his big pickup. They’d waved at one another but nothing more. Apparently, small-town friendliness didn’t extend to people renting an Airbnb.
The group stood over a man lying on the ground. The fact that the medics were standing rather than administering first aid told Cate everything she needed to know. No urgency. Nothing more to be done.
Her step quickened and her posture straightened. There was a dead body here, and this was her area of expertise. It was what she’d been missing while tending to the prosaic medical needs of the population of Pekeda Township.
The policewoman spotted her first. “Halte,” she said in French and stomped toward Cate. She was in her midtwenties, short, with curly hair and a prominent nose. She crossed her arms. “T’es qui, toi?”
Cate noted the belligerent use of the “tu” rather than the more polite “vous” form. “I’m a neighbor,” she replied, speaking English in a calm voice. “I’m staying down the road, at the Tanguy place.”
The officer glowered, and Cate wondered if she’d have to use French to be understood. Most people were bilingual out this way. “Je suis médecin,” she said, before switching back to English. “I thought I could help.”
“It’s OK, Constable St. Onge.” MacGregor stepped forward. Speaking English, his voice was deep and authoritative. “She’s my neighbor all right.” He inclined his head back toward the Airbnb, which was hidden from view by the apple trees. “The new doctor.”
The other cop sauntered over. He was a bit older than his partner, with dirty-blond hair and a muscular physique. His moustache was so bushy Cate wasn’t certain whether it was ironic. “Oh, she’s the doc working at Canterbury.” She didn’t detect a French accent.
St. Onge looked dubious. “I did not hear of this.” She shifted to deny Cate a view of the body.
“That’s because you’re not from around here,” the male cop said. “Not plugged in to the gossip.”
“You mean I don’t still live with my mother,” St. Onge countered. The other police officer ignored her. “The regular doctor at Canterbury is on maternity leave, and those private-school kids can’t wipe their noses without a personal medic.”
Cate stiffened. “Yes, the clinic is located at the Canterbury Day and Boarding School, but we serve every community member and follow all provincial guidelines.” This was the line that Canterbury’s headmistress gave her to say when this issue inevitably arose.
The officer rolled his eyes, and even MacGregor looked dubious. Cate wasn’t surprised. The locals were annoyed at the closure of the Manasoka Village Clinic and the consolidation of medical services on the grounds of one of Canada’s most elite private schools. If they wanted to see a doctor in Manasoka, they had to humble themselves in Canterbury’s hallowed halls, a school whose tuition was more than most people’s annual income. “I’m Dr. Cate Spencer.”
The male officer grunted, “Constable Douglass.”
Her neighbor stepped forward. “I’m Thomas MacGregor.”
“Don’t think we’ll need your help, Doc,” Douglass said with a little laugh. “This guy is as dead as a doornail.”
Cate flinched. Over the years she had learned to honor the dead and to respect those who did the same.
One of the medics, a redhead with a French accent, agreed with Douglass. “Oui. No vitals, no pulse.” They opened a space around the body, and Cate approached the victim. He was about her age — late thirties. He wore jeans, a heavy plaid flannel shirt, and big work boots: the locals’ uniform. He had salt-and-pepper hair and a couple of days’ worth of stubble on his chin. A baseball hat with “Lachance Feed” written on the front lay on the ground nearby. His right eye was open, a piercing blue. The other was a bloody, pulpy mess. Despite the shocking sight, Cate noted how handsome he was, with high cheekbones and a strong jawline. She quickly surveyed his body but could see no other injury.
A strange metal instrument lay by his side. “What’s that?” “Looks like a metal detector,” Douglass replied.
It was long, like a Weedwacker, but had a fancy digital reader and a white, space-age-looking ergonomic handle. She turned her attention to the body. Aside from the eye injury, there were no other visible signs of trauma. She felt the zing of curiosity she always got at the start of a new case. “Most likely a gunshot wound.” She had learned to never assume cause until the autopsy results came back. “It looks like it went directly into the brain via his left eye.” She wondered if the bullet exited or if it was still lodged in place. She turned to the friendlier Constable Douglass. “May I examine him?”
He hesitated. “Don’t think so, Doc. The Sûreté du Québec will send out their forensics team. No one should touch anything until they get here and the coroner does his thing.”
“I am a coroner,” Cate argued. “I’m certified in Ontario. This is what I do.” Well, it was what she did and would hopefully be doing again in two months, three weeks, and four days — not that she was counting.
Douglass wavered, but St. Onge stepped forward. “Non. Absoluement impossible. You do not have jurisdiction in Québec. We must follow the appropriate procedure.”
Cate gritted her teeth, forcing herself to nod agreeably. She understood St. Onge’s stance, even if it was frustrating.
“I don’t think there will be too much question about cause of death.” Douglass squatted down beside the body. Without touching the corpse, he pointed to the victim. “As Bon Jovi would say, ‘Shot through the head and you’re to blame.’ ”
Cate resisted the urge to tell him that was the wrong lyric.
Douglass spat on the ground. “No doubt,” he said, unable to keep the excitement from his voice. “This is a good old-fashioned murder.”
Excerpted from HONOR THE DEAD, @Amy Tector, 2024. In addition to the Dominion Archives Mystery Series, she is the author of the acclaimed novel The Honeybee Emeralds, A 2023 Next Generation Indie Book Award Finalist for Best First Novel.
