“These other guests would be?” Schechter asked.

Ryan checked his notes.

“John William Manning of Montreal. Isabelle Picard of Laval. According to Manning and Picard, Ms. Jurmain appeared inebriated that evening, and had appeared to be so on several occasions spanning a period of three days.”

Ryan slid several papers across the table, I assumed summaries of interviews with the auberge’s staff and guests. Corcoran skimmed. Schechter took his time reading. Then, “These are written in French.”

“My apologies.” Ryan’s tone was as far from apologetic as a tone can be.

Schechter made an indecipherable noise in his throat.

I switched to a wide shot of Rose’s room. It featured a braided rug, lacquered pine furniture, and an overabundance of pink floral chintz. A suitcase sat open on a small settee, clothes oozing like magma from a sleepy volcano.

I moved to a picture of the bed stand, then to close-ups of the labels on five small vials. Oxycodone. Diazepam. Temazepam. Alprazolam. Doxylamine.

I aimed the laser pointer. As the small red dot jumped from vial to vial, Corcoran translated into generic names for Schechter.

“The painkiller OxyContin, the antianxiety drugs Valium and Xanax, and the sleep aids Restoril and Unisom.”

Schechter drew air through his nostrils, exhaled slowly.

“When Rose got an idea into her head there was no reasoning with her. Always going off into the woods. Three years ago it was Quebec.” He said Quee-beck with the disgust one might reserve for “Eye-rack” or “Dar-four.” “Even though her”-he paused, seeking proper phrasing-“health was not good, she could not be dissuaded.”

Ryan proceeded without comment.

“At fifteen twenty hours, on twenty-four September, Ms. Jurmain was seen walking alone along Chemin Pierre-Mirabeau, in the direction of Sainte-Marguerite. Though the temperature was near freezing, a motorist reported that she wore a lightweight jacket, no hat, no gloves.”