“Don’t get that look on your face, kiddo. There’s life in the old guy yet. Women love me.”
“I’m sure they do,” I said, watching a middle-aged customer pivot and scurry off as fast as her Mephistos could carry her.
“And I have ideas.”
Yes. And I didn’t want to think about them.
“Aren’t you going to ask me what ideas?”
I sighed.
He yelled, “Spotted Dick!”
I stood rooted with horror. “What is the matter with you, Woody?”
“Nothing. Spotted Dick. It’s a traditional English dessert. Come on. You mean you never heard of it?”
“Really? It sounds more like a...” I was about to say an STD, but of course, everyone in the shop was eavesdropping.
There was no point wasting time explaining to Woody the difference between eroticism and boyish double entendres.
“I’ll take it under consideration,” I said, meaning I would never give it another thought as long as I lived.
“And there’s...” he said.
“Not to change the subject,” I said, “but since you are the gossip epicentre of the village, have you heard about the man who was killed in that accident on Highway 5 yesterday?”
“The cops are keeping quiet about that. No details yet about the guy.”
“I thought you might have found out anyway. Sgt. Sarrazin told me it’s because they haven’t informed the next of kin yet.”
“Bunch of killjoys. The cops I mean, not the dead guy. And, hey, do you have time to come in back and see my big renovations? My living quarters are finished. I blew a bundle, but it really rocks.”
“Later,” I mumbled. Although I was sure I would have found Woody’s newly done apartment fascinating and no doubt quite surprising, I had an overwhelming need to go home.
“It’s quite the pad,” he said, waggling his eyebrows.
“I bet.”
“Hot tub.”
“Huh.”
“Mirrors.”
“Oh.”
“Media room.”
“My, my. Maybe I’ll get the tour another time.”
But Woody had already lost interest in me. Perhaps because Marietta had entered L’Épicerie 1759. I was lucky I wasn’t flattened when he rolled forward to intercept her.
As I pulled into my driveway, I spotted the battered bike and the familiar sign. Josey was back.
“Hi, Miz Silk. I fixed that leaky tap in your bathtub,” she said, waving a wrench triumphantly. She must have brought it with her. I was pretty sure I didn’t own a wrench.
“You really shouldn’t just let yourself in.”
“Why not? I’m staff. We’ve discussed all that. Right? I think an executive assistant has to know everything about the executive. Are you just jumpy because of this cookbook?”
“The cookbook? Of course not.”
“Okay, okay, don’t get upset. It’s just that everyone is saying...”
“What? What are people saying? What is the matter with this place? Can’t a person have a single thought or action without the whole village commenting?” I paused for breath, and Josey stared at me. She ripped one of the blue pages out of the notebook and crumpled it into the wastebasket.
I said, “All right, I’m sorry. What exactly are people saying?”
“Today I heard you are going to have to sell your house because you can’t pay your taxes, and you can’t pay your hydro, and Jean-Claude Lamontagne has made you an offer you can’t refuse.”
“Not true.”
“Oh boy, Miz Silk. I would hate it if you had to sell your place. I love this house. It’s the only place I really feel at home.” A guilty look flashed across her freckled face. “Except at home, of course.”
I’d seen that cabin in the woods, seen Uncle Mike passed out. “I’ll manage to hang on.”
“But things are bad for you right now, aren’t they?”
“They are. I’m stuck with this icky project.”
“That project sounds like fun, but if you really hate the idea, I have an idea for how you can get your hands on some serious cash.”
No point in trying not to listen. I would just get worn down. “How?”
“Sell that picture of the woman in the boat. The one over your desk. I know you really like it a lot, but—”
“Josey, I can’t.”
“Sure you can, Miz Silk. That picture’s worth a bundle. I checked out that artist, Alex Colville, and his stuff sells for a lot of money.”
“I am not selling the painting. End of conversation.”
“One of his pictures went for more than $400,000 at an auction, last year. Do you know how much that is?”
“Well, of course, I do.”
“So, maybe they’re worth even more now. It’s just one little picture. It’s worth more than the whole property and everything on it.”
“The painting means a lot to me. And I’m not going to sell it.” Josey folded her arms. The freckles stood out, almost three dimensional. “You could get a lot of special paintings for less than that, Miz Silk. And pay your taxes and all your bills and get a new car.”
“Won’t be happening, Josey.”
“You could even build a ramp so that Marc-André could come and visit. I’d help with that. I even got a set of plans.”
A ramp for Marc-André!
“It would be wonderful to have a ramp like that, and I know how much you want Marc-André to get better and get out of rehab, but I will never sell that painting, Josey. I’m not even going to discuss it any more. We’ll have to come up with some other solution to this latest cash crunch.”
Josey shrugged. Of course, I wasn’t dumb enough to dream that I’d heard the last about selling the Colville.
“I’m trying to find a way to make my, um, cookbook project work.”
“Pretty hard to do a cookbook in the state of that kitchen.”
“What does the state of my kitchen have to do with it? Don’t I just have to find a few recipes? I’m a whiz with the microwave. My aunt had some cookbooks. I think they might be in the attic. I’m going to crawl around up there and find them. I might get some ideas for the framework of the book.”
“Jeez, Miz Silk. Cookbooks have to be up to date. They have to have food that’s in style, the latest ingredients, techniques. They have to look right.”
“There are styles in recipes? You’re kidding, right?”
“No way. People follow trends in the food world. I can’t believe you don’t know about that. You better get that satellite dish.”
“Forget it.”
“There’s fashionable food and unfashionable food. You got to have clear glass bowls for your ingredients. All sizes.”
Clear glass bowls? That made no sense. “You’re kidding. Anyway, what kind of food goes out of style?”
She frowned. “I’m not really sure. But turnip, I hope. And Brussels sprouts.”
“I hear you.”
“I’ll get you some recipe books from the library.”
“You don’t have to do all that, Josey. I can look after myself, you know.”
“It’s okay, Miz Silk. Remember, I’m saving up. I got a lot of expenses and more coming. I need all the odd jobs I can get. You got until I turn sixteen to settle your tab.”
I said, “Well...”
“You should ask Miz Lamontagne if she has any food magazines.”
What was this thing everyone had with trying to solve my money problems? Everyone except the one person who had a legal obligation, namely Philip.
I picked up the phone. While I was out, Josey had thoughtfully programmed Philip’s home, office and cell phone numbers into the speed dial. First, she’d found a phone set for me that had a speed dial, back when I still had a few dollars. The phone rang on and on, as it had on my previous seven tries. Finally, blessedly, it was snatched up.
“Philip,” I chirped, “let’s agree to get this settled once and for all. Imagine how much happier we’
ll both be. Freedom from each other at last! How exhilarating would that be?”
“Look, Fiona, you have to stop hounding me.”
“Hounding you? You mean my phone calls this week? You’ve been artfully stalling for months.”
“Hardly. I’m a busy man.”
“Right. You’re a busy man with property and assets. All I want is my share. I realize you’ll cheat me, and I don’t even care. Let’s just get it finished. “
“Sure, now that you’re not making it as a writer, you want to plunder my assets. Get the rewards without working for them. If you wanted the good life, you should have stayed married.”
I was proud of myself. I didn’t let him get to me. I didn’t bleat that I had put him through law school working multiple jobs when he didn’t have two cents to rub together. I didn’t mention that I’d spent the entirety of our marriage in dreary but well-paying employment that had sapped my spirit.
He knew that just as well as I did. There was no point in bringing it up. I wanted to rid myself of Philip, not plunge back into the unwinnable situation of two people who never should have hooked up together in the first place.
Move on, I breathed to myself.
“No problem,” I said. “You can talk to my lawyer next. Or your lawyer can. Of course, that’ll cost you.”
“That’s easy for you to say. Hit me when I’m down. That’s just like you, Fiona. Take advantage when I’m distraught.”
There was so much wrong in that statement, I hardly knew where to begin. I started with, “What do you mean down?”
“You haven’t heard?”
I bit back irritation. “Heard what?”
“You’re just doing this to get to me.”
“You know what? You’re getting to me. Take care of the settlement and make it snappy.”
“My partner’s dead.”
“You don’t have a partner.”
“Not a law partner, but I had business dealings with him, investments,” Philip yelled.
“Did you say dead?”
“Yes. Killed on the highway near St. Aubaine, yesterday. Don’t you even listen to the radio? What do you do all day?”
“What do you mean, don’t I even...never mind. That’s terrible. Dead. I’m sorry.”
“That’s right. Danny’s dead. So you’ll understand I have other things on my mind beside your money grab.”
I stood there with my mouth open.
After a while, Philip said, “Fiona? I’m a busy man. Hello? Are you there?”
I was there all right.
What’s more, I had finally figured out why the face of the man in the Escalade was familiar. I’d met him with Philip, without the sunglasses. He’d given me the finger then too. Metaphorically, of course.
Danny Dupree.
Grilled Asparagus
Courtesy of Sgt. F.X. Sarrazin
1 bunch of asparagus, the nice thick kind, not the skinny ones
Wooden skewers soaked in water for twenty minutes
Olive oil
Sea salt, the best you can afford
Pre-heat BBQ grill to medium. Snap asparagus at their natural breaking point. Discard woody ends. Attach asparagus, four or five at a time, with skewers (across, not lengthwise). Brush asparagus with oil. Season with sea salt, to taste. Grill just until nice grill marks appear.
Live a little.
Six
Luckily, I still had Sarrazin’s telephone number from the troubles of the previous fall. I dialed it before I lost my nerve.
“I know who he was now,” I said.
Sarrazin simply grunted on the phone. Of course, he’d already known the answer.
“Daniel Dupree. A colleague of my husband.”
“And you just figured this out how?”
“I told you before that there was something familiar about him. When Philip mentioned this morning his friend had been killed, I realized where I’d seen the driver.”
“Hard to believe you wouldn’t recognize him right off.”
“Shouldn’t be. I met him at some business reception a couple of years ago, when I was still married. I probably saw him a few times at fundraisers and cocktail parties. He wasn’t wearing sunglasses then and whipping past me in a vehicle.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“Do you have anything else you want to tell me?”
“What else would I want to tell you?”
“You never spent any amount of time with this guy?”
“I didn’t even like him. He was sort of a blowhard. Anyway, I wasn’t his type. He always seemed to have a beautiful young woman with him.”
“You didn’t like him. Did he have a problem with you?”
“I’d be surprised if he even remembered my name. I don’t think he even noticed me.”
Sarrazin paused before speaking. “Are you sure? You are the kind of woman that men notice.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Sure you are. Just your hair alone is enough to get attention. And how many people have violet eyes? Maybe he just pretended.”
I wish people wouldn’t talk about my hair. I have nothing but trouble with it, and I don’t get what the fuss is about. “Trust me. There’s a type of man who doesn’t register your existence if you’re over thirty. Or maybe even over twenty-five. He was definitely that type.”
“Oh, come on. You were the wife of a colleague. He must have been polite.”
“I’m telling you, he never acknowledged my presence. He didn’t say hello. He didn’t shake hands. He looked right through me. I felt invisible. Of course, I disliked him instantly.”
“Did your husband get upset about the way he reacted to you?”
“You mean the way he didn’t react to me. No. Philip would be absolutely oblivious to anything like that.”
“Huh. Maybe you complained.”
“Are you kidding? I wouldn’t have wasted my breath. First of all, Philip would have told me it was because I was wearing the wrong clothes or standing the wrong way or being generally unworthy of notice. I don’t know why you are asking these things, but you’re definitely barking up the wrong husband.”
“Could be. The scene on the highway as you described it has a personal feel to it. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes, I do agree. It felt personal at the time. I was kind of shaken. But I don’t believe it was. I drive a ten-year-old Skylark with timing problems. I’m used to jerk behaviour aimed at me.”
“Maybe.”
“I bet you don’t encounter it in your full-size police vehicle, looking like you do.”
“What do you mean ‘looking like I do’?”
“I mean a large man who carries a gun. And anyone could tell you’re a cop. I’m pretty sure that would be a good deterrent. So you don’t comprehend how the rest of us live. By that I mean non-cops, non-men, old car drivers.”
“Okay. You don’t have to get huffy. So you think he gave you the finger because you were a woman driving an older model car? Because there are a lot of people who fit that description. You know what bothers me, as a cop?”
“No, what?”
“The coincidence that you actually knew him.”
“Speaking of being bothered, any word about the woman in the Escalade with him?”
“That woman who wasn’t there? No, madame. There’s no word about her.”
“Well,” I said, with all the dignity I could manage. “Thank you very much, Sgt. Sarrazin. Goodbye now.”
He wasn’t ready to hang up. “Listen, about that cookbook of yours.”
I didn’t recall mentioning that project to Sarrazin.
He kept talking. “It’s still officially spring, so you have to include asparagus. I do mine on the grill with really good olive oil and sea salt. I can write out the technique for you.”
It was hard to decide which was less erotic: asparagus or Sarrazin. “I’ll take it, I said.”
I’d been stuck for hours in front of my computer working on a p
lan for the book. Let’s just say the screen was still blank, and it matched my mind. Finally, I had the slightest glimmer of an idea. I picked up the phone and called Lola.
“How about this? I’ll do a little back story of a couple who meet, and I’ll set up the meals they make as their relationship deepens.”
“Oh, blech! Stay away from romance, Fiona. Just make it sexy with beautiful, lively food. Come up with something that has a lot more sizzle than that. And remember, time is short.”
I was alternating between staring at the blank screen and at a piece of paper, when the front door banged.
“Okay,” Josey said, “if we are going to make this work, we have to do our homework.”
“Speaking of homework, how’s the exam preparation going?”
“Piece of cake. It’s time to get serious about your book.”
“I am serious about the book, Josey. See, I’ve started to work on it.” I pointed to the piece of paper in front of me. So far, the only word written on it was “asparagus”. But it was a start.
“We gotta go beyond print. We need television to sell it. I’ve been looking into this. All the chefs on The Cooking Channel have lots of cookbooks. And sometimes magazines. The show sells the books. Books sell the show, and the show sells products. Business, Miz Silk.”
“I don’t know, Josey.”
“You see all the fuss about En feu! Hot Stuff! and the number of people in town just because they’re going to be shooting it. Food is big business, and not just the food you eat. It affects everything. If Rafaël or Marietta buys something at CeeCeeCuisine, everyone’s going to want it. Every restaurant in the village will be competing to get them to come for dinner.”
Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle Page 8