Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle
Page 19
“Yes, but Hélène wouldn’t ever do anything to hurt me. I know that.”
“Agreed. But she must have asked Jean-Claude for the name. And that would mean that the bastard knew you had some wiring issues.”
I bit my lower lip. “That’s what I think. Hélène probably mentioned it to him, inadvertently.”
“So then Jean-Claude asks the guy what the story is, gives him a bit of cash under the table to tell your insurance agent. You think Jean-Claude would know who insures your property?”
“Of course, he does. Faron’s their agent too.”
“Writing’s on the wall, kiddo. Hey, maybe you can sue Jean-Claude’s silk-covered rump. It’ll make a real good story if people find out he did that. Then your house mysteriously burns down and you lose everything, and hey, here’s the guy with something to gain who tries to do you the dirty. Cops might be interested.”
“I mentioned it to Sarrazin already. I’m not sure if he knows Aden’s name. He didn’t ask me for it, so I guess he does.”
“You got to talk to this guy. Find out if Jean-Claude put him up to it.”
“That’s the plan, but his business card burned up with everything else in my house.”
“There’s always the telephone book.”
“I checked. He’s not in it. I could ask Hélène, but I don’t want to give Jean-Claude a clue that I’m going to talk to this guy.” “Good thinking.”
“Well, except I still don’t know how to reach him.”
“You like your bacon crispy? Or extra crispy?”
I voted for extra crispy. “I guess I could go over to the Britannia when it opens and ask if anyone knows how to reach him or one of the other guys in the band.”
“No one at the Britannia’s going to give you anyone’s number. They know you’ve been talking to Sarrazin a lot lately. After breakfast, I’ll call my contractor. He knows every trade around these parts. So, kiddo, want some extra cheese on these eggs?”
The dirt road off the 366 North was long and bumpy and unsigned. Clouds of dust rose in our wake. No wonder Arlen Young’s pickup had been covered with mud. I closed the windows of Liz’s Audi, even though I usually love the scent of wildflowers and wild grasses.
I said, “Lucky that Woody’s contact gave good directions and landmarks. I don’t know my way around this area.”
“Boy, I wonder if Dr. Prentiss would have lent you her new car if she knew we were coming up here.”
“She won’t know. We’ll take it to the car wash before she gets it back.”
“Come on, Miz Silk. I’ll wash it. We don’t have money to waste on the car wash. Hey, did you notice? There are no phone lines down this road,” Josey said. “No Hydro either. Maybe he’s living off-grid. He’s an electrician, I bet he’s got all kinds of gear rigged up. Solar-powered batteries for his fridge and television. Maybe propane stove and stuff. Let’s ask him to show us.”
“It’s really lonely. We’ve only passed one other vehicle. I can’t imagine living way out here,” I said, struggling to keep the car out of the giant potholes that peppered the road. I had planned to use this errand as a quiet time to talk to Josey about her accusation against Hélène, something we really had to deal with.
“He’s mostly a musician. This would be a really cheap place to live. I’d be surprised if he even gets cell phone reception up here. Too many trees.” Josey fished out her own cell phone and shook her head. “Told you so. I got the best coverage there is around here and look, no service. He must just check in every now and then and get his messages. A lot of people up this way do that.”
The log cabin appeared in a clearing. Josey said, “Told you. Look at those solar panels. And he’s home.” She pointed to the dusty pickup angled near the woodpile.
We found no other sign of Arlen as we glanced around the house and yard.
“Arlen!” I called out.
“I bet he’s avoiding us,” Josey said.
“You’re probably right.”
“You can run but you can’t hide, Arlen Young,” she yelled.
“Talk to us or talk to the police,” I chimed in cheerfully. But there was nothing except the soft wave of the thigh-high grasses.
“The door’s open,” Josey said.
“We can’t just go in.”
“Speak for yourself.”
“No, Josey, it’s trespassing. Hey, what about his dog? Do you think they’re out on the river?”
“He can’t walk to the river from here, Miz Silk. We’re half-way up a mountain.”
“Right. Well, I’ll just check around and look in the outbuildings,” I said as Josey strode through the open front door bellowing, “You’re in big trouble, mister.”
“Don’t do that,” I said, rushing after her. It belatedly occurred to me that Arlen was a huge man who might also have a hunting rifle or two, in addition to the German shepherd.
“The police know we’re here,” I shouted. It was as good a lie as any, and it seemed like a wise prevarication. If there’d been cell phone service, I’d have called Sarrazin at that moment.
Inside, the log cabin was basically one room, furnished mostly with guitars. There was a battered futon, a rustic coffee table that had been made out of several sections of a tree trunk and a huge, soft dog-bed for Sweetheart. On the coffee table lay a pair of plates with half-eaten sandwiches, back bacon on Kaiser buns, unless I was mistaken, and four empty bottles of Sleeman, one of them knocked over. You could still smell the perfume of the bacon. The scent of spilled beer wasn’t quite so appealing.
“Miz Silk!” Josey whispered.
I bumped into her and stared. Sweetheart, the big shepherd, lay to the side of the futon. I touched her chest. She was still warm, and there was an infinitesimal movement in her chest. I thought I heard a moan from upstairs.
“Josey, go call for help,” I whispered back.
The blue eyes were wide and panicked. “No reception. Remember?”
“I mean get to a place where there is reception. Run out onto the road or up on a high point. I’ll try to find Arlen.”
“I don’t want to leave you, Miz Silk.”
“Something bad happened here. There’s no sign of an injury. I think the dog has been drugged. Go call 911, then try and reach the vet for the dog.”
“But—”
I thrust the keys into her hand. “Get in the car and drive out to the road. We don’t know who did this.”
“Dr. Prentiss won’t be too happy if she finds out you let me drive her car.”
“She’ll just have to cope. Don’t argue. Stay on the main road until the police arrive. Lock the car doors until they come. Give them a landmark and wait by that landmark. They might not find this place otherwise.”
I had a bit of plan. For sure, Arlen hadn’t harmed his own dog. What if the person who had was still there? If they were, I wanted them to think that both Josey and I had left. I whispered this to her.
She nodded. Eyes like saucers.
“Let’s go,” I said loudly, as if we both were leaving,
As she headed toward the door and banged it behind her, I grabbed one of the guitars, the only weapon I could find, and ducked behind the futon.
Minutes after I heard the roar of the car engine heading back down the dirt track, I emerged from my hiding place and moved quickly toward the steps to the loft. I heard a muffled groan. I crept up the stairs, clutching the guitar by the neck and trying to keep my breath under control. A buzzing sound became louder as I advanced.
I stuck my head up through the hole in the loft floor. I saw the bed, the tangle of greyish sheets and a smashed guitar. A bloody walking stick lay on the floor by the end of the bed. A pair of bare feet poked out of the sheets. Big feet, size fourteen minimum. I lurched toward the bed with its tangle of sheets. Arlen Young lay face down, naked, his long, dark-blond hair spread around him. A pool of blood surrounded his head, probably from the wound in the back of his skull. A cluster of flies explained the loud buzz.
Everything else seemed very, very unimportant. I knew if I didn’t do something, Arlen would bleed to death. I grabbed the sheets from the bed, wadded them together and pressed them against his wound, waving away the flies.
Time ticked by.
I sat cross-legged on the floor, avoiding the blood, and kept murmuring to him, soothingly. “It’s okay, you’re going to make it. Josey has gone to call 911. Sweetheart’s going to be all right, and so are you. But try to fight. Please try to fight.”
With my free hand, I held his limp hand and squeezed, hoping that it wouldn’t increase the blood flow. “Don’t go,” I said. “The world needs musicians.”
It felt like hours crouched there, mesmerized by the buzzing of the flies and the slow seeping of Arlen’s blood. I was still trying to murmur encouragement when I heard the sound of sirens in the distance.
“Hang on, Arlen. Hang on.”
Garlic Shrimp for Two
Contributed by Marietta
13 shrimp, peeled, deveined, but with tails intact
2 tablespoons olive oil
2 crushed garlic cloves
¼ teaspoon red pepper flakes
1 teaspoon steak seasoning
1 teaspoon lemon zest
2 teaspoons lemon juice
1 tablespoon chopped parsley
1 tablespoon chopped chives
Pour two glasses of chilled white wine. Heat a large skillet over medium high heat. Add olive oil, garlic, red pepper flakes and shrimp. Season with steak seasoning or salt & pepper. Cook shrimp 3 minutes or until just pink. Toss with lemon zest, juice, chopped parsley and chives. Taste one. You know you can’t resist it. Remove the rest of the shrimp to a serving plate, pour liquid in pan over.
Surprise your lover!
Fifteen
Any folksiness that Sarrazin had been projecting had pretty well evaporated by the time he lumbered in to see me in the interview room at the St. Aubaine Sûreté.
I jumped to my feet when he finally showed up. No ice tea this time. Just the low hum of the tape recorder noting Interview with Fiona Silk, June 11, five p.m. Present Sgt. F.X. Sarrazin and Agent Viau. Somehow agent seems much more menacing than the English equivalent rank of constable. I’d never seen Viau before. He was a wiry man in his early thirties, with hair buzzed close to his scalp. He gave off a “don’t mess with me” vibe. I forced myself to make eye contact. His eyes were black, beady and accusing. Mine were most likely red-rimmed, matching my forehead. Not that I’d been near a mirror to know.
“Okay, madame,” Sarrazin said gently, “I just need you to tell the truth.”
I blinked. “But I always tell the truth.”
I may have looked a bit shifty at this point, because I didn’t always tell Sarrazin the truth. At the moment, I was so rattled I couldn’t really remember what fibs I’d told. Mostly white lies to protect Josey, I decided.
Viau cleared his throat. “I hope you realize how serious this is.”
I bleated, “Of course I realize it. I spent what seemed like hours worrying that Arlen Young was going to die in my arms. Is he okay?”
“Let’s deal with the interview.”
“Listen, I held him. I have his blood all over me. I have a right to know if he’s alive.”
“Yes. He is alive, but we don’t know if he is going to make it. He’s still in intensive care. So why don’t you explain to me how you came to be in the bedroom with a naked bleeding man that you say you hardly know.”
“But it’s true.”
Viau said, “Were you having an affair?”
My jaw dropped. I was starting to hate this man. “I only met him the one time when he looked at my wiring.”
Agent Viau smothered a smirk. Sarrazin swivelled and faced him. The smirk vanished. Viau squirmed in his chair until Sarrazin turned back to me.
I stared straight at Sarrazin. “I’ve told you what happened there. Arlen said he’d give me a quote, and then he talked to my insurance agent. I told you all about it in the café.”
“But why were you in his cabin?”
“I wanted to find out why he told Faron Findlay that my home was unsafe. You must be able to understand that. I lost everything I have ever valued in my life. I could have lost Josey and Tolstoy. You yourself said accelerant was used. Arlen was connected to that somehow, and I just—”
Viau interjected, “—hit him with your stick when he didn’t tell you. Or maybe he did tell you, and then you hit with the stick. Which one is it?”
“It’s neither,” I said in a wobbly voice. “I didn’t hit him. I found him. The stick was just lying there, on the floor. It had blood on it. I never touched it.”
Sarrazin took over again. “Okay, we’re having a bit of trouble with that too. The guy was naked and upstairs in his cabin. You told me you hardly knew him. Yet you walked in the front door when he was, as you claim, already unconscious and bleeding.”
Viau added, “You do that kind of thing all the time?”
Sarrazin rubbed his temples. I guess it wasn’t easy being the good cop.
“Of course not. Josey and I went to talk to him. We saw the truck outside. We knew he was there. The front door was open, and Josey took a look.”
Viau snorted. “Right. There’s a name for that. Trespassing. That kid will answer for that.”
“Please, leave her out of this. If she hadn’t gone for help, he would have died alone. She could see Sweetheart unconscious by the table. She called to the dog, and it didn’t move.”
“That dog is a shepherd. Weren’t you scared he would attack you, since you were intruders?”
“She. Of course, she would have barked if she thought we were intruders. Or she would have come to greet us, if she recognized us. When she didn’t move, we knew something was wrong. That’s why we went in. Then I sent Josey to call the police.”
Sarrazin said, “And you stayed behind because?”
“I knew Arlen wouldn’t hurt his dog. When I heard moaning upstairs, I figured that something had happened to him.”
“So you went upstairs, even though you thought there might have been an intruder? Was that smart?”
“It was pretty stupid actually. Impractical. Idiotic. But it turned out to be the right thing to do. Arlen would have died if we hadn’t gone to that cabin and if Josey hadn’t gone for the police and if I hadn’t checked upstairs. I wish you would try to understand that. I am not the bad guy here.”
Sarrazin puffed out his cheeks.
“Look,” I said, “why would we call the police if we’d committed a crime?”
Viau leaned forward and said, “People who commit violent acts aren’t always thinking straight. They do things that don’t really help their case. Maybe this was one of those times. You didn’t mean to hurt him. You certainly didn’t mean to kill him. You just wanted information. Then when you were talking to him, you became enraged because this man had caused the loss of your home and your livelihood. We wouldn’t blame you. You couldn’t help yourself. You raised your walking stick, and you smashed in his skull.”
I flinched. “No.”
“And then you hit him again and again. You couldn’t stop yourself. He had it coming.”
“No. I didn’t.” I turned to Sarrazin. “You know that isn’t true.”
Viau wasn’t buying it. “Afterwards, you were overcome with remorse. You hadn’t wanted to hurt him. You didn’t want him to die. Just tell us, and we’ll try to help you.”
“Oh, absolutely. That’s what this is all about. Helping me. And what are you talking about, my walking stick? I had one something like it. It burned up in the fire like everything else.”
“No, madame. Apparently, it didn’t. We know it was yours, because guess
what we found on it?”
My heart constricted. “What?”
“Your fingerprints and those of that Thring girl.”
“It’s not possible. Josey didn’t go upstairs. And I didn’t touch it. The murderer must have—”
Viau help up a hand. “Another thing—you keep saying the Thring girl called the police.”
I stared at him. “She did. I sent her out to the road to make the call.”
“Right. Getting a minor to steal a car.”
“It was an emergency.” My head was beginning to throb. “We’ve been through that, over and over.”
He shook his buzzed head. “But the Thring girl didn’t call 911, did she?”
“Of course she did. You came, didn’t you?”
Viau snickered. “We did. But not because of her. Didn’t you think we got there pretty damn fast?”
I blinked. “It seemed like forever. I lost all track of time. It was like a nightmare. All that blood, those flies. Why are you saying that Josey didn’t call?”
Viau leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. “She claimed she couldn’t find a spot with service before we arrived. And then she left the scene before we could question her. Must have hitched a ride back to town.”
I probably looked pretty murderous right then. That’s the problem with wild, curly hair, it can give you a deranged appearance at a moment’s notice. And it doesn’t help your image if your clothes are covered with blood. “But why would you send patrol cars up to a cabin in the middle of the woods if it wasn’t for Josey’s call?”
Sarrazin and the agent exchanged glances.
My mouth felt dry. “Oh, let me guess. You got a tip.”
Sarrazin said, “That’s right. Crime in progress. But not a tip about a seriously injured person. That’s why the ambulance came later.”
“Well, ask yourself, who could tip you except the person who committed this crime?”
Viau had a way of smiling without a tinge of humour. “The tip said that you had said, and I quote, ‘Arlen Young knows who is behind my fire, and he is going to tell us if he knows what’s good for him.’ Is that true? Did you say that, madame?”