Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle

by Mary Jane Maffini

  “Please don’t think I want to spare him inconvenience or embarrassment. Everything I owned was lost in that fire. So my net worth actually declined when the house burned. There’s nothing to subtract from his assets when the settlement is concluded. I think this fire is going to cost him money.”

  “Humph.”

  “May I ask what triggered your desire to talk to Philip? It seems to be coming from out of the blue. You refused to follow up when I asked you to find him.”

  “Never mind.”

  I slapped the side of my head. “Oh, wait. Let me guess.”

  He narrowed his eyes at me.

  “You got a tip!”

  “Yes, a tip with some really good information that directly implicates him in the arson.”

  “That’s just ducky. I’m glad that you’ll be hunting for him, because as I told you, his disappearance is worrying me. Try to ask questions before you shoot. And while you’re asking, maybe consider that Jean-Claude may have sent that tip.”

  I borrowed Liz’s car again and drove back to Chemin des cèdres to see Hélène. Face to face seemed better than by phone.

  She gasped when she opened the door. “Oh là là, Fiona! Look at you.”

  “What? I thought I got myself cleaned up a bit. You think this is bad, you should have seen me before.”

  “But what are you wearing?”

  “I had to borrow another T-shirt and shorts from Woody. I already ruined one of his at Arlen Young’s place. The bloodstains didn’t even come out in the wash.”

  “I heard about the electrician. C’est épouvantable!”

  “Yes, it is terrible. And that’s why I’m here, Hélène.”

  “Let’s sit outside. The painters are in the kitchen now, repairing the damage from our little disaster. You know, I would be happy to lend you some clothes, Fiona.”

  “Not sure how that would work. You’re a lot smaller than I am.”

  “You have lost weight. I am sure we will find something. Let’s have some lemonade first.”

  “I really need to talk about Arlen.” Of course, I had to wait until she’d arranged a tray with a pitcher of lemonade and some truffles.

  “I am so sorry about that poor man,” Hélène said. “And I feel as though I brought you beaucoup de misère. I know Josée is very angry.”

  “You’re not responsible. I know that, and Josey does too, deep down. I hope you realize that. She didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  Hélène nodded slowly. “She is just a child. I don’t blame her. “

  “That’s good. So please tell me about Arlen. Where did you get his name? From Jean-Claude?”

  “No. I would never ask Jean-Claude anything in connection with you. He was very angry about the kitchen and, voyons, you know what he is like.”

  “I do. So where did you get the name?”

  “Well, I asked at the Wallingford Estate. They used all the local trades and even had to bring some people in.”

  “Who did you ask?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Madame Huffington-Chabot, of course. She managed all that. Her assistant helps a bit, but really, she is the one in charge.”

  Her facial expression told me that Hélène had heard and understood Josey’s comments about Jean-Claude and Anabel.

  I said, “Right. And she gave you Arlen’s name?”

  “Yes. She left a message for me the day after I asked her. She’s très efficace. “

  “You have no idea just how efficient.” My suspicions were being confirmed, and high time too.

  “I feel responsible.”

  “Don’t.”

  “Let me buy you something to wear. You’ve lost all your clothing. You cannot walk around in Woody’s clothes. How can you talk to television stars if you look like that? And we need to get some make-up for your eyebrows and forehead. It must be painful.”

  “No make-up. Liz said the burns can become infected if I’m not careful. They’re getting better, and they look worse than they feel. And anyway, I feel guilty taking so much from you.”

  “Don’t turn me away because of my husband, please, Fiona.”

  “It’s not because of your husband. I’m just not comfortable with handouts.”

  “When your other friends offer help, do you think of it as handouts? Liz’s car? Woody’s shorts and horrible T-shirts? Everything that Josée does for you?”

  I nodded. Hélène needed to help me more than I needed to stand on my own two feet. I said, “Okay, thanks. But I can’t shop right now. I have something I have to take care of.”

  Hélène smiled. “Leave it to me.”

  “Did you hear that, Miz Silk?” Josey burst through the door of L’Épicerie, seconds after I got back from Hélène’s. She let the door bang behind her.

  Of course, I am always the last person to hear anything in St. Aubaine. “Hear what?” I said.

  “Cyril wiped out on the 366.”

  “Oh, no. I was just talking to him last night.” As much as I like to gripe about Cyril and his money-grubbing and garrulous ways, I never wish him ill.

  “Oh, yes.”

  That’s another thing about people around and in St. Aubaine. They love to gossip, but, even more, they relish having you struggle to extract information from them, once they have piqued your interest.

  “What happened?”

  “Apparently, he drove his old cab right off the road. Forty-five minutes ago.”

  “Is he all right? Don’t make me drag it out of you. If he’s not, tell me now.”

  “Nobody knows yet. They took him to the hospital down in Hull. I’ll try to get an update.”

  “Go find out, please.”

  As Josey scampered off to put the thumbscrews on some hapless health care worker, I stood there, heart thundering. Cyril had driven his cab right off a familiar road in broad daylight, just like a certain Danny Dupree.

  I hustled along the main street to the Sûreté, hoping Sarrazin hadn’t left to hound Philip yet. I was in luck. He was filling out forms. “You have to listen to me,” I said.

  “You sound hysterical.”

  I lowered my voice. “Maybe so, but hear me out and try not to think I’m absolutely crazy.”

  “I’ll try. How about you do your best not to sound absolutely crazy. Because that will help.”

  “You know that Cyril Hemphill was in a car accident too. We need to compare toxicology results with Danny Dupree’s. And Arlen’s. Check out Sweetheart too and see if it’s the same stuff that—”

  Sarrazin held up his hand. “We? Who is this we?”

  “Fine. You. You need to.”

  “Hmm. And why do I?”

  “Because the accident was so similar to the Escalade. Cyril could practically drive in his sleep. He’s not a drinker, and he knows every inch of road around here, yet on an ordinary stretch, he drove right off the road. And Sweetheart was drugged, and I bet Arlen was too, or how would a big guy like that get attacked without a fight? There was no sign of a struggle, except for the busted guitar. That just occurred to me.”

  He took a breath.

  I said, “Plus, it wouldn’t surprise me if they find the same stuff in Harriet Crowder. It’s a pattern.”

  “Really? A pattern? I think I’ve heard of them. Speaking of patterns, something tells me that you’re about to inform me of who you suspect of doing this.”

  “Yes, I am. Anabel Huffington-Chabot, possibly in cahoots with Jean-Claude.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Madame Huffington-Chabot is a very important businessperson in our community. We can’t accuse her of serious crimes like this because it’s your latest wild idea.”

  “Cyril had a previous arrangement to pick up Anabel on the highway on the day of Danny Dupree’s death. Have you forgotten that she locked me in the toilet cubicle. All right, I realize that that is trivial. But her feud with Harriet Crowder wasn’t, and Harriet’s now dead. Then there’s the fact she knew Arlen Young would check the wiring in my house. She has a relationship wi
th Jean-Claude, and he knows Faron Findlay is my insurance agent and where I live, of course.”

  The tally was: dead, dead, burned down, nearly dead and maybe dead, but that was not enough to get more than a shrug out of Sarrazin.

  To recap: I had no settlement, no house, no car, no money, no computer, no insurance and now, no cab driver. There was nothing I could do about most of it, but why should I have all the fun. I decided, for once, to go on the offensive and find Philip, wherever he was.

  Liz lent me her car again, and I had the keys to Philip’s office. I didn’t think for one minute that he had burned down my house, but he had made me miserable for years, and I was looking forward to telling him that the police thought he was implicated in arson.

  Five minutes after I let myself into Philip’s downtown office, I had a sick feeling in my stomach, but I also found Irene’s home address in the files. If his office dragon didn’t know what was going on, no one would.

  Irene answered the door of her condo apartment just off Montcalm in old Hull. Her eyes were red and swollen.

  Finally, he’s gotten to you too, I thought.

  “Fiona,” she said.

  “Irene,” I answered. I almost felt sorry for her.

  She let out a slow muffled sob. Oh, crap. The last thing I needed was to have to comfort the very woman who’d made it her job to “protect” Philip from me, the wicked ex-wife.

  I stepped past her and into the condo. “Come on. I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

  “Too hot,” she shuddered.

  “Fine. Why don’t we just sit down, and you can tell me what’s going on.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Philip’s in a lot of trouble.” ‘

  She snuffled. “He’s lost everything.”

  I sat stunned for a full minute. “What? But what went wrong? His practice was busy. He was on the go all the time. Too busy to take my calls, for sure.”

  She reached for a tissue. Her hands were shaking. Somehow, even given her relationship with Philip, it seemed too much. “Investments. They went bad.”

  “Investments? You must be kidding. But Philip’s so...”

  She was sobbing now.

  And it hit me. “Did you invest too?”

  “I cashed out my RRSPs. My savings. Everything. I even took out a new mortgage.”

  I stared at her in horror. No wonder Philip had been so slow to pay. “What did he invest in? He’s so cautious.”

  “He said Danny Dupree was handling everything. All the money. They were going to flip this big property. They had the seller. They had the buyer. They needed to have the money up-front. It was going to make them a fortune.”

  “But Danny’s dead.”

  “Of course. Do you think I don’t know that? Not everyone’s as stupid and self-centred as you.”

  I controlled myself. “How much was it anyway?”

  “Three hundred and fifty thousand from me. More from Philip. He had a lot more money to invest.” The tears welled up again.

  “Why cash?”

  “It was to avoid some kind of tax or something. Philip feels terrible. He’s ruined, and I am too.”

  “But in this day and age, no one needs cash for transactions. Let alone huge transactions. It’s all done through banks.”

  She snapped. “Philip knew what he was doing, although you never gave him credit for that.”

  “Apparently, he didn’t know what he was doing, Irene. Or you wouldn’t be sitting here bawling your eyes out, and Philip wouldn’t be...where is he anyway?”

  “I have no idea where he is. None! And do you think I’m going to tell you? Never! If you hadn’t been endlessly badgering him to get an unfair share of his assets, he probably never would have taken a chance on Danny’s idea. You have been nothing but trouble for the poor man.” Flecks of froth formed on Irene’s lips.

  “Spare me,” I said, standing up. Even though I felt sorry for her, I knew that one benefit of all this would be never seeing Irene again. “And by the way?”

  She sniffed.

  I said as I headed for the door, “You might not want to tell me where Philip is, but you won’t have the same flexibility with the police. I believe they’re on the way.”

  I dialed Sarrazin before I was out of the building.

  I thought fast. Philip might have been a lot of things, but for sure he wasn’t an embezzler. Too messy, too dangerous. He might have been a jerk and a bully, he might have been a pompous ass, but he was not a criminal. But even so, it explained why he would act out of character. He’d panicked. I needed to talk to him. And although I wasn’t foolish enough to betray this to Irene, I even had an inkling about where he’d take shelter from the world when the going got rough. The main plan was to get there before Irene tipped him off. No idea where he is, my fat fanny.

  I got that same fat fanny in gear, along with Liz’s car. Luckily, Liz had filled the tank. I broke a few laws heading up the line. I stopped on a quiet back country road in Rupert and parked out of sight. I sidled along the driveway and approached the immaculate grey farm house with the freshly painted white gingerbread trim. Every blade of grass in the acres surrounding appeared to be exactly the same height. Philip doesn’t come by his obsessions by chance.

  I liked Grandma Silk even less than Irene, and it was mutual. I was pretty sure she was the source of Philip’s personality quirks. Maybe it skips a generation, because his parents were both relaxed people. I’d had a warm and jovial father-in-law and an affectionate mother-in-law. I’d been very sad to lose them both. While they were alive, they’d spent a lot of time scratching their heads about the way their only boy had turned out, although they’d been far too loyal to admit it. Granny Silk was another story. She and Philip shared the fusspot gene for sure. We had managed to avoid each other for most of the years of my marriage and for all of the years afterwards. Now that she’d hit ninety, there was always the chance she might have mellowed, but I wasn’t counting on it. Sometimes you just have to straighten your spine and march off to war. I checked the garage. Sure enough, a shiny new BMW M5-E60. Not Granny’s, I was betting.

  I ducked around the back of the house, to the kitchen entrance. The inside door to the house was open, the Victorian style screen door keeping the bugs out. A shadowy figure loped around the kitchen. I whipped open the screen door and stepped in. A small matter of unauthorized entry was nothing compared to the rest of what I’d been dealing with.

  Philip whirled and almost dropped his glass. I put a finger to my lips. He pursed his.

  I said, “Don’t alert your grandmother, and no one will get hurt. Step outside. We need to talk.”

  He blanched. He was already pasty, so that was something. “Did anyone follow you?”

  “Absolutely not.” I had no idea and hadn’t thought to look. I wasn’t accustomed to being followed. Of course, I wasn’t used to having my house burned down either.

  He hesitated.

  “Fine,” I said, “we’ll stay inside, but I don’t want to deal with you-know-who, and if you betray me, I’ll shop you to the cops.”

  He said, “You wouldn’t.”

  “I would,” I said, “and what’s more, I’ll tell your grandmother everything you’ve done. Every single, vile, messy thing. I will use words like bankrupt and bailiff and prison.”

  He fell for that. Which was good, because I actually didn’t know the vile, messy details. This bluffing business was going pretty well. I felt I’d learned a good deal from my executive assistant. “She won’t hear us. She sleeps for about an hour every day at this time. Nothing wakes her.”

  I followed him into the parlour, which was the place where blindingly white starched doilies live out their days. He sat on the sofa, and I sat on a chair that felt like it was made of concrete. I knew from memory that the sofa was just as unyielding.

  “I want to hear everything from your viewpoint, Philip. And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll do that without a single criticism or dig at me.”
>
  Too late. “What are you wearing? You look like a goat herd. Is that a Grateful Dead T-shirt? I hope you didn’t run into any of my colleagues dressed like that.” He just couldn’t resist.

  “And you,” I said, “are wearing two different socks.”

  “I am not,” he huffed.

  I pointed to his feet. I kind of liked this mean stuff—on a purely temporary basis.

  He stared down at his mismatched socks and deflated a bit. “I have a lot on my mind.”

  “What was Danny up to?”

  “A deal. An amazing deal.”

  “Maybe you mean an amazing death. What happened?”

  “I didn’t know everything. It’s not my fault.”

  “Jury’s still out on that.”

  “I didn’t know he’d signed your name too.”

  What? Well, that came from nowhere. Of course, if I asked all the questions that were about to leap from my mouth, especially if I shouted them, Phil would clam up. Trust me, no one clams up like Phil.

  “Didn’t you?” I said, with great restraint.

  “Well, no. I’d hardly condone forging your name on a legal document, would I?”

  Forging my name on a legal document? What could that be? A loan application? Hardly. No one in the world could get credit based on me as a co-borrower or collateral or anything else.

  It hit me. I probably turned pastier than Phil. “No. Not possible,” I said. “Not the house. Not our house. He couldn’t have done that.”

  One look at Philip’s face, and I realized he’d thought I already knew. I said, “You sold the house?”

  “Not sold. Mortgaged. I mean, you hadn’t lived in it for three years. Don’t get all sentimental on me.”

  “Sentimental? You were party to a scheme to defraud me of my share of the house I worked to pay for, and you are calling my reaction sentimental?”

  “Danny did it. I didn’t know.”

  “You’re a lawyer, for Pete’s sake. How could you not know? Did he forge your signature too? Oh, my God, he did.”

  Philip managed not to meet my eyes after my outburst.

  “Spill,” I said.