Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle

by Mary Jane Maffini

  “Oh, I’m sorry. But didn’t you ask me if you could do anything?”

  Anything at all, I’d said. And meant it at the time. Anything but this.

  Bridget teetered. She started to cry, which wasn’t immediately obvious with the rain dripping off her nose. Not the first time she’d been crying that night either.

  “No, I’m sorry. You’d better come in. You need coffee. Maybe a bit of Irish coffee. That’s what you need. I’ll have to use Courvoisier, if that’s all right.” That would give me a chance to use the Irish coffee glasses I’d splurged on and ordered through her.

  “Thanks. I could use a bit of a treat. Courvoisier’s fine. Aren’t we all part of a global village now?” She hobbled toward the living room. “The police finally let me get access to Benedict’s place. I sure need something.”

  Tolstoy rubbed himself against Bridget’s leg, in case that was what she needed.

  Bridget settled into the wingback chair. Her cast stuck straight out on the footstool. I sat on the floor. That way I wouldn’t have to fall off something if Bridget had any more surprises, such as knowing something about the note Sarrazin claimed had been found in Benedict’s cabin.

  She clutched her glass. Two Irish coffees and two handkerchiefs later, she said: “Isn’t it terrible? What kind of a measure of a life is this? All those years, and he hardly left a thing of substance. Nothing tangible. Just these little things, souvenirs he wanted given to old friends.” She blew her nose. “I’m sorry. I was okay until I tried to clean out his little cabin. Oh, God, get a load of me, will you, I’m shaking. He meant so much to me. Now I have nothing left.”

  “You cleaned out his cabin?”

  “Rachel did all the physical stuff. I sat blubbering and making decisions I’ll probably regret. Oh, listen to me whining. You’ve been through a lot too. It must be terrible having all that stuff in the papers.”

  Seeing Bridget, nose like a fire hydrant, made me feel sadder for her than for Benedict. “Don’t worry about what he didn’t leave. Benedict didn’t care about things, except for books, booze and buddies.”

  “And bimbos,” she said. “Um, and women, certainly.” I was unwilling to put either Bridget or myself into the bimbo category.

  Bridget smiled. “At any rate, you said you wanted to help, so I’m hoping you won’t mind delivering these few bequests while you’re doing the other thing. He left a list of people he wanted to have special little trinkets. I don’t think I can do it without breaking down. Maybe in six months, but not now.” She fished small wrapped parcels out of the green bag.

  I gawked at her. I hadn’t wanted anything to do with Benedict for more than seven years, and that went double now. Of course, I couldn’t say that out loud. But if Bridget could take the location of Benedict’s death with such grace, who was I to refuse her this small but incredibly irritating set of errands?

  “No problem. But about that other thing...”

  She was ready for me. “It was his last wish, Fiona.” She was busily arranging a pile of slim books next to the parcels.

  “What do you mean? He didn’t have a last wish. He didn’t know he was going to die.” My voice broke on a squeaky note.

  “And these books,” Bridget said. “While Weeping for the Wicked. It’s his latest volume of poetry. Probably what won him the Flambeau. I have just a few. So very good friends only. One for you, of course, and I have a list of who else gets books and mementoes. I hope I haven’t missed anyone. It’s very hard for me to think clearly.”

  “About this last wish thing...”

  “You know, it’s funny,” Bridget said, soothing as cough syrup, “Benedict might not have had a will, but on several occasions he specifically mentioned he wanted to be scattered over the river. And who are we to argue?”

  Unable to argue, I found myself sputtering. “But you can’t seriously expect me to scatter them and give a speech.”

  “He would have wanted it. Well, maybe not the speech. I know you aren’t all that outgoing. But creating a memorial event that will be a testament to his spirit. You’re the only one I can ask.”

  “But, don’t you want to do it yourself?”

  “Oh, no, I can’t stand the thought of it. In fact, I can’t stand period.” She pointed to the cast. “My doctor says it will be another two months before I resume normal activities.” Bridget’s voice wobbled, reminding me she was close to the edge.

  “What about Rachel? She handled things for the Memorial and the cremation.”

  Tolstoy pricked up his ears. He hates it when I wail.

  “No way. Poor Rachel has her hands full with the Bed and Breakfast. It’s not easy running a business on your own.”

  It wasn’t easy writing romances on your own either, especially when you had no sex life and were stuck with Cayla and Brandon as ingredients. But before I could say that, Bridget added, “ Rachel never cared for Benedict.”

  Unlike me. Having someone else’s lover found dead in flagrante on your best sheets landed you in major psychological debt.

  “In fact, she really couldn’t stand him.”

  “Fine. What about someone who could stand him? One of his many grieving friends? One of the lady poets perhaps?”

  Bridget’s lips tightened.

  “All those ‘lady poets’ have glamorous jobs to keep them in designer clothes while they’re pretending to sacrifice over their poetry. They’re much too busy.”

  Bridget would have chug-a-lugged hemlock before she would have turned over Benedict’s last rites to Abby or Zoë. Stupid of me to even suggest it.

  “Oh. Wait a minute. What about all his drinking buddies? One of the O’Mafia? They’re perfect. They can’t possibly be employed. I mean, they’d know what would be important for Benedict.”

  Important for Benedict. As if he were still alive. Of course, when I considered the amount of aggravation he could still generate, it was as if he’d never died.

  “You must be kidding. Those idiots? What do you think is the likelihood of Benedict’s ashes ending up in the right place? And, anyway, hard as it is to believe, they all have jobs too.”

  “Wait a minute, so what if they have jobs? How much time can it take to arrange this scattering?”

  “Precisely. It’s not a matter of time. It’s a matter of having it handled properly. It has to be somebody who has brains and flexibility, and a bit of time on their hands, such as yourself. It has to be somebody I could trust to do the job properly. As Benedict would have wanted it. That would be you.”

  Deep sadness backlit her smile. And it crossed my mind that Bridget loved Benedict even more dead than she had when he was alive. No wonder. Dead Benedict didn’t provide on-going irritations in the way of unpaid bills, brushes with authority and the tendency to leave socks and young women lying around. So I figured Bridget might not like to hear that disposing of Benedict’s ashes in exactly the way he wanted wasn’t such a big deal. Even allowing for the prospect of everlasting life, Benedict would be too busy dealing with the heat wave to worry about the ashes-to-ashes part.

  I played my last card. “I have a deadline for my new romance novel. That’s my job. A big project would throw me off.”

  A stubborn little crease appeared between Bridget’s eyebrows. I could see why she was a success in the competitive world of retail. “It won’t take long. Then you can concentrate.”

  I hardly got any work done when things were going well. Imagine the phone calls a scattering would generate. Ducky, just ducky. Panicky thoughts danced in my brain as I searched for one last excuse. The panic must have seeped onto my face.

  Bridget drew a conclusion. “Oh, Fiona, Fiona, don’t worry about the cost. Benedict’s estate will reimburse you.”

  “What estate, for God’s sake? Benedict didn’t have an estate. He was up to his ears in debt all the time, and we both know it. You’ll be lucky if you don’t get stuck with a lot of loans you foolishly co-signed instead of having the cash to have a big party with a...”
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br />   “With an urn. And quite a nice one.” Bridget smiled the smile she probably reserved for bankers about the overdraft. “There’s enough money.”

  “Come on, Bridget. Pull the other one.”

  “It’s true. Benedict had an old term insurance policy. And I’m the beneficiary, since I’ve been paying the premiums for fifteen years, mainly so I wouldn’t get stuck with those debts you mentioned I’d foolishly co-signed for. I wasn’t born yesterday.”

  “Oh.”

  “The point is, after the loans and things are paid, I have enough to send him off in style. With a party. So select your date and make your arrangements.”

  I cast around for more objections. Bridget reached into the green bag and produced a squarish object in a burgundy velvet bag. Behind the successful businesswoman exterior, I sensed Bridget’s emotional protection crumbling. She slipped the velvet bag off the object which I had already figured contained Benedict’s ashes. She ran her fingers over the sleek mahogany box containing the urn. A couple of tears dripped onto it.

  Fine. I know when I’m beaten. “I guess I could do it.”

  Bridget stood up and hobbled toward the fireplace. She got her balance long enough to place the urn in the centre of the mantel. “Thank you. You know, I came to ask you to do these things, but the thing is, I really wanted to talk to someone who knew and appreciated him.”

  I bit my tongue.

  She talked. And appreciated. Two hours later, I decided to call Cyril Hemphill to pour Bridget home.

  The urn remained.

  Now I couldn’t even look at my fireplace.

  Nine

  Another trip to the village. No way to avoid it. I was out of dog biscuits again and, trust me, life wasn’t worth living without them.

  Plus Phillip had called twice (Los Angeles and Denver). Even Tolstoy didn’t care for the increasingly hostile tone of his messages, which was another reason to get out of the house, but the real problem was that I couldn’t take my mind off this scattering thing. How the hell was I ever going to reclaim my home with that miserable urn squatting on the mantelpiece?

  On the bright side, the microscopic cheque I found in my mailbox meant a little of the green stuff to spread around.

  It was raining too hard to walk. The Skylark responded with a click of the key in the ignition, the engine turned over and went back to bed. The good news was that at least I’d paid my Canadian Automobile Association premium, and it still had a month to run. For once, it was a slow day for Remorquage Bye-Bye. Tolstoy and I dashed through the downpour as the tow-truck pulled up.

  “Can you take it to Marc-André Paradis’ garage?”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Up Highway 105, um, somewhere.” Water dripped off my nose.

  “Never heard of it. You want to pay me to drive around and look for it? Extra eighty bucks an hour.”

  Everybody’s an entrepreneur. The guy probably had a sex life too. “No thanks. Just haul it to Tom and Jerry’s.”

  Tolstoy and I spent the next hour sulking to the tune of the “Water Music”. But sulk or no sulk, I needed to get around. I bit my lip for a long time before I called Cyril Hemphill. At least Cyril was happy about it. He and Tolstoy grinned dopily at each other in the front seat. I sat in the back enveloped in fog and bad feelings.

  Cyril twisted right around to chat with me. “Don’t you worry, Miz Silk, I’m setting people straight about that murder.”

  Tolstoy regarded Cyril with admiration.

  “Yep, I told them no way a woman like you could beat a man to death. Leastways, not when you were...”

  “Watch the road, please,” I said.

  Cyril swivelled. “...shit-faced, ma’am, pardon my French.”

  Something must have told Cyril this might be a good time to change the topic. “So they finally nailed old Mike Thring, eh?”

  “Mike Thring? Who nailed him? For what?”

  “St. Aubaine cops caught him dealing smuggled cigarettes. He’s supposed to be back in court today. I might head on over to the Palais de Justice in Hull to catch that show. That Mike Thring cuts quite the figure whenever he gets in front of a judge.”

  I was stunned. I’d always thought Josey’s Uncle Mike was a harmless drunk. It had never occurred to me he could stand steady long enough to commit an actual crime.

  Poor Josey. How embarrassing for her. On the other hand, maybe she’d feel good that Uncle Mike had been sober enough to pull off a creative bit of smuggling. You could never tell how Josey would react to things. Then I remembered her mood the day before when she’d stomped out of my house. Clearly, she hadn’t felt good about Uncle Mike’s latest hijinks.

  “I hadn’t realized he was in jail again.”

  “Jail nothing. Got to hand it to the old geezer. He got out on bail right away.” Like all St. Aubaineers, Cyril had a high tolerance for anything that deprived the government of revenue.

  “On bail? You must be kidding.” Where on earth would Mike Thring get bail money?

  First thing, Tolstoy and I ambled off to the Caisse Populaire to deposit the cheque. Maybe I just imagined the raised eyebrows and the nudges and the nods around me.

  Gisèle beamed from behind the counter. She likes to see me deposit money. She didn’t know about the repairs to the Skylark yet. I smiled back. A joyful moment. Tolstoy barked and wagged his tail. Gisèle and I craned to see what he’d barked at.

  Josey Thring struggled along through the downpour holding the leashes of not one but four dogs. I had forgotten about that. Dog walking was another lucrative sideline for THE THRING TO DO.

  “At this rate,” I said to Gisèle, “the GNP of France should rise nicely after her visit.”

  Gisèle leaned forward and whispered, “Oh, dear, I guess you haven’t heard yet.”

  “Heard what?”

  Gisèle lowered her voice more. I strained to hear. “She took out all her savings to bail out that drunk old uncle of hers.”

  Poor Josey. I was glad to find out about her problem before I put my foot in it again, and equally glad to learn you couldn’t trust Gisèle with any secrets.

  Tolstoy and I took our second last fifty dollars from the Caisse and hit the road.

  Next stop, L’Épicerie. You could hear the zing of spinning heads as I raced for the back.

  Woody was in the storeroom rolling a joint. He found the whole situation most amusing. He twirled in his wheelchair, chortling. Tolstoy barked in approval.

  Visiting Woody was even more of a pain than usual. By now, I regretted sticking my nose out of my burrow to forage for food and car repairs. I leaned against a stack of whole wheat flour bags and waited him out. I tried not to acknowledge that Woody had updated the front pages featuring my own personal story on three of the four walls. I averted my eyes, but not before I caught the headlines.

  WHEN RHYME TURNS TO CRIME was the easy one. THE FATAL FOUR - POSTER had a certain flair. Not to mention: LAUGH? I THOUGHT I’D DIE : NAKED POET FOUND WEARING KRAZY GLUE SMILE .

  “Just gets better,” Woody said. “It’s like money in the bank. You ask me, you should get in touch with your agent.” He took a long drag.

  My agent was already leaving strangled gasps on my machine. I helped myself to a Diet Coke from Woody’s private stock. “No wonder people’s heads are spinning,” I whined. “I didn’t think the police would give out information like that.”

  Woody had to exhale before he could comment. “Time to grow up, kiddo.”

  “You haven’t heard the latest. Now I have to arrange to scatter Benedict’s ashes.”

  “Oh now, that is rich. How’d that happen?”

  “Bridget begged me, and I felt too guilty to say no.”

  “You? Scattering the ashes?” He put down the joint, but only so he could rub his hands together. “So when will it be? At midnight?”

  Midnight? “Of course not. Why would it be at midnight?”

  He spun. “Sort of fits in with some of the local theories.”

/>   I refused to ask.

  Woody doesn’t need to be asked. “Specifically, the ones about moonlit occult rituals and the late Mr. Kelly’s part in them.”

  “Unhuh. I can see where it would fit nicely, Woody, but I’m afraid it will be garden variety daytime ash-tossing. Very ho hum.”

  “Too bad. Because the midnight thing would go well with the Satanism theory. You’re the talk of the town, kiddo.”

  I drained my Diet Coke and remembered pressing business elsewhere. As I reached the front door, Woody careened down the aisle waving a container of organic peanut butter and a tin of maple syrup. He thrust the containers at me.

  I tried to thrust them back. “Can’t. I’m broke.”

  “On the house. Half the village has been in here, hoping to get a peek. You’re a boost for business. I gotta love ya, kiddo.”

  I imagine everyone in L’Épicerie got a good long gawk as I made a run for it.

  I had a seriously furtive look about me as I spotted Sarrazin heading into the Bistro Bijou shoulder to shoulder with coroner Lise Duhamel. Very cozy. She looked at him like a kid looks at an unattended rack of KitKat bars. He looked at me like I already had bars in front of my face. The other kind.

  Even though Tom and Jerry are usually pretty gentle with their charges, the new battery for the Skylark made another dent in my credit card. But at least I was mobile again without Cyril and his meter. Forty-five minutes later, I tracked down Josey, dogless by now but drenched, outside McDonald’s. I offered to buy lunch.

  “So what’s new?” I said to Josey, who sat on the other side of the booth, slumping. It was not like Josey to slump. Especially not when she had a large McPoulet plus a grande frite plus a lait frappé chocolat. I saved my frites for Tolstoy.

  I had to pretend not to know about Uncle Mike’s bail money.

  “Nothing.” Her eyes were flat and grey.

  “Right. It turns out, I have a bit of a problem. My garden really does need cleaning out. If the ground’s not too soggy.”

  She shrugged to let me know she wouldn’t do cartwheels. Josey has her pride. But I spotted a bit of the old sparkle in her eyes.