Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle

by Mary Jane Maffini

  It proved not to be necessary. The first thing we spotted in the parking lot was a pair of uniforms. Two QPP officers stood with their hands on their hips, staring with disapproval at what remained of the Skylark.

  And then at us.

  “Tarrible, tarrible,” Kostas said from the back seat of Marc André Paradis’ immaculate ten-year-old Beemer. “Who would have done such a tarrible thing?”

  Marc-André Paradis shook his head. “It would be more than that car was worth just to replace all the glass.”

  Josey said, “And what about all that damage to the body? I think he must have used a hammer. Maybe he jumped on the roof.”

  “Jazus, Mary and Joseph.”

  I sat in the front seat, suffused, dripping, flooded, saturated with misery. I smelled of damp earth, sweat, fear, bear dung and unbrushed teeth. I sat next to a man who made my heart race. He was probably going to need his car shampooed to remove the hum. I wanted food, I wanted a bath, I wanted the earth to open up and swallow me.

  Why the hell hadn’t Liz picked up her phone when we’d called from the pay phone? And where was Cyril Hemphill when you really needed him?

  Kostas sputtered on. “I can’t believe those damn fools in the QPP didn’t take the whole thing more seriously.”

  In the back seat, next to Tolstoy, Josey spoke with more energy than I ever expected to feel again in my life. “Stupid cops. Since when do vandals shoot at you? They thought we had it coming for leaving the car in the park overnight.”

  Kostas puffed up like he was on helium. “Isn’t it just like the police? Bothering a person all the time over every little thing, and then when yis need them, sure they’ve better things to do. Vandals, indeed. Since when do vandals chase ladies into caves and besiege them with stones?”

  “And bullets,” I said.

  Josey agreed. “They didn’t believe us about the bullets.”

  “Indeed, and since when do vandals break into vehicles and leave the valuables?” Kostas asked.

  I couldn’t argue with him, although I wasn’t sure I would classify my purse with its twenty dollar bill and its up-to-thehilt credit cards as valuables. I hadn’t even been able to check to see what had been taken.

  Kostas exhaled. “My dear lady, what is goin’ on?”

  I said, “Something to do with Benedict’s death.”

  I met Marc-André Paradis’ gaze. His forehead was rumpled, his eyes troubled. Kostas slipped from outrage back into practical mode. Perhaps because I’d slumped with exhaustion and started to shiver again.

  “Do you think they found what they were looking for?” I could feel those peacock blue eyes on me as he spoke.

  “I don’t know. I find it hard to believe someone would follow us and shoot at us and destroy a car to get an urn.”

  “Why do you suppose they wanted the urn?” Marc-André said.

  “I cannot imagine.” Of course, that was because I, myself, had really not wanted that urn. Really, really not wanted it. Until it was stolen. As they say, you never appreciate what you have until you lose it.

  “But you know, Miz Silk, that urn was in your house when he broke in, and he didn’t steal it then. Maybe he’s after something else.”

  “Dear lady, maybe he’s just a nut, and there’s no way to ever figure out what was going on in his mind.”

  “Their minds,” I said. “There are two of them. Maybe they’re after completely different things. Maybe they don’t know what they’re after.” I felt a distinct throbbing in my temple.

  Marc-André’s forehead rumpled more. On him, it looked good. “Perhaps you are not safe in your house,” he said.

  “You’re telling me,” Josey said.

  “Dear ladies,” said Kostas, “yis are, of course, most welcome to stay with me at Evening’s End.”

  Josey and I gasped in unison. Evening’s End was only marginally more comfortable than the cave we’d spent the night in.

  “I have a new bottle of Jameson’s, and I’m sure with a little tinkering I can get the hot water going again for showers. Marc-André will help me, won’t you, me boy?”

  I felt tears stinging my eyes at the idea of having to stay in Kostas’s smelly old house without even hot water. I tried to think of something to avoid the situation without crushing Kostas. I was willing to take my chances going home.

  “They can stay at my place,” Marc-André said, with quiet authority. “I have an extra bedroom and lots of hot water and some of your own Armagnac. They can rest as long as they want in peace and quiet, because I’ll be in the garage. And if they need any rescuing, I will be three feet away.”

  “No reason in the world why I couldn’t rescue them, me boy.”

  “Oh, but you already have plenty to do getting ready for the scattering,” Josey said.

  Brilliant child.

  For once, the scattering was convenient for me. I chose not to mention that, with any luck, the missing urn would make the scattering unnecessary.

  “Right you are, Josey. Kostas has plenty to do,” I said, as firmly as I could considering my teeth were chattering.

  I awakened with a start, disoriented. Except for the state of the sheets caused by my spinning and whirling, the room was absolutely monastic.

  Half an hour later, clean, warm, dry and dressed in my laundered jeans and sweatshirt, I limped down the stairs. When I entered the salon, Josey was squinting at a television program about museums. A knitting project sat on her lap. Tolstoy was curled at her feet. Someone had done a number on him with shampoo, cream rinse and a blowdryer.

  She said, “You’re alive. It’s almost six o’clock.”

  I was not only alive but smelling nicely of fabric softener and Pears soap. My hair had managed to dry in a not too uncontrolled way. I had it pulled in a high ponytail, and only about a third of it escaped in kinky wisps. I wore lipstick. With subtlety, I hoped.

  “Marc-André’s gone out to get a bit of dinner.”

  So a waste of time about the lipstick. “Right,” I said, sinking onto the sofa.

  Josey ogled me. “Wait a minute. Are you wearing lipstick?”

  “Not really.”

  “You are. You don’t usually wear lipstick in the house.”

  “Sure I do,” I lied.

  “Kostas and Marc-André are getting us a car to use.”

  Getting a car?

  “Your car is only fit for Paulie Pound’s scrapyard now. Don’t worry though. Marc-André said he’d take care of it for you, no problem. And I could help sell some of the parts. Paulie Pound will probably try to rip you off. You’d be lucky to get seventy-five dollars for it.”

  It was hard to feel cheerful about this. Much as I disliked the Skylark, I didn’t want it crumpled with the other wrecks in Paulie Pound’s car graveyard. I wasn’t sure it would even fetch seventy-five dollars in the state it was.

  “And that Sarrazin guy was here asking questions,” Josey said.

  “Here? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You were out cold.”

  “I was sleeping, not in a coma.”

  She shrugged. “I could tell because you were snoring. I’m guessing people don’t snore when they’re in comas.”

  Snoring? Oh just ducky. I hoped I hadn’t had an audience. “No one was in my room, were they?”

  Her eyes widened. With guilt. “I was trying to help, Miz Silk. Your clothes were pretty bad from the cave.”

  “You washed them?”

  She nodded.

  “That’s a relief. Thank you.” I definitely did not want Marc-André laundering my muddy underwear or hearing me snore.

  “Okay, but I’m not sure you should be so relieved.”

  “Why not?”

  “Something else is missing.”

  “Don’t drag this out, please. What’s missing?”

  “Not just the urn, but all the copies of the book.”

  It had been hard enough to imagine someone stealing an urn. This really didn’t make sense.

&n
bsp; “Perhaps they’re already becoming valuable,” she said.

  “Maybe."

  “And there’s something else, Miz Silk. The guy in the baseball cap sure didn’t like you. He ripped your clothes.”

  “What clothes? He never got near me.”

  “You know, your dry cleaning.”

  “Oh no, not my periwinkle silk blouse.”

  She nodded.

  “I loved that blouse. And the skirt?”

  Josey, at her most serious, leaned forward and lowered her voice. “It was like he had it in for you. Personally.”

  I shivered. It took my mind off the fact that I’d cancelled my all-risk coverage on the car. I wondered if my home policy would pay for the contents. If I remembered correctly the deductible was higher than the cost of every piece of clothing in my closet.

  The creak of the back door distracted us. A second later, Marc-André came in.

  “She’s up,” Josey said, before I could check the mirror in case my dewlaps were drooping.

  “Bonsoir,” he said. “You look much better. We were worried. Are you hungry? I found roast chicken and green salad with vinaigrette and a baguette. I hope it will do.”

  I was starving, a sensation that had taken a back seat to exhaustion, worry, and even lust, until that moment.

  I did wonder where you “found” roast chicken and salad until Marc-André confessed he’d had his friend, a poet who worked as a sous-chef at Les Nuances, make it for him.

  “I’m sorry I don’t have any wine,” he said, a bit shyly. “The Régie was closed and the stuff in the dépanneur...”

  I tried to match his elegant shrug, indicating I wouldn’t be caught dead drinking that turpentine.

  “Not like we got anything to celebrate,” Josey said.

  “We’re alive.” I said.

  She grunted.

  Marc-André said, “You could celebrate the fact we’ve been able to get you another car. You can have the car tomorrow whether you’re planning to leave then...or some other time.”

  I loved those little pauses when he spoke. I wasn’t anxious to leave a place with sexy pauses and reenter a world crawling with crazed killers in baseball caps.

  “Soon though. I really need to get home and finish my novel.” Nicely non-committal. No puce blush. Excellent. Things were looking up.

  Marc-André shook his head. “You shouldn’t run off so soon, after such a shock. Mademoiselle too.”

  That’s when it hit me like a slap in the face with a wet fish. I wasn’t looking after mademoiselle. Hélène was.

  Twenty-Two

  “Oui, allô?”

  “Hélène, I am so sorry. You must have been frantic.”

  “Think nothing of it. Josée already phoned me. I’m happy you are both all right.”

  “Now I have some more bad news for you,” she said. Was it my imagination or did I feel a tinge of frostbite on my ear?

  “What kind of bad news?” I couldn’t imagine what would be worse than dodging bears and bullets all night in a cave.

  “Jean-Claude is very upset. He wants Josée to leave. He thinks I should not have taken on this level of obligation, with all the stress and worry.”

  “But none of this is Josey’s fault.”

  “That is not how he sees it. I feel responsible, myself, Fiona. After all, I even packed that lunch. I did not realize you could be in danger.”

  “Thanks. I hope Jean-Claude will listen to you.”

  “Well, he’s just a bit irritable because we’re not having a very good response for volunteers for the Christmas Lights Singalong.”

  “Ah. Naturally. I’ll be glad to help out with that.”

  “Wonderful. I’ll tell him. You’re not afraid of heights, are you?”

  “What?”

  “Anyway, I let the St. Aubaine police know that you are safe. I had notified them when you didn’t return from the outing last night. But did you know they cannot do anything for people missing less than twenty-fours?”

  “You mean Sarrazin wouldn’t take it seriously?”

  “Perhaps he would have, but he was not on duty.”

  I thought, maybe you should have called Dr. Duhamel’s place.

  Hélène said, “He is taking it seriously now. He wants to talk to you.”

  Naturally. So what else was new?

  “I will try to get Jean-Claude to give Josée another chance. But please, do not count on it. And, by the way, no luck yet with Mme Flambeau.”

  Once again I felt bewildered, inept and guilty. Not to mention loaded down with volunteer commitments.

  Wasn’t that the effect that being close to Benedict, even in his ashy state, had on women? Didn’t he always cause some kind of mental meltdown?

  “Dessert and coffee, madame.” I jerked back to earth.

  Marc-André served the coffee. Josey carried the goodies.

  “My wife always found a pâtisserie was the best thing when she was depressed. And she was a nurse.”

  “Good enough for me,” said Josey.

  Marc-André grinned. His teeth weren’t completely straight. A tiny imperfection that only made him sexier.

  “Tell me,” I said, “when Benedict visited you, he was with a girl. What was her name?”

  Marc-André’s hand jerked slightly, spilling a couple of drops of coffee on the bird’s eye maple table.

  “It is difficult to keep wood from getting marked, isn’t it?” he said, wiping with energy.

  “Yes, it is. Do you remember her name?”

  “I’m afraid I do not.” He didn’t meet my eyes.

  “Kostas said they had quite a long visit with you.”

  “I don’t really recall it in detail.”

  “It’s important.”

  “Fiona, he is dead now, and he wasn’t the most faithful man...but you have to move on.”

  I blinked, my mug of coffee suspended. “Oh. No. You mustn’t think...”

  Marc-André shook his head. “I know how hard it is to get used to the idea that someone you love is dead. I loved my wife very much. It is not easy, but there are things, habits and attitudes, that make it worse for us.”

  “You don’t understand. I didn’t love Benedict. We had a sort of involvement, maybe eight or even nine years ago. I broke it off.”

  The expression on his face said, perhaps.

  “Definitely,” I said. “My only reaction to Benedict’s demise was relief I wouldn’t have to pay someone else’s parking tickets in addition to my own.” Not strictly true and certainly coldhearted if it were, but I wanted to squash any idea that Benedict had a place in my heart.

  “I see.” The peacock-blue eyes watched, sharp and challenging. “Wasn’t he found in an intimate situation...?”

  I straightened. After all, he did read the papers.

  “That’s right. And I don’t know how he got there. That’s why I have to know what’s going on. This girl with Benedict might have nothing to do with it, but at the least her name will fill in a piece of the puzzle.” I sat back and watched him.

  Under close examination, he was even less perfect. Not just the teeth. His nose had a little twist in it. Add that to the scars on his hands, machine shop stuff, and a pair of misshapen knuckles, and he wasn’t a screen idol. Just a decent mechanic, missing his dead wife. All right, he was a poet of some note, with nice silver hair, a leather jacket and a fine collection of modern art.

  Naturally, I found him more tantalizing than ever.

  Josey’s head whipped around, and she narrowed her eyes. Could she read my thoughts?

  “I guess there’s no harm in telling you,” Marc-André said.

  Josey and I held our breath.

  “Abby,” he said. “Her name was Abby Lake.”

  Of course. Abby Lake, with her dancer’s body, her pale brush cut, her immense green eyes brimming with tears.

  Abby Lake. So, why wasn’t Abby racing all over hell and creation lugging Benedict’s geedee ashes and posthumous gifts?

&n
bsp; The answer was simple.

  Bridget would never have stood for it.

  Kostas arrived, quivering like a tomato aspic, driving all thoughts of Abby from my head. “Ladies, ladies, step outside for a minute. I have a surprise for yis.”

  We stepped outside.

  Kostas said with pride, “We have succeeded in obtaining an almost exact replica of your recently departed vehicle.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “Jeez,” Josey said.

  Kostas’s face told us he expected more.

  “Hmmm,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Josey added.

  Kostas inclined his head expectantly.

  “How ever did you find it?” I tried to squeeze some level of enthusiasm into my voice without giving myself a hernia.

  “My dear ladies, it was not at all easy.”

  I felt ungrateful. After all, it’s not every day your friends find you a car. But did it have to be an exact replica of the one you never liked in the first place?

  “Thank you for everything,” I glanced from Kostas to Marc-André and back. “I guess it’s time for us to go.”

  “Marc-André and I think, for the next while, you’ll be safer with someone around to watch out for yis, don’t we, Marc André? Since you need to be in your own home to prepare for the scattering, we’re thinking someone should be with yis. A neighbour woman has graciously offered to care for me dogs, so me time is me own, and that means I’m yer man.”

  “I would join you myself, but...” Marc-André gestured towards the garage, where a line of upscale imports sat waiting.

  “He’ll be with us in spirit. And in person if we need him. He’s given us his cellphone. Isn’t that grand?” Kostas patted his pocket with pride. “First time I’ve had one of those.”

  That’s when I dropped my bomb. “There’s not going to be a scattering.”

  “No scattering?” Josey’s freckles stood out in sharp relief.

  Kostas sputtered. “No scattering, but, my dear lady, why?”

  “For one thing, there are no ashes.”

  “Jeez, right,” said Josey. “We have nothing to scatter.”

  “That is true,” Marc-André said, his brow furrowing.

  Kostas didn’t say anything for at least a minute. Finally he said, “By Jazus, we needn’t let a small detail like that hold us back.”