Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle

by Mary Jane Maffini

  I couldn’t erase Abby’s final appearance from my mind. The hole in her forehead, the immense green eyes, staring. Her open mouth, bright with fresh red lipstick.

  The Sergeant looked like he’d missed his honey at eleven. Such a nuisance finding women shot to death in local picnic areas.

  “Let’s start at the beginning,” he said.

  “Absolutely.”

  By the time I finished talking, he was rubbing his temples.

  “So there’s a strong possibility of suicide while distraught.”

  “Suicide? I don’t think so.” Abby might have searched my house and attacked me twice, but someone else had killed her. Whoever killed her, and it sounded like Dolan, hadn’t done it for the ashes or for Benedict’s books. Abby herself must have been the target.

  I felt intense gratitude to the people from Manitoba. They’d seen Abby Lake get into her car. Alive. They’d seen a big man with peroxided hair approach her car, lean over and apparently speak to her and then leave in a black Acura with gold markings and a mud-covered license plate.

  We were lucky they’d seen Abby alive while we were in the park. And they were even luckier the killer hadn’t seen them.

  “And the man you think might be responsible?”

  “His name is Dougie Dolan, and he drives a car like the one the witnesses saw. And he’s big, and did I say he has bleached yellow hair? First we thought he was following us, but now we figure he was following Abby Lake, and she was following us.”

  Officer Winnie fiddled with his computer. “Dolan, Dolan,” he muttered to himself. “There he is. My my my.”

  Skylark Junior was finito. What the four slashed tires hadn’t accomplished, the sugar in the gas tank had.

  Luckily, I knew a good-looking poet.

  We were on our way, once again, wedged into Marc André’s BMW, with me in the front and Josey, Kostas and Tolstoy in the back. I worried about Tolstoy’s dirty paws on the spotless upholstery, but on the plus side, at least I didn’t smell bad this time.

  Josey was in excellent humour. “Now that she’s dead, I guess I can go back with you until Uncle Mike gets his situation resolved.”

  My neck tensed. “Not until they arrest Dolan.”

  “We’re not in any danger from him.”

  “Guess again. We may not know what he’s up to, but we know he killed Abby. That’s dangerous in my books. Sorry, Josey, you have to stay with Stella until it’s over.”

  The temperature in the Beemer dropped. One good thing though, we now knew how Abby had tracked us, despite Kostas’s brilliant attempts to evade her. Winnie the Pooh had been thoughtful enough to tell us about the receiver in Abby’s car and the transmitter stuck underneath ours. “Easy enough if you know how.” It made me wonder if Abby had used the same trick with the original Skylark. At least it was one small part of the mystery cleared up.

  On the other hand, we still didn’t know how Dolan had kept up with us.

  Even if the police did know about Dolan, I had plenty of reason to stick close to Kostas and, with any luck, Marc André, until everything was sorted out. Things were going to be fine if we could only avoid dangerous men and police officers until this geedee scattering.

  Naturally, I’d forgotten about the media.

  A convoy of vans blocked my driveway. No way to get in without encountering hand mikes and boom mikes and chipper, hair-gelled interviewers. But at least it was raining heavily again, and they all looked miserable.

  Heads whipped towards the Beemer. Noses pressed against windows. Soggy feet hopped.

  “Don’t even slow down,” I said to Marc-André.

  Marc-André stepped on the gas, looking grim. Perhaps he could understand my reluctance to deal with the media. Perhaps he was getting claustrophobic with the crowd in the car. Perhaps he was worried about getting stuck with me forever.

  I chewed my nails. “Doesn’t anything else newsworthy ever happen in this region? Does it always have to be us?”

  “I wouldn’t mind talking to them,” Josey said.

  “Indeed, my girl, you’re right on the money. Excellent advertising. The best. A picture is worth a thousand words. Dear lady, are you sure you won’t reconsider?”

  I didn’t have the heart to say the fourth estate was not interested in Josey’s gardening specials or Kostas’s latest sweaters designs. Just the hole in Abby’s forehead.

  “And I needed to pick up a few things,” Josey grumped, as the old Beemer shot onto Route 105.

  I explained to Josey, and not for the first time, that Tolstoy and I would be perfectly safe without her in the house. No one was likely to murder us in full view of TV vans.

  Still, she gave off a guilt-inducing vibe for the duration of the drive to Stella Iannetti’s. Stella was glad to see us. Behind her smile, I sensed quivering energy. “I heard it on the news. I can’t believe it. Abby dead. Come on in.”

  She even gave Josey a hug. Josey, who’s not crazy about being touched, submitted. I got a pat on the arm. Tolstoy got one on the head. Kostas got two pecks on the cheeks and Marc-André a frankly speculative appraisal.

  We all had cookies. Some with milk. Some with coffee. Some with a bowl of water. Stella’s husband, who might understandably have objections to the murder du jour crowd dropping in, seemed fine. Of course, bath time was in full swing, and that was now in Josey’s job description. Josey relaxed enough to check out her new room.

  Perhaps it was the cookies. More likely it was knowing Josey was out of the line of fire. I could feel myself unkink.

  Stella dropped her bombshell as we were leaving.

  “About While Weeping for the Wicked,” she whispered.

  “What about it?”

  “You don’t actually believe Benedict wrote those poems.”

  “What?” “Didn’t you read it?”

  “Absolutely.” I met her eyes. “Right. Okay, I couldn’t bring myself to.”

  “Can’t say I blame you. But you missed some dynamite poetry.”

  “They’re good?”

  “Yup.”

  “And how can you tell Benedict didn’t write them?”

  “Because they’re good.”

  Of course. How blindingly obvious. Maybe if the whole set-up hadn’t been so bizarre, I would have figured it out myself. At least, I’d like to think so.

  “Abby?”

  “No. As a poet she made a good dancer. Here, take the book and check it out. You’ll see.”

  I was distracted in the car, thinking about who might have written those poems. While Weeping for the Wicked, a limited edition small press publication, had been good enough to scoop the Flambeau. Why would another poet donate firstrate pieces of writing to benefit a worm like Benedict? It would have to be a poet who was either crazy or not too bright. Like pretty well anyone in the O’Mafia.

  Unless the poet had been unaware. Or in love. Or if Benedict had just plain stolen them.

  Abby? I agreed with Stella on that one. No chance.

  Zoë? People knew her for her sculpture, but I remembered hearing her read once, and she had a gift for poetry too. But would she give her poems to Benedict? Not if she thought Abby Lake was still around. I remembered her reaction to While Weeping for the Wicked. The way she’d stroked the cover and fingered the pages. It had seemed obvious she hadn’t known about the book. So, Zoë. Obsessed and crazy, yes. Angry and vengeful because he’d stolen her poems, no.

  Even Kostas, old buddy and mentor, hadn’t known that Benedict had published While Weeping for the Wicked. Maybe Zoë gave her poems to Benedict before she found out Abby was in the picture. Maybe she found out and flipped. Zoë with her chunks of marble and her strong hands and her blowtorch. From what I knew about her, if she’d found out Benedict was using her poetry to get rich and live happily ever after with Abby, Benedict might have been seriously singed.

  Kostas was a bit put out at being dropped off at Evening’s End.

  “Dear lady,” he said, “I’d be more than happy to s
hare your home again tonight.”

  “That is very kind of you, but I will make certain she is safe,” Marc-André said.

  The fact was, I would rather face a crazed killer than keep bumping into people in my own house. Liberty and equality were in bad enough shape. Fraternity didn’t even rate.

  We didn’t spot a single vehicle near my home. Yahoo. I felt the pressure of Marc-André’s hand as we sprinted to the front door. Nothing like the absence of the media to pump up your libido.

  Alone at last, and alone with the right person. Tolstoy kept a discreet distance. Marc-André and I careened through the front door cheek to cheek, followed by lip to lip, hip to hip and zip to zip. It worked for me. Twentysome years of marriage to you-know-who had dulled my senses, but I could still identify the melting tingle and the urge to rip someone’s clothes off.

  There were only two problems. They were seated in the beanbag chair and Woody’s wheelchair, respectively. But not respectfully.

  “Look who’s here,” Liz said.

  “I get to say that,” I said.

  Woody snorted. They were always snorting, those two. Together, they sounded like a barn full of hogs. “The look on your face, kiddo.”

  Marc-André’s forehead creased.

  “I didn’t see your car,” I squeaked.

  “You could thank us,” Liz said.

  “For what?” Sneaking into my house? Stamping out my brand new sex life?

  “Funny. How about for getting rid of those hounds outside?”

  “Ah,” I said, “May I ask what you told them?”

  “Never mind. You don’t want to know. They’re gone, aren’t they? And by tomorrow you’ll be old news again, and no one will give you the time of day.”

  Woody shook his silver braid and waved his arms. “Wasn’t my idea. You ask me, you’re missing a major opportunity here, kiddo. Good time to get that new book out with all this attention.”

  “And listen,” Liz said, “I don’t like hearing my best friend has been involved in another murder every time I turn on the television. I want to hear things like that directly from you. I’ve left you some messages which I expect you to listen to. Sergeant Whozit’s on there too. He sounded hot under the collar.”

  Not only had she taken over my answering machine but, from the look of things, she was settled in for the evening.

  Marc-André squeezed my hand. Liz spotted the movement. I could tell she rated him at least a nine. I rated him off the scale.

  “Anyway, you don’t need to worry about a thing. Woody and I are concerned about your safety, even if you’re not. We are going to spend the night. That should keep dangerous people away.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks, Liz. Do you need a lift?” I said.

  “She’s parked around the bend in the road. Part of the surprise,” Woody said.

  Liz’s eyes glittered. As far as I was concerned, she could glitter all she wanted. The magic had gone out of the moment.

  “You’ve had a tough day,” Marc-André said. “Why don’t I call you in the morning?”

  Just as well. Two more minutes in the room with Liz and Woody, talking dewlaps and satanic rituals, and my sex life would be finished before it started.

  I turned to Marc-André and smiled. “Absolutely.”

  Twenty-Seven

  “You are supposed to be in school. And after school, you are supposed to be at Stella’s. And please don’t tell me it’s a PD day.” The irritation in my voice resulted from spending the night with the understudies rather than the leading man.

  Half the pajama party had just left with Cyril, but I was still stuck with Liz, and now the second shift was arriving in Kostas’s ancient green car.

  Josey and Kostas paid no attention to my grumbling. “I’m playing hooky,” she said, holding a plastic bag close to her chest.

  Behind her, Kostas beamed. Naturally. He probably invented hooky as a boy and would be glad to see it flourishing.

  “Good news. Those television fellas have all left, dear lady.”

  Josey, still clutching the bag, sprinted past me and headed for the bathroom “Wait a minute, I’ve got something to show you.”

  Liz snorted from the beanbag chair. She lounged with a cup of coffee, instead of her usual Courvoisier, which she would never find unless she decided to do my laundry. The life of a country doctor must be great.

  I gave her a dirty look. It didn’t seem to be making an impression. I was working on a more effective facial expression when Josey reappeared.

  “What do you think?” she asked. It would have been easier to answer truthfully if she hadn’t been wearing her first major knitting project.

  I could only hope Liz wouldn’t choose that moment for one of her candid evaluations.

  “I finished stitching it together. It’s a sweater.”

  I clutched my coffee and opened my mouth. Nothing came out. Kostas gave me a glance which I interpreted to mean, I’m sorry I didn’t know this would happen or I would have warned you. Personally, I would have expected more from the Father of Hooky.

  I took a deep breath. “Heavens, what an ambitious project.”

  Liz appeared to be captivated with the view from the window. Planning to build an ark maybe.

  Tolstoy headed for the kitchen.

  Josey twirled to give us all possible angles.

  The arms were definitely different lengths, and both somewhat longer than Josey’s. The sweater had various undulations and bumps I felt certain were not part of the original design. The front seemed made-to-order for someone with three breasts. The patterns resembled the works of Jackson Pollock rather than traditional Irish knitwear.

  Kostas said nothing, leaving me to dig myself out. Sure, I like to be alone, but not abandoned. I thought fast. Josey’s frown deepened.

  “The colours,” I said, after a medium eternity, “are gorgeous.”

  “They are nice, aren’t they? Kostas gave me the wool and he dyed it himself.”

  You’d think I would have been prepared for that sweater, its component parts and its construction, since we’d all been confined to small spaces while Josey was knitting it. I exhaled with relief. But I wasn’t getting off that easily.

  “But what do you think about the sweater itself?” Josey asked.

  Time for Kostas to take the reins. “My dear girl,” he said, “it’s an excellent first effort.”

  As an artist-in-wool, naturally he was aware of the sensitivities of the novice knitter. An excellent first effort. I’d had no idea, but I did know Josey, and Josey was one of those people who is born with a knack for doing things easily and well. Josey would not like anything that could be described as “an excellent first effort”.

  “It’s pitiful,” Josey said.

  “No,” Kostas and I cooed in unison.

  “Yes, it is. Do you think I can’t see? No one in their right mind would ever be caught dead in it.”

  True enough, but neither Kostas nor I had the courage to agree.

  “I can’t believe you guys wouldn’t tell me the truth.”

  “We didn’t actually...lie.”

  “You didn’t tell me the truth. You treated me like some kind of little kid or something and you...you...you patronized me.” I spoke, since Kostas’s mouth was busy swallowing.

  “I don’t think so. We, and I speak for both Kostas and myself, felt this was a formidable task, and should be recognized as such. Whether or not anyone would actually wear it is a secondary consideration.”

  Josey snorted and pulled the sweater off.

  “What’s more,” I said, “you learned to knit, something that some of us haven’t been able to do in forty some years. And you finished it under most difficult conditions. You should respect and admire the sweater for what it is.”

  Josey’s lip curled as she dropped the sweater to the floor.

  “I couldn’t have done as well,” I said.

  “I never thought you could,” she said.

  Liz barked with lau
ghter.

  “Sure, it’s your practice piece,” said Kostas.

  Josey whipped around. “You never mentioned anything about a practice piece before.”

  “Did I not? But dear girl, I’m an old man and apt to forget things now and then. Everyone begins with a practice piece.”

  “Remind me sometime,” Liz said, “to tell you the results of my first surgery, before I really got the hang of it.”

  Tolstoy returned from the kitchen to put in his two milkbone’s worth by sniffing the longest arm, then curling up on it.

  “The key thing,” Liz said, “is to avoid litigation. I think you’re safe in this case.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said.

  Tolstoy smiled. Kostas and I opened our mouths, but too late. The front door banged behind Josey.

  It was a real pleasure to see the back of Liz and Kostas, and even Josey, although her exit left a whiff of guilt.

  I could deal with that because at last I was gloriously alone. Once I took my mind off Marc-André and the night that might have been, I needed to think. Even though Abby was dead, I couldn’t shake the sense of being pushed around. Manipulated. The biggest manipulation of all had been the placing of Benedict in my bed. Playfully. I still couldn’t get over that playfulness.

  I’d really liked my tidy explanation featuring Abby as Benedict’s killer. In my theory, she’d slipped the body into my bed as a way of thumbing her nose at Benedict after his death. And thumbing it at me in anticipation of mine. But I had no way of knowing what went on in Abby’s tormented mind before she died.

  If Abby had killed Benedict out of jealousy, why had she been killed? What possible role could Dougie Dolan be playing in this whole circus? What about Mary Morrison’s comments about dangerous Dougie taking the blame for things other little lads had done? So Dougie Dolan, small-time thug, had spent a lifetime playing second fiddle to Benedict. And some thirty years later, Benedict had been flouncing around, squiring a pretty lady and announcing to anyone who’d listen he was into some big money. Could that have sent Dougie Dolan over the edge? If so, why the interest in me? Had Benedict spoken about me to Dougie? Blathering on over a jar with that “love of his life” drivel? Was Dolan snaking after me because he believed I knew something about Benedict’s windfall? That made some sense, but it didn’t explain anything about why Abby had been killed.