Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle

by Mary Jane Maffini

  I sat at my desk and stared at my paper analysis for many long minutes, until it hit me. If Abby had been on her own wacky mission to wipe me out, it might explain why Dolan had killed her. What if Dougie Dolan thought he needed me alive to extract Benedict’s secret?

  What was happening with Dougie anyway? Had he been arrested? It had to be good news if Sarrazin wasn’t hassling me any more. Just to be on the safe side, I called the Sûreté. Officer Winnie wasn’t available. Neither was Sarrazin. I left a message for each of them. And one for Sarrazin care of Dr. Duhamel’s answering service. Just in case.

  I took a certain amount of pleasure in leaving a long, complicated message, including a summary of Philip’s latest settlement offer, with the young woman who answered the phone for Natalie, the reluctant lawyer.

  I had one thing left to do that day: Find out where the Flambeau fit in. That geedee literary award had to be connected. Stella didn’t think the poems had even been written by Benedict. Had the rigging of the contest been tied to the writing off of Benedict? I was long overdue to learn whether Mme Flambeau could shed any light on who had really written those poems.

  “ Désolée, but I have not had any success with Mme Flambeau. I have already checked with all my contacts. She is even more reclusive than usual. She has not been seen at the Foundation itself. There isn’t much going on there. I do not think anyone even staffs the office properly.” That was not the way Hélène would run a foundation, let me tell you.

  “No kidding,” I said. “I’ve left plenty of messages with those people, if indeed there are ever really people there. It’s pretty frustrating. I think Mme Flambeau must be the key to this whole thing. So you can see how important it is.”

  “I do, Fiona.”

  “Can you give it another try? All I need is an address.”

  “Of course. But I have been very busy. You know we are planning a new fundraising tour of historic St. Aubaine. The brochure is ready and...”

  “I’ll help.”

  “But I need people to fold and stuff and stamp.”

  “I’ll fold, stuff and stamp.”

  “...and people to go to the Bureau de Poste.”

  “I’ll go to the Post Office. Someone must know where this Flambeau woman is.”

  “I have one more possibility. But you know those envelopes will need to be sealed too.”

  “Absolutely.”

  It took her fifteen minutes to get the address.

  I called Cyril Hemphill and told him to get over on the double.

  “I’ll be off like a prom dress,” he said.

  Tolstoy is a country dog. He didn’t take well to the mobile parking lot that is Boulevard Métropolitain or to the Autoroute Décarie and to the speed, traffic and honking horns on the other asphalt entrances to Montreal.

  Neither of us was prepared for the heat: a steaming day that might have been expected in July but was inappropriate for mid-September. A trickle of sweat tap-danced down my back. And I wasn’t wearing a white fur coat.

  The only happy traveller was Cyril Hemphill. “Thinking about getting the AC on the old girl refitted.” He’d be able to do that on what it was going to cost me to get to Montreal and back. Lucky my credit was still good with Cyril.

  I gave Tolstoy a sympathetic pat on the head. “I’ll be glad when all this is over,” I said to Cyril.

  “I imagine you will.”

  “It seems like it’s been going on forever, and I feel like everyone in St. Aubaine still thinks I might have killed Benedict.” I met Cyril’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. “Don’t you worry about that, Miz Silk. I set them gossips straight. They might want to think you done it, but they know darn well the truth is at the time of that murder, you were tits up, pardon my French.”

  Why thank you, Cyril.

  My hair reacted to the heat and humidity by kinking into corkscrews and standing away from my head, like Little Orphan Annie Meets the Sauna Creature. I allowed myself to be distracted by this image in the sideview mirror while Cyril somehow got lost in Notre Dame de Grâce, St. Henri, Côte de Neiges and Lasalle. I took some small comfort in thinking Dolan could never have followed Cyril’s cab through all those detours.

  Tolstoy and I were both pretty wilted by the time the cab wheezed its way through upper Westmount toward the stately home where we hoped to find Mme Flambeau. Like many of its neighbouring properties, it could probably be picked up for three or four million. Finally, Cyril squealed into the circular driveway and parked in front of some expensive shrubs. You could have stashed another dozen or so cars in that driveway, but Cyril’s cab was the only one there. I hoped someone was at home, and the Flambeau vehicles were safely parked in the three-car garage.

  Mme Flambeau. I prepared myself for an emaciated woman with metallic blonde hair, two-inch red nails, a fistful of diamonds, ninety-dollar black Swiss stockings and a heart full of murder.

  As an alternate plan, I’d prepared myself for a cool aristocrat with a streak of silver in her brunette pageboy, pencil-thin in a plain dark wool dress the price of a sports car. Of course, she might also possess well-toned arms that could hoist dead old Benedict into my four-poster. I had not prepared myself for a woman who looked like a loaf of homemade bread dough that had been allowed to rise a third time.

  When she answered the door, I assumed she was the housekeeper. Mme Flambeau answered her own door, but only because she was about to take three small yappy dogs for a walk.

  Tolstoy flipped. Maybe it was the little bows in their topknots that set him off. It was the closest I’ve ever come to feeling irritated with Tolstoy.

  “Forgive him,” I said, grabbing his collar before he swallowed one of the yappers. “I urgently need to see Mme Flambeau. My dog is usually well behaved, but he’s just driven from St. Aubaine in a totally non-air-conditioned car. And...”

  “I’m Mme Flambeau. Did you say St. Aubaine?”

  “Yes. I’m a...”

  “St. Aubaine.” A smile cut through the doughy face, revealing a first-rate upper plate.

  “I had a friend in St. Aubaine,” she said. “A dear, dear friend.”

  I managed not to shout a-ha. “Benedict Kelly?”

  Her face glowed. “You were also a friend of Benedict’s?”

  I’d been expecting a French accent, but what I heard was pure Ottawa Valley Irish. This woman would have been right at home sitting on the passenger side of a pickup on any rural road outside St. Aubaine. Far more at home than perched here on top of Montreal.

  Mme Flambeau stepped into the spacious foyer, yanked open an interior door with her free hand and shooed the three yappers through it. She called to someone unseen: “Please take the babies out. I have company.”

  Some of the company hurled himself at the door after her babies.

  “I’m so sorry. He’s usually a perfect gentleman,” I said. “He’s not himself after that hot car. I’m sure he wouldn’t hurt them. It’s that testosterone thing.”

  Madame Flambeau’s watery blue eyes swam with worry. “You’re not an arts reporter or a critic, are you, pet?”

  “Anything but.”

  “A poet?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Any other kind of reporter?”

  “Just an old friend.”

  “A friend of that lovely boy. I normally don’t receive visitors. But all right. You can come in,” she said. “You look...”

  Polite wording must have failed her, but she stopped herself from saying drenched, sweaty or half-dead.

  “Do you think my dog could have a drink of water, please?”

  “Of course, poor doggie, come along. Didn’t you send Snickers and Diggums and Booboo up the walls, you naughty boy.”

  The naughty boy wagged his tail.

  “What kind of dogs are they?” I asked, seeking to bond.

  “No kind at all, pet. Just found them at the pound. Three survivors from an unwanted litter. I couldn’t bear to leave them.”

  “Ah. Tolstoy i
s a pound dog, too,” I said. I didn’t mention that he was also a purebred Samoyed. “I was lucky to find him just at a point in my life when I really needed a friend.”

  From somewhere outside the stadium-sized house, we could hear hysterical yips. Someone swore sharply in French. I followed Mme Flambeau along a hallway that brought Versailles to mind and into a kitchen that made Hélène Lamontagne’s showpiece seem like a closet. To begin with, she had at least two of everything: two large Aga ovens with spectacular range hoods, three sinks with high-arching brass faucets, two islands, each one better equipped than my entire kitchen, two cooktops, two dishwashers and two over-sized sub-zero fridges with covers that matched the cupboards. Two sitting areas: a bar-type with high, cushioned stools and a kitchen table set for six with upholstered chairs. Two hanging racks with burnished copper pots. Every surface was marble the colour of rich cream.

  Only one fireplace. Only one copper cappuccino maker.

  Mme Flambeau filled a large red ceramic bowl with water and set it in front of Tolstoy.

  The temperature in the house was set to chill butter. I could feel the sweat on my back changing to ice crystals. Tolstoy, dog of the north, was beginning to revive. I shivered.

  “Coffee?”

  Coffee. Oh, excellent. “Thank you.” Five minutes earlier, the idea would have made me pass out, but now I was grateful.

  “Instant okay, pet?”

  I sacrificed the truth for expediency. “Absolutely, that’s all I ever drink.” Instant? A kitchen that must have set the owner back two hundred thousand dollars and we’re drinking instant?

  “Let’s have it here. This is the coziest room in the house.”

  I remembered the hallway and nodded.

  Mme Flambeau took her instant with evaporated milk, as if she’d never left the farm. I took mine black with three sugars, to be on the safe side. We sat at the kitchen table. It was like being alone in a large restaurant.

  “Huge house,” I said. “But I suppose you get used to it.”

  “I never have, pet,” she said. “Alphie picked it out. It doesn’t seem fair to his memory to get rid of it. But I never really feel at home.”

  Who would with all that marble? “To tell the truth, I probably never would either.”

  It was time to reveal my purpose before the instant coffee chilled over.

  “So I’m surprised you didn’t recognize me. I’ve been in all the papers and television.”

  “I never read them, really, pet. I find them upsetting.”

  “There’s been a lot about Benedict in them lately.”

  “Tragic. But I couldn’t bear to read about it. I wouldn’t have known anything except that a reporter called to ask how I felt about his death. Imagine that. How would they think I would feel about it?”

  A woman after my own heart. And she didn’t read the papers. That meant I didn’t have to go through the bed thing. I gave Mme Flambeau my brightest smile. “I am in charge of Benedict’s memorial service and the scattering of his ashes.”

  “Oh, that lovely boy, poor lovely boy.” Her eyes welled. “The scattering of his ashes. Just to think of it breaks my heart.”

  It was enough to make you sick. “I wanted to talk to you about the Flambeau Prize and why you chose Benedict, and what you liked about his work. That would really help me greatly.”

  This was the first thing I’d said or done to surprise her. “Help you to do what?”

  “Oh, to devise the speeches, you know, the eulogy, things like that. Make sure nothing important gets forgotten.”

  She liked that, I could tell.

  “So,” I said, not letting my smile dip, “let’s begin at the beginning. How did you first meet Benedict?”

  Mme Flambeau’s face took on such a faraway look, I thought she might have slipped from consciousness. After a long minute, I spoke again. “Was it at some literary event?”

  “Oh, no, pet,” she said, “I never go to them.”

  The smile fell right off my face. Didn’t go to them? Wasn’t this the godmother of the underfunded arts in Quebec?

  I lifted my eyebrow encouragingly. And worked the smile up from first gear.

  “Of course not. Then...?” Tolstoy helped out by placing his chin on Mme Flambeau’s feet. She smiled at him. Perhaps because he showed no signs of ever yapping.

  I seized the moment. “So it was...?”

  “Here in the neighbourhood.”

  Neighbourhood? Neighbourhood would not have been on the list of the first thousand words I would have chosen. “I see.” Here in the neighbourhood. Of course.

  “He was lost. He took a wrong turn. I was walking my dogs, and we just ran into each other.”

  It took all my willpower not to roll on the floor shrieking with laughter. Lost. I loved that. What, had he taken a wrong turn while stumbling out of a Vieux Montréal bar, crawled a couple of miles and fallen up the geedee mountain?

  “Oh, yes,” I prompted.

  “He’d been supposed to meet a friend who didn’t show up, and he was stranded. Isn’t it terrible what people will do to each other?” Her doughy cheeks took on an angry red blush, like strawberries on a shortcake.

  “Oh, it is,” I said. “It really is.”

  “So we got to talking, and he mentioned he was a poet.”

  “And you mentioned you were a supporter of the arts.”

  “My heavens no, pet,” she said. “I didn’t. I didn’t want him to be influenced by it.” The strawberry blush spread down her neck.

  “Naturally, I can see where you wouldn’t.”

  “I want to be accepted for myself. Not for Alphie’s money.”

  “So he didn’t know who you were and...” Amazing. I wondered briefly if I might improve my financial standing by selling her a bit of the swamp by the side of my cottage.

  “No. no. He had no idea who I was. It was only later he found out, and by that time I already knew all about him. By the time his niece drove from West Quebec to get him, I’d learned a lot about the struggle of poets. Dreadful, isn’t it?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Really, our society abandons its poets.” She wiped at something in the corner of her eye.

  “So true. Um. You mentioned his niece?”

  “Yes, thank heavens Benedict had his family to stick by him.”

  “For sure. Um, did they?”

  “They did. His nieces anyway. They both adored him.”

  “Of course. Which one picked him up?”

  “I only met the one. Pretty girl. Abby.”

  I was very, very glad Mme Flambeau did not watch the news.

  “And then, that marvellous, marvellous book came out, and he presented me with a copy.”

  “Ah.” While Weeping for the Wicked.

  “It affected me deeply. I read a lot of Victorian poetry, you know. It was almost as though it had been written with me in mind.”

  Probably had been. I wouldn’t have put it past the late scoundrel. Why not? He’d set up everything else. Why not pinch a bunch of suitable poems and rig up a book to appeal directly to this gullible woman with the billion or so surplus dollars? What could go wrong?

  “As though he could see into my very soul. To see my spiritual side. Recognize what is really important.” Her eyes filled with tears.

  He would have had to work at that. It would have taken a bit to get past the image of fresh baked bread and scrubbed floors.

  “Remarkable,” I said.

  “More coffee?”

  Before I could refuse, she was on her feet bustling over to the nearest sink. Refilling the kettle. Plugging it in next to the cappuccino machine. Her shoulders were set, her face turned away. Benedict the naughty poet had meant a great deal to Mme Flambeau. And she had meant a payload of cash to him.

  I was pondering the whole insidious setup when she returned with the two mugs of instant.

  “And you decided to award him the Flambeau Prize.”

  “So yes. I did. The money was sitt
ing there, getting topped up every year. I don’t like a lot of this modern poetry, and I have to confess I got behind on my reading, so it hadn’t been awarded for a while.”

  Or ever, actually. “Benedict certainly could have used the boost.”

  “I know. He had no money at all. He had holes in his shoes. Did you know that?”

  I hadn’t. What’s more, I didn’t believe it for one minute. Bridget would never have tolerated it. But Benedict wouldn’t have found it convenient to mention his loyal supporter and meal-ticket to Mme Flambeau, keeper of the Flambeau bundle.

  “Must have been rough,” I said.

  She nodded. The tears spilled over.

  “There’s no money in poetry. None at all. Especially if you’re true to yourself. As Benedict was. Lovely and true.”

  Lovely and true, my fanny. I reached over to pat Tolstoy so my face didn’t show my opinion. But Tolstoy jerked his head and growled. Piercing yaps could be heard from the deck area. I grabbed his collar before he disgraced me again.

  “Oh, dear, here come the babies.”

  “Time for me to go, anyway.” I knew darn well I’d end up paying for any time Cyril Hemphill spent lounging in his sauna-like cab.

  Mme Flambeau reached out and squeezed my free hand. “Thank you, pet. It was good to talk about poor dear Benedict, and I would be thrilled to help you with his scattering.”

  “Excellent. Think whether you’d like to read from his poems or give a little eulogy. I’ll call you if you give me your number. It’s unlisted, I believe.”

  I waited at the front door while Mme Flambeau wrote out her phone numbers: home, chalet in the Laurentians and cellphone. As she handed me the slip of paper, I shook my head in fake sorrow. “It’s a such shame poor Benedict didn’t get to claim that money before he died.”