“I dint even know it come from a flower. Imagine that, eating a flower. Like them violets we was supposed to sprinkle on the ice-cream dessert, in honour of Miss Viola.” There was a change in tone when Fiona said Viola’s name. Jamieson looked up sharply. Venom in Fiona’s eyes.
“What didn’t you like about the woman?”
Fiona frowned. The flesh closed in over her eyes until they could hardly be seen.
“She called me a lump of lard. No, tub. Tub of lard. That’s right. Tub. Lump. Both as bad.” Fiona’s eyes moistened.
Jamieson interrupted the flow of needless words.
“The occasion?”
“Wasn’t no occasion. She came stomping across the cape after trying to bash down that windmill with a fish hook.”
“With a fish hook?”
“A big one. Not big enough. I’da landed her one after she bashed into me, if she didn’t have that hook. It could do ugly damage.”
“But you didn’t land her one.”
“Nope. I felt like it, though.”
“Did anyone see this?”
“He did, of course, he did, watching her like he was.”
“He?”
“Himself. Newton. They’d had words.”
“What words?”
“About the windmill. She’d been over before in the day, and they had a fight then, too. She carried a dead bird to his place and dropped it on the doorstep.”
“Do you know where the bird came from?”
Fiona smiled, a big smile. “The blades of the windmill bashed the bird and sent it right at her, a direct hit. I felt sorry for her then. That was before she insulted me.”
“So Newton had two meetings, two arguments with Viola that afternoon.”
“Yup. That’s why he come running to me, all shaking and shivering.”
“And you knocked over the saffron.”
“Yes.”
Jamieson injected one of her famous silences to see if Fiona would run off at the mouth about anything else that might be useful.
“I dint like that woman, not after what she said to me, but I wouldn’t wish her dead.”
A long pause. Jamieson waited.
“It was too bad they all missed that dessert.”
Fiona’s eyes were shining.
“They was delicious, them violets with the homemade French vanilla ice cream.” Her hand rose up and covered her mouth, as if she’d said something she shouldn’t have.
Jamieson finally spoke.
“You wouldn’t have wanted it to go to waste.”
Fiona dropped her hand and smiled through the gap in her front teeth.
“Eggsackly.”
“Anything else?”
Fiona paused a moment, and shook her head slowly.
She forgot to mention the journal. When she thought about it later, she decided it wasn’t important. When she thought about it some more, she thought it might be.
Where had it come from? Why was it in the kitchen? Had Anton given it back to Viola? She thought herself into such a muddle, she had to sample half a pound of butterscotch fudge to soothe herself, and stop worrying about withholding evidence, or being charged with murder.
That police officer had seen right through her, seen her hate for that old bitch.
That’s what she should worry about, not a dumb book you couldn’t even read.
Paradis. Motive.
Fanshaw. Motive? Fury at Viola for attacking his windmill? Killing in such a dispassionate manner seemed odd if that were the motive. He saw the saffron, helped pick it up. He was a scientific man. Did he know about saffron’s powers?
Fiona? She had reason to hate Viola, but surely not the sophistication or knowledge to kill her using saffron. Still, she was a cook. How highly trained? Jamieson made a note to make a background check.
Jamieson took her questions to the dome, forcing herself to go there – not allowing her personal feelings to get in the way of the job. The dome gave her the creeps, and she shuddered as she stepped out of the cruiser, parked very far from the edge of the cliff. It was a night in the fall, two years before, when she had slipped – or been pushed – over the edge of the cliff, and hung there, her supports giving way on her one by one, until she was rescued. By sheer will, Ian and Hy had managed to get her up from the cliff, while the jagged rocks below sliced upwards, threatening to claim her.
She hadn’t been in the dome since then, and still half-expected to see a couple of bodies inside waiting for her, as they had been then.
Instead, when she knocked, Newton Fanshaw opened the door.
“I’ve come to ask some questions about the event at Anton’s Paradise.”
“The death of that old witch? I know nothing about it.” He began to close the door.
Jamieson put a hand up to prevent him from shutting it.
“Nonetheless, I must ask some questions.”
He didn’t ask her in.
“You may think you know nothing, but small things can sometimes make a big difference.”
“I wasn’t there.”
“Not at the dinner, but you were there before the meal.”
He said nothing.
“In the kitchen.”
Still nothing.
“With Fiona.”
Newton’s mouth buckled in distaste.
That’s what he was trying to hide, Jamieson realized – his relationship with Fiona.
He had hoped she was his secret. His shameful secret. Only the chef from Japan had seen that lapse, and he was out of the country. But Fiona – she must be blabbing it about.
“You better let me in. You don’t want all your neighbours spying on you, wondering why you won’t.” It did the trick. He opened the door and allowed her to squeeze in.
“Why did you go to see Fiona at Anton’s Paradise?”
“Because I…because I…” The shaking began.
“Never mind that. You were there. Tell me what happened.”
He was silent.
“You embraced her,” she prompted.
Still nothing.
“The two of you tipped over a bowl of saffron. You know what that is?”
He stopped shaking, and straightened.
“Of course.”
“You know that it could have caused Viola’s death?”
“No, I didn’t know that.”
“You’re a scientist?”
He nodded.
“What is your field?”
He gestured outside to the windmill and solar panel. He brought the gesture back into the room and indicated the batteries ringing the dome.
Was that an answer? Or an evasion?
“Your field?”
He smirked. “Certainly not flowers.”
“You still haven’t told me your field.”
“It is the new energies.”
She had the feeling there was more, that he wasn’t telling the truth, or at least not the whole truth. He’d been a scientist before the new energies were in vogue.
“Is that all?”
“All that I care to discuss. If you decide to investigate me, you’ll likely find out everything that you need to know.”
Jamieson was putting him on the defensive. It wasn’t a good way to get co-operation – especially in a case where the crime, if there was one, was so difficult to establish. Every small piece of information counted.
“You said you don’t know what saffron can do?”
He seemed about to say something, but changed his mind. There was a pause as he mentally switched gears.
“What can it do?”
“In extreme cases, it can kill.”
“Can it?”
Who was doing the questioning?
“Did you use it to kill
her?”
“Did I kill a woman with a chancy food weapon? Why? Why would I?”
“You tell me. What your relationship was with…Viola.”
“I had no relationship with her. I didn’t know the woman.”
“I have someone who says you did. That you fought over the wind turbine. What was that about?”
“Fiona told you that. She’s the only one who knew.”
“Never mind who. Did you argue with Viola over the turbine?”
“She didn’t like it. Wanted me to take it down.”
Jamieson raised an eyebrow.
“And?”
“And I said no. End of story.”
“She dropped a dead bird on your doorstep.”
“Yes.”
“She attacked your turbine with a fish hook.”
His mouth curved in a crooked, contemptuous smile.
“Yes. And me. She tried to kill me.”
“How?”
“With that fish hook. She sliced my shirt open with it, sliced me down the chest.”
“And you did nothing about it?”
“Hours later, she was dead.”
“You must have been furious.”
“I was.”
“Did you plan a retaliation?”
“No.” He tried to sound reasonable. The rational scientist.
“You were going to put up with that, and not get your own back in some way?”
“I’ve told you. I had no such plans. Certainly not murder.” The smile had retreated, replaced by a thin line of contempt. He’d made a tiny opening.
“You were going to do something.”
He sighed, an eloquent sigh that said he was tiring of a ridiculous conversation.
“No.”
Jamieson didn’t believe him.
“You were there at the funeral. Why?”
He smiled, an unconvincing smile, his lips wrapped around hate.
“To gloat,” he said.
“Gloat because she was dead and she’d opposed your windmill?”
“I won.” Again, it was not a direct answer.
Could she goad something more from him?
“She attacked you, your windmill, and all you could do…did do…was to run shaking into the arms of your mistress.”
He went bright red, and suppressed a tremor, trying to keep Jamieson from seeing.
“Are you sure you didn’t exact your revenge? Plan her death?”
He stood up. “I must ask you to leave. Next time you come, bring a charge or a warrant with you – or this door will remain closed to you.”
“We’ll see about that. In the meantime, don’t go anywhere.”
“Where would I go?”
It was what Jamieson had expected. She had a very slim case if she was going to try to pin it on Newton, if there had been a murder at all. But murder was in the air. She could feel it on the wind, stirred up by the big blades of the turbine.
She tried to shake off the illogical thoughts. She got in the car and looked up at it. The machine that Newton Fanshaw loved. That Viola Featherstonehaugh had hated. Was it the cause of Viola’s death, or just a dicky heart?
Chapter Seventeen
“She’s left it to her fish.” Gus delighted in saying it over and over, though there wasn’t a person in The Shores who didn’t know.
“Them things – ” she pointed at the screen saver of fish bubbling around on the old iMac Ian had given her. Three years old. A generous gift, but Ian had no use for a computer of that age, and had given it to Gus so she could Skype with her daughter Dorothy who was pregnant with Gus’s first grandchild. It was going to be a natural birth. In an unnatural place. Antarctica. Gus shivered just thinking about it.
“Yup, them things.” Hy pointed at half a dozen fish squares lying on the floor.
Three fish were appliquéd to each square, in green, red, and blue polka dots. Each with a button for an eye.
Dots, of course. Dorothy.
“Don’t know what kind of fishes they have down there, mebbe frozen, but these’ll have to do. Gave up the whirligig quilt.”
“They’re beautiful, Gus.”
“Have to be to suit that little girl.” She sighed, and let her sewing drop to her knees. “A little girl. That’s what they say she’s going to be, although I don’t know how a computer can tell you that any better than we can. Carry it low, it’s a boy. High, it’s a girl. Imagine. First try – and all those years it took me.” Gus had given birth to eight children. When she’d given up, and was old for the task, she’d finally had her little girl. A tomboy, who had become a doctor instead of a nurse, in spite of her mother’s disapproval. Dot was a world traveller, photographer, and third-world volunteer worker.
Gus sighed again.
Hy, who had just come in, sat down.
Gus shoved the day’s newspaper at her.
“Read me this.” Her eyes weren’t good. They were getting worse. She needed a cataract operation.
Hy reached over and took the paper from her.
“When are you going to see about your eyes?” she ventured.
Gus avoided her gaze. “Time enough. Time enough,” she said in rhythm to the rocking of her chair.
“Why are you putting it off?”
Silence, while Gus rocked some more.
“Well?”
“Well, now, wouldn’t I want to see that granddaughter of mine? Even if it’s only on the Skype.”
“Gus, it’s a very safe procedure, and they do one at a time – ”
Gus was nodding her head, in rhythm with her rocking.
“I know, I know. That’s what they tell me. I’m thinking I could go blind.
So I’d like to see my granddaughter first. And make sure it is a girl, once I have the proof in front of my eyes. Then I’ll do it.” Maybe, she thought.
“Fish Swimming in Dough.” Hy read the headline, then the subhead: “Woman who laughed herself to death leaves entire fortune to fish.”
“Who’s laughing now,” the article began, and went on in much the same vein.
“Don’t tell me. Lester Joudry,” Gus said when Hy was finished.
“Yup.”
“He always was one for playing with words. He had a field day with this one.”
“Wrong sport.” Hy grinned. “I’d say he hooked the big one.”
“Sad, though, isn’t it, to have no kin to leave it to? No people of her own.”
Like me, thought Hy.
The full impact of Viola’s will had hit Anton. He was standing at his bedroom window, which locals called the “cat’s eye.” It gave a triangular view of Fiona’s trailer and tacky signs. Now there was no question of buying her out. He didn’t have the money. He couldn’t pay her what he owed her. He had to get rid of her. He could never entertain the clientele he sought with that shoddy encampment scarring the view.
Or the likes of her, now waddling down the cape in her ballooning dress, as if he’d summoned her up. She was headed here. He knew what it was about. Money. The money he owed her. A pittance. Even that he couldn’t spare.
He thought about leaving the house, but she would see, whichever door he took.
He thought about lying low. His smoky grey Corolla was parked outside, keys in the ignition, a clear clue that he was home. He wished he had a less common car, but that was the least of his worries. He had a vanity license, Anton. Nowhere to hide.
Besides, it was undignified.
So was not having money to pay a minimum-wage earner. How had he come to this? His dreams, his hopes, all gone with Viola. She’d had the last laugh.
Fiona was banging on the kitchen door. Resigned, he dragged himself downstairs to answer.
“Where’s my pay?” The moment he opened the door. Not a question
– a demand, her jaw thrust forward, belligerence in her eyes.
He’d paid everyone he could, but not her. He had to keep his major creditors happy, the food suppliers, the dry cleaner, all the people he needed to do business.
Fiona? He didn’t need her. He’d used her, and that had been a mistake. It hadn’t softened her up at all.
“All in good time,” he hedged. “Businesses don’t run themselves. You’ll be paid.”
“I got a business myself. A cozy little business handy yours. ’Spect your folks will be trudging up to mine for afters. Rather than eating flowers. Sweet to look at, but nothin’ like my fudge. I’d put it up against any fancy dessert of yours. Not enough on your plates to satisfy, I say. Maybe to kill. Your guests’d die of hunger. P’raps of starvation.”
She flounced off, having made a point. Not the one she came to make, but it would do for now. She was well-satisfied with the words that had come out of her mouth. She hadn’t even had to think them up in advance.
He was going to be sorry.
Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. The word hammered in her mind as she trudged, gasping for breath, back up the cape.
Her heart was pounding when she reached the trailer. It was all she could do to step up and inside, where she collapsed on the couch, her heart thumping in her chest to the rhythm of her mind.
Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.
Anton was in a rage. In a rage about the embarrassment of not being able to pay Fiona. In a rage about Viola’s will and the situation he’d been left in. In a rage at the creditors, who, with their oily insinuations and suggestions about debt management were closing in. He couldn’t even make money from Viola’s jewels. The real ones were in the bank, part of the same estate that would be wasted on fish. In her jewel box – all fakes. Good fakes, but worth nothing to him.
He wanted every trace of Viola gone. He was within his rights. Her death had been ruled natural. She had named no next of kin – besides the fish. He would send it all to the Salvation Army. If she’d been around to know, she would have been mortified. He wouldn’t be surprised if they refused them because of the smell of cigarette smoke. As he thrust her clothes into her suitcase, with each piece of clothing came a new venomous thought.
Perhaps he’d be able to put off some of the creditors. Those who hadn’t heard about the will, those who might think he still had expectations.
Something Fishy Page 14