Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle

by Mary Jane Maffini

  “Miz Silk, you’ll never get anywhere if you wait for people to let you do what you want.”

  The story of my life.

  The Belle Rive was a venerable restaurant in a restored building teetering on the edge of the Gatineau River. It’s a popular spot for tourists and locals. The tourtière and chutney are homemade, and the salads come from a local organic farm. The house wine is very drinkable, and no one there is ever in a hurry. Perhaps there’s something romantic about eating French country cooking on the misty shore, because a high percentage of the diners always seemed to be holding hands and gazing with cow-eyed admiration at the person opposite. I followed Josey through the door. Usually at that time of day, the restaurant celebrated happy hour with cocktails and canapés. It was way too late for lunch, and dinner service didn’t begin before seven.

  A beaming young woman carrying a stack of menus greeted us. “I’m sorry. We’re full, with a forty-five minute wait. You might try Oops! across the street.”

  “Just looking,” Josey said, slithering past her. She quickly checked the dining room and scooted out to the outdoor seating.

  “We’re trying to find an, um, acquaintance,” I said. “Do you mind if we check on the verandah?”

  Of course, it was a bit too late to ask permission. Josey had disappeared.

  “No problem,” the hostess said. “Let me know if you want to reserve a table for later.”

  As usual, every seat on the verandah was occupied. No one looked like Harriet Crowder. But at the far end on the right was a table tucked out of view. I happened to know that spot had the best view of the river. An oversized bag with the En feu! Hot Stuff! logo hung over the side of a chair, but I couldn’t see the people at the table.

  “That must be her bag. Excuse me, pardon me,” I said as I eased my way along the narrow passageway toward the end of the verandah, trying not to let my overstuffed carryall knock anything off the intimate little café tables. I couldn’t help but note that everyone seemed to be sipping chilled wine and gazing at their partners with something like ardour.

  Josey had already reached the end, eager to tell Harriet that we had her wallet, I suppose. I could feel a puce blush spreading up my neck and over my face. A nervous woman grabbed her wine glass as I sped up to get ahead of her.

  Josey tapped the woman at the end on her bare and golden shoulder. “Miz Crowder? Oh...”

  “Very, very sorry,” I said to the two people at the table. “Case of mistaken identity.”

  Anabel Huffington-Chabot turned and frowned. So did her companion. In fact, he dropped her well-manicured hand as if it were a live grenade. What was he doing there? And more to the point, what was he doing with her?

  Words almost failed me.

  “Please, excuse us. So many people, so easy to get confused with all the crowds. We found Harriet Crowder’s wallet, and I thought I recognized her bag. Can I leave it with you to give to her? No? I suppose not. Sorry.”

  “But Miz Silk. That’s...”

  “Come on, Josey. Let’s go.”

  “I think we should...”

  “I apologize for interrupting your meeting,” I added. I backed hastily down the narrow aisle, pulling Josey with me.

  Outside Belle Rive, I took a deep breath.

  “Jeez, Miz Silk. Did you just see what I did?”

  I nodded.

  “I don’t know why you dragged me away.”

  “Oh yes you do.”

  “Harriet’s not here. I don’t know where she went. But what kind of a meeting was that anyway?”

  “A private one,” I said. “It wasn’t appropriate to interrupt.”

  “Well, what kind of business do you think it was?”

  “It doesn’t matter. She’s a businesswoman, and he’s an investor.”

  “It seemed pretty weird to me.”

  I didn’t want to get into a long discussion with Josey over the fact that Jean-Claude Lamontagne had had his tongue hanging out over Anabel Huffington-Chabot. If we hadn’t shown up, he might have smothered in that engineered cleavage. I hoped Josey had missed the hand-holding part. “Sometimes it’s better to let it go. You’ve heard the expression ‘discretion is the better part of valour’?”

  “That Anabel was wearing really high heels. Maybe she was the person who locked you in the toilet stall.”

  “But why would she?”

  “Maybe she knows how you feel about Jean-Claude.” Josey goggled at me.

  I said, “You were distracted and didn’t get a good look at whoever it was. And I just heard the heels. I can’t imagine the owner of a place like the Domaine Wallingford would lock someone in the ladies’ room. Bad publicity if it got out.”

  The thin shoulders slumped. “I don’t like her much. You think Miz Lamontagne is going to be upset?”

  “Upset?”

  “Sure, you didn’t notice that his lordship was holding his colleague’s hand at that important meeting? And staring down the front of her top.”

  I hesitated. “We won’t mention it to Hélène. Maybe we just misinterpreted it.”

  Josey scowled. “Maybe.”

  “Let’s go hunt for Harriet.”

  An hour later, after cruising through every street and parking lot in the village of St. Aubaine, we’d still had no luck. We picked up Tolstoy and made tracks for Hélène’s.

  Hélène may be my closest neighbour on our winding semirural road, but there’s not much in common between the two houses. Her six thousand square foot two-storey custom-built stone home sits on top of a completely man-made hill at the end of a long, winding driveway. Paved, naturally. Each giant blue spruce perfectly placed on the manicured lawns had been delivered by truck and planted by certified forestry types.

  My cottage, on the other hand, is the same ramshackle dwelling that my great-aunt Kit inherited from her parents. Well, okay, it was winterized sometime in the early sixties, when Aunt Kit moved in permanently, and she did have a proper bathroom installed. But aside from that, it’s not much different. Many of my trees have been there for nearly a hundred years. I’m a lot happier with my glimpse of the Gatineau River than I would be with any landscaper’s dream.

  Some things money can’t buy.

  I was damp and sweaty by the time we’d trekked the quarter mile to the Lamontagne’s, but I held my back straight and my head high as Josey rang the doorbell. Even the damned chimes sounded pricey. Hélène’s Mercedes was parked in front of the house, but as expected, there was no sign of Jean-Claude’s silver Porsche Carrera.

  “Fiona! Josée! Tolstoy! I am glad you could all make it.”

  I adore the woman, even if she is married to my nemesis. I don’t understand it, but I don’t hold it against her. After all, hadn’t I spent many long years with Phil? I didn’t understand that either. Some decisions are beyond comprehension. An unfathomable swamp of pheromones, desperation and the desire to wear a long white dress just once.

  But friendship trumps all that.

  She’d obviously been at the pool. She looked stylish in a white eyelet beach cover-up that contrasted nicely with her tan and her burgundy hair. The Gucci sunglasses were a smart touch, as were the bejewelled flip-flops. I’d picked my own sunglasses at the local Giant Tiger. My swimsuit had long ago lost its sproing.

  “Come on in for a swim,” she said as I followed her.

  I wasn’t sure how much I would be able to relax, knowing more than I should about Jean-Claude’s activities.

  Hélène walked ahead through the long marble foyer and the newly renovated designer kitchen, which Josey claimed had cost Jean-Claude close to a hundred thousand dollars. We followed her through the screened porch to the glittering custom swimming pool, surrounded by acres of manicured property. It’s magazine quality, but except for the company, I would just as soon be taking a dip on the rocky shore of the Gatineau on my own property. However, Josey loved the pool, and it suited her new status as an EA.

  Hélène headed for the sparkling new stainless
steel patio bar. “Why don’t you get changed, and I’ll mix us some sangria. And the Shirley Temple version for you, Josée.”

  Sometimes it’s pointless to argue. Sangria was a great idea.

  By the time I managed to get into my suit, Josey had already been in the pool. So had Tolstoy. Hélène had worked some magic with drinks. Everyone was in a good mood, and Tolstoy had found himself a shady spot on the cool slate patio.

  “Josée has offered to help me with the organizing for the community logistics connected with En feu! Hot Stuff!” Hélène said. “That is very kind of her.”

  “Oh, indeed,” I said. I wondered if any of those logistics would put Josey within swooning distance of Rafaël. “Very public-spirited.”

  Josey beamed.

  “I can use all the help I can get,” Hélène said, shaking her artful burgundy mane.

  “Mmm,” I said.

  “So many things to do,” she said.

  “I suppose,” I said.

  “Volunteers make for a strong community,” she added.

  “For sure.”

  “Sangria?” she said, giving the carafe a playful swirl.

  “Absolutely. I love sangria.”

  “Me too,” Josey said.

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “Without the whatever,” Josey said.

  I wasn’t sure what sangria without the whatever would consist of, but I was grateful that Hélène had made her the Shirley Temple version. Josey was still clean and sober, unlike the rest of her relatives. And me, of course.

  “Ah oui, “ Hélène said, “I have many happy memories of sangria.”

  “Right,” I said. “I suppose Jean-Claude likes it too.”

  She shook her head. “No, he does not. Sometimes he is so...”

  Josey said, “Pig-headed?”

  Hélène frowned, “No, not exactly, I was going to say he is more...”

  Luckily, I stopped myself from saying, “Sleazy?”

  “Serious,” she said. “Un homme sérieux.”

  “Oof,” Josey said.

  “I suppose he is,” I said. A thousand adjectives would have popped into my mind first, but I had to keep in mind the feelings of the lovely person who was handing me a drink in a tall, frosty glass.

  “Oui,” Hélène said, narrowing her eyes a bit.

  Something told me that serious didn’t have all that much appeal right at the moment. I had no problem with that. I never understood what a lovely person like Hélène saw in St. Aubaine’s version of Donald Trump anyway. All right, better looking, better hair. But even so.

  Josey said, “I wonder if Rafaël likes sangria?”

  Hélène arched her back. “Certainement. He would.”

  I took a sip, savoured the citrusy sweetness and waited for the little kick. I lay back on the stylish padded lounge chair.

  Hélène took the chair beside me. “Fiona, you are gripping that glass so hard, I can see your knuckles. Even Harriet cannot be that bad.”

  My mind was whirling from everything that had happened that day: the horrible image of the burning Cadillac Escalade, Marc-André lying in his hospital bed, my empty bank account, my invisible ex-husband, Jean-Claude’s attempt to get my property while I was down, and now the guilty knowledge that he might be having a fling with Anabel Huffington-Chabot behind Hélène’s back while the village watched and smirked.

  I sighed. “Harriet and her wallet are the least of my problems.”

  Lala’s Contribution

  One can of whipped cream, or more as desired.

  Technique: Apply whipped cream to selected areas. See what happens.

  Four

  When I got home, I checked my messages. Aside from the earlier ones from Hélène, nothing. Nada. No offers of work. No calls from Philip. Nothing at all about that damn wallet. I tried to find a phone number for the Domaine Wallingford, but nothing was listed. I googled it. Nothing. I tried Philip five or six more times. Then I left a message with my new agent, Lola. I hit my office and dusted off a few proposals and old articles. I sent out some emails to long-ago colleagues and editors, checking the waters. I knew that the start of the summer months wasn’t the best time to get a bit of government writing or editing work, especially when you’ve been out of the loop for a few years. But I had to try something. I opened the file with my novel and closed it again.

  I distracted myself by rigging up two ancient fans to get a breeze going in the house. Outside was cooler of course, but much too buggy by the river to stay long. Josey had decided to spend the night at my place. In return for the use of the futon in my office, she was making a fresh supply of icy lemonade, using lemons borrowed from Hélène. I had sugar and ice on hand, mint that Josey had planted and a crystal carafe to contribute to the effort. I had left Josey in the small pine kitchen and just started out to take Tolstoy for a walk, when my friend Dr. Liz Prentiss drove up in her Audi Quattro.

  “Make yourself at home,” I said.

  “I will.”

  Of course, I knew that only too well. But what are friends for?

  By the time it took me to get Tolstoy out for his constitutional and back, Liz had managed to ferret out my last bottle of Courvoisier and had already helped herself to two fingers. I was sure I’d hidden it better than that.

  I was still feeling the effects of the sangria, so I had some of the lemonade Josey had made. I could hear her humming in the kitchen. I sat in the wingback chair. Liz might be a physician, and she is a close friend, but she is not the kind of person to tell your worries to, so I left out the accident, the money problems and all that. But I had to talk about Marc-André.

  “You need to lighten up, Fiona.”

  Liz had been my friend since kindergarten some forty-one years earlier, so as a rule I cut her some slack. However, there are times when she pushes the limit. This was one of them.

  “I am lightened up.” I eyed her from the wingback chair, where I was fanning myself furiously. The evening mist on the river gave a visual clue to the stifling heat and humidity. The fans didn’t really cut it.

  “And you need to get air conditioning.”

  Air conditioning is not an option for me, partly because of the shape of my converted cottage home, mostly because of the cost. “Don’t push your luck.”

  Liz shrugged. She had a talent for pushing her luck.

  She peered into her brandy snifter then raised the bottle again. I was too hot to heave myself out of the chair and snatch the Courvoisier from her. I clutched my icy glass of lemonade and said, “I can’t believe you told me to lighten up. I am talking about a man I care deeply for. You’re a doctor, for heaven’s sake. You should be capable of some small amount of compassion.”

  “Pull yourself together. It’s not like he’s dead. He was in a coma for months, and now he’s coming out of it. Great. But you let yourself get so worked up about every little thing.”

  Every little thing? I almost choked on that. “He’s finally regained consciousness, and he doesn’t remember my name!”

  “And that’s too bad, because you seem to be so besotted with him.”

  “What is the matter with you? He’s a wonderful person, who didn’t deserve to die at the hands of a crazed killer. And now he doesn’t deserve to live without a memory.”

  “That’s the trouble with head injuries, they have hellish implications.”

  “But he’ll get his memory back, won’t he?”

  She shrugged. “I’m a GP, not a neurosurgeon. Sometimes they’re left with gaps.”

  “Oh.” I knew all about gaps. There had been a serious one in my life since a screaming ambulance had carried Marc-André away from a crime scene.

  Liz said, “He’s going to need a ton of physio just to be able to walk. And when he was at his best, you only knew him for, what, a couple of weeks? It’s not like you were married to him. You have no idea what you’ll be taking on. This guy is probably going to have impaired cognitive ability for the rest of his life, and you’ll end up ta
king care of him. I see the impact of that in my practice all the time. Don’t take this personally, but you’re not that great at looking after yourself, let alone some guy who will be totally dependent. Maybe it’s best if you move on. Oh, don’t get that look on your face. You’re just getting your life together after those miserable years with Phil. Who listened to that sad story? Trust me, I have your best interests at heart.”

  I scowled at her.

  She said, “You’ll find the right man. You’re still attractive, Fiona. Men seem to go gaga over all that kinky ash-blonde hair. And your eyes are your best feature, that unusual violet blue. I keep telling you to play them up a bit, slap on some make-up. Just don’t give up.”

  I didn’t plan to give up on Marc-André, that was definite, or on myself for that matter, although I’m not the type for eye make-up. I felt a surge of sympathy for the patients in Liz’s medical practice. Even though I knew she believed she was helping me avoid problems, I searched my mind for a suitably scathing retort but came up empty. Didn’t matter, because Liz had changed the topic back to her where it usually was.

  “Do these pants make my butt look enormous?” she said.

  “First of all, Liz, your butt is in my beanbag chair, which makes everything look enormous, and second, don’t interrupt me, you are a size two. A cardboard refrigerator box wouldn’t make you look...”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  “It is easy for me to say. And easy for me to mean too. Anyway, I don’t give a flying fig about your butt. I have important matters to worry about.”

  “Oh sure, you can be offhand and uncaring. I’m alone in the world. You already have a boyfriend.”

  “But not a boyfriend who remembers me.”

  “Don’t be so negative. It could be very, very good from a sexual novelty point of view.”

  My jaw crashed to the floor and smashed into a... Hang on, that wasn’t my jaw, although it might have been. I whirled to face the doorway. Josey stood, white-faced, freckles popping, mouth gaping, up to her skinny ankles in shards of glass.