I cast my mind back to the scene. “I hope you’re right.”
But I knew he was wrong.
Spotted Dick Canadian Style
Contributed by Woody Quirke of L’Épicerie 1749
⅓ cup butter
⅓ cup white sugar
2 eggs
1½ cups self raising flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
Pinch of salt
⅓ cup milk
1 tablespoon water
½ cup sweetened dried cranberries
Grated zest of one large lemon
Cream together the butter and the sugar, before gradually adding the eggs, while beating. Carefully add the flour in small amounts, along with the baking powder and salt. Beat in the water, followed by milk to get a smooth creamy consistency. You may need to add a bit more milk.
Stir in the cranberries and the lemon zest. Transfer the mixture to a greased pudding bowl, approximately 2 pint capacity. Cover with double layer of waxed paper tied with string (or a shoelace) around the outside of the bowl and place in a large Dutch oven or similar pot with enough water to reach halfway up the exterior of the bowl. Simmer for 2½ hours, covered.
Serve with custard sauce:
3 egg yolks
¼ cup sugar
Pinch of salt
2 cups scalded milk
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
Beat egg yolks, then add the sugar and salt. Add scalded milk slowly while stirring constantly. Cook in a double boiler until thickened slightly and the mixture coats a spoon.
Five
Later I wondered why one of the enquêteurs, as we call detectives here in St. Aubaine, would waste his time dropping by to ask me about a traffic accident. What had he really wanted? Why had he kept asking me if I knew the driver? I needed an activity to take my mind off that.
I picked up the phone and dialed. “I know you’re there, Philip.” It still seemed sort of weird to be saying that, since I’ve spent years ignoring his calls. I left a message. “We need to finish up this settlement business. You know that as well as I do. Let’s just get it out of the way. Pick up your phone, and I’ll get out of your hair faster that way. Life will be sweet without me.”
I slammed down the phone. A new behaviour for me. Thanks to Philip’s stonewalling, I was learning fast that there was more satisfaction in being the slammer rather than the slammee, which up until that moment had been the pattern in our relationship. I knew what he was up to. Wait me out, wear down my resistance. Over the years of our marriage, he had built up a stock of real estate and investments, not to mention what the legal types call “the matrimonial home”. I still thought of it as the place where I’d spent my paycheques for years. Anyway, I was much happier in my humble cottage. Nevertheless, the law said I was entitled to a serious chunk of Phil’s nest egg. Without a doubt, Phil would manage to prevaricate and hide assets, many of which I had contributed to myself. That was fine. I just wanted to pay my taxes and my hydro bill before something very bad happened.
Of course, I’d been pussyfooting around. But Philip wasn’t one to tiptoe. He knew I had assets too. The tumbledown cottage, the two-acre lot. When my Aunt Kit had owned this land, it had been in the back of beyond. Now it was prime real estate. Phil had calculated that value at the current market price, using what Jean-Claude could get for it, as far as I could tell. Of course, he hadn’t bothered to subtract the cost of upgrading the house to bring it up to contemporary standards. Not surprising, since that was something I probably would never do. That was all I had, really. I’d already pretty well blown through part of my RRSPs trying to make a go of writing, without going back to the not-so-wonderful government day job. I had years before I could access my pension, and I’d made sure the rest of the RRSPs were locked in. Aunt Kit had left me some crystal and china, which I loved, but even with the inflated estimates from Phil’s lawyer, it still wasn’t much. Luckily, Phil had never thought much of Aunt Kit’s taste in art.
I had to do something to take my mind off that. I drifted into the kitchen, which is pretty and pine, but not actually large enough for pacing. I stared around at the rustic cupboards and the wheezing old fridge. The open shelves looked pretty enough with the Fiestaware that Kit had collected. She’d sought out all the colours—ivory, cobalt, light green, turquoise, yellow and red—at second hand stores and garage sales over the years. The dishes didn’t get used enough, but I loved the look of them. The kitchen served mostly as a bar and dog food storage area. The fridge did a pretty good job of keeping my hummus fresh. The freezer section held ice cubes and a stack of diet dinners. Except for the microwave, the kitchen was the same as my childhood memories.
No matter how I looked at it, I couldn’t see too many erotic food possibilities coming out of this. Unless there was a market niche for an erotic cookbook using microwavable, prepackaged food. That I could manage.
I opened a few of the lower cupboards and poked around. I had a vague recollection that Kit had owned some cookbooks. Where would they be? Stored away? In the attic crawlspace? It was way too hot to climb up there amid the boxes. A person could die.
A new plan was needed.
I’d given up on Phil phoning me back when I finally bit the bullet and headed to the village. I opened the door to the basement and yelled goodbye to Tolstoy. He’d prefer chilling out in the cold storage room. And I figured I’d find support at the health food store. The owner, Woody Quirke, was the only person I’ve ever been close to who actually made his living from food. Granted, he was an old draft dodger, reputed former biker and resident English rights curmudgeon. But he was my friend. I picked up the contract to mail it, and before I reached the front door, Tolstoy bounded up the stairs. His Samoyed instincts are pretty good. He must have figured out where I was going.
Just as we were getting into the car, I remembered Harriet Crowder’s wallet. Why hadn’t I thought about that when Sarrazin was there? I could have unloaded the damn thing onto the police. Oh well, I hoped Harriet had gotten the message that I had it. If not, she might be cancelling her cards and getting new ID that morning. I knew how much I would hate that. I grabbed the wallet and hopped into the Skylark. Tolstoy joined me.
“One quick stop before Woody’s air conditioning,” I told him.
I parked in the shade of a spreading maple tree, told Tolstoy to stay on a shady part of the lawn and trotted up the stairs to the Wallingford Estate. I glanced around the huge cool foyer for someone I knew.
No sign of the plump, friendly Brady with his twinkling nose stud and fauxhawk. Nor of the cool, blonde glamourpuss Anabel Huffington-Chabot. Neither Marietta nor Rafaël was to be seen. Probably they were all behind the scenes doing whatever you do when a hit cooking show goes into production. Naturally, Harriet Crowder was not in sight either.
I asked a few scurrying helpers if they knew where I could find her. I got shrugs, plus a few muffled comments that told me she might not be the most popular person on the property. No one wanted to find her for me. No one gave a flying fig about her wallet.
I couldn’t leave Tolstoy long. I headed for the office and knocked.
The door was whipped open by a sweet, smiling young woman, about twenty-five, with soft honey-brown hair. At last, someone looked like a normal human being.
“Can you help me find Harriet Crowder?” I said. “My name is Fiona Silk. It’s very important and...”
She smiled at me, uncomplicated and friendly as any girl next door. She had a firm handshake and musical voice. Her brown eyes were meltingly warm. I felt a rush of relief as she waved me into the office. “I’m Chelsea Brazeau. I’m Anabel’s executive assistant.”
She must have been the person Harriet had savaged the evening before. That seemed a shame, because unlike Anabel Huffington-Chabot-Homewrecker, this Chelsea was lovely and welcoming. How did she manage to keep that warm smile while working for the Ice Queen and having to fend off the Red Devil? Didn’t seem fair, all those extremes in temperature. “Oh,
right,” I said, glad that Josey wasn’t there. “Executive Assistant.”
“It’s a catch-all phrase,” she chuckled. “I’m doing the PR for the Wallingford Estate, and that means everything, including watering plants and unpacking boxes. And on one spectacular occasion, fixing a leaking pipe in the kitchen. You probably know that we’ll soon be reopening as InnCroyable. It’s going to be the best spa and restaurant in the region. Not that we’re bragging,” She gestured toward a wall with plans, plaques and photos prominently displayed.
“I didn’t know that.”
“You’re about to hear plenty about that and the shoot for En feu! Hot Stuff! You can’t imagine how exciting this is for me. I’m from a small town in northern Saskatchewan. I can’t believe I’m working right next to these big names in this beautiful place. But I’ll try to find Harriet for you. I warn you, though. Her bite is worse than her bark, and her bark’s awful. She hates me because I’m working with Anabel. That reminds me, I have to connect with her in...” she glanced at her watch, “Ohmigod, two minutes.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said.
“I’m so sorry. Let’s see. Harriet, Harriet, where can you be? I’m really scattered. We’ve been overwhelmed getting ready for all this plus our grand opening. Anabel’s got some promo shots on the putting green shortly.” She gestured vaguely at the bag of golf clubs in the corner.
I watched as she dialed number after number.
At the sound of heels clicking on the marble floor, she grimaced. “No luck. And here comes Anabel. We never, never, never want to keep Anabel waiting.”
“Do you have Harriet’s cell number?”
“I wish. Harriet doesn’t give it to anyone. She likes to be the caller.”
“I should have explained. The reason I’m trying to locate her is that I found her wallet, and I’d like to return it. Can I leave it with you?”
Chelsea opened her mouth.
I whirled at a voice behind me. The chilly presence of Anabel Huffington-Chabot. Up close, she was even more formidable, from the frosty blonde tips of her hair to her designer stilettos. Standing next to friendly Chelsea with her soft, pretty face didn’t help Anabel much. Just made me wonder how much Botox had filled that immoveable visage. She knew who I was, all right. She’d seen me when I’d blundered across her and Jean-Claude at their tête-à-tête yesterday. “Sorry. We can’t take responsibility for the wallet. Harriet’s such a loose cannon. Who knows what she’d accuse us of? You’ll have to find her yourself. Are you ready, Chelsea? We don’t want to keep the photographer waiting.”
Chelsea shot me an embarrassed glance and a helpless shrug. “I’m so sorry,” she mouthed. Before I knew it, I was on the far side of the oak door. It closed behind me with a soft yet insulting click.
Several minutes later, I had left messages with every person I encountered on the property. As I left the Wallingford Estate and headed for the post office to XpressPost the contract back to Lola, I thought about Harriet Crowder. I had the feeling that not a single person she knew would toss her a life preserver if they saw that she’d been washed overboard.
“A what? You’re going to write a what?” Woody twirled in his custom-made power wheelchair, the tires narrowly missing a customer’s feet near the organic baked goods section. The panicked customer hustled her Birkenstocks to the far side of the bulk product bins, near the organic quinoa. I was pretty sure she was hunkered there, giving us her full attention. But in case she or anyone else in the newly renovated and enlarged L’Épicerie 1759 was not totally tuned in to our conversation, Woody bellowed with laughter. It worked, for sure. All eyes were now on us.
“Shh,” I said. “I don’t want everyone in town to know. Please don’t make today any worse than it already is.” I was already regretting sending off the signed contract.
“Why the hell are you telling me then?”
“Because you’re my friend.”
“Are you out of your freakin’ mind? What were you thinking?”
“I thought you could give me some useful information. You own a health food store. You know about food. Josey’s too young. Anyway, I don’t want to talk to her about erotic recipes and aphrodisiacs and all that. I’m not even sure I’m old enough. You’re right, I probably am crazy.”
Woody chortled and shook his head, spewing a little bit of Jolt Cola. The silver braid swung back and forth. Woody is the faux hippie to end all faux hippies, and he’s always careful to look the part.
“Do you actually think I would keep a secret?”
“Oh, I did, yes. But now I see that I might have been a bit off-base with that assumption.”
“Yeah, especially with an erotic cookbook! Everyone will want to know about that. My business is going to boom.”
I maintained my dignity and hoped the Birkenstocked customer, who had sidled toward the cash, hadn’t heard.
“I wouldn’t be doing it at all if I wasn’t desperate for the money.”
“Yeah, I heard that too. Taxes in arrears. Hydro getting cut off. That’s rough, kiddo.”
“I’ll survive.” Who had squealed? The mail carrier or Josey?
“Well, sure you will. Squeeze something out of that useless ex of yours. I wish I’d known earlier. I could have helped you out a bit. But I just settled up with my contractor for my renovations. Cleaned me right out. I’m in serious overdraft.”
“Don’t worry about it.
“Try Liz. Nah, on second thought, don’t bother. She’s the stingiest woman I ever met, and I’ve known—”
“Thanks anyway, Woody, but I don’t want to borrow money. I’d just be postponing the payback. Until I can get my share from Phil, I’ll have to make it myself whatever way I can.”
Woody lit up a cigarette under the DÉFENSE DE FUMER sign. “But you got to admit, that cookbook idea is just plain hilarious, kiddo. Plain freakin’ highAarious.”
“I’m glad you think so,” I sniffed. “My new agent has arranged the deal, and it’s an offer I can’t afford to refuse. It’s not like it’s an idea I would dream up myself. They’ll pay the first part of the advance on signing. I’ve already mailed the contract.”
“You sure you heard right? Any chance she asked you to write a neurotic cookbook? That would make more sense.”
“Okay, that’s it. Tolstoy, we’re out of here,” I said.
Tolstoy was slow to move. He loves Woody and Woody’s store, since Woody has no problem with him. Of course, Woody doesn’t enforce any regulations on general principles. Tolstoy was standing underneath the INTERDIT AUX CHIENS sign. It means no dogs, but then again, Tolstoy doesn’t read French, and Woody doesn’t believe in it.
“Come on, kiddo. Where’s your sense of humour? I’m stunned anyone would think of you for a job like that. You sure this Lola’s playing with a full deck? When did you ever cook anything? You live on take-out. If it weren’t for the hummus and pita here in L’Épicerie, you’d have starved.”
“Well,” I said.
“Although I don’t know how anyone can eat this stuff. Give me Mickey Dee’s any old day. I can’t wait until the Golden Arches comes to St. Aubaine.”
I glanced around. No one was paying any attention. For some reason, Woody’s customers see no incongruity in his personal lifestyle and opinions and the high-end organic products he sells.
Woody held up his hand. “I know you make great coffee, but in no way does brewing java count.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Tough luck, kiddo. The irrefutable fact is that cookbooks almost always include solids.”
“I look after Tolstoy.”
“Do you make his food?”
“I open the tins and mix it with his kibble. He really likes the way I do it.” Tolstoy’s tail thumped on the wooden floor.
“But any examples of cooking for, say, human beings?”
“I can’t remember. I made food when I was still married to Phil. I’m sure I did. I must have. I’ve tried to blank out those years. But
that’s not the point.”
“Oh right, so for the erotic cookbook, the point is your exciting and varied love life?”
“You are being just plain mean, Woody.”
“I’m merely pointing out that any guys I know you to have been associated with are either dead, suffering from head wounds and amnesia, or you’ve just divorced them. Well, I guess I’m leaving out agents of the police, but that’s different. Aside from me, of course. But hey, there’s an idea.”
I said, “In no way is that an idea. And this is just a cookbook, not an autobiography. I don’t have to provide the erotic realism. They just need recipes and text. I suppose. And photos. Oh, maybe not photos.”
“Haven’t you been complaining about your books tanking?”
“I just couldn’t get the right romantic mood going in the last two. The novel I’m working on is, um, coming along slowly, and my proposals have been generally sneered at. So, I take your point. But I’m still going to try.” I wasn’t sure how, but I couldn’t say that to Woody. He’d never let up then.
“You were in the news not long ago. Right across the country. TV, newspaper headlines. That’ll help. It was pretty steamy. I imagine any cookbook you produce will just fly off the shelves.”
I reached for a container of hummus and a package of whole wheat pita bread, which was what I’d come for. “I’m sure that’s what’s behind the whole deal. Put this on my tab, will you?”
Woody still chortled. “You’re the only person I know who runs a tab in the health food store, kiddo. I shouldn’t let you get away with it, but you always give me my daily smile.”
I ignored that. “I’m heading home to get started. I’ve got nothing but time on my hands, I need the money and, anyway, in spite of your mean-spirited comments, how hard can it be?”
“Hey, don’t get all bent out of shape. I’m just being friendly. I can help you.”
Oh, right. Woody’s pushing sixty, with a pot belly and receding hairline and a long grey braid to take your mind off that. He spends his days in his chair guzzling Jolt Cola or Red Bull, eating cheeseburgers and blowing smoke in your face. He loves to terrify the locals when he barrels through St. Aubaine in his specially-built van. It has an unusual combination of hand controls inside and custom flame designs decorating the exterior. Woody’s loud, opinionated and inclined to run over your foot with his wheelchair. He’s a great and loyal friend when he’s in a good mood, and even if he’s not. But Woody’s no heartthrob. Maybe it’s all those Grateful Dead T-shirts.
Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle Page 7
