Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle

by Mary Jane Maffini

  “Boy, it’s heavy. It’s nice, though.”

  “Made of chestnut, I believe. If I remember correctly, she brought it back from a trip to Ireland. She always used it for hikes. I can’t imagine how it got back there, but I’m glad to have it. It’s like a family heirloom.”

  “Well, you better be careful Dr. Prentiss doesn’t take it. Anyway, speaking of family heirlooms, how old is this stove?”

  I shrugged. “Been here as long as I can remember. Even when I was young and visiting. Maybe it goes back to the thirties. It could be older. Aunt Kit might have bought it secondhand. She found a lot of stuff at garage sales. Like the beanbag chair, for instance.”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, Miz Silk, but maybe it’s time for you to get a new one.”

  “I love those old chairs. I’m not really into décor. You know that.”

  “I meant the stove.”

  “You know the monetary situation. Minus zero and all that.”

  She said. “I could try to fix it for you, but it’s 220 wiring, and you need a licensed electrician to mess around with that. You have to do something, Miz Silk. You could catch fire.”

  Josey might still be short of sixteen, but she knows way more about such things than I do at forty-six. Or than I want to. 220 wiring? I wasn’t exactly sure what that meant. Except danger. Even though my insurance bill was actually paid, I wasn’t too keen on fires.

  “A lot of these converted cabins, their wiring’s in real bad shape. Yours too, Miz Silk. You need someone to bring it up to code. Probably need to replace the electrical panel.”

  “I have an electrical panel?”

  “Sure, Miz Silk. It’s in your office. I wouldn’t put it past his lordship to call the city and ask them to check it out.”

  “He couldn’t do that.” Of course, he could. He’d pretty well insinuated that when we spoke.

  “He can do whatever he wants. You know my uncle Mike is a licensed electrician.”

  I must have blanched.

  Josey raised a dusty eyebrow. “He’s real good at it when he’s sober.”

  “I’m sure he is,” I said, “but didn’t you just tell me that he’s back in, um, for disorderly conduct?”

  She looked miffed. “Not disorderly this time.”

  “Sorry, public drunken...”

  “No. No. Uncle Mike’s trying to get sober. It was a dispute over this television set he picked up at the Britannia. Some guy claimed it was stolen, and I guess it had some security number etched on it.”

  “Huh.” I didn’t mention that if you were trying to go sober, maybe you shouldn’t hang out in the worst booze-pit in West Quebec.

  “Uncle Mike didn’t know, but the judge didn’t believe him. He couldn’t get bail, but he’ll be out again. I’m pretty sure he’ll get two for one for time served. He’s got a pretty good legal aid lawyer.”

  I felt a throbbing in my temples. Uncle Mike talk can bring that on. But for all his faults, he is Josey’s family, if you don’t count the institutionalized senile granny, the missing mother and the father no one knew. I said, “I seem to have no choice. I’ll get it fixed.”

  “Okay, I’ll see if I can find someone for you. But, if you don’t mind me saying so, if you’re going to start cooking stuff and trying recipes, you’re still going to need a lot more stuff.”

  “Like what?”

  “Maybe measuring cups and spoons. You could consider a frying pan.”

  “I have a bowl and a wooden spoon. And Kit had some Tupperware measuring cups and spoons. Avocado green. I remember them distinctly. I’m sure they must be here somewhere.”

  “I already found them. They’re pretty neat and retro. I can find someone to sell them on eBay for you and make a few bucks. But you’ll need more than that, and you need it now. The stuff has to look good too. Even with the product endorsements, you’ve got to spend money to make money. That’s a basic business principle. And if you don’t mind me saying so, Miz Silk, a lot of people have spices in their kitchens too.”

  Spices? Apparently I had a lot to learn.

  “The thing is, Josey, I can’t run a tab all over town. The advance will take a while. So will the book, since I don’t even have an idea how to do it yet.”

  Josey offered a bit more guidance. “You have to think positive, Miz Silk. We can beat this thing.”

  I’m not proud. I’ll admit that I needed that pep talk from the kid who’d had more trouble in her life that I’d ever had in mine. Even so, facts were facts. “I’ll work with you, and I appreciate everything you do. But I can’t pay for anything else, Josey.”

  “Why doesn’t Dr. Prentiss help instead of just taking things?”

  “She’s got a cash flow problem because she just bought that condo. And the same with Woody. He’s sunk a bundle into renovating his living quarters and the store. They’d help if they could.”

  “So would I, Miz Silk.”

  “You are more help than anyone.”

  “Sure. I know that,” Josey said. “You’re the writer. I’m the executive assistant, remember? But you can help yourself. I picked you up a bunch of cookbooks from the library. Sort of like homework.”

  “Speaking of homework, how is your exam preparation coming along? You’re spending all your time on my project and...”

  Of course, you can only get so far explaining yourself to an old stove. I tucked the walking stick in the kitchen corner and headed for the phone.

  I lowered my voice in case my fifteen-year-old executive assistant, and now apparently career coach, home renovator and financial advisor, heard me on the phone.

  “All I can say, Lola, is that this erotic cookbook idea is turning out to be a disaster. How about if I write a book about brain-damaged people getting their memories back and living happy, fulfilled lives afterwards. That would be worthwhile. That could be really heart-warming. People would—”

  “Don’t be crazy, darling.”

  “Or what about people who love brain-damaged people and stay with them and try to have some kind of life, even though—”

  “Fiona. Pull yourself together. We have a winning formula with this idea. By the way, I have a title for you: Too Hot to Handle! We’ll come up with a subtitle later. Don’t worry about that.”

  “The lack of a subtitle is the least of my problems. The lack of recipes or ability is key. Pay attention, Lola. I’m getting nowhere.”

  “It hasn’t even been two days, darling. You need to cut yourself some slack.”

  “You don’t understand. I’m the wrong person. I don’t have a single sexy thought. I can’t remember one event in my life that ever connected food and sex in any kind of successful way.”

  “Now you listen to me. Get out of that mindset, because I have gone way out on a limb for you on this one.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because, as I keep trying to tell you, it’s a moneymaker. It’s an easy moneymaker. I’ve already told them you’d do it, and you’ve signed the contract Let me remind you that we need to make this work. So pull yourself together, get out there and start mining your contacts.”

  “Mining? What contacts?” I said in a distinctly panicky voice.

  Lola sighed, grandly. “Really, Fiona. Speak to the people you know. Ask everyone for ideas, suggestions, the sexiest food they ever had, erotic encounters involving food, meals that turn them on. You know. People love to be involved in projects like this. You can thank them in the acknowledgements or keep their names quiet, if they’d prefer.”

  Oh, boy. I couldn’t imagine asking the people I knew about any of those things, not because I was afraid they wouldn’t tell me. I was far more afraid they would. In fact, they’d already started. I thought about it: I spend most of my time alone with Tolstoy, and the rest with Liz, Josey and Woody. Woody had already offered suggestions, so had Sarrazin right out of the blue. I shuddered just thinking about them. And Lola herself, if you count the whipped cream suggestion. But really.

  “Not pos
sible,” I squeaked.

  “Make it possible,” Lola said. “Find people to help you. You’re funny and non-threatening. Everyone likes you. You have to take advantage of that, darling. Be ruthless.”

  Lucky me. The burly and smirking Paulette was nowhere to be seen when I arrived back at the rehab centre that evening. Outside of Marc-André’s room, I ran into Luc, a good-looking nurse I often saw on my visits.

  “We’re glad to see you, Fiona. Marc-André’s been a bit restless today. It happens when they regain consciousness.”

  “I was worried about that, but he wasn’t here when I came in the afternoon. He was having some kind of scan.”

  “He was?”

  “Yes. And I couldn’t go with him.”

  Luc frowned. “I don’t think so.”

  He flipped through the clipboard and shook his head. “No. He was down in the sunroom for a while. That’s all.”

  I stood there, mouth hanging open. Was it better to be a liar or a dupe?

  Luc raised an eyebrow.

  I said, “One of the residents’ aides told me he was. She chewed me out for not showing up, and then she said I couldn’t see him. Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure. Who told you that?”

  “Paulette something. I think she’s new.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “She’s new, all right. And I hope she doesn’t last long. Anyway, that’s too bad you had to make the extra trip, but I’m glad you’re here now. Someone else will be happy too.”

  Marc-André’s eyes were open as I moved close to the bed.

  “Ah,” he said. “You again.”

  My heart hit the inside of my skull. “You remember me?”

  “But of course, madame. You were here yesterday.”

  “Oh. Yes, I was.”

  He frowned. “There was some kind of...problem.”

  “I’m not sure what that was about.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he smiled.

  I nodded. Sometimes, I can’t manage to get words out.

  “What is your name?” he said.

  “Fiona Silk.”

  “Fiona Silk. I like that name. Très beau. Thank you for coming to visit me.”

  Talk about your snakes and ladders games. This relationship had its slippery slopes.

  Marc-André was in the mood to chat. I sat forward in the chair and held my breath.

  “Are you one of my nurses?” he said.

  “No.”

  He looked puzzled. “Well, then why do you come here?”

  “I’m a friend,” I said. What else could I say? I am your almost-lover? I might have become much more than a friend, if only...

  His face lit up. “I am glad I have a friend.”

  “You have lots of friends.”

  “Really? That’s good. Where are they?”

  “They come by.”

  “And my wife? I can’t remember her name.”

  I bit my lip. “Carole. Her name was Carole.”

  “Was? Oh.”

  “You were very happy.”

  He nodded. “Thank you.”

  “You missed her a lot after she, um...”

  “Then I will have some good things to remember.”

  “Yes.”

  “The doctors say I will improve, but I have to work at it. How am I supposed to do that?”

  “I’ll try to help.”

  “It’s no good. I have a big empty head. I wake up with nothing.”

  “You’re able to speak English and French. That’s good. You haven’t forgotten two entire languages.”

  “But to forget my wife. That is unbelievable. And I couldn’t recall your name, even though...I remembered your hair. It’s unusual.” He reached up to touch it for a brief moment then sank back onto the bed.

  “You’ll get better. Your old friends will start to visit now that you are awake again.”

  “I’m a mechanic. Did you know that?”

  “I do. You’re a poet, too. An award-winning poet.”

  “I don’t remember any of that either.” The pain on his face was unbearable to me. I could only imagine how he felt.

  I had nothing to lose. I said, “Here’s a tricky question for you. How about food? I am writing a book about recipes connected to...well, anyway. Do you remember anything wonderful you loved to eat? Something connected with love or romance?”

  Tears filled his eyes. I had blown it again.

  But the incandescent smile lit his face again. “I do. I do remember something. Strawberries. Strawberries and cream. Yes. I remember eating that with...” The smile faded.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I should never have asked.”

  “No, no, madame, don’t be sorry. Merci beaucoup.”

  “But why are you thanking me?”

  “For the memory. You cannot imagine what it means to me. To recall those strawberries, the scent of them, so fresh, and the cream, so sweet, so smooth, and something else. Grand Marnier, I think, or maybe it was Cointreau. Yes. Yes! I can taste it now. It is the first time I have a memory of food, something so intense. It is wonderful. I believe that someday I will remember the rest of my life.”

  I looked up to see Luc in the door. He gave a little wave and vanished down the long hallway.

  Marc-André squeezed my hand. “You have given me hope, madame.”

  “Me, too,” I said in a strangled voice.

  As I headed out from the rehab centre parking lot once visiting hours had ended, I jumped and yelped at a squeak of rubber behind me.

  The young nurse, Luc, looked even more shocked than I was. “Pardon, I thought you heard me calling you.”

  “My mind was elsewhere,” I said, trying to get my heart rate under control.

  “That was a beautiful moment, back there with Marc-André. I hope he continues to regain his memory.”

  “At least he has the sensual memories now. That was really something.”

  Luc looked down at his feet. He flushed a bit. “I didn’t mean to listen in or anything, but if you need more recipes, my partner and I have a special way of doing oysters. We find that romantic. Let me know if you need that, and I’ll write it out for you.”

  “Oysters. Of course. I need it. And thank you.”

  “Next time you’re here, I’ll give you the recipe.”

  Things were definitely looking up.

  The next morning, I started off groggy, most likely because I’d tossed and turned all night. I’d stayed up later than usual looking at the cookbooks Josey had dropped off. More Than You Ever Asked About Pies and The Skewer Encyclopedia were glossy and larger than you could ever imagine. Icing! Icing! Icing! looked small but sweet. I went through them trying to figure out how to structure my own project. My night had alternated between hopeful thoughts of Marc-André and nightmares about cooking. The worst one was treading water next to a bad-tempered goose in a giant pot of stock that was slowly coming to a boil. I was not too groggy to see the significance.

  I had just stepped out of the shower and was standing dripping wet when the doorbell rang. Times like that, it was really handy to have the door-answering machine Josey had rigged up for me the previous fall.

  “Leave a message after the beep,” I thought merrily as I twirled my hair into a damp ponytail. I wasn’t worried. Philip wasn’t likely to show up so early on a work day, if ever, and all my friends appeared to be able to walk through walls.

  But the doorbell kept ringing. The message kicked in: I can’t come to the door right now. Leave a message after the beep and I’ll get back to you. Josey’s voice is on the recording, as mine lacks authority. I rethought that strategy when I heard the voice of Sgt. Sarrazin.

  “Answer your door, madame,” he said, in that curiously flat delivery that the police seem to have perfected.

  One point to him. I wrapped myself in a towel and shouted from the other side. “Give me a minute.”

  Three minutes later, I was dressed, but my fresh cotton T-shirt and my Bermudas were already clinging, n
ot in a good way. Tolstoy had preceded me to the door and was parked there, tail drumming musically. Visitors! One of us really loves them.

  When I yanked the door open, Tolstoy nuzzled up to Sarrazin, who patted him on the head then pointed to the box on my door. “That stupid contraption is a terrible idea. Why would anyone stick an ugly box like that on their front door?”

  I said, “It works for me. Usually.”

  He actually shivered in the heat. “Well, it gives me the creeps.”

  “Really?”

  “I have no idea where you would get something like that.”

  “A friend made it for me. After all that trouble last year when I needed to be left alone by the media and all that. I’m sure you remember.”

  “I’ll never forget it. Who made it?”

  What kind of inquisition was this? I couldn’t see any harm in the answer. “Josey Thring. But she made it for me as a special gift. She doesn’t make them for... Is there a licensing issue or something?”

  “No. I just wondered where you’d get one. And why you’d want one. You don’t have the media chasing after you this year. I should have known it was that Thring kid. Comes from a pretty bad family.”

  “I’m a writer, and I always need to protect my time. I don’t want distractions.”

  He glanced at my mop of wet hair. “And were you writing?”

  “Are you here to see how I spend my time?” Was this some new tactic by the tax people? Find out if people are really doing what they claim in their deductions? Use the local cops as moles?

  He glowered at me. He had the eyebrows for it, and the seventeen-inch neck added impact. “I’m here to find out what your relationship was with Daniel Dupree.”

  “I didn’t have one. I explained that when I called you yesterday. Why do you keep asking about that?”

  Again with the bearlike look. “Here’s the way it works: I am the cop. I ask the questions, madame. It’s the law.”

  I didn’t ask what exact law that was. Instead I said, “You may as well come in. It’s still a bit cooler in the house.”

  He followed me through the door and into the living room. “You weren’t really straight with me about that relationship. Try again. Get it right this time. It will be easy. Then I’ll leave.”