Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle

by Mary Jane Maffini

  Tolstoy snarled and lunged. I grabbed him by the collar and marched him into the house. A minute later, I returned. “I must have misunderstood.”

  “You didn’t. Please understand that I have tried everything to see if I can change that, but...”

  “Why not? Why can’t you insure it? You’ve insured it for at least fifty years.”

  “The house is unsafe.”

  “It is not.”

  “You had a problem with your wiring. Had an electrician in.”

  “Yes.”

  “We’ve been informed that this place is a death trap. You probably shouldn’t even be living here, Fiona.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “The electrician told you that?”

  He nodded.

  “But he didn’t tell me that it was unsafe.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “He said it needed work. And he said he’d fix it. But he never said it would affect my insurance. He never mentioned death trap. That sort of thing sticks in your mind.”

  “You’re a writer. Sometimes you’re caught up in your work. A bit vague, forgetful.”

  “Death trap, Faron. Not so forgettable. But my point is, why would the electrician tell you? Why did you ask him about my house in the first place? Why wouldn’t you ask me?”

  “I didn’t ask. He just volunteered the information.”

  “He walked into your office and told you about my house?”

  “Fiona, please. This is hard enough.”

  “I want to know what’s going on. The electrician seemed like a nice guy. I didn’t realize he had anything against me.”

  “I don’t think he does. He’s probably doing you a favour. Maybe this could save your life. That was the impression I got. I was standing in the Chez waiting for my Chinese take-out, and we got to talking. He knew I was in insurance, and he started telling me about this house that he’d been working on. Said he was worried. Said...”

  “He said he could fix it. He was going to give me a price. He didn’t mention to me that I shouldn’t be living here, that my life might be in danger. So I don’t believe this.”

  Faron Findlay opened the door of his car. “I have no choice. I have to cancel your policy. But I can reinstate it the minute you get the work done, bring the place up to code. You just call me, and I’ll drop everything. I feel terrible. But not as terrible as I would if I was at your funeral.”

  He reached over and handed me an envelope. “You’ll receive an official notice of this by registered mail, but I felt I had to tell you face to face first. After all…”

  I stood frozen in the driveway and watched Faron speed off. I found I couldn’t even move as he rounded the bend and disappeared down the green and leafy road. I opened the envelope and read the cancellation notice. I’d just raised my head again when Jean-Claude cruised by, slowly, in his silver Porsche Carrera.

  He gave me a jaunty little wave.

  Josey had spent the night back at her own cabin. Uncle Mike had needed a bit of help, apparently, and her burn seemed to be healing nicely. But she managed to get back to town before I left. She listened with horror to the insurance news.

  “It’s so not fair, Miz Silk. You can’t let him get away with it.”

  “What choice do I have? I don’t have the money to get the wiring fixed yet, although I am working on it. I didn’t think it was so bad. The house isn’t really worth anything anyway, you know that. But I really don’t want it to go up in smoke. Tolstoy doesn’t either. And you spend a lot of time here too. You’re not going to be able to spend the night until we get this all settled.”

  “I bet that electrician’s in his lordship’s pocket.”

  “Obviously, he must be. Hélène certainly wouldn’t be behind it. I can’t think of anyone else. Everyone in town knows who Faron Findlay is. But even so...”

  “We can’t let him get away with it. He’s trying to intimidate you into selling to him.”

  “I realize that. And I’m not going to sell to him, but it doesn’t change the fact that I now have a big problem.”

  Josey scowled. “I’m going to find that electrician to tell him what I think of him.”

  “You think he’s going to admit that he caused me to lose my insurance coverage for a few under-the-table bucks from Jean-Claude? That has to be illegal. Even in St. Aubaine.”

  “Leave it to me.”

  “No, Josey. Jean-Claude plays dirty. You know that. We have enough trouble without looking for any more. Promise.”

  “Okay, but I’m going to find you another electrician, one who will run a tab. So if you don’t mind, I’ll start packing up the kitchen stuff. I’ll find someone to fix your wiring. I’ll move the stuff in your office too so he can get at the panel.”

  “Sure,” I said, feeling too distracted to argue. Anyway, it seemed like a good idea.

  “Okay. The guy’s name is Tom, if he shows up. He might say Mike Thring sent him. Don’t worry. He’ll be sober.”

  One of Uncle Mike’s buddies? Oh well, it wasn’t like I had anything worth stealing.

  It was just before nine in the morning. Josey went off to pack everything not nailed down while I answered the door with a cup of freshly brewed coffee in my hand. It was still early enough to swallow hot liquid, although according to the weather guy, that window was about to close. Should I have been surprised to see Sarrazin on my doorstep so early? In retrospect, perhaps not.

  Sarrazin perused the river view, then flicked his gaze to the trees and to my little garden patch, where my Asian lilies were making headway because of the hot weather.

  “Hello,” I said.

  He checked out the passage of a pair of cardinals swooping toward the feeder.

  “Something wrong?” I said.

  “Why do you ask?”

  No eye contact, for one thing. Shuffling feet, for another. Not typical of Sarrazin, a cop who wears the easy confidence of twenty-five plus years of service.

  “No reason,” I said. “How about coffee? Before it gets too hot to drink it.”

  Sarrazin accepted the offer, and we took it outside on the porch, not to interfere with the packing.

  “So,” I said, after a long while. “What brings you here today?”

  He cleared his throat. I smiled encouragingly. Never make the big policeman angry has always been my motto.

  “We’ve had a complaint.”

  “What now?” I had no idea where we were going, so I decided not to get unnecessarily unsettled, at least until I needed to.

  “It could lead to the laying of charges.”

  “Oh.”

  “Do you have any idea what I’m talking about?”

  I shook my head. “You’ll have to tell me.”

  “It’s from the staff at the rehab centre.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. That crazy residents’ aide, Paulette? I’m heading over there today to set the record straight.”

  “There are allegations that you attempted to fraudulently obtain money and goods from a patient.”

  “I don’t believe this. They can allege all they want. It didn’t happen. I was visiting Marc-André Paradis. I foolishly told him about the trouble I was having. He wanted to help.”

  Sarrazin watched a blue jay swoop down to the bird feeder, scaring off the cardinals. I hoped he was at least listening.

  I continued. “He offered me the money to pay my back taxes.”

  “A loan?”

  “Yes. I told him I couldn’t accept it, and he insisted, and we were going around and around that mulberry bush.”

  “You didn’t accept?”

  “How could I take money from him? He’s brain-damaged. He’s helpless. He might not even know what he’s saying, really. Although I think he did yesterday. But he might not remember it today. Anyway, it’s a matter of principle.”

  “So you never said you would take any money, nor did you lead him to think you would?”

  “That’s right. I was trying to explain to him that I
couldn’t do that when this Paulette burst in. She may have been listening from the hallway or something, but she got it wrong anyway. She called security and made a big fuss. I’m not allowed back there.”

  “Huh.”

  “I know, it sounds weird, but that’s the way it went. I believe she has a bit of crush on him. Marc-André is very attractive to women, you know.” I felt a puce blush racing up my neck as I said this.

  “I guess so,” he said.

  “I never thought she’d call the police. Isn’t that a bit extreme?”

  “They claim you were trying to extort money from a seriously disabled individual. That is a crime.”

  “But it never happened. Either she misinterpreted, or else she just wanted to get me away from him. You can ask Marc-André what happened. He’ll tell you.”

  “We will. I just don’t know if that will be enough.”

  “My word against hers, you mean.”

  “Pretty much.” He put down his coffee cup. “I think those lilies over there are going to need a bit of water,” he said before he rumbled off, leaving me to face my ruined morning.

  Before I left, I headed into the office, where Josey was packing with single-minded concentration.

  “Please leave out the stuff for my cookbook project, Josey. I’m going to get at it full steam as soon as I take care of a bit of business this morning.”

  “Sure thing, Miz Silk. I already put them on the kitchen table with the rest of the library books and the recipes that people have given you.”

  “Thanks. Do you really have to take everything off the wall?”

  “Don’t want this new electrician to do any damage, do we? Sometimes they have to go behind the walls and up in the ceiling.”

  “I guess. I’ve got a really crazy day, but if you’re free later, I’d like you to come back with me to Hull before the staff changes to the afternoon shift. I’ll stay outside the rehab, but I’d like you to go in and explain to Marc-André why I won’t be able to visit. Right now, I’m headed out to do a lot of stuff I should have done a long time ago.”

  The manager at the Caisse Pop was not understanding about the wiring situation. Something about taking a loan against a house that might burn down before the day was out. Even when I explained that he had nothing to lose, as the lot was probably worth more without the house, he still gave the mortgage the thumbs down. Of course, he did golf with Jean-Claude. I added “find a new bank” to my list of things to do.

  Next I made my way to the Wallingford Estate in search of the elusive Harriet Crowder. At least this time I was able to talk my way past the security folk. Maybe I seemed harmless without my eyebrows. Maybe they felt sorry for me because of my red and blistered forehead. Who knows?

  Once inside, I found Chelsea Brazeau, the very chilly Anabel’s lovely, warm executive assistant, fluttering about in the office. She was wearing a sharp yellow dress and jacket that set off her lustrous honey-brown hair and hazel eyes. She smiled in welcome. For a brief second, I wondered why I hadn’t been born with lovely, smooth, rich chestnut hair like that. Hair that would always look great. And the confident personality that seemed to go with it. Of course, it would have been nice to be twenty-five again too. Except for egotistical trophy hunters like Jean-Claude who preferred blonde and Botoxed, I thought most men would fall for her at the first sign of that melting smile.

  “You get full marks for getting past security,” she said with a grin. “Unfortunately, Harriet’s not available. I don’t even know where she is. But you can often find her sitting in her vehicle with the motor running to keep cool while she makes her phone calls out of earshot. She’s very secretive.”

  “Huh,” I said. “Well, please pass on this message. I’m out most of the day, but I’ll be home tonight. And she could leave a message for me, if that’s not convenient. Here’s my address, here’s my phone number. If I haven’t heard from her tonight, I’ll send the wallet by registered post tomorrow, to the address I found in her ID.”

  “Ooh,” said Chelsea. “Good luck. Just keep in mind that she’s very vindictive.”

  “It’s not going to be my problem any more. She can sue me if she wants.”

  Chelsea grimaced. “Well, she’s no Miss Congeniality, but she probably won’t really sue you. Very likely no one’s told her. I tried to after we first spoke, but she was already on the warpath, and she cut me off. She’s her own worst enemy. I left her a note in her pigeonhole.” She turned and pointed to a large wall of boxes with names on them. The one marked HARRIET was crammed with paper and yellow messages.

  A voice behind me made me jump. “There’s plenty to do here without providing message services to the villagers.” I turned to face Anabel Huffington-Chabot. She strode past me to the far side of the desk. She scowled at me and ignored her EA.

  Chelsea interjected mildly. “But Anabel, Fiona is just trying to help. Couldn’t we...?”

  Oops. Apparently not. I pitied Chelsea working in that environment.

  “Thanks, Chelsea. Sorry to disturb.” I felt I could trust Chelsea to deliver the message. I got the impression she’d be happy to help me, but it would have to be behind Anabel’s cold, hard back.

  I stepped into the hallway and nearly knocked over pudgy little Brady, still wearing his cowboy boots. He made a sympathetic face, ran his hand over his fauxhawk, and pretended he hadn’t been listening at the door.

  A pattern was emerging. It reminded me of how glad I was to work for myself, despite the setbacks.

  Philip was still not returning calls. No big shock there. But I’d decided I was finished with his BS at this point. When I reached his office in the old Hull sector, I was ready for war. This time, no matter what, I intended to come away with a cheque. He could deduct it from the settlement. He could charge me interest. He could wreck the knees of his Harry Rosen suit while he hid under the desk, but I damn well didn’t plan to leave empty-handed.

  I pulled up in front of the impressive historic home on Rue Laurier that housed his legal office. For the record, Phil owned the building and rented out the second floor to a notary public and the third to an interior designer. He owned the building next door as well, and two or three others in the neighbourhood. I parked on the street and trotted up to the door. The first part of the battle would be getting past Irene. But I was prepared. I’d given myself one long pep talk all the way down from St. Aubaine.

  I hadn’t left a message to say I was coming, because that would have eliminated the element of surprise. I stomped up the stairs and yanked at the door. It failed to open.

  I checked my watch. Just before noon. Prime business hours. Philip might have been in court or at a meeting or even on one of his preferred golf courses, but where was Irene? As long as I’d known her, she’d taken her lunch and breaks in the office. Not at her desk, of course, but in the tiny staff room in the rear of the office.

  After five minutes of banging on the door, I stood back. Fine. I ignored the amused glances from two people heading upstairs. I tried the second floor office, then the third. Even when I asked nicely in French, no one could tell me anything about Philip or Irene. The usual shrugs and a “désolé, madame” or two. The back door had a tiny window into the small staff room. No Irene there. No Philip either. Neither car was parked in the reserved spots.

  What was going on?

  It felt very odd parking in front of the home that I’d shared with Philip. I hadn’t been near it since my stormy departure more than three years earlier. It was a beautiful place set on immaculate lawns. You might expect that I would have a pang of regret. I was pangless, although I did notice that my fingers were white from gripping the steering wheel.

  I pulled up by the front stairs. I looked around. Philip had treated himself to a brand new BMW M5-E60, perfect for driving a single lawyer from home to work to golf club. Especially perfect for someone who hadn’t settled with his ex-wife. The Beamer was nowhere to be seen. I tried the doorbell. No answer. I strolled around to the back of th
e house. No Philip. He was still a creature of habit, though. I extracted the spare key from the hiding place under the back porch and let myself in. First, I checked the garage. No car.

  Of course, I felt furtive and even slightly criminal. I had to remind myself that I was still a half-owner of this house. I hurried into the kitchen to leave him a note. I stood still, shocked. A few dishes lay scattered around the counter. A half-full cup of cold coffee waited on the table. Papers had been tossed in disarray onto the ceramic tile floor. What was going on? I headed upstairs. His book-lined study was in its usual immaculate order. I stopped and peeked through the bedroom door at the king-size bed we’d shared. Unlike me, Philip had always been a neat sleeper. His side of the bed had obviously been slept in. The sheets were tossed back in a tangle. The pillow lay on the floor.

  My heart raced. Philip could no more stand to leave the house with his bed unmade than he would tolerate a family of rats residing in his imported German toaster.

  It didn’t make sense.

  I felt a bit shaky as I made my way down the stairs, out through the kitchen towards the back door. This time I saw something I’d missed before. Near the phone in the kitchen, a glass lay shattered on the ceramic tile. On the way out, I stooped and felt the soil in the droopy flower pots on the shady side of the patio. Bone dry. Wherever Philip was, he hadn’t been home for a while. And he must have been in a state when he was last there. Unmade bed, dirty dishes, broken glass. I never thought I’d see anything like that in Philip’s house.

  I turned around and checked out the main level again. Had he been kidnapped? Had a burglar broken in? Or a vandal? Had he been tied up and locked in a closet while some thief made off with his car? I headed back upstairs. I checked each storage area. All were prime examples of the anal-retentive personality. Philip’s own walk-in closet was in its usual impeccable state. But in the bathroom, towels lay on the floor. Dirty water stagnated in the sink. It seemed to me that these things were the mark of a distracted person rather than a struggle. Had Philip been too distressed about something to make his bed, sweep up the broken mug and water the dying plant?