The middle-aged clerk at the tax wicket took my post-dated cheque and handled it as though it contained anthrax spores.
“A post-dated cheque?” she said. “That account is in serious arrears.”
My familiar puce blush raced up my neck and across my face. “I realize that,” I said, “and I’m very sorry. I’ve been waiting for a payment to come in, and it has finally arrived. I’m going to deposit it now, and in five days it will clear. Because it’s a large amount, and they...”
She sighed. “I don’t know. I’ll have to get authorization for this.”
“No problem,” I said. “I’ll talk to your supervisor.” Hey maybe some of Josey’s qualities were rubbing off on me.
“He’s not here.”
“Ah.”
“You’ll have to come back.”
“When will he be in?”
“Next week. He’s sick.”
“I’m just trying to avoid an extra trip back in order to pay you the money that I owe you. I’m quite far out of town and—”
“Chemin des cèdres? Just a couple of miles.”
“Well, my car’s not working very well.”
“That’s not our problem. You need to settle your tax account.”
“Well, I’m trying to pay it.”
“I’ve already explained that I am not authorized to accept postdated cheques.”
“Everyone else does. I’ve done it in the past.” Was this woman connected to Jean-Claude too?
“Sorry, you’ll have to come back.”
“I’d like to speak to your supervisor’s supervisor.”
She wrinkled her unattractive nose. “You’re not allowed to have dogs in here, you know.”
“Fine, I’ll put the dog outside, but then I’d want to speak to your supervisor’s supervisor.”
“I’m not sure if she’s here.”
“Look, you can deal with me or you can deal with my executive assistant. I am a wimp. She has a tendency to contact the media. So please get authorization to accept this cheque, and the dog and I will be on our way.”
I succeeded after a couple more conversational loops like that. I felt such relief at getting the post-dated cheque accepted that I decided to drop in and share the news with Woody. He was in a fine mood and agreed to bridge funding for my few purchases. He advanced me a few dollars for a bottle of Courvoisier. I got some hummus and tabouli from him, plus a bit of almond butter and a loaf of the artisan bread that he sells. It is definitely to die for.
After a quick trip to the Régie d’alcool, I headed to the Caisse to deposit the advance cheque. Jean-Claude had moved on. How can someone who is such a wheeler-dealer spend so much time idling in his vehicle yakking on his cell? When did he work? At any rate, I felt relaxed as I pushed open the door and waved to Giselle, my favourite teller. This was indeed a happy day. As I went to fill out the deposit slip, the happy fell right out of the day.
Where was the advance cheque?
Ah. Right. In the glove compartment of the car. Of course. I’d left the piece of paper that was going to save my bacon in the non-performing Skylark.
“Listen,” Giselle said, “I hear you’re writing a cookbook that’s supposed to be pretty—”
“Darn. I forgot the cheque.”
“But I have a recipe for you! Perfect for a special evening by the river.”
“I’ll be back.” I fled.
Of course, it would mean finding Cyril and burning through a few more bucks returning to get the cheque, then roaring back to town.
Cyril was a whole lot happier about the situation than I was. I couldn’t spot Josey on our way back to the house. I figured we’d get her the next time around.
Sex on the Beach
Courtesy of Giselle from the Caisse Populaire
1 ounce vodka
¾ ounce peach schnapps
Cranberry juice
Grapefruit juice
1 blanket
Add vodka and peach schnapps to a highball glass. Fill with equal measures of cranberry juice and grapefruit juice, and stir.
Enjoy on secluded beach with someone special.
Thirteen
As soon as Cyril careened onto Chemin des cèdres, I spotted the plumes of smoke funneling high over the cedars and spruces. I shouted, and Cyril yanked at the steering wheel just in time to pull the cab over to the shoulder. A fire truck barrelled past us, sirens wailing, a firefighter swinging from the back.
“Pumper,” Cyril said. Another fire truck rocketed by in its wake. “Tanker,” Cyril added.
From the passenger seat, Tolstoy barked a piece of his mind at the fire trucks. He hates sirens almost as much as he hates being hot.
I knew from the direction of the smoke, there was only one place the truck could be headed. Cyril revved the engine and followed. As we screeched to a halt in the road, I gasped. Two other fire trucks were already there, and a half-dozen fire-fighters were hard at work. Soot rained down from the air. But that was the least of it. One end of my small house lay smouldering as three firefighters uncoupled the hoses from the pumper and started to spray. The powerful spray was aimed toward the living room end of the house, which was still standing, at least. In the face of it, defiant bursts of red-tinged flames shot up through the remaining part of the roof.
“Good thing they got respirator packs,” Cyril said. “Smoke’s bad.”
I’d never experienced a smell like that. The faint scent of slow-smouldering cedar was overlaid with the stench of burning drywall, wire and roof shingles. A reek of melted plastic told me that I’d just lost my computer. Or maybe it was coming from the Skylark. It had taken me a minute to process the idea that the burnt-out metal skeleton next to the house was all that remained of the little car. I scrambled out of the cab. A firefighter wearing a respirator lumbered toward the house. An unfamiliar police officer in the blue uniform of our local force gestured for us to back away from the property.
Cyril parked on the other side of the street. I hooked Tolstoy up to his leash, and we stumbled to the perimeter of my lawn. Cyril puffed behind us. We watched as my own history and Aunt Kit’s burned. Tolstoy whimpered.
Firefighters wearing masks rumbled toward the woods as the fire jumped from the house to the trees on the edge of the property. The tanker had roared across my lawn and down to the edge of the river.
“Gonna use the river water,” Cyril said. “Probably too late for them trees.”
I held my breath and watched as the hoses turned from the house to the cedars and maples, trying to stop the spread of a forest fire that could wipe out this side of St. Aubaine.
We watched, open-mouthed, as two firefighters aimed a stream of foam at what was left of the house.
“See that? That stuff is so powerful, one guy’s holding the other guy to keep him steady,” Cyril said.
I could hardly hear, the foam made so much noise. Tolstoy whimpered again. I stroked his silky white head. My heart was thundering. This was one of the few days that Tolstoy wouldn’t have been hiding out in the basement crawlspace to escape the heat. “Just this once you can be grateful to the V-E-T.”
A firefighter approached and pulled down his face mask. “Is there anyone in the house?”
I shook my head. “Just lucky my dog was with me.”
“That’s good,” he said, “because—”
A horrible thought froze my brain. I opened my mouth, and nothing came out. No, it wasn’t possible. The fire seemed to have started in the office. Where was Josey? Could she have come back from the village and let herself in? I grabbed his sleeve and tried to speak.
“Maybe,” I croaked, “maybe there’s a girl.”
I could tell by the look in his eye that if she was in the raging fire, it would be too late. He turned and shouted to his colleagues. Over the shout, I heard something. Tolstoy barked and lunged backwards. A red pickup careened onto the lawn, and Josey jumped out. Uncle Mike waved from the truck. Possibly in no shape to walk.
“
It’s okay,” I shouted to the firefighter. I pointed toward her. “She’s here.”
He raised his gloved hand and waved before turning back to the blaze.
Josey raced forward, cowlicks waving. I wrapped my arms around her and wept sooty tears. My life might have gone up in flames: my work and possessions and my few family heirlooms. But I wept more for what I hadn’t lost. Josey and Tolstoy. I couldn’t even chew her out for driving with Uncle Mike, although we’d have that discussion another time.
From the end of the house, a sharp bang issued.
“Oh, boy, Miz Silk,” Josey said. “Maybe that’s your Courvoisier.”
I whirled as I heard my name shouted. Hélène Lamontagne was running across the grass toward us. Somehow she managed to look graceful, even moving quickly in her stylish wedge-heeled espadrilles, the jacket of her linen suit flapping in the sooty breeze.
She gave me a warm hug. Tears streaked her perfect make-up. “Oh, Fiona, comme c’est affreux! Are you all right? You look...oh là là. How could this happen?”
She turned to give Josey a matching hug, but Josey pulled away. I was just as surprised as Hélène by this.
“What is it, Josée? Are you hurt?”
The cornflower blue eyes blazed. Sooty tears ran down her freckled cheeks. “How can you live with yourself?”
Hélène and I said, “What?”
“You know what! And you do too, Miz Silk.”
Hélène stared.
I whispered, “She must be in some kind of shock.” No wonder; my home had been a refuge for her when Uncle Mike was in the slammer and even when he wasn’t.
But Josey was staring straight at Hélène. “First he wrecked our appointment with Rafaël. Now his lordship has burned down Miz Silk’s home and everything in it. She could have been killed! And Tolstoy too—”
Tolstoy whimpered and nuzzled Josey’s hand. For once, she didn’t stop what she was doing to stroke his fur. “... and he’s your husband, and you know what he’s like, so what kind of a friend does that make you? The kind that shows up at the funeral?”
I said, “Josey!”
She sobbed, “It’s true, and you know it’s true, and we’re always just pretending that it’s all right for her to be with him, taking orders and being afraid to stick up for what’s right. And why? For a fancy house and an expensive car?”
Hélène stood, her lovely face white beneath the perfect make-up, her freshly manicured hands pressed against her mouth. Soot settled on her cream-coloured linen jacket and dress. She stared at Josey as if she’d been struck.
None of us noticed the looming arrival of F.X. Sarrazin until he cleared his throat loudly. Well, Uncle Mike might have spotted him, because the red pickup reversed and sped off.
Josey wasn’t letting Sarrazin off the hook either. She reached him first, and by the time I got there, she was in mid-tirade. “And he’ll get away with it because he uses his money to get a handle on everyone in St. Aubaine. The tax department wouldn’t have been pushing Miz Silk if it hadn’t been for him. They don’t threaten other people like that. The insurance agent, he couldn’t even give her a chance to get her wiring fixed. You know that he’s behind that too. He got his cousin to work at the rehab and make false charges against Miz Silk. You’re not going to do anything about that either.”
“Josey!” I called out. But there was no stemming her words.
“And that woman he was holding hands with at Café Belle Rive, she’s the one who made sure Miz Silk couldn’t get her interview with Rafaël. He was just laughing at us all.” She glared at Sarrazin. “And now this. Everything’s ruined. And maybe the cops are in his pocket too, and that’s just great, isn’t it? There’s no justice for anyone but Jean-Claude Lamontagne in this village.”
She turned and stumbled toward her beat-up bicycle. I rushed after her and touched her arm. She pushed me away. “You let it happen, Miz Silk. You let everyone walk all over you like a doormat, and now look.”
Tolstoy threw back his head and howled.
I watched as Josey pedalled the old bike furiously down Chemin des cèdres until THE THRING TO DO sign vanished around the bend. I stumbled over to join Hélène and Sarrazin. Hélène still stood staring. I put my arm around her, wordlessly.
“Not your fault,” I managed. “She knows that, deep down. It’s the shock. We’re not ourselves.”
Sarrazin was busy wiping smudges of soot from his face. He said, “Well, that sure was informative.”
Whatever you could say about him, François Xavier Sarrazin was way too big to fit in anyone’s pocket. Ever.
No matter how dramatic the events in your life, you are still going to need a safe place to sleep, a toothbrush, clothing, and access to a bathroom. I had a few choices, all of them untenable.
Once she’d regained the power of speech, Hélène had offered her luxurious guest suite, complete with marble ensuite bathroom, soaking tub and spa towels, but I couldn’t bring myself to stay under Jean-Claude’s roof. My old friend Kostas O’Carolan was out of town on a wool-buying expedition, or that might have been an option. Liz offered, and despite the temptation to drink her booze for a change, I wasn’t sure how long either of us would survive in her one-bedroom “loft” condo. As much as I missed my chairs, I knew who’d end up sleeping on the floor. There was always Marc-André’s empty house up the river. I had been keeping an eye on it for him, and it was clean and comfortable. But after the fracas at the hospital, I couldn’t chance doing that. Josey’s cabin was a no-go zone for so many reasons, all of them directly related to Uncle Mike.
Philip had the sprawling home we’d shared for years, but even though I had the key, it would only remind me that if Philip had settled up when he was supposed to, I would have paid my bills and updated my wiring. I wouldn’t have been in this wretched situation.
I had not a cent toward a bed and breakfast or hotel.
That left Woody. I figured if I could survive standing outside my burning house, I’d live through the cigarette smoke for a few days. A can of Jolt cola or two probably wouldn’t kill me either. Best of all, Woody had a giant air conditioner and not an environmental bone in his body, so his digs were always nineteen degrees. Normally I am mildly disapproving, but I knew that Tolstoy would be in heaven. I wouldn’t have to worry about him. I would be right in the middle of the village, so not having a vehicle wouldn’t be quite so much of a problem.
I spoke to Sarrazin. “If you need to talk to me, I’ll be at Woody Quirke’s place. If I’m not there, Woody will probably know where I am. Or try my cell.”
Sarrazin seemed less than convinced. “You sure that’s the place for you?”
He’d probably raided Woody looking for dope or something. Not that I would know anything about that.
“I’ll be fine,” I said. He raised an eyebrow. The unspoken words hung in the air. “If it doesn’t work out, I’ll find something else. It’s the least of my problems.”
“Yeah, I can see that.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m not such a bad guy, you know.”
“I never thought you were,” I fibbed.
It took a while to get the soot out of my hair and the stench off my body. Woody had installed a capacious shower, designed for a wheelchair. Tolstoy got a shampoo in there and was happy to cool off. Woody doesn’t really subscribe to germ theory, so he had no problem with a large dog in the shower. I chose the soaker tub in the guest bathroom. Hélène had been kind enough to pick up two bras and two pairs of matching panties for me. The bra and panties were perfect, but the cotton sundress she’d brought was too small. I borrowed a T-shirt from Woody and a pair of baggy shorts. I tossed my own clothes into the washing machine.
Woody’s renovation was quite wonderful: the smell of cedar was everywhere, plus light, fresh walls and comfortable window seats with cushions. The guest room had a handmade quilt and high-count cotton sheets. I don’t know who he’d been expecting, but I was sure glad he’d done such a good job
of it.
“This is great, Woody,” I said, towelling my hair dry. “It looks so comfortable.”
“Glad I can help, kiddo,” he said. “You and pooch can stay here as long as you want.”
“Thanks. I’ll be able to take care of myself soon as the cheque clears.”
“What? What is it? Why are you so pale? Here, you better sit down, kiddo.”
I slumped into the nearest chair.
Woody said, “A bit of a delayed reaction to losing your house? You’ve had a big shock.”
“The advance cheque,” I croaked.
“What about it?”
“It was in the Skylark.”
“That’s rough.”
“I wrote a post-dated cheque against it for the taxes.”
He stared at me. “Oh crap, kiddo.”
“I’d better make a call.”
Lola’s line rang on and on. Finally, the answering machine kicked in. “Hi, this is Lola. I will be at BookExpo Canada making things happen this week. Please leave a message, whoever you are, darling, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
Damn. I knew how busy Lola could get during the big trade show for the Canadian publishing industry. She’d be on the floor all day and out for dinner or industry parties until whenever. Then a round of breakfasts would start. She usually stayed in the conference hotel. Would she even pick up the message before the show was over? I left a babbling message talking about the fire and the cheque and the need for a replacement ASAP. I hoped she’d get it. I hoped she’d understand it if she did.
Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle Page 17
