Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle

by Mary Jane Maffini

  When I hung up, Woody was looking even more serious than before.

  “Trouble, kiddo,” he said. “That big cop wants to talk to you. He’s not coming here, though. Wants you to meet him at the tea shop. Better than the cop shop, but don’t you trust him any further than you can throw him. Listen, Tolstoy’s okay. Leave him with me. He’ll keep the customers in line.”

  I blinked at Sarrazin, amazed. I was used to him asking tough questions at the Sûreté and even at the Chez. It seemed just plain weird to be interviewed by the police in the cozy tea room atmosphere of Thé Pour Deux, surrounded by china teapots, delicate cups, lace-edged napkins and the subtle scents of imported teas and homemade shortbread. Sarrazin blinked back at me. It might have been because I was wearing Woody’s shorts and Marijuana Party T-shirt.

  It felt wrong to be there in the evening; it’s definitely a morning kind of shop. But with En feu!, the proprietors weren’t going to miss an opportunity. I guess that was a good business decision, because the place was jammed.

  “I didn’t know you felt that way,” he said, referring to the T-shirt.

  “I borrowed it. It’s not a political statement.” I didn’t disagree with the sentiments on the shirt, but I did regret that I hadn’t picked one of the Grateful Dead ones.

  “Glad to hear it. I have a pretty good idea who you borrowed it from. At least it looks a lot better on you than it would on the original owner. Now, you’d better sit down.”

  I sat. He had already ordered iced tea for both of us and homemade lemon shortbread cookies.

  “I don’t want to beat around the bush, but there’s no doubt about it,” he said.

  “About what?”

  “Didn’t Woody tell you what I wanted to talk to you about?”

  I shook my head.

  “I figured you’d want to hear what I have to say in some kind of privacy.”

  I glanced around the tea shop. Everyone was busy pretending not to gawk at us. It seemed fairly obvious they were listening intently.

  I said, “Privacy?”

  “Best I could do. Even though we don’t have the full report from the Fire Marshall, all the indications are that an accelerant was used in your home.”

  “An accelerant?” I blurted.

  Heads turned.

  I lowered my voice. “What are you talking about?”

  “People use them to start fires,” he said.

  “Well, I know what an accelerant is, of course. It must have been used on my car too.”

  He cleared his throat. “We’re pretty sure that the car was torched separately. As a rule, in cases of arson—”

  “So it’s arson!”

  Heads around us snapped.

  My voice rose. “But I’m usually home at that time of day. My car was parked by the house. Tolstoy could have been killed. And Josey might have been there.”

  “We don’t know that anyone intended to kill you. As a rule, it’s either the owner wanted insurance—”

  We both looked up as a shadow fell over the gingham tablecloth. Josey stood there with her hands on her hips. I hadn’t heard her come in, but then she had perfected the art of arriving without warning.

  She snorted. “Well, Miz Silk doesn’t have any insurance. So you can just forget that.”

  Sarrazin glanced at her and furrowed his eyebrows. He turned back to me and said, “Does this Thring kid have to be everywhere?”

  I nodded. “Yes. I’m always glad to see her. She could have been killed in the fire. I think you should be happy too.” Mainly I was hoping he would forget her words at the fire.

  “Everyone’s glad she’s alive, not that there was any question about that. It’s not the point. She’s a juvenile for one thing, and for another, she never seems to be in school.”

  “Exam prep, all week,” Josey said. “Plus it’s the evening, if you haven’t noticed.”

  “Is that so? Then maybe you better go prep for your exams.”

  For a fleetingly admiring moment, I thought I could learn a few lessons in hardball from Sarrazin.

  Josey met his eyes. “I’m prepped.”

  “I could check with the school.”

  “Trust me.”

  Sarrazin hauled out his tiny cell phone. “Not so much. I think I’ll just verify that.”

  “Go right ahead. See if you can get anyone this time of night, but if you do, they’ll tell you I always get straight As.”

  So much for hardball. I would have given up after the first lob back at me. Not Sarrazin. He smiled. “It’s good that you’re free. You might want to check at home. I hear the boys are about to pick up your uncle Mike for dealing in stolen goods. Second time in a week. They say it’s a big screen plasma television this time. Over five thousand, he’s facing serious time. Never mind that released-on-his-own-recognizance crap.”

  Josey’s eyes widened. Her freckles stood out. Her cowlicks quivered. She turned as white as the crisp linen napkins in Thé Pour Deux. “You’re bluffing.”

  Sarrazin said, “What’s that you said before? Oh yeah. Trust me.”

  As I watched Josey explode through the door and head for her bike, he cleared his throat.

  I turned back to him. “I’m pretty sure he’s just a drunk.”

  “He handles some stuff that falls off trucks.”

  “This is St. Aubaine. Who doesn’t? Surely you’re not going to raid their cabin just because of what Josey said.”

  “Maybe I’m mistaken about that raid. Got a lot on my mind lately. Now,” he said, “what’s all this about M. Jean-Claude Lamontagne having reason to burn down your house?”

  “Don’t you think I did it?”

  “No, madame, I do not.”

  “Oh. I was sure you suspected me.”

  He shook his head. “And I would have good reasons. Our murder rate went sky-high when you moved in, but I have learned to see past all that.”

  “Glad to hear that you’re open-minded.” I stirred an extra teaspoon of sugar into my tea and nodded. “I’ve learned to see past things too. I had trouble believing that Jean-Claude would go far enough to burn my house down. Really. He’s my neighbour and my friend’s husband. Josey suspected him all along. I kept reminding myself that Josey and Jean-Claude have a history of mutual dislike.”

  “They sure do. That Thring girl got her drunk uncle to call the station with the information that the residents’ aide who made the accusation against you at the rehab centre was Jean-Claude’s cousin. He said she set you up.”

  “And was she Jean-Claude’s cousin?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “And did you talk to her?”

  “She’s making herself scarce, but don’t worry, I’ll catch up with her. That’s a serious accusation she made against you. Some people might have believed it.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t.”

  “Making that kind of false accusation is serious too. In more ways than one. That fellow there, Marc-André Paradis, she deprived him of the one thing that gave him a little bit of happiness.”

  “I thought she was jealous.”

  “According to the people I did talk to, there’s more to it than that. Apparently she was asking around, trying to find dirt to use against you. Other staff members spoke in your favour. I thought you might like to know that. Since everyone knows Jean-Claude wants your property, I intend to find out if he was behind this too.”

  “I have no trouble believing he would arrange a stunt like that at the rehab. He’s not in the least bit sentimental, and he’s cold and calculating, but to think that he would torch my house. That’s a shock.”

  “I don’t care how rich and important he is, if he did this, we will get him, and he will go to prison. But I need to know if he threatened you.”

  “Not threatened, no.” Here was my chance to do the dirty on my old enemy, the man who had bullied his way to the top of the West Quebec heap. The man who had done his best to intimidate Aunt Kit and to steamroller me. But I couldn’t lie about it.r />
  Sarrazin shifted in his chair, folding his arms and staring at me. “People are funny. He tried to get you charged after that fire in his kitchen. Madame Lamontagne put her foot down on that.”

  An idea flashed through my brain. “It was after that fire that Faron Findlay dropped by to tell me he had to cancel my insurance policy.”

  Sarrazin plopped two sugar cubes into his tea. “Just before this fire?”

  “That’s what Josey meant. Faron Findlay had to cancel my policy because of the wiring. The electrician told him about it.”

  “So you won’t be able to replace anything?”

  “Nothing,” I croaked through the lump in my throat. “A lot of it was irreplaceable anyway. My manuscripts. My computer files. Family heirlooms. I lost a valuable painting.”

  Sarrazin slipped another shortbread cookie onto my plate. “Everyone in the village knows you’re broke. I’ve heard over and over again about your stalled career, the back taxes, the final notice from the Hydro, the broken down car, the tab at L’Épicerie.”

  It was my turn to shrug. “It’s the price you pay for living in a small town where everyone knows everyone’s business.” I didn’t mention that Sarrazin’s relationship with coroner Dr. Lise Duhamel was also a topic that inspired much speculation from Le Nettoyeur to the Chez.

  “They’re getting a lot of conversational mileage out of the new project with the cookbook.”

  “That’s gone too. My computer. The contract. The advance cheque was in the car. Pffft. I guess that can be replaced.”

  “You could have sold this artwork.”

  “I would never have sold it. It was an Alex Colville. And it wasn’t properly insured even when my policy was in effect.”

  “But the arsonist might not have known that.”

  “So?”

  “If someone thought you could sell that painting and pay your taxes and all that, and they wanted your property, they might want to get rid of it.” It made sense, in a horrible stomach-clenching way. “Was that the big painting in your office?’

  Sarrazin didn’t mention that he was well-acquainted with my office because he’d once done a crime scene investigation there. I appreciated that.

  “Yes.”

  “Interesting, because it looks like the office is where the fire started. Maybe they weren’t trying to kill you.”

  “Just keep me from having my home and my livelihood and the things I loved.” I picked up my iced tea with a shaking hand. I put it down again before I sloshed it over Woody’s shorts. “Somebody must hate me.”

  Sarrazin nodded. “Sure looks like it. And one name comes to mind.”

  I don’t know why I got Cyril to drive me back to Chemin des cèdres to see the house. Although it was the longest day of what seemed like the longest week of my life, I couldn’t see myself sleeping otherwise.

  It was after nine by the time we got there. It had turned into a dusky June evening, but the rising full moon was enough to light the area. I blinked at what used to be my home, the burnt shell of the Skylark, and the singed grass and trees. The smell of scorched plastic, drywall and textiles stung my nostrils. I walked around the remains, pausing to stare at my trampled flowers and herbs. The birdfeeder lay broken on the ground. The sound of the cardinals’ cheer-cheer-cheer was probably gone from this place forever. The only thing I owned that had escaped damage was the garbage can at the end of the driveway. Someone had done this to me deliberately. I needed to get my head straight, because there was a good chance it wasn’t over yet.

  Cyril did all the talking on the drive back.

  Of course, I would have preferred to arrive in the village without drawing attention to myself. However, Cyril Hemphill does not suffer from any of the symptoms of a wallflower. He leaned out the window and waved at everyone.

  “Howya doin’?”

  Not that he ever waited for an answer, but few would be unaware of his presence on Rue Principale. I suppose his proximity to me might mean that he had new information for the gossips. Tolstoy was picking up some of this in-your-face behaviour and barking greetings.

  When we reached the end of Rue Principale, we noticed Anabel Huffington-Chabot gliding up the stairs to the most exclusive restaurant in town. Her blonde hair glinted in the moonlight, her face remained untouched by emotion, not even pride in her latest designer suit, a metallic shade this time. Several members of the production team seemed to be joining her for a fashionably late dinner. Rafaël and Marietta followed, strolling together, maybe a bit closer than work might demand. Rafaël smiled and waved and returned his obviously besotted attention back to his cooking co-star, or perhaps her capacious cleavage. In turn, Marietta pirouetted on her red spike heels, blowing sexy kisses to people on the sidewalk. With her dizzying curves and her white skirt swirling in the wind, it was all very Marilyn Monroe, except Marietta’s curls were dark and shoulder length. The fans applauded. Brady pulled up at the rear, still holding his clipboard and still wearing those cowboy boots. He’d added a jaunty little orange neckerchief to his outfit and perked up his fauxhawk. It went well with the diamond stud in his nose. Chelsea Brazeau, the only normal-looking person in the group, hurried behind to catch up. She was more casually dressed in an ankle-length Indian print skirt and a simple blue tee. She was laughing and holding on to a pretty straw hat as the wind picked up. I wondered how long she’d survive in that zoo. I decided when I had a bit of cash again, I’d take her to lunch to thank her for trying to help. And Brady too.

  Cyril spotted the production group heading into the restaurant, and he stopped the cab. “Good evening, ladies and gentleman,” he beamed.

  Chelsea smiled back and waved. Anabel looked down her aristocratic nose and glanced away, in disdain I suppose. I couldn’t say I blamed her.

  I slithered down on the seat to avoid being associated with whatever Cyril would do next. Luckily, I didn’t have to worry. The group continued up the restaurant stairs and vanished from view.

  Cyril made eye contact with me in the rearview mirror.

  “Hubba hubba,” he said.

  I said nothing.

  “Damn good looking woman. What do you think?” he said.

  “Huh,” I said.

  “She’s a hell of a good tipper too.” He wiggled his eyebrows quite salaciously. “Picked her up out of town the other day, and she made it worth my while, if you know what I mean.”

  “I can get out anywhere around here,” I said. A little bit of Cyril goes a long way.

  Ménage à Trois

  Contributed by Rafeël

  Place scoops of passion fruit, mango and raspberry ice in a meringue nest with a splash of Framboise and a sprig of mint.

  Very easy, and you will have more time to savour it with your lover.

  Fourteen

  It was one of those middle of the night revelations. That blinding insight that we’ve all experienced at three a.m. I sat upright in Woody’s spare room. The question was clear in my mind. And I knew damn well if I went back to sleep and waited until the morning, the thought would evaporate.

  I turned on the light and got out of bed. I fished my notebook out of my bag and retrieved the pen. This was more of an achievement than it sounds, given that I was emotionally exhausted and sleeping in an unfamiliar room.

  How had that good-looking electrician, Arlen Young, known that Faron Findlay was my insurance agent? And what had made him walk up to Faron while he was waiting in the Chez for Chinese take-out? The last I’d heard was that the wiring was fixable, he’d order the part for the stove, and he’d give us a quote for repairs. Then he’d pulled that stunt. A coincidence that it was just before the fire that took everything I owned? I didn’t think so. If he would admit that it was Jean-Claude’s doing, then Sarrazin would have something to go on.

  Since I had nothing better to do, I decided to pay Arlen a visit in the morning. Tell him what I thought of him. I lay in bed for the next hour practicing plain speaking.

  Woody in the morning i
s pretty hard to take. For starters, he gets up very, very early and sings Grateful Dead songs off-key. Today it was “When Push Comes to Shove”. He whirled around the kitchen in his custom-built wheelchair. I wondered where you could buy an apron with Jerry Garcia’s face on it but decided against asking.

  “Coffee’s on the counter,” he said, stubbing out a cigarette in the nearest ashtray.

  “It smells wonderful,” I said, not fully recovered from lying awake half the night mentally shouting at Arlen.

  “Fresh ground. So, clog your arteries, kiddo?” he said, slamming the fridge door, slapping a pound of bacon on the counter, followed by a dozen eggs, which he handled with a bit more care. Woody’d had his kitchen counters custom-made so he could work at them. They were low enough for someone in a wheelchair, and the curved work surface allowed him to get up close. Even the stove top was located at Woody’s height.

  “Need any help?”

  “Don’t tick me off,” he said.

  I said yes to artery clogging, filled a large mug with fragrant coffee and watched Woody go to work. He’s a whiz with butter and a frying pan. There is never a scrap of granola in Woody’s home.

  “Did you ever meet an electrician named Arlen Young?” I asked.

  Woody slid the frying pan onto the cook top and turned on the burner. “Arlen Young. He’s a musician, guitar.”

  “That’s right. He said the group was called No Where To Go But Oops. You know them?”

  “They’re not bad.” That is high praise coming from Woody. “Opened for Sue Foley the last couple times she played at the Britannia. Why are you asking?”

  “You know about my insurance being cancelled.”

  Woody glowered. “I guess we can figure out who was behind that.”

  “Yes, but Faron Findlay said the electrician told him.”

  “So why would this Arlen Young tell Faron?”

  “That’s what I’m asking myself. There’s nothing in it for him.”

  “You said Hélène found him for you.”