“I confronted him when I found out he’d forged your name. I couldn’t believe it. He kept saying that house was half-mine, and the deal was going to make us a fortune. We couldn’t lose. It was just a couple of days, and then I’d get my funds back and pay off the mortgage with a nice profit, and you’d never know.”
“I guess I got mine, all right. So now, even my property is mortgaged.”
“That didn’t come out right. What I’m trying to say, Fiona, is that he duped me too. And Irene. And who knows who else. He was crazy. Nuts. Out of control. He could be so charismatic. He convinced me that if he had access to cash and a bit of time, he’d be rich. And so would I.”
“If I remember correctly, he was more of a jerk than a charismatic businessman. Anyway, now he’s dead, you’ll have to go after his estate to recoup our funds. What’s that look on your face, Phil?”
Phil stared down at his feet. The bags under his eyes matched the navy sock, and his skin tone was equal to the grey one. I realized that he was hyperventilating.
“Breathe!” I said. “Then talk.”
“He had it with him.”
“The money?” I have always prided myself on not being a slave to money. This might have been less true than I thought.
“Don’t shout, Fiona. You’ll wake my grandmother.”
I lowered my voice. “He had the cash with him when his car incinerated?” I didn’t have to hear the answer to know that it was true. I said, “But why?”
“He was about to make the big transaction. He was very excited about it. He told me like it was good news.”
“You actually knew that he was driving around like a maniac with our money in his oversized status symbol?”
“Please keep your voice down. It’s not like you to shout.”
“I never had anything this big to shout about before.”
“I found out just before the accident. I tried to meet up with him. But I didn’t get there in time. The road was blocked off, and he was...”
Okay. Big exhale, as they say in yoga class.
“It’s all gone, Fiona.”
Tolstoy’s Tenptations
Peanut Butter Dog Biscuits
2 cups whole-wheat flour
1 tablespoon baking powder
1 cup, less one tablespoon, chunky peanut butter
1 tablespoon liquid honey
1 cup milk
Preheat oven to 350°F. In a bowl, combine flour and baking powder. In another bowl, mix peanut butter, honey and milk, then add to dry ingredients and mix well. Place dough on a lightly floured surface and knead. Roll dough to ¼ inch thickness and use a heart-shaped cookie cutter to cut out cookies. Bake for 18-20 minutes on a greased baking sheet until lightly brown. Watch carefully, they burn! Cool on a rack, then store in an air-tight container.
You should check with the V-E-T before you serve these to your canine companion.
Seventeen
I was halfway to St. Aubaine when it hit me: how had Philip found out that Danny Dupree had the money with him? I did a U-turn and headed back. This time I wasn’t lucky enough to avoid the grandmother. She blocked the screen door.
I raised my voice and bluffed. “Get out here, Phil. I don’t have much time.”
Philip slunk to the front door. “We can’t talk here.” Meaning in front of his grandmother.
“How did you find out about that situation we were discussing? With Danny, the other day.”
“He texted me.”
“But I was trying to reach you. Irene insisted you had your Blackberry turned off that day. Was she lying?”
He shook his head. “I was at the hospital having a test. They make your turn them off.”
“So when was the text message sent?”
“I don’t know. I never looked. “
“Even I know that there will be a record of the call. Now would be a good time to check.”
Philip handed me the Blackberry. I clicked around until I found it. But that couldn’t be right. “Is your clock wrong on this?” I said.
He bristled. “Of course it’s not. What are you talking about?”
“I saw that accident. I know what time it happened. At the time that this message was sent, Danny Dupree was already dead.”
I took a detour past my late home, for once glad to see the garbage can. Then I drove to see Sarrazin.
Sarrazin took the offence. “Were you planning to tell me that you have been in contact with your husband?”
“I just spoke to him. Now I want to cut a deal.”
He massaged his temple and sighed.
I said, “Remember that cigarette butt?”
“Remind me.”
“The one I told you about. The one that the woman in the Escalade flicked out at me. The same woman that Cyril must have picked up in Tulip Valley. I still have that butt. It didn’t burn up in the car. Josey cleaned up the car and put the trash in the garbage can.”
Sarrazin sighed dramatically. “I thought I’d already explained the importance of chain of evidence to you.”
“Fine, I understand that, but there will be DNA on that butt, no? And you could find out who the person is, since you don’t believe it’s Anabel. I know a bit about this stuff. I watched television the odd time when I still had one, you know.”
“DNA? Don’t make me laugh. Leaving aside the backlog at the lab, you can only match DNA when you have someone to match it too. There is no database called EBWIQ.”
“What?”
“That would be Every Blonde Woman in Quebec.”
“Very funny, but... ”
“And don’t start again with Anabel Huffington-Chabot either. I want to talk about your husband.”
“Ex-husband.”
“Right. The one you’re shielding.”
In the end I gave Philip up, with the minor concession that Sarrazin would agree to send the butt to the lab. No guarantees.
I hit the Hull hospital as soon as Josey provided me with the good news that Cyril was conscious. Luckily, I wasn’t persona non grata there, although I still was in the rehab centre. As I tiptoed in, he lay sleeping, snoring gently. There was black bruising around both eyes, his nose had been broken, and judging by the bandages and stitches and IV hookups, he still had a way to go.
“Cyril,” I whispered. “Cyril.”
“He’s sleeping. As if you didn’t notice.” Cyril’s fellow patient in the semi-private room looked to be about a hundred. Wicked little blue eyes sparkled at me.
“I thought he might be just resting,” I said. “Cyril!”
The eyes opened slowly. He croaked something, but I couldn’t really make it out.
“Shhh,” I said. “Listen to me. Did Anabel Huffington give you something to eat or drink before you had your accident?”
“Who is...?”
“You know who she is, Cyril. The good tipper.”
He shook his head, but that caused him pain. The other patient said, “That didn’t sound good. They. can up his painkillers.”
“Okay,” I said, “I’ll call the nurse.” I pressed the button by the side of the bed. “But tell me about Anabel. It’s urgent. It could save your life.”
“Don’t know.”
“Sure you do. You waved to her. Blonde. Tall.”
It was painful to listen to Cyril’s breathing. “No.”
“What? Sure it was. You picked her up.”
“Didn’t.”
“Yes. Did.”
“Pain.”
“The nurse will be here. I’ll get help. Hold on. What is taking her so long?”
The roommate said, “Spend much time in hospitals, lady?”
“More than I want to,” I said, heading for the door.
Cyril croaked out. “The other one.”
“The other nurse? The other buzzer? What?”
“Pretty, smile. Hair. Different.” Then nothing but erratic breathing. Eyes closed.
“You lost him again.” The roommate seemed to find that quite sa
tisfactory. Probably needed a bit of drama in his life.
I headed down the hall and snagged a nurse. “I can only be in one place at a time,” she said, crisply.
“Oh, right. I’m glad you’re here now. He’s in bad shape.”
“Yes, we’re getting used to him,” she said, striding up to his bed. “Can you wait outside, please?”
“But—”
“Won’t be long.” She whipped the curtain around the bed. With all the violations of personal privacy that routinely take place in hospitals, such as the catheter quite obviously displayed by the side of the roommate’s bed, I wasn’t sure why Cyril’s nurse was so uptight.
I paced in the hallway, while Cyril’s roommate positioned himself to send me lascivious looks. It’s good to know when you reach your nineties, not all the sparks are out. By the time I got back into the room, the morphine had hit the target, and Cyril was sleeping.
“He’ll sleep for a couple of hours. You can wait here with me,” the roommate said.
“Sorry, other plans.”
I was already running when I left the room. Cyril hadn’t been talking about Anabel, as I had thought. He must have been talking about Marietta. Marietta with the wavy chestnut hair. The pretty, flirty lady who’d been an actress before she became a cooking sensation. Marietta, who was rumoured to be setting up a corporation to market her own unique “brand”. Had she been in cahoots with Danny Dupree to get the money to finance the next step of her meteoric rise? Marietta, who’d had a problem with Harriet, Marietta, who liked to sneak a cigarette, and Marietta, who was around the Wallingford Estate and who could easily have learned that Anabel provided the name of an electrician for me. And what electrician wouldn’t do whatever Marietta wanted? Who wouldn’t let her in if she came knocking?
I used my cell phone as I trotted along the hot Hull sidewalk to Liz’s car. Josey had left a message.
“Good news, Miz Silk. I got word that Marietta is going to give you a choice of recipes, and she’s agreed to a photo for your book. I’m going up there to make arrangements now. Can you try to keep your schedule clear for me? This is important. It could make or break us.”
“Oh, no, Josey. Whatever you do, don’t go to the Wallingford Estate.” Of course, I was talking to the air. I dialed her cell phone with shaky hands and left a message. “Stay away from Marietta! I think she’s the killer. Promise me you won’t go there.”
Next, I phoned Sarrazin and reached his voice mail.
“You were right, I was wrong. It’s not Anabel Huffington-Chabot,” I said, panting. “It’s Naughty Marietta. You should get someone over to the Hull hospital to talk to Cyril and to protect him. And you could show Marietta’s picture to Arlen too, if he regains consciousness. I’m searching for Josey. She was trying to connect with Marietta on my behalf. Oh, and get Marietta’s DNA too.”
I tried not to imagine the look on his face. Instead, I got into Liz’s car and floored it all the way back to St. Aubaine.
Damn. As I pulled into the village, I picked up the phone and realized I’d missed two messages. That’s the problem with the reception cutting out on the rural highway.
Sarrazin’s was quite clear. “Do not, I repeat, do not go anywhere near Marietta or the Wallingford Estate. Do you hear me? I will follow up on this latest batch of allegations, but I want you to go to Woody’s and stay there. We, that is to say the police, will follow up. We will find the Thring girl.”
Josey’s message was not so clear.
“Miz Silk?” she squawked. “We got a big problem. It’s not—”
The line went dead.
Obviously, Josey hadn’t received my message in time. I spun gravel as I gunned Liz’s car up the hill to the Wallingford Estate. The foyer was deserted. Chelsea was on her way out. She looked more sophisticated than usual in a black linen suit, perhaps a clue to the splendid woman she would no doubt become by the time she hit thirty. “Oh, hello,” she said. “There’s no one here. They’ve finished filming.”
“I need your help. I’m looking for...”
“Sorry. Anabel wants me to make arrangements for Harriet’s memorial before everyone leaves town. I have an appointment at the funeral home, and I’m a bit late. She’ll have my head on a spike if I miss that.”
“Do you know where Marietta is?”
“Marietta? I think she went into the village with Rafaël. They’re quite the team, those two. I feel terrible, but I have to ask you to leave now.”
“But my assistant is here somewhere.”
She lit up. “Josey? She’s so funny and cute. Executive assistant, she calls herself. I wish we could give her a job. She seems really on top of things. She was here, but she said she had to go down to the village. She seemed a bit panicky. Anyway, no one’s supposed to be on site except staff. Sorryeee. Anabel’s orders again.”
I followed Chelsea out the door and waved goodbye. I drove down the hill ahead of her and parked at Woody’s. Woody was tied up with a couple of suppliers. He shook his head when I asked if he’d seen Josey.
I checked
No Josey there. I checked out all the restaurants and shops. No Josey, which was to be expected, but no Marietta either. I hurried along to the Britannia, but Uncle Mike had no idea where Josey could be. I left a new message every couple of minutes.
Finally, I marched back up the hill to the Wallingford Estate. The foyer was empty. I thought I heard a thump and ducked into the office quickly, since I’d been told I wasn’t supposed to be on the premises. Across the room, I could see Anabel’s golf bag. What if she came back to get that? I couldn’t get tossed out before I found Josey. I decided to duck behind the desk. As I moved, I tripped over a suitcase, protruding from under the desk. I sprawled forward and knocked down a framed photo that had been propped behind the door. I glanced at it as I got up. It was just a standard boring PR group shot, one of many that had been taken outside the Wallingford Estate main house. Why was it stuck there instead of the wall? I picked it up. Everyone was smiling broadly at the camera. A local realtor whose face was on every second FOR SALE sign grinned wider than anyone. No wonder. The Wallingford Estate, even in its derelict days, must have meant a hefty commission. Jean-Claude seemed pleased with himself, while Anabel looked haughty, but happy. The man I took to be her husband had his hand on her shoulder and seemed blissfully unaware that he would soon be put out with the trash. My heart jumped when I saw Danny Dupree, cocky and cavalier, in the photo too. I did another double-take at the woman standing next to him. Chelsea Brazeau was showing her pretty white teeth too. But that wasn’t what I noticed.
What a fool I’d been.
Things were quiet in the foyer, but just as I stuck my nose out, Brady came clattering down the stairs in his cowboy boots. He whirled and clutched his clipboard when he spotted me.
“You scared me,” he gasped. “I thought no one was—”
No time for chatting. “Have you seen Josey? My assistant.”
“Yes, she was here earlier trying to find Marietta. They had an appointment, and apparently Marietta didn’t show up.”
“Is that like her?”
“No. She’s actually a sweetheart and a real pro. But now that the shooting’s over, maybe she told someone to send a message, and it didn’t get sent. Chaos rules when a production is breaking up.”
“Where did you see Josey last?”
“She was heading toward the kitchen.”
“And Marietta?”
“She was in the kitchen earlier too. That’s what I told Josey. I also told her that the site’s still off-limits. We have to let people know that.”
“Who told you?”
“Anabel.”
“Or was it Chelsea speaking on her behalf?”
“Same thing, isn’t it? One is the friendly face, the other the harsh reality?”
“Not this time. One other question, Brady. When did Chelsea change her hair colour from blonde?”
“That new honey-brown colour rocks, doesn’t i
t? I was blown away that she could get a colour job that good at a little salon in this village on such short notice. She decided just like that!” He snapped his fingers. “It shouldn’t have been a surprise. People will do anything for Chelsea. I wish I had half her personality. Even having brown hair doesn’t hurt. Although I loved the blonde highlights she had before too. I guess she thought her ‘do was too much like Anabel’s, and she wanted to make her own style statement.”
My head spun slightly. “I need to know when she had it done.”
“Around the time they started production. Monday night, I guess. Yeah, I noticed it Tuesday morning. Wasn’t it blonde the first time you came up here looking for Harriet?”
“I didn’t see Chelsea that first day. She was in the office, and Harriet had just reamed her out.”
“Ooh. I remember that fight. And you’re right. Chelsea was blonde that day.”
“Okay. And I’m guessing that although I didn’t see her, she saw me.”
Brady stared at me. “This is one really strange conversation.”
“It’s about to get stranger.” I struggled to sound rational. “Josey is in danger. Chelsea is trying to kill her. She murdered a man called Danny Dupree for his investment money, she burned down my house, she killed Harriet, and she attacked Arlen Young and a cab driver. She’s very dangerous, and she’s getting rid of anyone who can tie her to murder and fraud involving a very large sum of money.”
Brady squeaked in alarm. “Are you joking? But I haven’t done anything to her!”
“This is serious. Start running down the hill. Use your cell phone, call 911 now and tell them there’s a crime in progress. Tell them to hurry.”
“But Chelsea couldn’t...” As Brady stood there, I could almost see the light bulb go on over his head. Some small memory told him Chelsea was not what she appeared to be.
“Please do what I ask before the body count goes up.”
I raced along the corridor as soon as Brady scampered down the front stairs.
I pushed open the heavy swinging doors into the kitchen. The vast food preparation space was full of gleaming stainless and high-end cooking equipment. The show was over, the sound and lighting equipment had been packed up and removed. All that remained of the gifts of food was one large green can of olive oil and a decorative glass jar of balsamic vinegar. I stared at the twelve-burner stove top, the shelves of white china. I thought I heard a muffled noise, but perhaps that was my jittery imagination.
Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle Page 22
