Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle

by Mary Jane Maffini

  “Good lord,” Rachel said, blinking behind her glasses. “What happened to you?”

  “Not me, it’s Miz Silk. She got smucked by a car.”

  “Smucked...?”

  “An accident.”

  “It wasn’t any accident,” Josey said.

  “It was,” I said.

  “I saw how that guy was driving, Miz Silk.” Rachel said.

  “You look awful, Fiona.”

  “Mostly because I fell in a puddle. I’m fine. I managed to walk back to the car. For the last time, Josey, stop fussing. It was an accident.”

  Rachel said, “Didn’t he see you?”

  Josey shook her head. “He saw her all right. And he aimed right for her.”

  “My God,” Rachel’s hand tightened on the garden clippers. “Did you get a good look at him?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Yes,” said Josey, “he was a little skinny guy wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap and driving a white Jetta.”

  Rachel’s hand loosened.

  “Did you call the police?”

  I took a deep breath. “I’ve had way too much of police lately, and the last thing I want is another so-called interview with them or, worse, to waste a couple of hours hanging around yet another police station filling out forms. For nothing. I’m sure it really was an accident. Who would want to harm me? And, even on the off chance it was some kind of random road rage attack, which it wasn’t, I’ll never see the guy again.”

  Behind the glint of her glasses, Rachel looked worried.

  “But, this is serious, Fiona, you’ve been injured.”

  “I’ll be fine if I lie down for bit.”

  “But you’re white as a sheet. You have to see a doctor. Listen, I’d better drive you to Emergency.”

  Josey rolled her eyes. “Miz Silk didn’t want to.”

  “She didn’t want to?” Rachel turned to me, “Fiona, really, what are you thinking of? I insist. At least let me call Liz.”

  I felt so dizzy I just wanted to crawl under a comforter without talking to anybody. Especially Liz. “Really, I’m fine. I have to get home to take Tolstoy for his walk.”

  “Maybe. You rest for a while, and we’ll keep an eye on you.”

  Josey nodded in agreement.

  “First sign of serious shock or concussion and you’re off to the hospital, like it or not,” Rachel said.

  “You can’t get a concussion in your leg,” I said in an attempt to exert some control over what happened next. Still, I let myself be steered into a beautiful room with a bay window, a tumbling river view and a canopy bed. I hardly noticed. The violet-sprigged comforter seemed just right though.

  “I’ll just close my eyes for a couple of minutes,” I said, “and then it’s right home.”

  I fell asleep with the help of herbal tea, although I would have preferred Courvoisier. Even the herbal tea didn’t prevent Sarrazin sneaking into my mind, whispering sweet nothings about probable cause in a bear-like yet seductive voice. Funny, I hadn’t noticed he was sexy before. Must have been something in the tea.

  In my dreams, I raced along a violet-strewn road while Natalie pursued me in a tow-truck until she successfully squashed me against the side of the Museum of Civilization, which was holding a special exhibit entitled “Splash”. In a suitably moving follow-up ceremony, which Woody called “Ash”, Philip scattered my charred remains over the lasagna in the Chez Charlie. Sarrazin ate honey from a pot, and Josey charged admission.

  When I woke up, Rachel led me deep into the heart of L’Auberge des Rêves, her own private area. She was relaxed and smiling in her jeans and a well-worn flannel shirt.

  Josey seemed to enjoy my surprise at seeing Tolstoy curled up under the table. “Rachel drove me over, and we picked him up. He likes it here. He’s been fed and everything. I even had a game of Frisbee with him in the garden. We thought you wouldn’t be able to relax if you were worried.”

  Now, instead of worrying about my dog, I could worry about how people could continue to get into my house without a key. Of course, the meal took my mind off all that.

  We tucked ourselves around an antique pine table roughly the size of my study but loaded with food. Rachel set up a footstool so I could stretch out my leg, now swollen, red and throbbing.

  Rachel was a first class caterer. We enjoyed pork chops with orange and rosemary. Not to mention brown and wild rice, homemade rolls, green beans drenched in butter and a salad with thick, creamy dressing. Then peaches baked in cream and maple syrup. My arteries were slamming shut, but at least I would die with a smile on my face.

  Best of all, Rachel, for all her kindness and loyalty and wonderful hospitality, was not above trashing the late Benedict. I had a second glass of wine and really began to enjoy myself.

  “...right under her nose, all the time,” Rachel was saying, shaking her head. “Really, he led her such a merry chase. All those women, and he was so flagrant about it. So public. It’s a miracle she didn’t kill him. I would have.”

  “You don’t think she...?”

  Rachel laughed. “No, I must be projecting my own feelings onto her. That was the night she broke her ankle. The bridge club spent the entire evening at the Regional Hospital. We played right there in Emergency.”

  “That was a shame.”

  “Not really. It worked out well for Bridget, at least it gave her an alibi. That grumpy policeman was breathing down her neck. Seriously.”

  “I know the feeling.”

  “He even interviewed the hospital staff and the rest of the bridge group twice, trying to mess up our stories.”

  “He did the same thing to Liz and to me. I guess in a way Bridget was lucky.”

  “She doesn’t see it that way. She was crazy about Benedict.”

  I said, “You know, I’m a bit worried about Bridget. First these gifts from Benedict to all these people. Then this thing with scattering the ashes. Did you know she even gave me the urn? What next? You think she’s having a breakdown?”

  Rachel rubbed her nose. “I don’t know. I’m worried too. She’s so fragile. All those years with Benedict, you can imagine. On the other hand, she really is overdoing it. I could have brought you those ashes.”

  “I didn’t really want them, no matter who delivered them.”

  “Who would? How about Irish coffee? You want that?”

  “Can we take it in the garden?” Josey asked.

  “No problem. It’s my favourite spot. And if you don’t mind, I need to do a little deadheading before it rains again.”

  “I’ll help,” Josey said.

  I sat on the steps, next to two huge pots of red salvia and vinca, admired the expanse of garden and sniffed the damp but fragrant air. I sipped my Irish coffee and continued to ask questions as Rachel clipped and Josey snipped.

  “Was Abby the worst of the girlfriends? The most public?”

  “Nah. Not by a longshot. That thing with Zoë Finestone was public passion at its height. I was always afraid their chairs might catch fire. And she had two flings with Benedict, remember?”

  How could I forget?

  “Zoë had the nerve to show up uninvited to the memorial. Bridget was frothing at the mouth over that. Bridget and Benedict had come close to splitting up over Zoë. Zoë did everything she could to drive them apart. She was determined to get Benedict.”

  “What was she striving for? A lifetime of debt and drudgery?”

  “No accounting for taste.”

  Maybe if I hadn’t broken off with Benedict, that kind of lunacy could have overtaken me.

  “Anyway, one day Zoë issued an ultimatum, and that did the trick. She got a split, but not the one she was angling for.”

  “But Abby Lake showed up too. Was that relationship still going strong?”

  Rachel shrugged. “I think so. Who knows how long it would have lasted. Benedict was about to start his fall creative writing classes, and that always brought new, shall we say, opportunities.”

 
Ouch. I’d been one of those opportunities eight years earlier. “Maybe Abby was newly dumped and feeling a bit murderous?”

  Rachel made a face. “No sign of dumping that I knew of.”

  Night settled over the garden as I pondered Abby and Zoë as very satisfactory suspects. Rachel and Josey worked happily over the basil and mint.

  When a muffled yell drifted into the garden, Rachel snapped her head up and away from the herbs. A rumpled hulk of a man with matted bleached blonde hair and a bottle in his hand lurched toward the garden.

  Rachel stood rigid, clutching her shears. “Get out of here. Before I call the police!”

  “Oh Jeez, police, again,” said Josey. “Just what we need.”

  “Please, no police,” I said. Where the police gathered, could reporters be far behind?

  The man stopped, swayed and staggered off toward the street.

  Rachel wiped her forehead. “Damned tramps. Harder than the devil to get rid of.”

  “They’re everywhere,” Josey said.

  Even in St. Aubaine. And what’s more, they were all beginning to look alike.

  Another thing I had liked about L’Auberge des Rêves: although the phone rang often, I had no responsibility for it. No incessant, pressing calls. No messages to return or ignore. For the first time in seven days, I’d enjoyed a carefree phoneless evening without the cloud of Benedict’s death.

  My own phone was ringing as I limped through the door.

  “Fiona?”

  I hesitated.

  “Fiona, is that you?”

  Bridget.

  “That big, cranky policeman was here again asking questions about Benedict and you.”

  “Oh.” I hoped the big cranky policeman hadn’t dropped a bomb about the note.

  “You know, it’s actually bothering me more now to talk about Benedict’s death than it did before. Now the initial shock is over, I find myself dwelling on how strange it seems.”

  “Mmmm,” I said.

  “I keep asking myself why.”

  I certainly knew about the why question. “You know, there was nothing between me and Benedict. All of that was over years ago, before I even knew you, and it wasn’t a real affair. We never actually...”

  “I know that, Fiona. But I keep asking myself why he was moved to your place. And all that awful stuff we’re reading in the papers. What does it mean? Who’s setting that up? Is that the key to it or something to throw the police off the scent of the real people who are involved?”

  “I wouldn’t mind finding out that myself.”

  “It must be driving you crazy.”

  “No kidding.” I hated the whole idea of Sarrazin with his glowering dark looks intimidating my old friends and Benedict’s into making damaging statements about me. I particularly hated the idea that Sarrazin might tell Bridget about the note.

  “They even asked if he had any underworld connections.”

  “Benedict? Oh, no, that sounds too much like work.”

  It felt good to hear Bridget laugh.

  “That’s what I’ve been telling him. This Sarrazin’s a very serious kind of guy. He has trouble understanding what made Benedict tick.”

  I couldn’t figure out what made either one of them tick. “It is nice to think of Benedict leaving a legacy of perplexity,” I said.

  “You’re right, and now that you mention it, that cheers me. Thanks, Fiona. I’ll keep it in mind when I talk to the police.”

  For a long time after I hung up, I stood in the hall, pondering the state of my precarious legal position, throbbing left leg, empty bank account and ruined writing.

  That reminded me, I had to fix my novel before Cayla and Brandon went past the point where editing could straighten them out. Since, as Liz pointed out, I had no sex life to give me inspiration, I needed to buckle down and work hard.

  But how the hell could I concentrate?

  Twelve

  “Absolutely not,” I said to Josey the next morning. She showed no sign of getting out of the car. “I am going to deliver these parcels, and you are not coming along.”

  “Don’t be miserable, Miz Silk. You need me. You don’t know your way around this area like I do. You have a lot of people to locate. It’ll be much easier with me to help you deliver the stuff. There’s your leg to think about. And if this car breaks down again, who do you think could get a towtruck here faster, you or me?”

  She had a point. “It doesn’t matter. You’re going to school.”

  “No, I’m not. It’s Founders’ Day.”

  “Founders’ Day? There’s no such thing.”

  “Better call the school board and tell them.”

  “You’re absolutely sure this is Founders’ Day?” Now that my painkillers had kicked in, I could think more clearly about the school thing. I think the tow-truck argument tipped the balance.

  The back roads of St. Aubaine and surrounding hamlets presented many challenges. For one thing, the so-called roads were about six inches wider than two small cars. For another, the ones I needed were not paved. The locals barrelled their pickup trucks along at an alarming velocity, passing in the face of on-coming traffic. And, of course, none of the roads would appear on any map. It would be very handy to have Josey along.

  Josey had a fine time. So did Tolstoy. “Look at how beautiful it is,” she said. “Even through the rain, you can see the river and the mountains. And the trees are starting to change already. If this keeps up, we’ll have the best fall colours in years.”

  She was right, but she still didn’t fool me. It was a perfect day to play hooky. I was contributing to the delinquency of a minor, and this would add to my growing stature in the community.

  A pickup truck flashed by us on the other side of the road, close enough for us to smell the driver’s breath mints.

  “They drive kinda fast around here, don’t they?” Josey said, with a hint of admiration.

  I clutched the steering wheel and peered through the sloshing wipers. The sooner I tracked down these poets and found out what Benedict had been up to, the sooner Josey could get back to school and I could get back to work.

  “You know, maybe Dr. Prentiss was right about the Findlay Falls,” Josey said.

  “No falls,” I said, feeling my leg get worse.

  “Miz Kilmartin had some nice brochures on stuff, and they were mentioned. She said you might enjoy it when your leg is better.”

  Fine, maybe my leg was never going to be better.

  Eventually we found Mary Morrison’s small pink symmetrical bungalow nestled not more than two feet off the roadway. Late-blooming roses grew up both sides of the front door. I felt a wash of relief at having survived the drive.

  Tolstoy stayed in the car with the windows rolled down one-quarter. Just enough so he could breathe, and the seats could get wet. We took our rain jackets.

  “They must be rain roses,” I complained.

  “The rain is good. Keeps things green,” Josey said.

  Things were not supposed to be green. They were supposed to be starting to turn red and orange and bright yellow and gold. We were supposed to have warm, sunny days and crisp, cool, dry nights. That’s what fall in the Gatineau is about. As far as I was concerned, she could keep the rain. I made this point.

  “It’s not fall until September 21st, and the leaves never change colour this early. What’s the matter with you, Miz Silk? You should be glad it’s still summery.”

  It would have been about the only thing I had to be glad about.

  I thumped on the door. We stepped back in surprise when it opened. The fragrance of fresh apple pie drifted out and mingled with the roses. A delicate creature with pink scalp showing through soft curling white hair greeted us with the confidence of someone who could make apple pie and knew her way around roses.

  “Oh, sorry, we were looking for Mary Morrison,” I said.

  “I’m Mary Morrison.”

  I’d been expecting one of Benedict’s lady poet projects. Someone with
cleavage or endless legs or recently enhanced lips.

  “My name is Fiona Silk and this is Josey Thring. I’d like to talk to you about Benedict Kelly.”

  “Benedict.” She lit up even more. “Oh, yes. Please do come in.”

  Josey gave me a sideways glance that said, great, and now we get to tell this sweet little old lady he was found you-knowwhat and you-know-where.

  There’d be no talk of you-know-where, I decided.

  The doll-sized parlour was furnished with a faded brocade sofa, two large armchairs and a stack of large-print library books. No sign of a television set or a newspaper. No sound of a radio. Good. Excellent.

  At least forty framed photos hung on the walls. Dozens of photo albums sat in stacks. More photos spilled out of boxes.

  We perched on the sofa and waited. Miss Mary Morrison bustled to get us tea, rejecting our offers of help. I could feel my heart thudding at the idea of stifling that luminous smile.

  She set out a tray with a china pot of tea, cups and a plate each of still warm pie. “Tell me, how is that rascal, Benedict?”

  Naturally. She was the one person in the Western World who hadn’t heard the news, and I had to be the one to break it to her. Josey gazed at the photos on the wall with interest. I examined the pie. “I’m afraid ...”

  “Oh. Has something happened to him?”

  Josey exhaled. I took a deep breath.

  “Yes,” said Josey.

  “Umm,” I said.

  “Dead, is he?”

  I coughed in surprise. “I’m afraid so,” I said.

  “What a shame. But you get used to it, you know.”

  “Used to it?”

  “Death.” She lifted her tea cup. “Everyone’s been dying.”

  Surprise, surprise.

  “I’m the only one left of my brothers and sisters. All my friends are dead. The ones in their seventies are starting. Imagine. No staying power. But as I said, you do get used to it. And now Benedict. It’s a shame, even so.”

  I nodded. Things were looking up. I might not have to explain what happened to Benedict. I let my shoulders relax.

  “What happened to him?” she asked.