Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle

by Mary Jane Maffini

  “I am as pure as the driven,” I muttered. Well, I had been fairly pure before I’d spotted a certain mechanic.

  “That’s the news. Don’t worry about it, kiddo. The publicity’s dying down, but we can find a way to make this stuff pay off for your career.”

  “I don’t think so, Woody.”

  I leaned on a bag of whole wheat flour, getting jangled on Jolt and fretting about dyslexic detectives.

  Josey grinned. “That Miz Morrison sure has a lot of control over that cop, though.”

  Woody snickered.

  I struggled to keep a straight face but was overcome by the memory of Mary Morrison, armed only with Sarrazin’s history of backwards Bs and Ds, chastising the big detective for bothering her guests. He’d been blushing when he backed out of her cottage with our keys to check my house and car for stolen photos.

  Even though we were laughing, I figured Woody was right: if we weren’t careful, F. X . Sarrazin could mean even more trouble.

  I volunteered Josey to give Woody a hand while I kept my appointment with Marc-André. Josey bit her lip. She’d already noticed I was wearing my good black jeans and a relatively new black turtleneck and my camelhair blazer, all freshly pressed. She was probably worried about what kind of fool I would make of myself if she left me alone with him. And she’d miss out on being called “mademoiselle”. On the other hand, helping Woody could mean money. And food. And weird insights into the behavior of the police. Tough one.

  I sneaked off while she weighed her options.

  Tolstoy stayed with Josey. Maybe it was those organic dog biscuits.

  I tried to keep my mind on the car engine as Marc-André Paradis performed an assiduous diagnosis. I was more concerned about his effect on my systems than the Skylark’s.

  I missed the prognosis.

  “Thank you,” I breathed.

  “My pleasure.”

  I had exhausted my conversational abilities. I tried smiling.

  He wiped his hands on a rag. I couldn’t take my eyes off them.

  “I’m finished for the day,” he said.

  “Oh.”

  Silence. I tried to remember what I wanted from him.

  “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  I followed the poet-mechanic to the barn next to the garage. The barn turned out to be a home, and a nice one at that. Good, now we’ll meet his wife, I thought. That’s better. With luck there’ll be five kids, and I’ll see him in a more sensible light. Just another man worrying about meeting the mortgage payments on the barn and wiping baby food off his shirt after his daily grind of metaphors punctuated with the odd European carburetor.

  We entered through a back door. Marc-André Paradis stood back to let me go ahead, and I quivered when I brushed past him. We passed through the u-shaped kitchen. No dirty dishes anywhere, orderly and elegant, with the granite counter and the small table top gleaming. And a cafetière, which caught my eye. No toys, no aprons, no fridge magnets holding kid stuff.

  “We’ll go into the salon, okay?” he said, pointing the way.

  Except for the kitchen, it was the only room in the downstairs area. He made coffee. I admired the unbroken stretch of hardwood floor. He had few possessions. Aside from the deep leather sofa I sat on and the leather lounge chair across the room, he had a stereo, with stacks of cassettes, LPs and CDs. An antique maple table sat in the middle of the floor, taking advantage of the huge window with the river view. Papers were stacked precisely on the table, and an ergonomic chair was tucked neatly into it. I liked the idea that Marc-André Paradis kept the best river view for his work area.

  I don’t know much about art, but I knew the abstract canvas on the wall had set the purchaser back a good ten thousand smackers. The poetry industry might be in recession, but people still needed their Beemers fixed.

  A clinking signalled Marc-André and the coffee. I checked if my hair remained in half-decent shape. Too much to hope for.

  “Nothing elegant, but it should do,” Marc-André Paradis said, putting down a smooth carved maple board holding the mugs. And a bottle of Armagnac. “I don’t get a lot a social callers. Good thing Kostas gave me this last Christmas. A little something in yours, madame?”

  “No, I’d have to let it wear off before I drive home.”

  “Are you in a rush?”

  My head thundered. I wasn’t. I managed a tiny “no”.

  “Then why not let it wear off?” Marc-André Paradis added a little something to my coffee and his own. He sat on the sofa. I hoped I wouldn’t blow an aorta.

  We talked about me. We talked about him. We talked about writing poetry. We talked about writing romances. We talked about my-about-to-be-ex-husband. We talked about his late wife. We even talked a bit about Benedict, but we didn’t say anything useful.

  Marc-André didn’t show much grief for the scoundrel who’d scooped nearly a quarter of a million dollars from him.

  “How did you feel when he won the Flambeau?” I asked.

  “It was a surprise. More than that, a shock. I did not realize he was a serious poet.”

  No kidding.

  “The only poem I ever remember reading of his was called, let me think, oh yes, ‘The Effect of Beans Upon the Constitution’.”

  “A lot of people were surprised you didn’t win.”

  He shrugged.

  “And then he died. That must have felt worse,” I said

  “What difference did it make? Whether he was dead or alive, I didn’t win it.”

  “True, but...”

  “And I didn’t want it. People don’t become poets for prizes. Or money. They often give up money to become poets.”

  “Right.”

  “It did not do him any good, did it?”

  True enough.

  “So,” he said, “will I see you again before this scattering?”

  “I hope so.”

  “I’ll call you.”

  “Excellent.”

  When I finally pulled out on to the highway, Marc-André waved from the driveway. I should have used the time on the drive home to assess his viability as a suspect. Instead I found myself singing. A sex life a sex life I think I want a sex life.

  Back home on Chemin des Cèdres, things were looking up. Josey, retrieved from Woody’s and twenty dollars richer, was curled up on the porch swing, working on her knitting. Tolstoy kept her company, the Frisbee by his side, just in case. Excellent. It was almost like being alone. The deadbolt installed by Cyril Hemphill seemed sturdy and unassailable.

  And yet another good thing. My novel rekindled. You see, I had never observed how blue Brandon’s eyes were. Bluegreen really. Peacock. Cayla sat right up and noticed.

  Cayla leaned over and ran her fingers through Brandon’s thick, thick silver hair. She marvelled at his eyelashes, sooty frames for those blazing eyes. How had she missed their colour and intensity before? How had she not fallen in love with him the first time she’d seen him? The eyes alone should have done it.

  The strength of his well-muscled forearms made her swell with womanly pride. She traced the aristocratic outlines of his ears and mused on how delicious he looked without his shirt.

  She felt so lucky. Such a beautiful, beautiful man. And such a beautiful setting. The moon hung low and serene over the long, ivory beach. Far, far away reggae music drifted out over the sea.

  Cayla held her breath as Brandon stared deep into her eyes and reached out to...knock.

  Nineteen

  Knock?

  I jerked myself away from the computer screen. The knocking continued. Some people give up if you don’t answer a door after fifteen or twenty tries. Not this knocker.

  I was hesitant to open the door in case the media had heard of the great photo robbery and figured I’d look good plastered over the front pages again. Passionate poet-killer rips off senior citizen. That kind of thing.

  “Who is it?”

  “C’est moi.”

  I open
ed the door to the smiling face of Hélène Lamontagne.

  “I could not get through on the phone, so I wanted to leave a message on your door answering system. But it does not seem to be working.”

  Normally, I could count on Josey to head visitors off at the pass. But there was no sign of her. No doubt she’d given the knitting a break and headed off to clear out a bit of the brush on the edge of my property. That was just as well, because Josey was the subject of the visit.

  Hélène said, “It is too bad, because the news is good. May I speak with you?”

  I kissed my writing goodbye.

  “Come on in. Let me save my work. Coffee in three minutes.”

  Before saving my material and switching off the computer, I made a note to replace all previous descriptions of Brandon’s eyes. I upgraded the note. Change Brandon, period.

  “Bon,” Hélène said when we settled down over our coffee, “everything is arranged. I have even spoken to the youth services worker, and there is no problem with Josey staying with us for a few weeks until her situation is improved.” That is one of the good things about dealing with Hélène in her role of Mrs. Jean-Claude Bigwig. She can even reach Social Services people on the weekend. We’re talking influence.

  “Perfect,” I said. Josey was safe.

  “Not entirely,” Hélène said. “Mme Flambeau is quite hard to reach. I suppose I could keep trying...”

  “Please keep trying,” I said.

  “It’s just that I am so busy now trying to get a committee together for the community carol sing during December. Once I have someone to manage the logistics, then I’ll have more time.”

  If you gave me a choice between a spot on a committee and an urn on the mantelpiece, I’d have a hard time picking the one I liked least. And what the hell are logistics? “Logistics?” I said. “I can do that.”

  Letting Josey know the good news, officially, from Hélène, was the next step in the process. I wasn’t altogether sure that Josey’s interpretation of good news would dovetail with Hélène’s.

  Not because of Hélène. Josey likes her. But it was the Jean Claude part of the package that worried me. Josey always calls him “His Lordship” behind his back. The name suits him, but it made me wonder if she’d be happy camped out in the manor house with St. Aubaine’s demon developer.

  But it was a lot better than some of the alternatives.

  “Don’t blame me if they kick the doors in when you’re all alone in this house, that’s all I can say.”

  “I’m glad you’re taking this with good grace, Josey. If I need you to rescue me, I can always call you at Hélène’s.”

  “Sure. If they don’t cut the phone wires.”

  I refrained from saying if somebody was prepared to cut the phone wires and kick in the doors to do me harm, I would be glad not to have to worry about Josey’s safety too. I knew she wouldn’t take it well.

  A matter of pride.

  I spent the rest of the evening alone. I blocked out the sex life song and tried thinking. Mostly variations on the “what the hell is going on” theme. Benedict’s death had to have something to do with winning the Flambeau. Or did it? Was it an explosive mix of dangerous women? Who was the man who was following us? Some deranged poet? I asked myself who might recognize the description of the man in the photo if Mary Morrison couldn’t help us.

  Lucky for me Rachel was home when I called.

  “You must be kidding,” Rachel said. “I’ve blanked out every memory of my childhood. I was a pudgy kid with glasses, you know, in a world full of bullies. But let me think. Did he have red horns?”

  “No horns.”

  “Too bad. Up to that point, he sounds like every little devil I remember from grade school. Sorry.”

  Bridget answered her phone but sounded like she’d been asleep. Not surprising with the hours she kept at her shop. I apologized.

  “Don’t be silly, Fiona. I’m glad to help. I have a vague memory of who you mean, but I can’t quite put a name on him. Somebody who dropped out early, I think.” I could hear her yawning. “I have all those old school pictures here somewhere. I’ll go through them. Are you in a rush?”

  “No, no.” The correct answer was yes, yes. But I didn’t want to get pushy. I knew Bridget would come through.

  “Okay, give me a day or so to dig them out and sift through them. Is it anything to do with Benedict’s death?”

  “Absolutely not. Just an idea I have for the scattering.”

  “Oh, all right. Great. Soon as I can.”

  Bridget was probably asleep before the phone hit the cradle.

  Three times lucky, as they say. But not this time. I got Sarrazin’s voice mail.

  After the beep, I said, “I can’t believe I didn’t mention this when you were talking to us about the break-in at Miss Morrison’s. I guess I was so stunned at being suspected. I want to let you know that the man who has been following me is in one of the stolen photos. A classmate of Benedict’s. Since you went to the same school, maybe you have some idea how to find out who it is.”

  I hoped Sarrazin didn’t think this was so much flim-flam. I also hoped Benedict’s classmate wasn’t really dangerous. But that’s not what kept me awake for the rest of the night. It was good old-fashioned lust. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Marc-André Paradis’ peacock blue eyes. It should come as no surprise I spun like a silkworm until the morning. A sex life a sex life I think I found a sex life.

  Just before dawn, I finally zonked.

  I blinked at the clock in the morning. Ten-thirty! I made myself two cups of killer Colombian roast before even venturing into the shower. I needed to be awake to maintain my new upper hand on Cayla and Brandon.

  At eleven, I almost tripped over Josey and Kostas in my living room. Maps and paper covered the floor. Tolstoy was right in there, fraternizing with the enemy.

  It surprised me to see Kostas, wedged into my wingback, like he planned to stay for a while. It surprised me even more to see Josey.

  “Oh hi, you’re up,” she said.

  “Don’t even pretend this isn’t a school day. Didn’t Mrs. Lamontagne get you on the bus?” Part of me took a certain satisfaction in thinking Hélène might not be able to handle Josey.

  “It’s Sunday.”

  I lifted my third cup of coffee and attempted to reconnect my dignity. “I knew that.”

  Then it hit me. The locks had been changed. So...?

  “Exactly how did you get in?”

  “It’s easy enough, isn’t it?” Josey said.

  “But this is a brand new lock with a deadbolt.”

  She shrugged. “You just gotta know how.”

  I gurgled with annoyance.

  “It’s been done before, you know,” Josey said. “How else do you think Mr. Kelly ended up in your...”

  “Good morning, dear lady.” Kostas twinkled at me, as if he were oblivious to the acrimony. “Got the aould heap going,” he said, pointing through the window to the sagging green car.

  “Terrific.”

  “You want some breakfast?” Josey asked.

  Breakfast would require an absence of butterflies in the stomach. I declined.

  “Oh, and I brought in the mail. It’s been sitting there since Friday. Looks like you got a cheque here, must be from that article you wrote this summer. That’s good, isn’t it?”

  I wasn’t sure if it was appropriate to reward the raiding of my mailbox and the checking of my cheques by saying thank you. On the other hand, I’d been too distracted to collect the mail from the end of the week.

  “And wait until yis hear our plan of action for the scattering ceremony,” Kostas said. “It’s grand.”

  Right. The scattering could not be anything but miserable. But I slumped in the beanbag chair and listened.

  The latest idea was to have Miss Mary Morrison say a few words about one of her favourite pupils. “She’ll be thrilled. Indeed, it should perk her right up.”

  I nodded. I knew Mary Mor
rison would like the ceremony and with any luck would lend it a bit of dignity.

  “So,” said Josey, “this is what we’d like to see happen. I hope you don’t mind, we went ahead and planned it.”

  I gulped a bit more coffee. “Not in the least,” I said.

  “Good,” Josey said, on her way to the kitchen. “Okay, maybe Kostas can explain what we worked out.”

  “Certainly, my dear girl, certainly. And let me say you have been of invaluable assistance in helping to plan for the event.”

  Josey glowed. “We picked the spot. Kostas knows it, and so do I. It’s at the top of a grassy hill. You can see the woods, and they’ll be beautiful this time of year...”

  “If it doesn’t rain,” I grumped.

  “And, dear lady, you can see the river, and yet yer fringed by these wonderful trees. Marc-André used to live near there. He agrees that’s where Benedict would want to be tossed to rest.”

  I stopped sipping my coffee and started rubbing my temples. Marc-André might be God’s gift to romance writers, but since when was he in charge of deciding where Benedict was going to spend his last moments as an entity? It promised to be a rough morning.

  It got rougher.

  “First, I’ll put the word out to everyone to tell them we’ve decided where to hold this scattering ceremony.” His tiny blue eyes managed to be twinkling and sincere at the same time.

  I gazed back at him. He didn’t slip on either the twinkling or the sincere fronts. I couldn’t figure out what the hell he wanted from me. “I’m sure it will be tasteful,” I lied. People everywhere, shouting, drinking, crying, spewing poetry. But there was no point in arguing, since everyone who had ever known Benedict most likely had already been informed. Josey would have taken care of filling in St. Aubaine.