“Uh, perhaps you didn’t hear me. There are no ashes.”
“My dear people, there are two things we must consider. One, half of West Quebec is already coming to this ceremony. Two, these ashes are merely a symbol of Benedict.”
“A symbol?” I squawked. “They’re more than a symbol. They’re him. They’re all that’s left of him.”
“So, Kostas, you’re saying the more important thing is the symbol?” Josey said.
“Benedict would have really loved the idea of a mob of people giving him a last goodbye, no matter what, dear lady.”
“Knowing the man, I would agree,” Marc-André said.
I slumped against the exact replica. What nonsense was this? “Won’t half of West Quebec notice the lack of ashes?”
“Ashes are ashes, dear lady. And they’re not hard to come by. Everyone has a wood-burning stove.”
“But that’s not at all...” I sputtered.
“In short, we’ll get some other ashes and scatter them. Who will know?” Kostas beamed at his new idea.
“Just us and the guy who stole them,” Josey said.
“Exactly, dear ladies, exactly.”
Our first stop would be Miss Mary Morrison’s. With Kostas as our navigator, we zigged across the back country roads in what seemed to me to be a random pattern. Even a skilled tracker would have had trouble tracing us.
Josey sat in the back seat with Tolstoy. It gave her more room to spread out her expanding knitting project. Her needles clicked. Kostas gave her his attention.
“Watch yer tension, me dear, that’s the secret of fine knitting. If ya wish to become an artist-in-wool, yer stitches must be smooth and even, showing a serene soul.”
Nothing I needed to worry about. I imagined Marc-André and how nice it would be when all this stuff with Benedict was sorted out and we could...
Josey shouted. “Kostas.”
Was it a knitting crisis? I kept my eyes on the road.
“I see it again,” Josey said.
This time I whirled around. “What? You saw what?”
Josey’s face had turned milk-white, her giant freckles on full alert.
“The little car that hit you. The guy with the red baseball cap. The one that shot at us.”
I stared back at an empty road. “I can’t see anybody.”
A white Jetta popped over the hill behind us. I stood on the brakes. “Just a quick look at his face, then we boot it,” I said. I knew he had a gun, and he liked to pull the trigger.
I strained to see in the rearview mirror. “Okay, time to make tracks,” I said.
I made a 270˚ turn at the first crossroad. We bounced along a road designed only for the hardier varieties of bear. I raced through the thick overhang which closed behind us like a dripping green curtain.
Josey squinted through the rear window for signs of pursuit. We shot out of the cow path and onto a dirt road.
“We lost him!”
I said, “Her. We lost her.”
Josey’s eyes shone like new hub caps. “What do you mean, her?”
“The cellphone, Kostas,” I said.
I keyed in Sarrazin’s number. I didn’t need to look it up any more.
Josey raised her voice. “We have a right to know who you saw, Miz Silk.”
“Right,” I said as Sarrazin’s voice mail answered. “News flash. The guy in the baseball cap who has been following us is none other than Abby. Abby Lake.”
Twenty-Three
She had her colour back and some pep in her step. Mary Morrison didn’t let break, enter and theft slow her down for long, particularly since she was no longer being pressured to leave her home. And she seemed glad to see us, even at nine in the evening.
“Come in, come in. You’re just in time for a snack.” She pointed to a heaping plate of raspberry squares and a pot of tea.
“Neighbours. You were right, of course, they’re not about to let me down. The young lads down the road have been taking turns sleeping here. And there’s four of them, they won’t even wear out soon. Won’t take a thing for it either. They’re exactly like their father was when I taught him thirty years ago.”
“So you’re okay?” Josey said.
“Indeed, and you’ll be coming to the scattering ceremony we’re planning for poor aould Benedict?” Kostas said.
“A ceremony for Benedict? I wouldn’t miss it.”
“And you won’t have to move?” Josey asked.
“I managed to calm the nephews for a wee bit.”
“Move? Sweet Jazus,” Kostas blurted. “What a shame. To have to leave a lovely house like this, my dear lady, it breaks me heart. And me with me roof falling in. Sure, there must be a way to keep ya here safe enough on a permanent basis.”
“Yes,” said Josey, stroking her upper lip thoughtfully, “there must be.”
“Miss Morrison,” I said, “I hope you won’t find this distressing. Do you remember there was someone in one of your stolen photos I wanted to identify? Who else might remember the names of all the boys who went to school with Benedict?” At the back of my mind, I wondered if we should bother to pursue the angle of the large man now that we had Abby Lake fingered.
“Someone who might remember all the boys? Maybe, my dear, maybe it wouldn’t even be necessary. My head’s a bit clearer now that I don’t have to pack up my home. I was in a bit of shock the first time you asked. Which lad was it?”
“In the same class photo as Benedict. A tall, chunky boy with dark eyes, a little downward slant to them and a wide strong face, heavy cheekbones.” Probably a waste of time describing someone she’d taught thirty years earlier. What were the chances his name would pop up as a result of my description? “His hair was dark then. But he might bleach it now.”
“Oh, dear, that would be Dougie,” she said, without hesitation. “Dougie Dolan.”
“Dougie Dolan?” Somehow that didn’t sound threatening. “Who else could it be? Look for trouble, and you’ll find Dougie. What did he get up to now?”
A truly gratifying reaction. Whatever this Dougie Dolan had morphed into as an adult, it wasn’t a pillar of the community.
“Is he another scamp?”
“Much more than a scamp, I’m afraid.”
“He appears to be following us. We don’t know why.”
“Something in it for him, I’d say. Always wanted something for nothing, even as a child. Now he’s after the easy money.”
“He’s always after easy money?”
“Oh, definitely. If Dougie Dolan had spent half the energy on legitimate activities, like a job, as he did trying to get rich quick, he’d be living in a castle. I’m sure of it.”
“Bit of a lad, is he?” asked Kostas.
“A bad hat. Don’t you know him, Kostas?”
“Heard of him, of course.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“And Benedict. Did he stay in touch with Benedict?” I asked.
“I don’t believe so, dear. They weren’t the best of friends, even as children.”
“They didn’t like each other?”
“Hated each other. Benedict always made the mischief, and Dougie always took the blame.”
“That isn’t fair,” Josey said.
Mary shrugged. “Dougie Dolan got away with plenty himself.”
“Miss Morrison, would Dougie Dolan have known about your photos?” I asked.
“Of course. Everyone knew about them. Why?”
“I think he may have stolen them so we couldn’t identify him.”
“Oh, good,” she said, her eyes lighting up.
“Good?” I almost dropped my raspberry square. “Why good?”
“Because, knowing Dougie, he’ll not have destroyed them. He’ll hang on to them in case they come in handy sometime. He might even present them back to me and expect a reward or something. Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Good. That’s a relief. We know who he is now. I was afraid he might be someone dangerous.”
Mary Morrison’s eyes widened. “Oh, but he is dangerous. Quite dangerous.”
We drove the rest of the way home without a sign of Abby. Or Dolan. Josey was stashed at Hélène’s place for the night, although the long-term prospects didn’t look good. Kostas was tucked in the wingback in front of the fire with the tail end of a bottle of Jameson and a smile on his face.
It had been a while since I’d felt that throb in my leg, so I had a smile on my face too. Tolstoy and I had spent a happy fifteen minutes with the Frisbee in the back yard. I came back in with a clear head and ignored the flashing light on the answering machine (almost certainly more bleating from Phillip). In turn, I left a message about Dougie Dolan for Sarrazin. For good measure, I left another message with the Flambeau Foundation, not that they’d returned my first call. I was going to be much happier when Hélène tracked down the very elusive Mme Flambeau.
I retired to my study to sort out my life with pencil and paper. I felt grateful for the solitude, even though it meant not gazing wistfully at Marc-André Paradis or listening to the finer points of knitting technique.
Tolstoy opted for the fire with Kostas.
I listed the sequence of relevant events in a column:
-Benedict’s death.
-His placement in my bed, with his little glued-on smile.
-The attempt to run me down.
-The yellow-haired man, now known as Dougie Dolan,
following us in Hull, St. Aubaine and all around West Quebec.
-The break-in at my house.
-The Findlay Falls, where we’d been shot at.
-The Skylark being vandalized. The theft of the books and Benedict’s ashes.
-The slashing of my clothes.
-The spotting of Abby in the Jetta.
I examined the column critically. Could Abby Lake have been involved in all those things? What was her motivation?
Time for a bit of logic rather than blanket assumption. Not that logic is my strong point.
First, Benedict’s death. Abby had been in love with him, but then so had a lot of people. Had she been jealous enough to kill him over one or more of his numerous infidelities?
Whoever killed Benedict had to have known about our relationship, such as it had been, much earlier. Had that been what tipped Abby into crazed behavior? Or was she pursuing me because she believed I’d killed her lover?
I chewed on the end of my pencil.
Benedict had died of a broken neck. Something that could have occurred by accident, even in an argument with a jealous woman. A few too many drinks, a shouting match, an accidental slam into the furniture, a fall down the stairs. It made sense.
And Abby with her strong, lean body, the product of weight training and years of dancing, would have had the strength to lift him, to dump him in her car, and to deposit him in my bed. She could have done it by herself.
Here the logic collapsed a bit. Two problems: one, would Benedict stand there while Abby beat him? She hadn’t looked like she’d been in a fight when I saw her at the Memorial. Two, why would Abby choose my bed?
I doodled a little bit with the pencil.
Unless. Since Benedict had been foolish enough to call me the lost love of his life in front of Bridget, maybe he’d dribbled out something like that to Abby. Knowing Benedict, he could have been foolish enough all right.
Could it have sent her over the edge?
For a woman who’d snapped, what better revenge than to lay her dead lover’s body in the bed of the woman he’d dangled in front of her nose. And Krazy Glue a smile on his two-timing slimy face. She’d get the double effect of casting the suspicion as far away as possible—from her to me. Poetic justice.
For insurance, she could fake a little note in what looked like my handwriting and leave it for the police to find in Benedict’s cabin. That would ensure no one believed I wasn’t in touch with him.
It all hung together. I figured Abby’s residual jealousy could have given her a motivation to follow me around waiting for a chance to do a bit more damage. Perhaps she didn’t think I was miserable enough, perhaps she was jealous of all the publicity, perhaps she hated the idea that I was the Queen of the Scattering. So why not try to run me over? While I was enjoying nature at the Findlay Falls, why not take a few shots at me? Even if she missed, there’d still be tons of satisfaction. Even if I managed to stay alive, she could always pound the bejesus out of my car and slash my clothes. And reclaim Benedict’s ashes.
Yes. I had it figured out. Except for how Abby had duplicated my handwriting and just where Dougie Dolan fit in, but it would all fall into place sooner or later. If I could avoid getting shot, run over or arrested.
Suffused with good feeling over having sorted out the whole mess, I tiptoed past Kostas and Tolstoy, both softly snoring, and headed to the washing machine for a night-cap.
I was smiling into the snifter when I remembered to check my messages. Three waspish calls from Liz with important information about injections for spider veins. A long spew from Philip in which you could practically hear his jaw spasms all the way from Salt Lake City. Normally, it would have bothered me. But perspective is all. I’d been shot at, burgled and corpsed, so dealing with Phillip was a piece of cake. Maybe there was hope for that settlement.
On the down side, I didn’t like the tone of Sarrazin’s returned message. He didn’t out and out say so, but he implied it was certainly convenient for me, prime suspect numero uno, to finger other likely candidates, but I shouldn’t seriously expect him to waste five minutes on it. I couldn’t wait until he heard the one about Dougie Dolan.
Of course, I may have been projecting. Either way, it was time for Goldilocks to meet Papa Bear again. Not that I was nervous, or clumsy or inept or anything, but Aunt Kit’s antique brandy snifter did slip from my hands. The fragrance of Courvoisier filled the house.
Kostas sniffed and opened his eyes.
Cayla stared at Brandon as if she’d never seen him before. She didn’t call him darling, chookums, or lambibun. The colour of her face went from chalk white to puce and finally settled on a fishbelly shade of pale green.
“You,” she sputtered, “you dope, you ox, you klutz, you bozo, you big, dumb twit. You DOORKNOB.”
Brandon raised his chin with dignity. He’d been noticing lately that Cayla had a tendency to let an unappealing little stream of drool dribble down the side of her mouth when she ranted.
“Do you, do you know what you’ve done? Idiot.”
Brandon decided the fishbelly green shade did nothing for Cayla’s complexion, which he’d always considered a bit sallow.
“That snifter belonged to my mother,” Cayla shrieked. “It’s been in our family for...”
“One generation,” Brandon interjected, unwisely as it turned out.
“The least you could do is pay attention to what I’m saying, since you have more or less wrecked my belongings.”
Brandon wanted to say it was only a snifter and a profoundly unattractive one, but the moment didn’t seem right somehow.
“You know what you are? You know what you are, Brandon?” He watched her and held his breath. As long as she didn’t say it. As long as she didn’t say...
“Clumsy,” she screamed, “clumsy, clumsy, clumsy.”
Brandon jerked in pain. He stayed silent for a full minute, feeling the deep wound. “Most people,” he said, finally, “most people would have said movementally challenged. But I see, Cayla, you are not most people.”
She stood amid the shattered shards of the snifter, which gleamed sharply in the moonlight. She wished she could take back her words, but it was too late.
Tears stung her eyes, and the back of her throat ached as she watched Brandon walk away, head held high, stumbling only briefly over the ottoman.
I read the words on the screen and shook my head in disbelief. What tripe. That’s what you get for trying to write in the middle of the night without a drink in your hand. I shut off the computer, climbed back
into bed and flicked off the light, knowing it would mean returning to my dreams.
Dreams in which I had to choose between marrying Marc André Paradis or being arrested by Sarrazin, both of whom were laid out in fine mahogany coffins, with the white of the fleur-de-lis repeating nicely on the blue satin linings. Dreams in which Benedict spouted vile poetry to me from his urn. Dreams in which I used Josey’s knitting needles to protect the three of us against a crazed Abby Lake. Dreams from which I jerked awake every ten minutes from three until seven.
At seven I tried closing my eyes again. A troubling idea kept them popping open. Dougie Dolan had already looked familiar in the Acura following us and again when I saw him in the Britannia. He’d been cleaned up, but eventually even I had figured out he was the same big blonde panhandler we’d seen in front of Rachel’s bed and breakfast. So that left a problem.
Rachel had looked right at that man. She’d shouted at him to go away. If I’d spotted him after a couple of quick glimpses, no way she wouldn’t have recognized him as the boy she went to school with.
Rachel. Our friend. Miss Hospitality. So why hadn’t she mentioned Dougie Dolan when I’d asked her about the boy in the picture?
Twenty-Four
Hélène sounded embarrassed. “I am so sorry, Fiona. But Jean-Claude has already called this morning, and he was not pleased to learn Josée spent the night here. We must find another solution. He will be home tonight. And even if he wasn’t...”
She didn’t have to finish the sentence. Let’s just say that Hélène, for all her sterling qualities, had never been known to defy the lord of the manor. And Jean-Claude Lamontagne hadn’t squished his competition in real estate development by being cute and cuddly.
“Will you be able to find a good place for her?”
“Of course. Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I’ll think of something.” I detected no sign of frostiness in Hélène’s voice—that was good. Too bad my Plan B for Josey, Rachel Kilmartin, had slipped badly in the ratings. That reminded me that, while I had no intention of leaving Josey there, I needed to speak to Rachel. For some reason, Rachel wasn’t answering her phone. That couldn’t be good for business. I left a detailed message. A lot of the detail concerned Dougie Dolan and my opinion of Rachel for keeping him a secret.
Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle Page 39
