Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle

by Mary Jane Maffini

  Mme Flambeau’s neck snapped back. “Pardon me, pet?”

  “The prize money. Too bad he never got it. Think of the happiness it would have bought.”

  “That’s the one good thing, pet. He did get the money.”

  “What do you mean? He did?”

  “Oh, yes. At least, he had a bit of joy and recognition.”

  “But the prize hadn’t been awarded when he died.”

  “He was in such a bad way. I didn’t have the heart to make him wait. He didn’t even have decent clothes to wear to the ceremony, poor boy. Or even enough money to come to Montreal.”

  “Oh, right. So...”

  “I gave him his cheque early. The ceremony would have been just a bit of show. He had his pride.”

  “Of course, that was very kind of you. Too bad he didn’t get a chance to cash it.”

  Her smile was radiant. Transforming. “Oh, pet, but he did cash it. Immediately. At least the poor boy had that.”

  Twenty-Eight

  I spent the trip home fanning myself peevishly and wondering if Mme Flambeau could have found out about Benedict and Abby. If yes, would she have been humiliated enough to kill him? By the time we hit St. Aubaine three hours later, I had to conclude that I couldn’t imagine Mme Flambeau as the killer, no matter how much provocation she might have had.

  Sarrazin was lying in wait when Cyril swung into my driveway. That took my mind off Mme Flambeau. Cyril duly noted the presence of the police on my doorstep. I could imagine the news would be all over St. Aubaine within the hour.

  It didn’t matter. I needed to speak to Sarrazin anyway, but after a six hour round trip in Cyril’s steam-mobile, I preferred to do it following a shower, a shampoo and a chilled, boozy drink.

  On the other hand, Tolstoy was thrilled to see Sarrazin.

  “I have something to tell you, but you’ll have to stand upwind,” I said, approaching the house.

  Cyril looked interested. Speaking in front of Cyril would be one way to make sure your every word was relayed to the immediate world. Probably enough to bring the media spilling back.

  “Goodbye, Cyril,” I said.

  Cyril pulled away, disappointment smearing his face. He spun a bit of gravel as he left.

  “Give me a minute,” I said.

  Without waiting for approval, I headed into the house, opened every window and put on the big fan in the living room. I filled Tolstoy’s bowl with cold water and took the last two Blues from the fridge, hoping Sarrazin would refuse one because he was on duty.

  “Nope. I’m not on duty,” he said.

  So if he wasn’t on duty, what did that mean besides one less Blue for me? Did it mean I wasn’t safe from his questions 24/7, twelve months a year, Christmas Day no exception? Unless I wanted to speak to him, in which case he would be stunningly unavailable.

  Even with my accrued resentments against Sarrazin, it wasn’t fair to park my smelly self next to him on the porch swing so I perched on the rail.

  “I imagine you’re here to tell me you’ve picked up Dougie Dolan before he kills someone else.” He shook his head. “Not this time.”

  “I can’t believe...”

  “Yeah, yeah. We’ll get him.”

  “Did you get a chance to talk to Rachel Kilmartin then? I think she knows something about Dolan. She may even be able to tell you where he is. The whole thing has to do with the Flambeau money. Here’s the big news. I’ve learned Benedict actually received that honking big cheque before his death. And what’s more, he cashed it.”

  “That a fact?”

  “Yes, it is. So the thing is, where’s this money? That’s what Dolan’s after. Maybe he killed Abby so she couldn’t get to it. Maybe the police are finally going to have to do something about it.”

  Through the open living room window I could hear the phone ring four times. The answering machine picked up.

  Sarrazin and I listened to Kostas’s message.

  “Sorry to have missed you, dear lady. But I wanted to let you know the good news. We’ll be celebrating Josey’s birthday tonight.”

  I wasn’t in any shape for a party. “Call our mutual friend for details.”

  Our mutual friend.

  It took an effort to turn my attention back to Sarrazin. He was picking the dead heads off the deep red daylilies by the porch.

  “You’re good friends with Mr. O’Carolan, I see.”

  “Yes, I am.” Even though I’d never even heard of the elderly elf two weeks earlier.

  “That’s why I came by.” Pick. Pick. Pick. “To discuss him.”

  No, it isn’t, you miserable picker, I thought. You came by because I had something to tell you, and I left a dozen messages, and now you realize that I’m an innocent victim not a perpetrator. “So what is it?”

  “So,” he said, “since you’re close to him, I guess I don’t need to tell you his real name, you’d already know it.”

  “Oh, absolutely.”

  I ran the water for my first long luxurious soak in weeks. Forget the shower. I tossed in Strawberry Secret bubble-bath, poured a healthy dose of Courvoisier into a snifter and added some ice.

  I put “Bolero” on the stereo and boosted the sound up to stun.

  As I stepped into the bath, secure in the knowledge Sarrazin was probably arresting Dolan at that very moment, I chuckled over the nonsense with Kostas’s name. Sarrazin was just getting back at me for leaving that nasty message at Dr. Duhamel’s.

  All this crap will soon be over, I told myself. Time to practice sexy thoughts. Think about Marc-André. It would pay off in the writing, if nothing else.

  But the current problem oozed its way back into my mind. So where was the money? In an account somewhere? I was pretty sure Sarrazin would check that out in the morning.

  Where had the late scamp cashed that cheque? It couldn’t have been in our village, where nothing is secret. I would have heard about that from one of the key news carriers, Woody or Cyril or even Gisèle at the Caisse Pop. So not in St. Aubaine.

  Of course, where was not as interesting as who. Who could have had that cash? Most logically, his loving “niece”, Abby. But Abby was dead. And now we had two hundred and fifty thousand reasons why that might be. Even the St. Aubaine police would have noticed all that cash on the crime scene, so forget the Jetta as the hiding place.

  Had Dougie Dolan snatched the money from her car or her apartment before the police got there? That might account for why he seemed to be keeping a low profile since Abby’s murder. He was probably tanning on the beach in Rio.

  Unless someone had snatched the money from him. Or snatched it from her first.

  Bridget wasn’t the only person who should have had a share in Benedict’s crooked good luck. What about Stella, raising those twins with Benedict’s face?

  What about the poet who really wrote While Weeping for the Wicked? What about Benedict’s old buddy and mentor, Kostas O’Carolan, with his roof falling down and his car on blocks? Oops, what about the fact Josey’s birthday party was that night, and I had only an hour before the stores closed?

  For some reason, my lovely bubbly bath felt chilly.

  The Chez was hopping, hot and crowded. It would have been a perfect spot for a birthday party if “Big Girls Don’t Cry” had not been playing on the juke box. Every chair, vinyl bench and stool in the restaurant was occupied. I spotted a lot of baseball caps. I wasn’t sure what kind of influence Kostas had exerted to get four booths set aside for us, but I hoped it was legal.

  Laughter boomed along with the cheerful crash of crockery from the kitchen. I was wearing cologne, although it was drowned by competing scents of sweat, tax-free cigarettes and plats chinois. I smiled into Marc-André Paradis’ eyes. The whole scene, and particularly the Marc-André part of it, took my mind off things.

  The numbers were growing. Kostas had recruited Marc André, Bridget, Stella minus her husband, and Hélène minus hers, Woody and Mary Morrison. Liz brought Natalie. Perhaps she was expecting t
hings to get out of hand. “Don’t worry,” Natalie said. “ He’ll get the message this time.”

  I could only assume she meant Philip.

  “While you’re at it, how good are you with bail jumpers?” I said.

  She shook her head. “Bad idea.”

  “Not me, someone else who might use your help.”

  Natalie made a face.

  Rachel had eluded the invitation, even though I’d banged on her door again on our way to the Chez. Maybe she’d already had a visit from the police. I could always check with the bearlike presence in the furthest booth.

  Josey was in her glory solemnly describing the night we’d spent in the cave. She made it sound colder, damper and more dangerous, the sort of thing movies are made of. You could almost hear the bullets whizzing past your ears. You could feel the furry spiders sidling up the inside of your pant legs. You could smell the decay and taste the blood from bitten lips.

  At our table, good humour ran high. Everyone was glad to be together. Kostas talked on about the fine people of St. Aubaine. Although with the racket in the restaurant, I could hardly hear a word.

  Mostly, I smiled moonily over my Blue at Marc-André.

  I smiled at Josey, too. Whenever her morose, round, freckled face swam into view. Birthday or not, Josey hadn’t smiled at anyone, not even Kostas, since she’d finished her sweater. I knew damn well a greasy spoon with a crowd of middle-aged drinkers wasn’t the best place to celebrate a fifteenth birthday.

  “Peggy Sue” chirped out of the juke box. Right after the chocolate sundaes and the lemon meringue pie, Kostas rose. “My dear, dear friends,” he said. “I notice your glasses are all full. May I suggest yis use them to toast to the health of a grand young person here among us.”

  Josey swivelled her head to spot the grand young person.

  “Someone we have grown fond of. A colleague of great courage and curiosity. A friend and an ally.”

  Not necessarily the words I would have chosen to describe anyone celebrating a birthday, but they did suit Josey.

  Three blue-haired ladies at the next booth were hanging on every word Kostas said. Mary Morrison glanced at them and leaned toward me with a whisper.

  “Some think he’s still quite the lad.”

  Kostas preened. The phrase “everybody has a sex life except you” took on enhanced meaning. His voice resonated as he extolled Josey’s virtues: honesty, hard work and the ability to deceive the police. It sunk to a seductive murmur: loyalty and quick thinking under fire.

  The ladies shot back three identical smiles.

  Kostas raised his pint. “Let’s hear yis. To Josey Thring,” he thundered, “a damn fine friend. Happy Birthday.”

  It nearly brought the roof down. Everyone in the Chez, including a few who were well past the point of standing, shouted Happy Birthday. Even total strangers hollered out, “To Josey, helluva friend” or “ Bonne fête, Josée”.

  Hélène broke into the French version of Happy Birthday. She was joined by a group at the bar.

  Josey’s eyes remained like portholes long after the rest of the crowd had lost interest in our celebration.

  “Open this first,” Mary said.

  Josey ogled the small wrapped gift without comprehension.

  “Open it,” I whispered.

  Inside, a small pewter rectangle with seagulls on it framed the photo of Josey and me taken on our first visit to Mary. “Thank you,” Josey said.

  “And now, a legacy from the O’Carolan clan to our friend Josey.” Kostas thrust a large, unwrapped packet of papers at Josey. “Here are my secrets of knitting, all of the traditional patterns, and many more I’ve designed and worked out meself. I’m passing them on to you because I know you have the talent to be an artist-in-wool and a passion for perfection, being a Virgo, and I can trust you to treat them with care and respect.” He slipped into his seat with a thud.

  Josey bit her lip. She reached out and touched the handwritten patterns, many on yellowed, crumbling paper.

  I swear her eyes teared up a bit when she opened Marc André’s package. A history of West Quebec, with some references to the Thring family, and a collection of topographical maps of the area with the best hiking trails highlighted in yellow.

  She could build an appetite hiking and then use Woody’s gift of a fistful of McDonald’s gift certificates.

  Even Liz had forked out for a complete set of tickets to the One Act Play Competition.

  Hélène knew Josey well enough to select a small handtooled red leather wallet with six compartments and matching address book, promising many happy hours of organizing.

  Josey fingered the four-leaf clover motif on the silver key chain from Bridget and flicked the 350 pages of Create Spectacular Crafts from Useless Junk and Bathtime Made Fun from Stella. Personally, I figured Stella’s offer of a secure home was the best present of all.

  My own gift, a pair of Bausch and Lomb binoculars in a leather case, seemed mundane in comparison to the others. Even if I’d had to add my emergency cash roll to the remains of my annuity cheque to pay for them. If Josey’s birthday gift wasn’t an emergency, I didn’t know what was. I’d considered myself lucky to get my foot through the door of the Outfitters Shop as the proprietor flipped the sign to F ERMÉ .

  “Thank you, everyone,” Josey said again. “I never thought I’d ever get beautiful gifts like this. I’ll never forget tonight.”

  Everyone found this speech to be exactly the right sentiment and length. But I was worried about Josey. Her skinny shoulders were stiff. Her mouth was clamped tight. Her hair stood in spikes. As she headed for the door with Stella, I reached out and touched her arm.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Please,” I said.

  “Really, everything’s great. It’s just that...” She goggled at me with those saucer eyes. “Jeez, I never had a birthday before. I’ve never even been invited to one. I’m not sure what you do when you get stuff like that. And everything.”

  I could understand. Probably the only birthdays Josey ever saw were on television. It made you think.

  “You were fine,” I said.

  Her shoulders relaxed. “I didn’t forget anything?”

  I shook my head.

  “Good.” Back in the Chez, somebody put on “It’s My Party”.

  Marc-André took my hand unobtrusively when I returned. I felt like nothing else could go wrong. But as they say, you don’t buy beer, you only rent it. It was only matter of time until I had to go to the ladies’ room.

  The setting felt warm and friendly. Safe. When Kostas headed for the men’s room, I toddled after him to the ladies’. Maybe I’d ask him if he’d ever had another name. For fun.

  “Where are you going?” Marc-André said.

  “Ladies’ room.”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s kind of away from things. Downstairs past the storage.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I said. “The place is crawling with people, and Kostas is just ahead of me.”

  I passed by Sarrazin’s table. “We had a word with Rachel Kilmartin. It’s only a matter of time till they locate Dolan,” Sarrazin said as I slipped by.

  Only when I rounded the corner towards the Hommes and Dames and couldn’t see Kostas anywhere, did it occur to me that maybe I should have dragged Marc-André along. With all those people around, how could the hallway be so empty now?

  I hesitated. How stupid, really. An almost-forty-five-yearold woman could not go back and ask a man to accompany her for a pee break. I straightened my shoulders and lifted my head high. The back corridor smelled of mildew and cats. The air felt cold and damp enough to give me goose bumps. I tried to reassure myself the scuffling noises in the storage area were only rodents. With a strong sense of unease, I scurried into the Dames and flicked on the lights. My dog might have helped, but he was outside panhandling for French fries.

  I don’t mind admitting I checked all three cubicles. I locked the doo
r of my chosen cubicle and braced my foot against it.

  You’re a dope, I told myself minutes later as I gripped the sink. Why didn’t you wait and walk over with a group of women?

  I peered through the door into the hallway, hoping I hadn’t missed Kostas on his way back. If only someone in the crowd would answer the call of nature.

  I felt a wild surge of relief when I saw Marc-André stride into the hallway towards the men’s room. The relief ended with the flash of an arm behind his head.

  “Shut up or I’ll pull the trigger. You better believe it.” I’d never heard his voice before, but I knew it had to be Dougie Dolan. And I believed what I heard. I drew in my breath when they passed the door. Dougie Dolan was strong-arming a struggling Marc-André. I caught a glimpse of the gun pressed to his temple. My heart ricocheted around my chest. I shrank back behind the door.

  Through the crack in the door, I could see Dolan direct Marc-André into the storage room. Out of sight. My breath was ragged and loud. Dolan would most likely kill Marc André if no one did anything. And no one else knew anything needed to be done. Screaming was out of the question. Nobody but Dolan would hear. And Dolan had a gun.

  Across the hall, glass crashed on the floor. I had no weapon, and Marc-André was in serious trouble. I didn’t even have my carryall, which might have packed a mean punch. I stumbled around searching for something to help Marc-André until I spotted the toilet tank lid. Why not?

  I decided to make a run for the stairs to get help.

  The scuffling stopped inside the storage area. I tiptoed past with the toilet tank lid raised above my head, just in case.

  “I want that Flambeau money. Tell me where it is, you little bastard. Tell me where it is.”

  “What are you talking about? I’m telling you, I don’t know anything about it.”

  More glass shattered. Fumes from cleaning fluid filled the air. He had guts, that Marc-André.

  “I finished that pig Benedict, and I’ll do you with a smile on my face if you don’t tell me where it is.”

  I couldn’t hear Marc-André’s words.