Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle

by Mary Jane Maffini

  I broke a finger nail opening it.

  “Is it...?” Josey said.

  “Yes! Lots and lots of lovely moolah.”

  “Jeez.”

  The van doors slammed behind us.

  We stood there stunned, then I gradually felt my way to the door and tried to open it. No luck. Someone had wedged it shut.

  A minute later, I heard the screech of tearing metal. My head thumped a bar on the side. Josey bellowed.

  “Someone’s ramming us!”

  It took a minute before I could see straight, but then I had barely enough light to make out Josey clutching her knee. Her face was pinched in pain.

  “Josey, are you...?”

  “It’ll be okay, Miz Silk. Just dinged it on the car.”

  She bit her lower lip, and her face couldn’t have been whiter if she’d dipped it in a flour bin. Ding, my fanny. She was going to need a doctor for that knee.

  “But what about you, Miz Silk? Your head’s bleeding.”

  Oh, good, that meant we were alive for the moment.

  Rain battered the chip van. Overhead, seagulls screamed. The back door was jammed. How long before Paulie Pound would head down this way? Months? Years?

  The van shook again with a crash. Tolstoy scrambled and barked.

  “What if they shove it into the quarry?” Josey said.

  “No chance. Whoever it is wants this money. And they will want it nice and dry.” I sounded a lot more convinced than I felt, considering how close we were to the edge. I tucked the envelope under my shirt. “I think they’re trying to knock us off the blocks.”

  What kind of a lunatic would ram their car into the chip wagon? That gave rise to other questions.

  “Josey, do you think that some of these abandoned vehicles could be hotwired?”

  “Are you kidding? Paulie would have stripped the engines out of them long ago. There’s nothing worthwhile at this end of the yard.”

  I managed to get over to the side of the van with the broken window. Carefully, using the tarpaulin to protect my hands, I lifted out pieces of glass, as Josey sat clutching her damaged knee. “We have to crawl out,” I said.

  “I can’t. I can’t move my knee.” Tears trickled down her cheeks. “Why is this happening?”

  But at least whoever was ramming us had stopped. Hoping like hell whoever that was didn’t know about Josey and Tolstoy, I squeezed through the window to run for help.

  Thirty

  She held the revolver steady as she got out from behind the wheel of Marc-André’s beautiful Beemer, now with its front end seriously crumpled, and approached the side of the van. Her ankle must have hurt like hell, but somehow I thought she had other things on her mind.

  “Bridget!” I shrank back against the side of the van.

  She smiled, but I didn’t like the cold light behind her smile. “Tell her to get out.”

  “She can’t,” I said. “She’s hurt her knee. She needs a doctor.”

  Bridget laughed. “A doctor?”

  “Leave her alone. She has nothing to do with any of this.”

  “Shut up,” Bridget said. “It’s time for Benedict’s lost love of a lifetime to join him. But first, I’ll have that money.”

  Hatred twisted her lips and eyebrows. Everything that had been beautiful about Bridget had vanished.

  Rain slapped at our faces and drenched our hair. I didn’t have to know anything about guns to know the one Bridget gripped with both hands meant serious business.

  “I was never Benedict’s lost love. But I am your friend.”

  Her clothes were soaked and her hair plastered to her head.

  “Friend,” she spat.

  I reached out to her. The twitch of the gun made me jerk my hand back.

  I met her eyes. “I can imagine what you went through.”

  “Can you? I loved that little shit for more than thirty years. Every time he got drunk, he’d cry about you or some other lost love. What did I get? Taken for granted, ignored, betrayed.” The muscles on her jaw knotted. “Do you know what happened after all that time?”

  I shook my head, and water sluiced down my neck. But I did know. I could read it on her white face, in her burning eyes. Bridget’s love had mixed with twenty years of laundry and vomit and bailouts and lies. It had twisted into hate.

  “Bridget,” I said, “I understand.”

  “No. You do not understand,” she shrieked. “Have you ever made your lover’s bed and found some other woman’s panties?”

  She was right. I wouldn’t have handled that well.

  “That wasn’t the worst of it. I got used to the women. He needed variety and excitement. Even so, I believed he and I were it forever, and the other women would come and go. But the bastard,” she said, gasping for the words, “the bastard...”

  I shook, soaking wet, silhouetted against the sheer grey rocks and dead cars, a target for her rage against a dead man.

  “I didn’t fit into his plans. I was good for laundry and cheques and making excuses to his friends. I was good enough to praise him and his idiot poetry. But not good enough to share the Flambeau money.” The hand holding the revolver trembled.

  “Oh, Bridget,” I said.

  “But you didn’t know that, did you?”

  I shook my head.

  “Only Abby knew. He told her when they were in bed.”

  “But...”

  “Oh yes, I heard him. In his squalid little hovel. He was supposed to have been in Kingston giving a lecture on poetry at Queen’s University. ‘Integrity and the Irish poet’, he called his talk. Isn’t that a laugh? I wanted him to have something to eat when he got back, so I went to his place.”

  Her eyes glazed. “The Queen’s lecture was a lie like all the other times. I heard them talking and laughing. About the Flambeau money. About what they’d do with it.”

  Behind me, I heard Josey moving inside the van. Or maybe it was Tolstoy.

  “I waited, you know, for him to tell me. How I wouldn’t have to spend eighty hours a week on my business any more, always scared this would be the week I couldn’t cover costs. He never mentioned sharing the money with me. Never mentioned me at all. That’s when I knew I hated him.” Her words echoed over the quarry.

  “And you had Dougie kill him?” “That was a mistake. Dougie was an idiot and overheated as always. Like a walking time bomb. I wanted him to shake the story out of Benedict. Tell us where the money was. Not to kill him, at least not then.”

  “Right,” I said.

  “Such a shame about poor Benedict,” Bridget laughed. Bridget laughing was creepier than Bridget sneering or crying.

  “But Dougie always despised Benedict, didn’t he?” I said, playing for time.

  “Oh, he did. Very much. Just hurt him, I said, enough to find out where he’s stashed it, but don’t let the beating show on his face.”

  “And he couldn’t stop.”

  She shrugged. “Benedict taunted him. Dougie blew a fuse. I can’t say I felt sorry that Benedict died. I enjoyed watching Dougie work him over. I hated to leave for my bridge game, but lucky I did. Couldn’t have had a better alibi when I needed one.”

  Bridget swayed in the rain, laughing loudly at the memory.

  My stomach knotted.

  “It was a damned nuisance, because we still didn’t know where the money was hidden. That’s where you came in.”

  “You put Benedict’s body in my bed.”

  “Dougie did the labour. I was the artistic director. I stagemanaged the whole thing from the pay phone in the Emergency Ward. Did a lovely job too. Wasn’t it a wonderful image? That champagne and the rose? The little smile on his face? I’m so sorry I didn’t get to see the finished product.”

  “How did you know I was out?” Stall, stall.

  “Don’t be stupid, Fiona. This is St. Aubaine.”

  “How did Dougie get in?” Keep stalling.

  “There isn’t a lock made that Dougie couldn’t get through. If he could have
been counted on not to make some stupid mistake once he was in, he could have made a bundle.”

  “But it had to be you who left the note in Benedict’s cabin.”

  “Of course.”

  “But why me?”

  “They always figure it’s the nearest and dearest in the death of a loved one. I had to provide a distraction. I thought of little old ‘lost love’ you. Lucky me, I found the thank-you note you wrote me for ordering those Irish coffee glasses. I stuck in a couple of extra x’s and o’s, Dougie popped it over to Benedict’s place, and there you go, evidence.”

  It made as much sense as anything else. Behind me, I heard Josey softly rustling inside the van. Was there anything she could do to save herself and Tolstoy?

  “So, no insurance?”

  “Of course not. I can’t believe you were that stupid.”

  “And those bequests from Benedict?”

  Her smile came straight from the heart of a glacier.

  “To bring out the people I didn’t know about. I knew Benedict hadn’t carried this off by himself. And I figured Abby didn’t know where the money was. She was too stupid to keep something like that from slipping. Dougie was to follow you. The answer had to be with someone connected with Benedict somehow. I figured the ones you brought gifts to would tell you about others and sooner or later the ones who knew about the money would reveal themselves. And Dougie could chat with them. And it worked. See?”

  “That’s why there was nothing for Marc-André. You didn’t even know he existed,” I whispered.

  “I knew some bloody poet somewhere cooked up that book. It was just a matter of time until he crawled out to get the cash.”

  “And Rachel,” I said, “what part did she play in it?”

  A snort. “Silly cow. She’s always done everything I asked her to. Gullible as they come. I told her to keep quiet about Dougie.”

  I exhaled slowly. I could figure out what was coming next.

  “So that’s it,” she said. “And now you’ve done what I hoped you might. So, I guess I don’t need you any more.”

  Josey. Would she feel a bullet after I did? Did you even live long enough to feel them? Somehow I managed to keep the fear out of my voice.

  “But, of course,” I said, “I think you’ll be at some risk when they find my body. After all, you arranged for me to hold the scattering, you knew all the victims, Benedict, Abby. And me. Rachel’s talking to the police now.”

  “Do you have any idea how deep this quarry is? They’ll never find your body. Most likely they’ll think you found the money and ran.”

  I was running out of stall tactics. Behind me, Josey tapped at the van wall.

  “So, Fiona, I’ll be simply devastated when I hear the news of your duplicity. After I stood by you through everything.” She raised the gun.

  I tried not to wet my pants.

  The mocking smile set off fireworks in my head. Did Dougie have to be the only time bomb? Why did I never get to be a time bomb? Bridget had her back to the quarry. If I were going to die, could I at least take her with me?

  My hands clenched and unclenched behind my back. My mind raced. A straightforward body tackle might do the trick. It wouldn’t take much to tip Bridget into the pit behind her.

  Keep talking. “I suppose Abby was part of your plan.”

  Bridget sneered. “She was part of her own plan. To find the money. To get rid of you in the process, I imagine. Our little Abby became a wee bit unhinged, don’t you think?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Dougie and I worked out she was tracking you because she suspected you had the money, but she was so overcome by jealousy, she had to harm you. She couldn’t control herself.”

  “But why was she so jealous of me?”

  Bridget chuckled. “That was the funny thing about it. You see, the only three people in the world who really knew Benedict wasn’t in your bed when he died were Dougie, me and you. The idea of Benedict spending his last night with you really tortured her, so that had its satisfactions. But she became a liability.”

  “And so you had her killed?”

  Bridget shrugged. “Dougie killed her. After that craziness at the Findlay Falls, we couldn’t take a chance she might actually do you in while you might still be useful to us.”

  I couldn’t believe Bridget would plan to spend the rest of her life with old ticking time bomb Dougie.

  “Were you planning to get rid of Dougie in the end?”

  “Of course.” The icy smile emerged again. “Once he’d served his purpose. Dougie was dangerous and greedy, and I didn’t want to split the money with him. I’ve had enough of men taking more than their share. Lucky for me, someone else finished him off.”

  I worked to control my shivering. “You couldn’t trust Dougie, but you can trust me. I don’t have anything to do with the money.”

  She laughed again. “Very good. But, of course, I can’t trust you in the least. Even if you weren’t carrying that Jiffy bag, you know too much. I’m always cleaning up after other people, it seems. And now...”

  A shout distracted Bridget. Rachel’s voice rang out.

  “Bridget! Dear God, no. Don’t shoot her!”

  Bridget jerked towards the sound. At first my heart soared.

  Bridget couldn’t shoot Josey and me in front of Rachel. But it didn’t take long to conclude that there was a point beyond which Bridget had nothing to lose.

  Bridget raised the revolver and pointed it in Rachel’s direction. Rachel stopped moving.

  “No,” she screamed.

  I lunged for the pile of scrap metal searching for something to use as a weapon. I grabbed the first thing I spotted in the scrap pile. A crumpled hub cap. Except for the weight, it felt like a Frisbee, the one thing I could throw with some accuracy. I aimed towards Bridget and hurled the hub cap as hard as I could. It struck her chest with enough force to knock her backwards. She whipped around and teetered on her bad ankle. It didn’t stop her from firing off a wild shot at me. Her second bullet ricocheted off a pile of rusted metal in Rachel’s direction.

  “Get away, Rachel,” I yelled.

  Bridget lurched behind a truck carcass. She raised her arm again toward Rachel.

  “Stupid interfering bitch. Will I never get rid of you?” The next bullet pinged off the truck door.

  I searched for something else to use against Bridget. A rearview mirror!

  “Bridget. Oh, God, no, Bridget, how can you say such things?” Rachel stumbled toward Bridget, wailing. “You know how I feel about you.”

  I prayed Rachel would stop worrying about Bridget’s affections and get herself out of the line of fire.

  Bridget whirled and fired in my direction. The shot connected with a rusted-out station wagon ten feet away. She twisted back to Rachel and raised the revolver, holding it straight with both hands.

  As I flung the rearview mirror at Bridget, the revolver fired. I heard a jagged scream from Rachel as she lurched behind a pile of tires.

  Bridget lowered her gun. I snatched up a stickshift and lobbed it. Bridget’s presence filled my eyes and my mind. Another shot rang out, this time inches from my head. Bridget crouched and staggered closer. My knees shook. The blood pounding in my skull drowned out all other sound.

  I grabbed a broken steering wheel and aimed. And missed. Bridget’s eyes met mine. Without blinking, she raised the revolver, before I could stoop to find another projectile.

  Something that looked like a pair of binoculars flew from the van and smashed into Bridget’s knee. She squawked and crumpled. The gun flew out of her hand and landed in a heap of twisted metal parts.

  I lunged toward the gun. So did Bridget. I jerked into a crouch and jumped. A jagged bit of scrap metal gouged my thigh as I landed. The knifelike pain in my leg brought me to a stop, gasping. Tears stung my eyes, and I fought to catch my breath.

  Bridget inched toward the bumpers, her faced contorted.

  My head swam. I dragged myself toward her, reaching
out. Bridget edged forward.

  I grabbed a piece of metal bumper and hurled it. I heard a grunt from Bridget. I didn’t turn my head. I kept inching forward, focusing on the gun. Sharp metal bits cut my hands, but I reached the gun before Bridget. I collapsed on my belly with my arms extended, both hands clutching the weapon. Blood dripped from my shredded palms. Pain surged through my leg. I felt waves of nausea, and I tried not to retch.

  I levelled the gun at Bridget’s face. Blood and water dripped from my sleeves. My hands shook.

  I kept my mind on Rachel, probably dead or dying among the car bodies, and on Josey and Tolstoy trapped in the chip van.

  Bridget’s bruised and bloody face, full of hate and pain, swam in and out of focus. Her arm hung at a bizarre angle. She lurched two feet in my direction.

  Someone will come, someone will come. Don’t press the trigger, I told myself, no matter how much you want to. I was startled by how much I wanted to.

  The gun felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. I barely held on until I heard the sound of a siren. Josey’s faraway voice drifted from the van. “Don’t let go, Miz Silk.”

  Bridget watched with the eyes of a fox, waiting for the chickens to do something stupid.

  Flashing lights reflected now in the windows of the dead cars. Someone must have called the police. Possibly Paulie Pound, worried about losing some of his valuable scrap. In St. Aubaine, gunshots lead to phone calls.

  “You hang on, too,” I managed to shout.

  No one answered. Car doors slammed. Voices called.

  Bridget’s eyes met mine. I knew what she was thinking as she limped to the the edge of the quarry.

  “Bridget, don’t.”

  Nothing prepared me for the feeling as she stepped calmly off the edge.

  I lowered the gun and wept.

  Thirty-One

  Outside my little house, chill rain pelted the windows. With luck, soaking the latest tribe of media. Of course, they had nothing to complain about. Kostas had given them an excellent interview, covering mostly sweaters—with samples shown. He’d made a fine warm-up act for Woody. Liz had lounged in the background, looking remarkably wellpreserved.