Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle (2 page)

Get a grip, I told myself. That creep is the least of your problems.

Sometimes when things go bad, you need some kind of fix. And your dog does too. I pulled off at Tulip Valley and turned right. My best friend, Tolstoy, was suffering greatly from the heat wave. That's the downside of being a white purebred with a Siberian heritage. You're not so adaptable when the temperature hits 32°C, and the humidex breaks local records. As poor Tolstoy was hiding out in my basement, waiting for me to return and the heat wave to lift, I thought some Peanut Butter Dog Delights might improve his spirits. And the stop might take my mind off my troubles. I chugged onto the 105 and drove south again past Les Fougères toward my favourite
bakery: La Boulangerie Suki. Inside, the scent of cinnamon, chocolate, vanilla and fresh pastry was enough to lift my mood. Suki handed over a large bag of the doggie treats. I also figured if I nibbled my way through one of those remarkable slices of chocolate Kahlua pound cake, code name Sex and Serotonin, I might be a better driver—in fact, a better human being. It was worth breaking my last twenty.

Slapping that on the counter reminded me that I wouldn't have been down to that last twenty if my ex-husband hadn't been hanging me out to dry on our property split. My friends had been telling me for years that I was a pushover for Philip. I'd been promising myself to stand up to him. I was getting better. He was getting worse.

Once I left Suki's, I pulled out my cell phone to give him yet another call to suggest he quit stalling and just get it over with. Of course, he's a lawyer, and a successful one at that, so there wasn't much hope that I could scare him. But you can't rule out the annoyance factor in negotiations.

Damn. I reached Philip's long-time secretary, Irene Killam, an Olympic-class stonewaller. If she stood between you and Philip, you weren't getting anything but a headache.

“He has an important appointment,” she said. It was clear from her tone that talking to me could not possibly be important. Never mind, I've had years to get used to that.

I was still working on an effective approach with Irene. “I need to speak with him.”

“He's incommunicado.”

“He'll have his Blackberry. I'm pretty sure he even takes it in the shower.”

“He isn't in the shower. And I can't reach him.”

“You could send him a text message.”

“I could, but he won't get it. He'll have the Blackberry
turned off. I wish you would listen to me. You will just have to wait.”

We sparred like that for a bit, but she's much better at it than I am. After she hung up, I turned to the slice of chocolate Kahlua cake. My standing up for myself shtick might have needed work, but the chocolate made up for it.

Minutes later, I was back on Highway 5, feeling a bit more relaxed. The slice of cake was just a fond memory and a few random crumbs on my T-shirt. I still had a half-hour drive north through the rugged Gatineau hills. On a normal day, I would have enjoyed the view and the rock formations along the road. This time I wasn't paying much attention, until I crested the last hill near the end of Highway 5 and had to stand on my brakes. The Skylark squealed and smoked. Police cars blocked the road, roof lights flashing. An officer in the green uniform of the Sûreté du Québec stood in the middle of the road, waving traffic off to the side. A dozen cars were pulled over ahead of mine.

I shuddered to a stop, my heart thumping. What a weird place for a speed trap. Ridiculous. The Skylark could barely make the speed limit. What if I'd been going too slow, and there was some kind of fine for that?

But not everything was about me. I stepped out of the Skylark to see what was going on. A long skid mark on the highway showed the path of a vehicle. The bent guardrail on the side of the road hadn't been enough to stop it. That vehicle now lay on its roof near the bottom, like a large dead June bug. Several small trees had been plowed over in its path. Firefighters were unfurling hoses from a pair of fire trucks angled on the side of the road. I stared down at the crumpled vehicle. Even with the covering of dust, I was pretty sure it had been big and black.

Could anyone have made it out alive?

An ambulance screamed along the highway and inched past the row of stopped cars. The wail of the siren sent shivers down my spine. I hoped the paramedics had made it in time. Sometimes these things look worse than they are, I told myself. Maybe the people in the car had survived. Even from that distance, I could tell it wasn't likely.

A pair of firefighters in bulky brown gear and what looked like respirators on their backs made their way down the steep hillside. One had a hose snaked over his shoulder. Two others followed with ropes. As the first pair began to spray foam on the smoking wreck, the
QPP
officer approached my car and barked at me to get back in. A second officer had just finished setting up cones to close off the two lanes. He had begun to direct traffic back the way we'd come.

“This accident,” I said, “what happened?”

“Sorry, madame. We can't really talk about it. You need to get back in your vehicle.”

“Please. Was it a black Cadillac Escalade?”

That got his attention. “Why do you ask?”

Of course, I hadn't really wanted to get his attention. “No reason. I just saw one earlier.”

“And?”

“He was way over the speed limit. He passed me on the right, when I got on the highway near Hull, driving really aggressively. Then he came right up on my bumper and...so I wondered if it was the same one.”

“Can I see your licence and registration, madame?”

“My
licence and registration? Why?”

“I'd like your name. In case we need to follow up.”

I could tell by his guarded expression as I handed over my licence that the crumpled vehicle was indeed the Escalade.
And I knew as I watched the firefighters losing battle below that the driver would never give anyone the finger again. A blue truck from Remorquage Tom et Jerry edged closer to the scene, but I doubted there'd be much left to tow.

“Thank you, Madame Silk. We will contact you if we need to take a statement.” He pointed in the opposite direction. “You can turn around and go back the way you came. Take the old highway back to St. Aubaine.”

“I don't think I can drive just yet,” I said.

He nodded.

“Do you ever get used to this?” I asked.

“No, madame,” he said.

He rejoined his colleague redirecting traffic. I sat there feeling sick as a body was unloaded from the smoking wreck.

Poutine

Okay, no one I know actually makes poutine at home. That's why we have restaurants. But its hedonistic qualities make it Quebec's favourite junk food.

2 cups beef gravy (you can make it if that's important to you)
Salt

Freshly ground black pepper

2 pounds Quebec potatoes, peeled and hand-cut into French fries

½ pound fresh cheese curd, crumbled

Vegetable oil for deep-frying

Fry the potatoes in hot vegetable oil until golden brown. Remove and drain on paper towels. Season with salt and pepper. To serve, mound the fries into bowls and cover with cheese curd. Spoon the gravy over the fries and cheese curd. Eat immediately! Serves four.

As I drove through the village, I couldn't help noticing the neon yellow banners with red letters screaming
EN FEU! HOT STUFF
! The banners were strung across Rue Principale. Naturally, here in Quebec, the French words had to be twice as big as the English ones. We have rules. Rules or no rules, the signs didn't mean anything to me in either official language. Every now and then, the village boosters go off the deep end. This might have been one of those times. I was shaking my head as I drove under the banners and past a line of large white trucks parked casually by the side of the road for no reason that I could see. And frankly, at that moment, I didn't care.

I needed an
ATM
, and I needed it fast. I snagged a parking spot then stood in line for fifteen minutes at the Caisse Populaire. I stared in disbelief at the crowd ahead of me. There's never a lineup in St. Aubaine. And if two people are waiting, they strike up a conversation, or suggest that you go ahead. It's that kind of community.

St. Aubaine is full of aging hippies, old farming families, snowboarders, retired public servants, struggling musicians, blocked writers, starving artists, bad poets and, increasingly, young organic farmers. Oh, right, and tourists. We locals lean toward clothing from Mountain Equipment Co-op, or Tigre Géant, or even Canadian Tire. But this crowd seemed fairly young and oddly urban. Lots of tousled blondes with the kind
of hair you see in magazines. Who were these people? Whoever, they weren't inclined to chat with the locals.

Was some edgy new band playing at the Pub Britannia perhaps? Maybe they were attracting the trendy set.

A woman with spiked hair the colour of a freshly polished fire truck pulled up to the edge of the sidewalk in a white Lexus
SUV
. She hopped out, left it running and raced over to CeeCeeCuisine, the pricey new kitchen supply shop. I was still cooling my jets in line when she returned, carrying a cluster of distinctive green shopping bags with the CeeCeeCuisine logo. She opened the idling
SUV
and tossed the parcels in. She slammed the door, hustled over and elbowed ahead of me. Stunned as I was by this behaviour, I still couldn't help noticing the startling amount of stretch in her dress and the equally amazing number of rhinestones studding her black glasses. Me, I probably wouldn't have chosen a leopard-patterned headband to go with that look. She sported straw sandals with towering wedge heels, probably the highest I had ever seen in St. Aubaine. Even so, she hardly came up to my chin. She was as stocky as my old washing machine. The wedgie sandals showed off the blood-red polish on her toenails.

I didn't bother to argue over my place in the line. I'm never in a hurry to deal with any bank. When I finally got up to the machine, I popped in my card, pecked in my
PIN
and picked
SAVINGS
. I already knew that Mother Hubbard's
CHEQUING
cupboard was bare.

Oops.

I downgraded my request to twenty dollars.

The hell with you, said the
ATM
, or words to that effect.

I tried
CHEQUING
again.

It was not to be.

Well, that's just plain bad when you don't have twenty dollars in the bank.

I yanked back my card before the machine confiscated it. It looked like I would have to dig into my drop-dead emergency fund to get through the month.

Then what?

Nothing but grim days ahead.

I turned to leave and banged into Jean-Claude Lamontagne, my least favourite person on the planet. Too bad he's also my closest neighbour. I might have been awash in perspiration, but Jean-Claude was a vision of dry elegance in his light-weight silk suit, silver grey, of course, one of the money colours.

“Hello, Fiona,” he said.

Personally, I thought the salon tan clashed with the cool of the handmade suit, but what do I know? I was wearing my pink flip-flops, my three-year-old jean skirt and a black T-shirt with sparkly white letters that said “Leave Me Alone”. I'd lost nineteen pounds since I'd started visiting Marc-André. Maybe it was the smell of all that institutional food. Whatever the reason, it had left me with a limited wardrobe.

Jean-Claude smirked, but then he usually does. Maybe it wasn't the outfit. Had he seen the screen message of
AMOUNT REQUESTED EXCEEDS BALANCE
? Oh, rats. That was all I needed.

“How are you, Fiona?” Jean-Claude always speaks English to me. I'm pretty sure that's just a dominance thing. He knows perfectly well I can get along
en français.
He makes a point of emphasizing my name.

“Très bien. Parfait. Fantastique,“
I said. I did my best to look like someone who hasn't sailed past her agreed-on overdraft amount. “I have just been visiting my friend Marc-André Paradis at the rehab centre, and he seems to be getting better again.”

“Really? Yet you are...distressed.”

“Well, I'm a bit warm, if you must know.”

Of course, he could tell that by looking at me. My hair
couldn't have been frizzier if I'd stuffed my tongue into an electrical socket.

“Well, I can certainly understand. Things are definitely heating up in St. Aubaine,” he said.

I am always trying to figure out the subtext of what he says. Where there is Jean-Claude, there is always some kind of worrisome undercurrent. Plus, I trust him as far as I could toss him and his shiny new silver Porsche Carrera.

I smiled. “Absolutely.”

“Lot of building going on. Boom economy.”

Right. Now I knew where we were headed. Same old same old. Jean-Claude has been the driving force behind most of the development in and around our picturesque and historic town. He wasn't satisfied with two monster home developments or his new batch of condos cluttering the waterfront. His latest plan was a grand riverside development just north of the village.

I said, “I'm not planning to sell. Not now. Not ever. Just in case that's where you're going.”

“I think you should hear me out. That place you have is a lot of work for a single woman, two acres, a big lawn, that old cottage needing repairs all the time. I couldn't help noticing your driveway needs regrading. I imagine keeping the woods clear of deadfall must get you down. You must worry in this kind of weather. Brush fires, things like that.”

“I'm happy there.”

“I can't even imagine the state of your wiring.” He gave an elegant shudder.