Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle (24 page)

Cyril did all the talking on the drive back.

Of course, I would have preferred to arrive in the village without drawing attention to myself. However, Cyril Hemphill does not suffer from any of the symptoms of a wallflower. He leaned out the window and waved at everyone.

“Howya doin'?”

Not that he ever waited for an answer, but few would be unaware of his presence on Rue Principale. I suppose his proximity to me might mean that he had new information for the gossips. Tolstoy was picking up some of this in-your-face behaviour and barking greetings.

When we reached the end of Rue Principale, we noticed Anabel Huffington-Chabot gliding up the stairs to the most exclusive restaurant in town. Her blonde hair glinted in the moonlight, her face remained untouched by emotion, not even pride in her latest designer suit, a metallic shade this time. Several members of the production team seemed to be joining her for a fashionably late dinner. Rafaël and Marietta followed, strolling together, maybe a bit closer than work might demand. Rafaël smiled and waved and returned his obviously besotted attention back to his cooking co-star, or perhaps her capacious cleavage. In turn, Marietta pirouetted on her red spike heels, blowing
sexy
kisses to people on the sidewalk. With her dizzying curves and her white skirt swirling in the wind, it was all very Marilyn Monroe, except Marietta's curls were dark and shoulder length. The fans applauded. Brady pulled up at the rear, still holding his clipboard and still wearing those cowboy boots. He'd added a jaunty little
orange neckerchief to his outfit and perked up his fauxhawk. It went well with the diamond stud in his nose. Chelsea Brazeau, the only normal-looking person in the group, hurried behind to catch up. She was more casually dressed in an ankle-length Indian print skirt and a simple blue tee. She was laughing and holding on to a pretty straw hat as the wind picked up. I wondered how long she'd survive in that zoo. I decided when I had a bit of cash again, I'd take her to lunch to thank her for trying to help. And Brady too.

Cyril spotted the production group heading into the restaurant, and he stopped the cab. “Good evening, ladies and gentleman,” he beamed.

Chelsea smiled back and waved. Anabel looked down her aristocratic nose and glanced away, in disdain I suppose. I couldn't say I blamed her.

I slithered down on the seat to avoid being associated with whatever Cyril would do next. Luckily, I didn't have to worry. The group continued up the restaurant stairs and vanished from view.

Cyril made eye contact with me in the rearview mirror.

“Hubba hubba,” he said.

I said nothing.

“Damn good looking woman. What do you think?” he said.

“Huh,” I said.

“She's a hell of a good tipper too.” He wiggled his eyebrows quite salaciously. “Picked her up out of town the other day, and she made it worth my while, if you know what I mean.”

“I can get out anywhere around here,” I said. A little bit of Cyril goes a long way.

Contributed by Rafeël

Place scoops of passion fruit, mango and raspberry ice in a meringue nest with a splash of Framboise and a sprig of mint.

Very easy, and you will have more time to savour it with your lover.

It was one of those middle of the night revelations. That blinding insight that we've all experienced at three a.m. I sat upright in Woody's spare room. The question was clear in my mind. And I knew damn well if I went back to sleep and waited until the morning, the thought would evaporate.

I turned on the light and got out of bed. I fished my notebook out of my bag and retrieved the pen. This was more of an achievement than it sounds, given that I was emotionally exhausted and sleeping in an unfamiliar room.

How had that good-looking electrician, Arlen Young, known that Faron Findlay was my insurance agent? And what had made him walk up to Faron while he was waiting in the Chez for Chinese take-out? The last I'd heard was that the wiring was fixable, he'd order the part for the stove, and he'd give us a quote for repairs. Then he'd pulled that stunt. A coincidence that it was just before the fire that took everything I owned? I didn't think so. If he would admit that it was Jean-Claude's doing, then Sarrazin would have something to go on.

Since I had nothing better to do, I decided to pay Arlen a visit in the morning. Tell him what I thought of him. I lay in bed for the next hour practicing plain speaking.

Woody in the morning is pretty hard to take. For starters, he gets up very, very early and sings Grateful Dead songs off-key. Today it was “When Push Comes to Shove”. He whirled around the kitchen in his custom-built wheelchair. I wondered where you could buy an apron with Jerry Garcia's face on it but decided against asking.

“Coffee's on the counter,” he said, stubbing out a cigarette in the nearest ashtray.

“It smells wonderful,” I said, not fully recovered from lying awake half the night mentally shouting at Arlen.

“Fresh ground. So, clog your arteries, kiddo?” he said, slamming the fridge door, slapping a pound of bacon on the counter, followed by a dozen eggs, which he handled with a bit more care. Woody'd had his kitchen counters custom-made so he could work at them. They were low enough for someone in a wheelchair, and the curved work surface allowed him to get up close. Even the stove top was located at Woody's height.

“Need any help?”

“Don't tick me off,” he said.

I said yes to artery clogging, filled a large mug with fragrant coffee and watched Woody go to work. He's a whiz with butter and a frying pan. There is never a scrap of granola in Woody's home.

“Did you ever meet an electrician named Arlen Young?” I asked.

Woody slid the frying pan onto the cook top and turned on the burner. “Arlen Young. He's a musician, guitar.”

“That's right. He said the group was called No Where To Go But Oops. You know them?”

“They're not bad.” That is high praise coming from Woody. “Opened for Sue Foley the last couple times she played at the Britannia. Why are you asking?”

“You know about my insurance being cancelled.”

Woody glowered. “I guess we can figure out who was behind that.”

“Yes, but Faron Findlay said the electrician told him.”

“So why would this Arlen Young tell Faron?”

“That's what I'm asking myself. There's nothing in it for him.”

“You said Hélène found him for you.”

“Yes, but Hélène wouldn't ever do anything to hurt me. I know that.”

“Agreed. But she must have asked Jean-Claude for the name. And that would mean that the bastard knew you had some wiring issues.”

I bit my lower lip. “That's what I think. Hélène probably mentioned it to him, inadvertently.”

“So then Jean-Claude asks the guy what the story is, gives him a bit of cash under the table to tell your insurance agent. You think Jean-Claude would know who insures your property?”

“Of course, he does. Faron's their agent too.”

“Writing's on the wall, kiddo. Hey, maybe you can sue Jean-Claude's silk-covered rump. It'll make a real good story if people find out he did that. Then your house mysteriously burns down and you lose everything, and hey, here's the guy with something to gain who tries to do you the dirty. Cops might be interested.”

“I mentioned it to Sarrazin already. I'm not sure if he knows Aden's name. He didn't ask me for it, so I guess he does.”

“You got to talk to this guy. Find out if Jean-Claude put him up to it.”

“That's the plan, but his business card burned up with everything else in my house.”

“There's always the telephone book.”

“I checked. He's not in it. I could ask Hélène, but I don't want to give Jean-Claude a clue that I'm going to talk to this guy.” “Good thinking.”

“Well, except I still don't know how to reach him.”

“You like your bacon crispy? Or extra crispy?”

I voted for extra crispy. “I guess I could go over to the Britannia when it opens and ask if anyone knows how to reach him or one of the other guys in the band.”

“No one at the Britannia's going to give you anyone's number. They know you've been talking to Sarrazin a lot lately. After breakfast, I'll call my contractor. He knows every trade around these parts. So, kiddo, want some extra cheese on these eggs?”

The dirt road off the 366 North was long and bumpy and unsigned. Clouds of dust rose in our wake. No wonder Arlen Young's pickup had been covered with mud. I closed the windows of Liz's Audi, even though I usually love the scent of wildflowers and wild grasses.

I said, “Lucky that Woody's contact gave good directions and landmarks. I don't know my way around this area.”

“Boy, I wonder if Dr. Prentiss would have lent you her new car if she knew we were coming up here.”

“She won't know. We'll take it to the car wash before she gets it back.”

“Come on, Miz Silk. I'll wash it. We don't have money to waste on the car wash. Hey, did you notice? There are no phone lines down this road,” Josey said. “No Hydro either. Maybe he's living off-grid. He's an electrician, I bet he's got all kinds of gear rigged up. Solar-powered batteries for his fridge
and television. Maybe propane stove and stuff. Let's ask him to show us.”

“It's really lonely. We've only passed one other vehicle. I can't imagine living way out here,” I said, struggling to keep the car out of the giant potholes that peppered the road. I had planned to use this errand as a quiet time to talk to Josey about her accusation against Hélène, something we really had to deal with.

“He's mostly a musician. This would be a really cheap place to live. I'd be surprised if he even gets cell phone reception up here. Too many trees.” Josey fished out her own cell phone and shook her head. “Told you so. I got the best coverage there is around here and look, no service. He must just check in every now and then and get his messages. A lot of people up this way do that.”

The log cabin appeared in a clearing. Josey said, “Told you. Look at those solar panels. And he's home.” She pointed to the dusty pickup angled near the woodpile.

We found no other sign of Arlen as we glanced around the house and yard.

“Arlen!” I called out.

“I bet he's avoiding us,” Josey said.

“You're probably right.”

“You can run but you can't hide, Arlen Young,” she yelled.

“Talk to us or talk to the police,” I chimed in cheerfully. But there was nothing except the soft wave of the thigh-high grasses.

“The door's open,” Josey said.

“We can't just go in.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“No, Josey, it's trespassing. Hey, what about his dog? Do you think they're out on the river?”

“He can't walk to the river from here, Miz Silk. We're half-way up a mountain.”

“Right. Well, I'll just check around and look in the outbuildings,” I said as Josey strode through the open front door bellowing, “You're in big trouble, mister.”

“Don't do that,” I said, rushing after her. It belatedly occurred to me that Arlen was a huge man who might also have a hunting rifle or two, in addition to the German shepherd.

“The police know we're here,” I shouted. It was as good a lie as any, and it seemed like a wise prevarication. If there'd been cell phone service, I'd have called Sarrazin at that moment.

Inside, the log cabin was basically one room, furnished mostly with guitars. There was a battered futon, a rustic coffee table that had been made out of several sections of a tree trunk and a huge, soft dog-bed for Sweetheart. On the coffee table lay a pair of plates with half-eaten sandwiches, back bacon on Kaiser buns, unless I was mistaken, and four empty bottles of Sleeman, one of them knocked over. You could still smell the perfume of the bacon. The scent of spilled beer wasn't quite so appealing.

“Miz Silk!” Josey whispered.

I bumped into her and stared. Sweetheart, the big shepherd, lay to the side of the futon. I touched her chest. She was still warm, and there was an infinitesimal movement in her chest. I thought I heard a moan from upstairs.

“Josey, go call for help,” I whispered back.

The blue eyes were wide and panicked. “No reception. Remember?”

“I mean get to a place where there is reception. Run out onto the road or up on a high point. I'll try to find Arlen.”

“I don't want to leave you, Miz Silk.”

“Something bad happened here. There's no sign of an injury. I think the dog has been drugged. Go call 911, then try and reach the vet for the dog.”

“But—”

I thrust the keys into her hand. “Get in the car and drive out to the road. We don't know who did this.”

“Dr. Prentiss won't be too happy if she finds out you let me drive her car.”

“She'll just have to cope. Don't argue. Stay on the main road until the police arrive. Lock the car doors until they come. Give them a landmark and wait by that landmark. They might not find this place otherwise.”

I had a bit of plan. For sure, Arlen hadn't harmed his own dog. What if the person who had was still there? If they were, I wanted them to think that both Josey and I had left. I whispered this to her.

She nodded. Eyes like saucers.

“Let's go,” I said loudly, as if we both were leaving,

As she headed toward the door and banged it behind her, I grabbed one of the guitars, the only weapon I could find, and ducked behind the futon.

Minutes after I heard the roar of the car engine heading back down the dirt track, I emerged from my hiding place and moved quickly toward the steps to the loft. I heard a muffled groan. I crept up the stairs, clutching the guitar by the neck and trying to keep my breath under control. A buzzing sound became louder as I advanced.