Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle (26 page)

“And Arlen's road was private.”

“Appears to be. And I think we have more important things to concern ourselves with. So it turns out to be a good day for you, madame.”

“Oh, absolutely. Splendid.”

“You're not the only one with problems. Keep it in perspective.”

“What do you mean?”

“You remember that woman who lost her wallet?”

That damn wallet had completely slipped my mind what with the fire, Arlen, the interrogation and all.

“You can stop searching now. A couple coming back from
Montreal found her last night, parked in their driveway, by the river. “

“What do you mean, found her?”

“Car was out of gas, windows closed. She was sitting inside and running the air conditioning, not that you can really stay very cool like that. Coroner said looks like carbon monoxide poisoning. The woman had been there a couple of days.”

“That explains why she didn't call me back. And why she didn't show up for the shoot.”

“That would do it.”

“Why didn't you tell me this before?”

He scratched his five o'clock shadow and glared at me. “Let me see. Hmmm. Maybe because we were interrogating you about an attempted murder?”

“For heaven's sake, you knew all along I didn't do it, even if your colleague didn't.”

“You need another reason? How's this? Not everything that the police are working on is your business. Even if we approach you and ask you questions and expect you to be fully disclosing, it doesn't work the other way around. I know it's hard to grasp, but there you go.”

“Did anyone report her missing?”

He shook his head.

“That's sad. The whole
En feu!
production was terrified of Harriet. No one would even give her a message about the wallet. Now she's dead.”

“No question it's tragic, but we're pretty sure it was accidental.”

I thought about that for a couple of seconds. “But don't you think it's strange that Harriet Crowder accidentally dies of carbon monoxide the same week that Danny Dupree is killed, my house burns down and Arlen Young is found attacked?”

Sarrazin stood up and towered over me. “It was an accident.
That's what Coroner Duhamel says, that's what I say, that's what you are going to say.”

“But I can
think
what I want.”

“Go ahead, think. But don't go running around the village stirring everybody up with your idea that this accident is not an accident, because right now, we've got more than enough to deal with, and all of it somehow seems connected to you.”

“You'll just have to get on top of the situation then, since I can't,” I said with as much dignity as a person with out of control hair, bloody clothes and tear tracks down her dusty cheeks can have.

After all, a big chunk of what my unpaid taxes were supposed to pay for went to police services.

I found Josey much later in front of the Chez. I had managed to get cleaned up at Woody's but otherwise wasn't feeling much better. My clothing was back in the washing machine again.

“I hope you can express your appreciation to Liz,” I said to Josey. “I told you she's a worthy friend, even if it's not always obvious. We both could have faced charges.”

Josey snorted. “I think pretty much any judge would dismiss those charges. But anyway, I've already thanked her. She
is
your friend, and she came through when you really needed her.”

“Told you.”

“You got to admit, she's pretty hard to take.” Josey glanced over at me. “Good thing she came up with that whopper just in time. The cops were at my place looking for me and giving Uncle Mike the gears. Lucky I wasn't there.”

Of course, I should have realized that any executive assistant worth her salt wouldn't choose to hide from the law at her own
address. “You shouldn't have take off like that. Where were you hiding out? Oh, never mind. Don't tell me. I wouldn't want to betray your position if anything like this ever happens again, which I really really hope it doesn't.”

“If we don't catch whoever's doing this, it could.”

“We have to leave it to the police. I've learned that lessson. We don't really understand what's going on and why.”

“You know what, and you know why, Miz Silk.” Josey nodded her head toward Jean-Claude's silver Porsche Carrera, ostentatiously blocking the pedestrian walk in front of the Chez.

I said. “We're out of our depth here, Josey. This has gotten way too dangerous. It's a good idea for you to stay away from the Wallingford Estate too.” I told her about Harriet Crowder's death.

“Harriet Crowder? You're kidding. What happened?”

“She was found in her car. Carbon monoxide. Remember, she used to leave it running because of the air conditioning?”

“Oh boy.”

“The police say it's accidental, but I'm not so sure. Too much of a coincidence, these deaths. Promise me you'll just stay away from that place.”

She shrugged. “Sure. I'm just going down to the vet's to see what's happening with Sweetheart.”

Cyril Hemphill is inclined to haunt you, except when you really need him. I finally located him parked outside the Britannia, waiting for some unwary tourist to have one too many and require transportation, plus tip of course.

“Heard the cops let you go for now. That's good. Where to?” he said cheerfully.

“Nowhere. I just have a question.”

He hesitated. I suppose he was trying to calculate a reasonably extortionate rate for questions.

“Well, I guess,” he said.

“Remember you said you picked up Anabel Huffington-Chabot?”

“Who?”

I repeated it. “You know, that tall, beautiful lady. We just passed her in town, and you said she was a good tipper.”

He lit up. “Oh yes, she is that.”

“Okay, so when was that?”

“What?”

I took a deep calming breath. The kind you so often need to take in dealing with the good folks of St. Aubaine. “When did you pick up Anabel?”

Cyril licked his lips. “Is that her name?”

“Try to cooperate, Cyril. When? What day and what time?”

He scratched his combover. “Let me think...hmmm, it must have been...”

I stood there, prepared to outwait him.

“...last Monday.”

“Really?”

“Pretty sure.”

“What time?”

Cyril rubbed his nose and thought hard. “Must have been just before three.”

“Where?”

“Down near Tulip Valley. That's a good fare.”

“And she just called you from the highway?”

“Nope. She arranged with me ahead of time. I was expecting her call. I was waiting nearby. I'm pretty fast, you know.”

“I do know.” I might have added that I'd learned it the hard
way, but it wasn't the time to alienate Cyril, not that he's the most sensitive flower in the garden. “What was she doing there?”

“Well, ma'am, I didn't ask her that. Wasn't any of my business.” First time that ever stopped Cyril.

“What did she tell you?”

“Nothing. Just paid the fare without making a fuss.”

“Didn't say why she was getting picked up in the middle of nowhere?”

“Said it was a little joke on someone. She tipped me a twenty, and I dropped her off at the Wallingford Estate as soon as we got back to town here.”

“I'm surprised, Cyril, because usually you chat with your passengers.”

“Puts them at ease.”

“But not her.”

“No, ma'am.”

“So she just sat there, not saying a word for the twenty-minute drive back to St. Aubaine.”

His brow furrowed. “Well, not exactly not saying a word. She kept talking to someone on her little phone and poking out messages. Busy little gal.”

“For sure. Did you notice what she said.”

“Hard to hear up here in the front seat.”

“What about the accident that day? The Cadillac Escalade where the guy was killed.”

“What about it?”

“Did you pass that scene?”

“Oh, sure. That was a bad one. You could see where that Caddy hit the guardrail as it went over. Cops had part of the road blocked off coming home. Funny too that happening right there in that straight bit of road. I know it's a hill and there's a ravine, but that's a good stretch of road and it was dry.
I don't mean funny ha ha, but weird.”

“So your passenger didn't seem upset by the accident?”

“Nope. Didn't bother her. Why are you asking?”

“Thanks, Cyril.”

“So listen, I hear you're collecting recipes for that dirty book of yours.”

“No, I'm not.”

“I got a good one for you.”

“That's okay.”

“Nothing beats a nice big, rare steak and a couple of bottles of reds to get a lady in the mood. I got a special way to make it too.”

I shuddered as I got the hell out of there.

Contributed by Cyril Hemphill

2 16-ounce rib eye steaks

¼ cup Guinness

2 tablespoons teriyaki sauce

2 tablespoons brown sugar

1 teaspoon salt

½ teaspoon fresh ground pepper

½ teaspoon garlic powder

Preheat grill for high heat. Use a fork to poke holes all over the surface of the steaks, then place steaks in a large recloseable plastic bag. In a bowl, mix together beer, teriyaki sauce and brown sugar. Pour sauce over steaks and let sit for twenty-four hours. Sprinkle both sides with the seasoned salt, pepper and garlic powder. Let marinate another few minutes.

Remove steaks from marinade. Pour marinade into a small saucepan, bring to a boil, and cook for several minutes.

Open first bottle of red wine to let it breathe. Lightly oil the grill grate. Grill steaks to desired doneness. Baste steaks with boiled marinade.

Serve with a couple of bottles of good red wine. Loosen belt.

The next morning, Sarrazin was standing in L'Épicerie, staring at the bins of buckwheat and rolled oats and bran with a perplexed expression, when I trotted by with Tolstoy. I know it was my imagination, but I could almost detect a small black cloud over his head. He said, “Do you want to go somewhere private?”

Over in the corner, Woody watched us from his wheelchair, small black eyes gleaming, waiting for informational crumbs to drop. Woody might have been my good buddy for many years, and he'd been great about putting me up and keeping Tolstoy, but gossip was always his first love. I'm pretty sure he could read lips. And I was equally certain that whatever Sarrazin had to say, he didn't need Woody blasting it around town.

“Good idea. I was just about to try to walk off breakfast. How about the river path?”

The door of L'Épicerie jingled behind us as we left. I was probably biting my lip. Whatever Sarrazin wanted, it wouldn't be good. Was Josey in some kind of trouble? Had Arlen died? Had they found Philip? Was he all right?

Five minutes later, we were strolling by the banks of the Gatineau. Sarrazin kicked at stones. I worked at being calm.

“The suspense is killing me,” I said. “You've told me that you don't think I set fire to my own home. And you don't think I attacked Arlen. Have you changed your mind about either of those?”

“No, madame. I'll cut to the chase. Do you believe that your ex-husband would have burned down your house?”

“What? You're kidding, right?”

“Let's see, arson investigation. Nope, not kidding.”

“Philip? Committing arson? Boy, are you off-base with that theory.”

“And why would that be?”

“For one thing, Philip is equal parts vanity and anal-retentiveness. There's no way he would ever risk getting any stinky accelerant on his hands. The man gets regular manicures. Are you getting my point? To say nothing of the angst if some noxious substance splashed on his Harry Rosen suit.”

“Maybe he'd wear casual clothes for an arson outing.”

“His casual clothes cost a bundle too. He favours Egyptian cotton, silk, cashmere. Trust me, Philip did not torch my house.”

“He could have had an accomplice.”

“An accomplice?”

“Common practice. Get someone to do your dirty work. If that happened, I'd like to get both of them.”

I gave this some thought. “Did I mention that Philip's a bit of a control freak? Here's an example. He always recalculates his accountant's figures. He'd reload the dishwasher every time I filled it. Do you need to know any more? There's no way he could trust anyone to set a fire that would meet his high performance standards.”

Sarrazin chuckled. I figured that was good.

I kept talking. “That means he'd have to have been there, issuing instructions, corrections and general personal slights.”

Sarrazin said, “Maybe he
was
there.”

“I refer you back to my previous point about soiling the wardrobe.”

“I still want to talk to him.”

“Go right ahead. I am sure you think I'm nuts because I don't think he did it. And I have thought about it, but honestly, if he wanted to harm me, maybe even kill me, he could certainly do it, but he'd find a neat and tidy way to do it. That's my point. Nothing messy, nothing smelly, no need to cooperate with others. I'm glad you're looking for him, and I hope you find him, because I sure couldn't. Please, feel free to make him absolutely miserable.”

Sarrazin didn't completely buy my theory about Philip, but then the detective hadn't spent all those years stuck in the same house with my ex and his neuroses. He said, “Maybe he just wanted revenge. We see it all the time in divorce cases. Wife leaves. Husband does something vile to get back at her. Keeps us busy.”