Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle (29 page)

I was already running when I left the room. Cyril hadn't been
talking about Anabel, as I had thought. He must have been talking about Marietta. Marietta with the wavy chestnut hair. The pretty, flirty lady who'd been an actress before she became a cooking sensation. Marietta, who was rumoured to be setting up a corporation to market her own unique “brand”. Had she been in cahoots with Danny Dupree to get the money to finance the next step of her meteoric rise? Marietta, who'd had a problem with Harriet, Marietta, who liked to sneak a cigarette, and Marietta, who was around the Wallingford Estate and who could easily have learned that Anabel provided the name of an electrician for me. And what electrician wouldn't do whatever Marietta wanted? Who wouldn't let her in if she came knocking?

I used my cell phone as I trotted along the hot Hull sidewalk to Liz's car. Josey had left a message.

“Good news, Miz Silk. I got word that Marietta is going to give you a choice of recipes, and she's agreed to a photo for your book. I'm going up there to make arrangements now. Can you try to keep your schedule clear for me? This is important. It could make or break us.”

“Oh, no, Josey. Whatever you do, don't go to the Wallingford Estate.” Of course, I was talking to the air. I dialed her cell phone with shaky hands and left a message. “Stay away from Marietta! I think she's the killer. Promise me you won't go there.”

Next, I phoned Sarrazin and reached his voice mail.

“You were right, I was wrong. It's not Anabel Huffington-Chabot,” I said, panting. “It's Naughty Marietta. You should get someone over to the Hull hospital to talk to Cyril and to protect him. And you could show Marietta's picture to Arlen too, if he regains consciousness. I'm searching for Josey. She
was trying to connect with Marietta on my behalf. Oh, and get Marietta's
DNA
too.”

I tried not to imagine the look on his face. Instead, I got into Liz's car and floored it all the way back to St. Aubaine.

Damn. As I pulled into the village, I picked up the phone and realized I'd missed two messages. That's the problem with the reception cutting out on the rural highway.

Sarrazin's was quite clear. “Do not, I repeat, do
not
go anywhere near Marietta or the Wallingford Estate. Do you hear me? I will follow up on this latest batch of allegations, but I want you to go to Woody's and stay there. We, that is to say the
police,
will follow up. We will find the Thring girl.”

Josey's message was not so clear.

“Miz Silk?” she squawked. “We got a big problem. It's not—”

The line went dead.

Obviously, Josey hadn't received my message in time. I spun gravel as I gunned Liz's car up the hill to the Wallingford Estate. The foyer was deserted. Chelsea was on her way out. She looked more sophisticated than usual in a black linen suit, perhaps a clue to the splendid woman she would no doubt become by the time she hit thirty. “Oh, hello,” she said. “There's no one here. They've finished filming.”

“I need your help. I'm looking for...”

“Sorry. Anabel wants me to make arrangements for Harriet's memorial before everyone leaves town. I have an appointment at the funeral home, and I'm a bit late. She'll have my head on a spike if I miss that.”

“Do you know where Marietta is?”

“Marietta? I think she went into the village with Rafaël. They're quite the team, those two. I feel terrible, but I have to ask you to leave now.”

“But my assistant is here somewhere.”

She lit up. “Josey? She's so funny and cute. Executive assistant, she calls herself. I wish we could give her a job. She seems really on top of things. She was here, but she said she had to go down to the village. She seemed a bit panicky. Anyway, no one's supposed to be on site except staff. Sorryeee. Anabel's orders again.”

I followed Chelsea out the door and waved goodbye. I drove down the hill ahead of her and parked at Woody's. Woody was tied up with a couple of suppliers. He shook his head when I asked if he'd seen Josey.

I checked

No Josey there. I checked out all the restaurants and shops. No Josey, which was to be expected, but no Marietta either. I hurried along to the Britannia, but Uncle Mike had no idea where Josey could be. I left a new message every couple of minutes.

Finally, I marched back up the hill to the Wallingford Estate. The foyer was empty. I thought I heard a thump and ducked into the office quickly, since I'd been told I wasn't supposed to be on the premises. Across the room, I could see Anabel's golf bag. What if she came back to get that? I couldn't get tossed out before I found Josey. I decided to duck behind the desk. As I moved, I tripped over a suitcase, protruding from under the desk. I sprawled forward and knocked down a framed photo that had been propped behind the door. I glanced at it as I got up. It was just a standard boring
PR
group shot, one of many that had been taken outside the Wallingford Estate main house. Why was it stuck there instead of the wall? I picked it up. Everyone was smiling broadly at the camera. A local realtor whose face was on
every second
FOR SALE
sign grinned wider than anyone. No wonder. The Wallingford Estate, even in its derelict days, must have meant a hefty commission. Jean-Claude seemed pleased with himself, while Anabel looked haughty, but happy. The man I took to be her husband had his hand on her shoulder and seemed blissfully unaware that he would soon be put out with the trash. My heart jumped when I saw Danny Dupree, cocky and cavalier, in the photo too. I did another double-take at the woman standing next to him. Chelsea Brazeau was showing her pretty white teeth too. But that wasn't what I noticed.

What a fool I'd been.

Things were quiet in the foyer, but just as I stuck my nose out, Brady came clattering down the stairs in his cowboy boots. He whirled and clutched his clipboard when he spotted me.

“You scared me,” he gasped. “I thought no one was—”

No time for chatting. “Have you seen Josey? My assistant.”

“Yes, she was here earlier trying to find Marietta. They had an appointment, and apparently Marietta didn't show up.”

“Is that like her?”

“No. She's actually a sweetheart and a real pro. But now that the shooting's over, maybe she told someone to send a message, and it didn't get sent. Chaos rules when a production is breaking up.”

“Where did you see Josey last?”

“She was heading toward the kitchen.”

“And Marietta?”

“She was in the kitchen earlier too. That's what I told Josey. I also told her that the site's still off-limits. We have to let people know that.”

“Who told you?”

“Anabel.”

“Or was it Chelsea speaking on her behalf?”

“Same thing, isn't it? One is the friendly face, the other the harsh reality?”

“Not this time. One other question, Brady. When did Chelsea change her hair colour from blonde?”

“That new honey-brown colour rocks, doesn't it? I was blown away that she could get a colour job that good at a little salon in
this
village on such short notice. She decided just like that!” He snapped his fingers. “It shouldn't have been a surprise. People will do anything for Chelsea. I wish I had half her personality. Even having brown hair doesn't hurt. Although I loved the blonde highlights she had before too. I guess she thought her ‘do was too much like Anabel's, and she wanted to make her own style statement.”

My head spun slightly. “I need to know when she had it done.”

“Around the time they started production. Monday night, I guess. Yeah, I noticed it Tuesday morning. Wasn't it blonde the first time you came up here looking for Harriet?”

“I didn't see Chelsea that first day. She was in the office, and Harriet had just reamed her out.”

“Ooh. I remember that fight. And you're right. Chelsea was blonde that day.”

“Okay. And I'm guessing that although I didn't see her, she saw me.”

Brady stared at me. “This is one really strange conversation.”

“It's about to get stranger.” I struggled to sound rational. “Josey is in danger. Chelsea is trying to kill her. She murdered a man called Danny Dupree for his investment money, she burned down my house, she killed Harriet, and she attacked Arlen Young and a cab driver. She's very dangerous, and she's getting rid of anyone who can tie her to murder and fraud involving a very large sum of money.”

Brady squeaked in alarm. “Are you joking? But I haven't done anything to her!”

“This is serious. Start running down the hill. Use your cell phone, call 911 now and tell them there's a crime in progress. Tell them to hurry.”

“But Chelsea couldn't...” As Brady stood there, I could almost see the light bulb go on over his head. Some small memory told him Chelsea was not what she appeared to be.

“Please do what I ask before the body count goes up.”

I raced along the corridor as soon as Brady scampered down the front stairs.

I pushed open the heavy swinging doors into the kitchen. The vast food preparation space was full of gleaming stainless and high-end cooking equipment. The show was over, the sound and lighting equipment had been packed up and removed. All that remained of the gifts of food was one large green can of olive oil and a decorative glass jar of balsamic vinegar. I stared at the twelve-burner stove top, the shelves of white china. I thought I heard a muffled noise, but perhaps that was my jittery imagination.

Again, I heard a sound. Was it coming from outside? Had Brady decided I was nuts after all and come back to tell me so instead of calling the police? I moved through the kitchen, checking here and there. I kicked a crumpled piece of blue paper in front of the walk-in freezer. The freezer door had been secured with a padlock. A soft thump, thump, thump came from inside. I flipped open my cell and dialed Sarrazin one more time, just as I heard the click of heels behind me.

I whirled, whipping the phone behind my back.

Chelsea stood there, behind the door, smiling and holding a golf club as if it were a fashion accessory. I hoped she was too far away to hear the sound of Sarrazin saying “Leave a message after the beep.”

She didn't seem to notice. “So, you just couldn't give up, I see.”

“I couldn't,” I said. “And I haven't.”

“I'm afraid you have to now.”

“Not much chance of that, Chelsea. What have you done with Josey?”

Best not to let Chelsea know that I had a good idea where Josey was. And I planned to rescue her, not join her.

I hustled myself around to the far side of the huge centre prep island. Chelsea approached, swinging the golf club.

I said loudly. “Very clever of you to use Anabel's golf club, Chelsea. She'll get the blame. I notice you're wearing gloves, so of course, no prints. Are those her golf gloves?”

“You won't need to worry about that, because you'll be dead.”

“But you know, prints aren't everything. The cops have that cigarette butt you tossed out at me from the Escalade. They'll find your
DNA
. Did you mean it to fly right into my car? They should find the same
DNA
on one of those Sleeman bottles at Arlen's place. Maybe even on the sheets. Who knows? I suppose there will be some trace in Harriet's car too.” I hoped that Sarrazin would be able to hear at least some of this on his voice mail. And preferably while I was still alive.

I kept on. “Yes, I can see where Harriet would have been a real handful. She was on to you, for sure. What was it? Some kind of fiddling with funds or cheques? No wonder she was so angry, but of course, everyone felt sorry for poor little you, being picked on. That was a terrific performance. I'm guessing you couldn't resist chiselling the production company, even if it wasn't the big bucks. Even though you did have the big score with Danny Dupree. I'm sure there were others. Then what a great idea to fleece the fraud artist, although killing him seemed
a bit excessive. I suppose he had no clue that you'd slipped him some kind of
GHB
drug. And Philip and Irene believed that their money had burned up in the Escalade. Genius. I'm sure it must have been satisfying. Then I show up, and that annoying little Harriet comes along raising hell about this and that.”

“She's out of the picture now. And you will be too.”

“You're really clearing the field,” I said. “Danny Dupree, what did you do? Stage a fight just before you figured the drug would kick in? Did you switch briefcases on him? For sure you knew he was a reckless driver. Chances were he'd be killed? No big deal, because you had arranged for Cyril to pick you up ahead of time. Did he try a bit of blackmail when he figured out who you really were? He likes extra cash, that Cyril. But he likes his beer too, so it wouldn't be hard to slip him something. Terrible drivers in these parts. So many accidents on that highway.”

She watched me with slitted eyes. The girl next door look had vanished, leaving behind someone else, someone hard, calculating, and dangerous. How calculated had that look been? And how many people beside me and Josey had fallen for her warm, friendly smile and soft, pretty face? Chelsea was still swinging the golf club, just out of range.

I kept backing away to make sure of that. “He's still alive, but under police guard, of course. He'll talk. They'll trace something to you there. Maybe the drink you used to drug him. I don't know what, but they will. They've sent a lot of samples to the lab for comparisons.” I was making it up as I went along and lying like a rug. I could only hope that she fell for some of it.

“Arlen too, of course, he's in and out of consciousness. But he's already been able to tell them I didn't do it. There's a cop by his bedside, and it's just a matter of time until they show
him your picture and he says that's her. So I'd say the best thing is to let Josey and me go. You can take your suitcase from the office and make a run for it.”