Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle (40 page)

“Don't you remember? He was the one outside Bridget's house when she had the memorial for Benedict.”

“What? In St. Aubaine? That's an hour from here.” I craned my neck. “It couldn't be the same one.” But the shambling man had trotted briskly across the street. I stepped back onto the road to see better. I heard the roar of an engine.

“Look out!” Josey grabbed my arm and yanked hard.

The thunk of metal against my leg blanked my mind. I collapsed on the sidewalk. Everything vanished except the pain surging through my body. I focussed just enough to make out Josey leaning over me, her eyes the size of salad plates.

“Did you see that?” Outrage made her voice tremble. “Jeez, Miz Silk, he didn't even stop.”

“I didn't see him,” I bleated. I'd felt it though.

“He gunned his engine and knocked you over, and then he took off. Are you okay?” If I hadn't known better, I'd have sworn those were tears in her eyes.

I sat up and rubbed my left leg. Two women in business suits put down their briefcases and offered help.

“Should we notify the police? Do you need an ambulance?”

“Yes,” Josey said.

“No. I'll be fine.”

People stopped to watch and make useless suggestions. Fuzzy words drifted around my ears. I couldn't concentrate enough to follow the conversation in French. The pain in my leg subsided to a dull throb.

At least the rain had stopped, although I was lying in a puddle. I apologized to the spectators, now in a ring, three deep. “I'm not used to being in the city. It's my own fault.”

Josey said, “Are you kidding? That guy aimed right for you.”

Rachel started fussing almost the minute the Skylark shuffled up to the rambling Victorian frontage of L'Auberge des Rêves. She dropped her clipping shears into the day lilies and sprinted in our direction. Maybe because I was limping and Josey was helping me along, in spite of my protests.

“Good lord,” Rachel said, blinking behind her glasses. “What happened to you?”

“Not me, it's Miz Silk. She got smucked by a car.”

“Smucked...?”

“An accident.”

“It wasn't any accident,” Josey said.

“It was,” I said.

“I saw how that guy was driving, Miz Silk.” Rachel said.

“You look awful, Fiona.”

“Mostly because I fell in a puddle. I'm fine. I managed to walk back to the car. For the last time, Josey, stop fussing. It was an accident.”

Rachel said, “Didn't he see you?”

Josey shook her head. “He saw her all right. And he aimed right for her.”

“My God,” Rachel's hand tightened on the garden clippers. “Did you get a good look at him?”

“No,” I said.

“Yes,” said Josey, “he was a little skinny guy wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap and driving a white Jetta.”

Rachel's hand loosened.

“Did you call the police?”

I took a deep breath. “I've had way too much of police lately, and the last thing I want is another so-called interview with them or, worse, to waste a couple of hours hanging around yet another police station filling out forms. For nothing. I'm sure it really was an accident. Who would want to harm me? And, even on the off chance it was some kind of random road rage attack, which it wasn't, I'll never see the guy again.”

Behind the glint of her glasses, Rachel looked worried.

“But, this is serious, Fiona, you've been injured.”

“I'll be fine if I lie down for bit.”

“But you're white as a sheet. You have to see a doctor. Listen, I'd better drive you to Emergency.”

Josey rolled her eyes. “Miz Silk didn't want to.”

“She didn't want to?” Rachel turned to me, “Fiona, really, what are you thinking of? I insist. At least let me call Liz.”

I felt so dizzy I just wanted to crawl under a comforter without talking to anybody. Especially Liz. “Really, I'm fine. I have to get home to take Tolstoy for his walk.”

“Maybe. You rest for a while, and we'll keep an eye on you.”

Josey nodded in agreement.

“First sign of serious shock or concussion and you're off to the hospital, like it or not,” Rachel said.

“You can't get a concussion in your leg,” I said in an attempt to exert some control over what happened next. Still, I let myself be steered into a beautiful room with a bay window, a tumbling river view and a canopy bed. I hardly noticed. The violet-sprigged comforter seemed just right though.

“I'll just close my eyes for a couple of minutes,” I said, “and then it's right home.”

I fell asleep with the help of herbal tea, although I would have preferred Courvoisier. Even the herbal tea didn't prevent Sarrazin sneaking into my mind, whispering sweet nothings about probable cause in a bear-like yet seductive voice. Funny, I hadn't noticed he was sexy before. Must have been something in the tea.

In my dreams, I raced along a violet-strewn road while Natalie pursued me in a tow-truck until she successfully squashed me against the side of the Museum of Civilization, which was holding a special exhibit entitled “Splash”. In a suitably moving follow-up ceremony, which Woody called “Ash”, Philip scattered my charred remains over the lasagna in the Chez Charlie. Sarrazin ate honey from a pot, and Josey charged admission.

When I woke up, Rachel led me deep into the heart of L'Auberge des Rêves, her own private area. She was relaxed and smiling in her jeans and a well-worn flannel shirt.

Josey seemed to enjoy my surprise at seeing Tolstoy curled up under the table. “Rachel drove me over, and we picked him up. He likes it here. He's been fed and everything. I even had a game of Frisbee with him in the garden. We thought you wouldn't be able to relax if you were worried.”

Now, instead of worrying about my dog, I could worry about how people could continue to get into my house without a key. Of course, the meal took my mind off all that.

We tucked ourselves around an antique pine table roughly the size of my study but loaded with food. Rachel set up a footstool so I could stretch out my leg, now swollen, red and throbbing.

Rachel was a first class caterer. We enjoyed pork chops with orange and rosemary. Not to mention brown and wild rice, homemade rolls, green beans drenched in butter and a salad with thick, creamy dressing. Then peaches baked in cream and maple syrup. My arteries were slamming shut, but at least I would die with a smile on my face.

Best of all, Rachel, for all her kindness and loyalty and wonderful hospitality, was not above trashing the late Benedict. I had a second glass of wine and really began to enjoy myself.

“...right under her nose, all the time,” Rachel was saying, shaking her head. “Really, he led her such a merry chase. All those women, and he was so flagrant about it. So public. It's a miracle she didn't kill him. I would have.”

“You don't think she...?”

Rachel laughed. “No, I must be projecting my own feelings onto her. That was the night she broke her ankle. The bridge club spent the entire evening at the Regional Hospital. We played right there in Emergency.”

“That was a shame.”

“Not really. It worked out well for Bridget, at least it gave her an alibi. That grumpy policeman was breathing down her neck. Seriously.”

“I know the feeling.”

“He even interviewed the hospital staff and the rest of the bridge group twice, trying to mess up our stories.”

“He did the same thing to Liz and to me. I guess in a way Bridget was lucky.”

“She doesn't see it that way. She was crazy about Benedict.”

I said, “You know, I'm a bit worried about Bridget. First these gifts from Benedict to all these people. Then this thing with scattering the ashes. Did you know she even gave me the urn? What next? You think she's having a breakdown?”

Rachel rubbed her nose. “I don't know. I'm worried too. She's so fragile. All those years with Benedict, you can imagine. On the other hand, she really is overdoing it. I could have brought you those ashes.”

“I didn't really want them, no matter who delivered them.”

“Who would? How about Irish coffee? You want that?”

“Can we take it in the garden?” Josey asked.

“No problem. It's my favourite spot. And if you don't mind, I need to do a little deadheading before it rains again.”

“I'll help,” Josey said.

I sat on the steps, next to two huge pots of red salvia and vinca, admired the expanse of garden and sniffed the damp but fragrant air. I sipped my Irish coffee and continued to ask questions as Rachel clipped and Josey snipped.

“Was Abby the worst of the girlfriends? The most public?”

“Nah. Not by a longshot. That thing with Zoë Finestone was public passion at its height. I was always afraid their chairs might catch fire. And she had two flings with Benedict, remember?”

How could I forget?

“Zoë had the nerve to show up uninvited to the memorial. Bridget was frothing at the mouth over that. Bridget and Benedict had come close to splitting up over Zoë. Zoë did everything she could to drive them apart. She was determined to get Benedict.”

“What was she striving for? A lifetime of debt and drudgery?”

“No accounting for taste.”

Maybe if I hadn't broken off with Benedict, that kind of lunacy could have overtaken me.

“Anyway, one day Zoë issued an ultimatum, and that did the trick. She got a split, but not the one she was angling for.”

“But Abby Lake showed up too. Was that relationship still going strong?”

Rachel shrugged. “I think so. Who knows how long it would have lasted. Benedict was about to start his fall creative writing classes, and that always brought new, shall we say, opportunities.”

Ouch. I'd been one of those opportunities eight years earlier. “Maybe Abby was newly dumped and feeling a bit murderous?”

Rachel made a face. “No sign of dumping that I knew of.”

Night settled over the garden as I pondered Abby and Zoë as very satisfactory suspects. Rachel and Josey worked happily over the basil and mint.

When a muffled yell drifted into the garden, Rachel snapped her head up and away from the herbs. A rumpled hulk of a man with matted bleached blonde hair and a bottle in his hand lurched toward the garden.

Rachel stood rigid, clutching her shears. “Get out of here. Before I call the police!”

“Oh Jeez, police, again,” said Josey. “Just what we need.”

“Please, no police,” I said. Where the police gathered, could reporters be far behind?

The man stopped, swayed and staggered off toward the street.

Rachel wiped her forehead. “Damned tramps. Harder than the devil to get rid of.”

“They're everywhere,” Josey said.

Even in St. Aubaine. And what's more, they were all beginning to look alike.

Another thing I had liked about L'Auberge des Rêves: although the phone rang often, I had no responsibility for it. No incessant, pressing calls. No messages to return or ignore. For the first time in seven days, I'd enjoyed a carefree phoneless evening without the cloud of Benedict's death.

My own phone was ringing as I limped through the door.

“Fiona?”

I hesitated.

“Fiona, is that you?”

Bridget.

“That big, cranky policeman was here again asking questions about Benedict and you.”

“Oh.” I hoped the big cranky policeman hadn't dropped a bomb about the note.

“You know, it's actually bothering me more now to talk about Benedict's death than it did before. Now the initial shock is over, I find myself dwelling on how strange it seems.”

“Mmmm,” I said.

“I keep asking myself why.”

I certainly knew about the why question. “You know, there was nothing between me and Benedict. All of that was over years ago, before I even knew you, and it wasn't a real affair. We never actually...”

“I know that, Fiona. But I keep asking myself why he was moved to your place. And all that awful stuff we're reading in the papers. What does it mean? Who's setting that up? Is that the key to it or something to throw the police off the scent of the real people who are involved?”

“I wouldn't mind finding out that myself.”

“It must be driving you crazy.”

“No kidding.” I hated the whole idea of Sarrazin with his glowering dark looks intimidating my old friends and Benedict's into making damaging statements about me. I particularly hated the idea that Sarrazin might tell Bridget about the note.

“They even asked if he had any underworld connections.”

“Benedict? Oh, no, that sounds too much like work.”

It felt good to hear Bridget laugh.

“That's what I've been telling him. This Sarrazin's a very serious kind of guy. He has trouble understanding what made Benedict tick.”

I couldn't figure out what made either one of them tick. “It is nice to think of Benedict leaving a legacy of perplexity,” I said.

“You're right, and now that you mention it, that cheers me. Thanks, Fiona. I'll keep it in mind when I talk to the police.”

For a long time after I hung up, I stood in the hall, pondering the state of my precarious legal position, throbbing left leg, empty bank account and ruined writing.

That reminded me, I had to fix my novel before Cayla and Brandon went past the point where editing could straighten them out. Since, as Liz pointed out, I had no sex life to give me inspiration, I needed to buckle down and work hard.

But how the hell could I concentrate?

“Absolutely not,” I said to Josey the next morning. She showed no sign of getting out of the car. “I am going to deliver these parcels, and you are not coming along.”

“Don't be miserable, Miz Silk. You need me. You don't know your way around this area like I do. You have a lot of people to locate. It'll be much easier with me to help you deliver the stuff. There's your leg to think about. And if this car breaks down again, who do you think could get a towtruck here faster, you or me?”