Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle (49 page)

Blessed drowsiness crept over me. Until a new thought flickered, and my eyes shot open. I knew where I'd seen the man who'd been following us. He was the same ominous yellow-haired tramp outside L'Auberge des Rêves. Not only that but except for his bright matted hair, he could have been the twin of the one who hung around outside of Bridget's during the memorial. And he'd also been panhandling outside the Museum of Civilization just before the car hit me. Plus I'd spotted him through the window at the Chez, where he'd had the nerve to feed Tolstoy fries and pat him on the head.

My heart rate rose.

The man with the yellow hair had been spying on us since right after Benedict's death. So what was the grubby panhandler doing driving around in a sleek black Acura sedan?

The other thing I planned to do if we escaped alive was find out who the hell he was. No matter if the photos were gone from Mary Morrison's. If Sarrazin didn't deliver, I could talk to everyone who'd been in Benedict's class. In a nosy locale like St. Aubaine, someone had to recognize his description.

The silver slivers of moonlight disappeared. Nothing but black showed through the rocks. Was something sniffing and grunting? Coming home for dinner? Yes. Coming closer. Fading away. I never thought I'd rejoice at the soft patter of drops.

Rain.

If the half-dozen teenaged hikers found it strange to have two ratty females and a formerly white dog crawl out from behind a rock the next morning, they didn't mention it.

“
Bonjour
,” one of the hikers said, as we joined them on their way down.

“Good morning,” Josey answered, her spirit undimmed by sleeping sitting up, her back pressed to a cave wall.

Tolstoy issued a joyful bark.

I didn't say anything. My own spirit was seriously dimmed by my wet bum. We hiked through the drizzle for a brisk hour back to the car park. No red baseball caps showed up on the way.

Our new friends disappeared as soon as we limped into the parking lot.

“We'd better call the Quebec Provincial Police,” Josey said.

“Absolutely,” I said, meaning it for once.

It proved not to be necessary. The first thing we spotted in the parking lot was a pair of uniforms. Two QPP officers stood with their hands on their hips, staring with disapproval at what remained of the Skylark.

And then at us.

“Tarrible, tarrible,” Kostas said from the back seat of Marc André Paradis' immaculate ten-year-old Beemer. “Who would have done such a tarrible thing?”

Marc-André Paradis shook his head. “It would be more than that car was worth just to replace all the glass.”

Josey said, “And what about all that damage to the body? I think he must have used a hammer. Maybe he jumped on the roof.”

“Jazus, Mary and Joseph.”

I sat in the front seat, suffused, dripping, flooded, saturated with misery. I smelled of damp earth, sweat, fear, bear dung and unbrushed teeth. I sat next to a man who made my heart race. He was probably going to need his car shampooed to remove the hum. I wanted food, I wanted a bath, I wanted the earth to open up and swallow me.

Why the hell hadn't Liz picked up her phone when we'd called from the pay phone? And where was Cyril Hemphill when you really needed him?

Kostas sputtered on. “I can't believe those damn fools in the QPP didn't take the whole thing more seriously.”

In the back seat, next to Tolstoy, Josey spoke with more energy than I ever expected to feel again in my life. “Stupid cops. Since when do vandals shoot at you? They thought we had it coming for leaving the car in the park overnight.”

Kostas puffed up like he was on helium. “Isn't it just like the police? Bothering a person all the time over every little thing, and then when yis need them, sure they've better things to do. Vandals, indeed. Since when do vandals chase ladies into caves and besiege them with stones?”

“And bullets,” I said.

Josey agreed. “They didn't believe us about the bullets.”

“Indeed, and since when do vandals break into vehicles and leave the valuables?” Kostas asked.

I couldn't argue with him, although I wasn't sure I would classify my purse with its twenty dollar bill and its up-to-thehilt credit cards as valuables. I hadn't even been able to check to see what had been taken.

Kostas exhaled. “My dear lady, what is goin' on?”

I said, “Something to do with Benedict's death.”

I met Marc-André Paradis' gaze. His forehead was rumpled, his eyes troubled. Kostas slipped from outrage back into practical mode. Perhaps because I'd slumped with exhaustion and started to shiver again.

“Do you think they found what they were looking for?” I could feel those peacock blue eyes on me as he spoke.

“I don't know. I find it hard to believe someone would follow us and shoot at us and destroy a car to get an urn.”

“Why do you suppose they wanted the urn?” Marc-André said.

“I cannot imagine.” Of course, that was because I, myself, had really not wanted that urn. Really, really not wanted it. Until it was stolen. As they say, you never appreciate what you have until you lose it.

“But you know, Miz Silk, that urn was in your house when he broke in, and he didn't steal it then. Maybe he's after something else.”

“Dear lady, maybe he's just a nut, and there's no way to ever figure out what was going on in his mind.”

“Their minds,” I said. “There are two of them. Maybe they're after completely different things. Maybe they don't know what they're after.” I felt a distinct throbbing in my temple.

Marc-André's forehead rumpled more. On him, it looked good. “Perhaps you are not safe in your house,” he said.

“You're telling me,” Josey said.

“Dear ladies,” said Kostas, “yis are, of course, most welcome to stay with me at Evening's End.”

Josey and I gasped in unison. Evening's End was only marginally more comfortable than the cave we'd spent the night in.

“I have a new bottle of Jameson's, and I'm sure with a little tinkering I can get the hot water going again for showers. Marc-André will help me, won't you, me boy?”

I felt tears stinging my eyes at the idea of having to stay in Kostas's smelly old house without even hot water. I tried to think of something to avoid the situation without crushing Kostas. I was willing to take my chances going home.

“They can stay at my place,” Marc-André said, with quiet authority. “I have an extra bedroom and lots of hot water and some of your own Armagnac. They can rest as long as they want in peace and quiet, because I'll be in the garage. And if they need any rescuing, I will be three feet away.”

“No reason in the world why I couldn't rescue them, me boy.”

“Oh, but you already have plenty to do getting ready for the scattering,” Josey said.

Brilliant child.

For once, the scattering was convenient for me. I chose not to mention that, with any luck, the missing urn would make the scattering unnecessary.

“Right you are, Josey. Kostas has plenty to do,” I said, as firmly as I could considering my teeth were chattering.

I awakened with a start, disoriented. Except for the state of the sheets caused by my spinning and whirling, the room was absolutely monastic.

Half an hour later, clean, warm, dry and dressed in my laundered jeans and sweatshirt, I limped down the stairs. When I entered the
salon
, Josey was squinting at a television program about museums. A knitting project sat on her lap. Tolstoy was curled at her feet. Someone had done a number on him with shampoo, cream rinse and a blowdryer.

She said, “You're alive. It's almost six o'clock.”

I was not only alive but smelling nicely of fabric softener and Pears soap. My hair had managed to dry in a not too uncontrolled way. I had it pulled in a high ponytail, and only about a third of it escaped in kinky wisps. I wore lipstick. With subtlety, I hoped.

“Marc-André's gone out to get a bit of dinner.”

So a waste of time about the lipstick. “Right,” I said, sinking onto the sofa.

Josey ogled me. “Wait a minute. Are you wearing lipstick?”

“Not really.”

“You
are
. You don't usually wear lipstick in the house.”

“Sure I do,” I lied.

“Kostas and Marc-André are getting us a car to use.”

Getting a car?

“Your car is only fit for Paulie Pound's scrapyard now. Don't worry though. Marc-André said he'd take care of it for you, no problem. And I could help sell some of the parts. Paulie Pound will probably try to rip you off. You'd be lucky to get seventy-five dollars for it.”

It was hard to feel cheerful about this. Much as I disliked the Skylark, I didn't want it crumpled with the other wrecks in Paulie Pound's car graveyard. I wasn't sure it would even fetch seventy-five dollars in the state it was.

“And that Sarrazin guy was here asking questions,” Josey said.

“Here? Why didn't you tell me?”

“You were out cold.”

“I was sleeping, not in a coma.”

She shrugged. “I could tell because you were snoring. I'm guessing people don't snore when they're in comas.”

Snoring? Oh just ducky. I hoped I hadn't had an audience. “No one was in my room, were they?”

Her eyes widened. With guilt. “I was trying to help, Miz Silk. Your clothes were pretty bad from the cave.”

“You washed them?”

She nodded.

“That's a relief. Thank you.” I definitely did not want Marc-André laundering my muddy underwear or hearing me snore.

“Okay, but I'm not sure you should be so relieved.”

“Why not?”

“Something else is missing.”

“Don't drag this out, please. What's missing?”

“Not just the urn, but all the copies of the book.”

It had been hard enough to imagine someone stealing an urn. This really didn't make sense.

“Perhaps they're already becoming valuable,” she said.

“Maybe."

“And there's something else, Miz Silk. The guy in the baseball cap sure didn't like you. He ripped your clothes.”

“What clothes? He never got near me.”

“You know, your dry cleaning.”

“Oh no, not my periwinkle silk blouse.”

She nodded.

“I loved that blouse. And the skirt?”

Josey, at her most serious, leaned forward and lowered her voice. “It was like he had it in for you. Personally.”

I shivered. It took my mind off the fact that I'd cancelled my all-risk coverage on the car. I wondered if my home policy would pay for the contents. If I remembered correctly the deductible was higher than the cost of every piece of clothing in my closet.

The creak of the back door distracted us. A second later, Marc-André came in.

“She's up,” Josey said, before I could check the mirror in case my dewlaps were drooping.

“Bonsoir,” he said. “You look much better. We were worried. Are you hungry? I found roast chicken and green salad with vinaigrette and a baguette. I hope it will do.”

I was starving, a sensation that had taken a back seat to exhaustion, worry, and even lust, until that moment.

I did wonder where you “found” roast chicken and salad until Marc-André confessed he'd had his friend, a poet who worked as a sous-chef at Les Nuances, make it for him.

“I'm sorry I don't have any wine,” he said, a bit shyly. “The Régie was closed and the stuff in the
dépanneur
...”

I tried to match his elegant shrug, indicating I wouldn't be caught dead drinking that turpentine.

“Not like we got anything to celebrate,” Josey said.

“We're alive.” I said.

She grunted.

Marc-André said, “You could celebrate the fact we've been able to get you another car. You can have the car tomorrow whether you're planning to leave then...or some other time.”

I loved those little pauses when he spoke. I wasn't anxious to leave a place with sexy pauses and reenter a world crawling with crazed killers in baseball caps.

“Soon though. I really need to get home and finish my novel.” Nicely non-committal. No puce blush. Excellent. Things were looking up.

Marc-André shook his head. “You shouldn't run off so soon, after such a shock.
Mademoiselle
too.”

That's when it hit me like a slap in the face with a wet fish. I wasn't looking after
mademoiselle
. Hélène was.

“Oui, allô?”

“Hélène, I am so sorry. You must have been frantic.”

“Think nothing of it. Josée already phoned me. I'm happy you are both all right.”

“Now I have some more bad news for you,” she said. Was it my imagination or did I feel a tinge of frostbite on my ear?

“What kind of bad news?” I couldn't imagine what would be worse than dodging bears and bullets all night in a cave.

“Jean-Claude is very upset. He wants Josée to leave. He thinks I should not have taken on this level of obligation, with all the stress and worry.”

“But none of this is Josey's fault.”

“That is not how he sees it. I feel responsible, myself, Fiona. After all, I even packed that lunch. I did not realize you could be in danger.”

“Thanks. I hope Jean-Claude will listen to you.”

“Well, he's just a bit irritable because we're not having a very good response for volunteers for the Christmas Lights Singalong.”

“Ah. Naturally. I'll be glad to help out with that.”

“Wonderful. I'll tell him. You're not afraid of heights, are you?”

“What?”

“Anyway, I let the St. Aubaine police know that you are safe. I had notified them when you didn't return from the outing last night. But did you know they cannot do anything for people missing less than twenty-fours?”