Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle (55 page)

Woody snorted. They were always snorting, those two. Together, they sounded like a barn full of hogs. “The look on your face, kiddo.”

Marc-André's forehead creased.

“I didn't see your car,” I squeaked.

“You could thank us,” Liz said.

“For what?” Sneaking into my house? Stamping out my brand new sex life?

“Funny. How about for getting rid of those hounds outside?”

“Ah,” I said, “May I ask what you told them?”

“Never mind. You don't want to know. They're gone, aren't they? And by tomorrow you'll be old news again, and no one will give you the time of day.”

Woody shook his silver braid and waved his arms. “Wasn't my idea. You ask me, you're missing a major opportunity here, kiddo. Good time to get that new book out with all this attention.”

“And listen,” Liz said, “I don't like hearing my best friend has been involved in another murder every time I turn on the television. I want to hear things like that directly from you. I've left you some messages which I expect you to listen to. Sergeant Whozit's on there too. He sounded hot under the collar.”

Not only had she taken over my answering machine but, from the look of things, she was settled in for the evening.

Marc-André squeezed my hand. Liz spotted the movement. I could tell she rated him at least a nine. I rated him off the scale.

“Anyway, you don't need to worry about a thing. Woody and I are concerned about your safety, even if you're not. We are going to spend the night. That should keep dangerous people away.”

“Thanks, but no thanks, Liz. Do you need a lift?” I said.

“She's parked around the bend in the road. Part of the surprise,” Woody said.

Liz's eyes glittered. As far as I was concerned, she could glitter all she wanted. The magic had gone out of the moment.

“You've had a tough day,” Marc-André said. “Why don't I call you in the morning?”

Just as well. Two more minutes in the room with Liz and Woody, talking dewlaps and satanic rituals, and my sex life would be finished before it started.

I turned to Marc-André and smiled. “Absolutely.”

“You are supposed to be in school. And after school, you are supposed to be at Stella's. And please don't tell me it's a PD day.” The irritation in my voice resulted from spending the night with the understudies rather than the leading man.

Half the pajama party had just left with Cyril, but I was still stuck with Liz, and now the second shift was arriving in Kostas's ancient green car.

Josey and Kostas paid no attention to my grumbling. “I'm playing hooky,” she said, holding a plastic bag close to her chest.

Behind her, Kostas beamed. Naturally. He probably invented hooky as a boy and would be glad to see it flourishing.

“Good news. Those television fellas have all left, dear lady.”

Josey, still clutching the bag, sprinted past me and headed for the bathroom “Wait a minute, I've got something to show you.”

Liz snorted from the beanbag chair. She lounged with a cup of coffee, instead of her usual Courvoisier, which she would never find unless she decided to do my laundry. The life of a country doctor must be great.

I gave her a dirty look. It didn't seem to be making an impression. I was working on a more effective facial expression when Josey reappeared.

“What do you think?” she asked. It would have been easier to answer truthfully if she hadn't been wearing her first major knitting project.

I could only hope Liz wouldn't choose that moment for one of her candid evaluations.

“I finished stitching it together. It's a sweater.”

I clutched my coffee and opened my mouth. Nothing came out. Kostas gave me a glance which I interpreted to mean, I'm sorry I didn't know this would happen or I would have warned you. Personally, I would have expected more from the Father of Hooky.

I took a deep breath. “Heavens, what an ambitious project.”

Liz appeared to be captivated with the view from the window. Planning to build an ark maybe.

Tolstoy headed for the kitchen.

Josey twirled to give us all possible angles.

The arms were definitely different lengths, and both somewhat longer than Josey's. The sweater had various undulations and bumps I felt certain were not part of the original design. The front seemed made-to-order for someone with three breasts. The patterns resembled the works of Jackson Pollock rather than traditional Irish knitwear.

Kostas said nothing, leaving me to dig myself out. Sure, I like to be alone, but not abandoned. I thought fast. Josey's frown deepened.

“The colours,” I said, after a medium eternity, “are gorgeous.”

“They are nice, aren't they? Kostas gave me the wool and he dyed it himself.”

You'd think I would have been prepared for that sweater, its component parts and its construction, since we'd all been confined to small spaces while Josey was knitting it. I exhaled with relief. But I wasn't getting off that easily.

“But what do you think about the sweater itself?” Josey asked.

Time for Kostas to take the reins. “My dear girl,” he said, “it's an excellent first effort.”

As an artist-in-wool, naturally he was aware of the sensitivities of the novice knitter. An excellent first effort. I'd had no idea, but I did know Josey, and Josey was one of those people who is born with a knack for doing things easily and well. Josey would not like anything that could be described as “an excellent first effort”.

“It's pitiful,” Josey said.

“No,” Kostas and I cooed in unison.

“Yes, it is. Do you think I can't see? No one in their right mind would ever be caught dead in it.”

True enough, but neither Kostas nor I had the courage to agree.

“I can't believe you guys wouldn't tell me the truth.”

“We didn't actually...lie.”

“You didn't tell me the truth. You treated me like some kind of little kid or something and you...you...you patronized me.” I spoke, since Kostas's mouth was busy swallowing.

“I don't think so. We, and I speak for both Kostas and myself, felt this was a formidable task, and should be recognized as such. Whether or not anyone would actually wear it is a secondary consideration.”

Josey snorted and pulled the sweater off.

“What's more,” I said, “you learned to knit, something that some of us haven't been able to do in forty some years. And you finished it under most difficult conditions. You should respect and admire the sweater for what it is.”

Josey's lip curled as she dropped the sweater to the floor.

“I couldn't have done as well,” I said.

“I never thought you could,” she said.

Liz barked with laughter.

“Sure, it's your practice piece,” said Kostas.

Josey whipped around. “You never mentioned anything about a practice piece before.”

“Did I not? But dear girl, I'm an old man and apt to forget things now and then. Everyone begins with a practice piece.”

“Remind me sometime,” Liz said, “to tell you the results of my first surgery, before I really got the hang of it.”

Tolstoy returned from the kitchen to put in his two milkbone's worth by sniffing the longest arm, then curling up on it.

“The key thing,” Liz said, “is to avoid litigation. I think you're safe in this case.”

“It doesn't matter,” I said.

Tolstoy smiled. Kostas and I opened our mouths, but too late. The front door banged behind Josey.

It was a real pleasure to see the back of Liz and Kostas, and even Josey, although her exit left a whiff of guilt.

I could deal with that because at last I was gloriously alone. Once I took my mind off Marc-André and the night that might have been, I needed to think. Even though Abby was dead, I couldn't shake the sense of being pushed around. Manipulated. The biggest manipulation of all had been the placing of Benedict in my bed. Playfully. I still couldn't get over that playfulness.

I'd really liked my tidy explanation featuring Abby as Benedict's killer. In my theory, she'd slipped the body into my bed as a way of thumbing her nose at Benedict after his death. And thumbing it at me in anticipation of mine. But I had no way of knowing what went on in Abby's tormented mind before she died.

If Abby had killed Benedict out of jealousy, why had she been killed? What possible role could Dougie Dolan be playing in this whole circus? What about Mary Morrison's comments about dangerous Dougie taking the blame for things other little lads had done? So Dougie Dolan, small-time thug, had spent a lifetime playing second fiddle to Benedict. And some thirty years later, Benedict had been flouncing around, squiring a pretty lady and announcing to anyone who'd listen he was into some big money. Could that have sent Dougie Dolan over the edge? If so, why the interest in me? Had Benedict spoken about me to Dougie? Blathering on over a jar with that “love of his life” drivel? Was Dolan snaking after me because he believed I knew something about Benedict's windfall? That made some sense, but it didn't explain anything about why Abby had been killed.

I sat at my desk and stared at my paper analysis for many long minutes, until it hit me. If Abby had been on her own wacky mission to wipe me out, it might explain why Dolan had killed her. What if Dougie Dolan thought he needed me alive to extract Benedict's secret?

What was happening with Dougie anyway? Had he been arrested? It had to be good news if Sarrazin wasn't hassling me any more. Just to be on the safe side, I called the Sûreté. Officer Winnie wasn't available. Neither was Sarrazin. I left a message for each of them. And one for Sarrazin care of Dr. Duhamel's answering service. Just in case.

I took a certain amount of pleasure in leaving a long, complicated message, including a summary of Philip's latest settlement offer, with the young woman who answered the phone for Natalie, the reluctant lawyer.

I had one thing left to do that day: Find out where the Flambeau fit in. That geedee literary award had to be connected. Stella didn't think the poems had even been written by Benedict. Had the rigging of the contest been tied to the writing off of Benedict? I was long overdue to learn whether Mme Flambeau could shed any light on who had really written those poems.

“
Désolée
, but I have not had any success with Mme Flambeau. I have already checked with all my contacts. She is even more reclusive than usual. She has not been seen at the Foundation itself. There isn't much going on there. I do not think anyone even staffs the office properly.” That was not the way Hélène would run a foundation, let me tell you.

“No kidding,” I said. “I've left plenty of messages with those people, if indeed there are ever really people there. It's pretty frustrating. I think Mme Flambeau must be the key to this whole thing. So you can see how important it is.”

“I do, Fiona.”

“Can you give it another try? All I need is an address.”

“Of course. But I have been very busy. You know we are planning a new fundraising tour of historic St. Aubaine. The brochure is ready and...”

“I'll help.”

“But I need people to fold and stuff and stamp.”

“I'll fold, stuff and stamp.”

“...and people to go to the Bureau de Poste.”

“I'll go to the Post Office. Someone must know where this Flambeau woman is.”

“I have one more possibility. But you know those envelopes will need to be sealed too.”

“Absolutely.”

It took her fifteen minutes to get the address.

I called Cyril Hemphill and told him to get over on the double.

“I'll be off like a prom dress,” he said.

Tolstoy is a country dog. He didn't take well to the mobile parking lot that is Boulevard Métropolitain or to the
Autoroute
Décarie and to the speed, traffic and honking horns on the other asphalt entrances to Montreal.

Neither of us was prepared for the heat: a steaming day that might have been expected in July but was inappropriate for mid-September. A trickle of sweat tap-danced down my back. And
I
wasn't wearing a white fur coat.

The only happy traveller was Cyril Hemphill. “Thinking about getting the AC on the old girl refitted.” He'd be able to do that on what it was going to cost me to get to Montreal and back. Lucky my credit was still good with Cyril.

I gave Tolstoy a sympathetic pat on the head. “I'll be glad when all this is over,” I said to Cyril.

“I imagine you will.”

“It seems like it's been going on forever, and I feel like everyone in St. Aubaine still thinks I might have killed Benedict.” I met Cyril's eyes in the rear-view mirror. “Don't you worry about that, Miz Silk. I set them gossips straight. They might want to think you done it, but they know darn well the truth is at the time of that murder, you were tits up, pardon my French.”

Why thank you, Cyril.

My hair reacted to the heat and humidity by kinking into corkscrews and standing away from my head, like Little Orphan Annie Meets the Sauna Creature. I allowed myself to be distracted by this image in the sideview mirror while Cyril somehow got lost in Notre Dame de Grâce, St. Henri, Côte de Neiges and Lasalle. I took some small comfort in thinking Dolan could never have followed Cyril's cab through all those detours.

Tolstoy and I were both pretty wilted by the time the cab wheezed its way through upper Westmount toward the stately home where we hoped to find Mme Flambeau. Like many of its neighbouring properties, it could probably be picked up for three or four million. Finally, Cyril squealed into the circular driveway and parked in front of some expensive shrubs. You could have stashed another dozen or so cars in that driveway, but Cyril's cab was the only one there. I hoped someone was at home, and the Flambeau vehicles were safely parked in the three-car garage.