Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle (58 page)

Only when I rounded the corner towards the Hommes and Dames and couldn't see Kostas anywhere, did it occur to me that maybe I should have dragged Marc-André along. With all those people around, how could the hallway be so empty now?

I hesitated. How stupid, really. An almost-forty-five-yearold woman could not go back and ask a man to accompany her for a pee break. I straightened my shoulders and lifted my head high. The back corridor smelled of mildew and cats. The air felt cold and damp enough to give me goose bumps. I tried to reassure myself the scuffling noises in the storage area were only rodents. With a strong sense of unease, I scurried into the Dames and flicked on the lights. My dog might have helped, but he was outside panhandling for French fries.

I don't mind admitting I checked all three cubicles. I locked the door of my chosen cubicle and braced my foot against it.

You're a dope, I told myself minutes later as I gripped the sink. Why didn't you wait and walk over with a group of women?

I peered through the door into the hallway, hoping I hadn't missed Kostas on his way back. If only someone in the crowd would answer the call of nature.

I felt a wild surge of relief when I saw Marc-André stride into the hallway towards the men's room. The relief ended with the flash of an arm behind his head.

“Shut up or I'll pull the trigger. You better believe it.” I'd never heard his voice before, but I knew it had to be Dougie Dolan. And I believed what I heard. I drew in my breath when they passed the door. Dougie Dolan was strong-arming a struggling Marc-André. I caught a glimpse of the gun pressed to his temple. My heart ricocheted around my chest. I shrank back behind the door.

Through the crack in the door, I could see Dolan direct Marc-André into the storage room. Out of sight. My breath was ragged and loud. Dolan would most likely kill Marc André if no one did anything. And no one else knew anything needed to be done. Screaming was out of the question. Nobody but Dolan would hear. And Dolan had a gun.

Across the hall, glass crashed on the floor. I had no weapon, and Marc-André was in serious trouble. I didn't even have my carryall, which might have packed a mean punch. I stumbled around searching for something to help Marc-André until I spotted the toilet tank lid. Why not?

I decided to make a run for the stairs to get help.

The scuffling stopped inside the storage area. I tiptoed past with the toilet tank lid raised above my head, just in case.

“I want that Flambeau money. Tell me where it is, you little bastard. Tell me where it is.”

“What are you talking about? I'm telling you, I don't know anything about it.”

More glass shattered. Fumes from cleaning fluid filled the air. He had guts, that Marc-André.

“I finished that pig Benedict, and I'll do you with a smile on my face if you don't tell me where it is.”

I couldn't hear Marc-André's words.

A crash shook the wall. I edged towards the storage area, the toilet tank lid in attack position. The thing must have weighed ten pounds. I figured it could do serious damage. I poised ready to swing if I had to and also ready to make a run for the stairs.

I peeked into the storage area and took my chances with the back of the yellow head. I whacked it with the porcelain lid. Dougie Dolan pitched over neatly, landing on his weapon.

“Run for it,” I shrieked, “before he gets up.”

Marc-André lay quiet, blood trickling from his temple.

I raced up the stairs, howling and swinging the lid. Plates went flying as Sarrazin jumped to his feet.

“It's Marc-André. Dolan's trying to kill him.”

Sarrazin tore down the stairs. I galloped after him. Behind us, you could hear chairs being knocked over and people screaming.

As we charged towards the storage area, the door sprang from its hinges. Dougie Dolan was hurled backwards onto the floor. Marc-André leaped towards Dolan, grabbed the gun and fired.

Dolan crumpled. The sound of the shot screamed in our ears.

Marc-André's mouth opened. The gun slipped from his fingers and clattered on the floor as he slid down the wall, leaving a streak of red. He crouched there, his head in his hands.

I'd never seen a man shot. Dougie Dolan jerked, a red stain spreading on his shirt.

Sarrazin and I stood still, stunned, just long enough to miss Dolan's lunge for the gun. Before Sarrazin could grab it, the gun barked again. Marc-André yelped and fell sideways.

Dolan gurgled. Red froth bubbled from his lips. The gun clattered to the floor.

I checked frantically for signs of life in Marc-André. Dougie Dolan, the man who had put us all in danger, lay dead.

And Marc-André's lifeblood was seeping from his wounds.

Sarrazin said, “
Merde
.”

Liz rode in the ambulance with Marc-André. Sarrazin rode ahead with a slap-on light transforming his ordinary Ford.

Kostas and I located Mark-André's keys and drove the BMW to the hospital. We needed to do something. Sitting in the
salle
d'urgence
waiting for news seemed as good as anything else.

Sarrazin joined us in the waiting room before midnight, confirming Dolan's death. Heaving himself into the miserable molded plastic chairs. Giving the giant philodendron in the corner a look of pity. Getting my informal version of events outside the storage room.

“It was all about money,” I said. “The two hundred and fifty thousand dollars Benedict got. Dolan wanted it. He thought Marc-André had it. Or knew where it was hidden.”

“Did he?”

“I have no idea. He didn't say anything about it to me. He was fighting to save his life. But I would have thought not.”

“Do you know where it is?”

“I wish.”

“You'll have to come in to the Sûreté tomorrow to fill out a full report.” He picked a pair of dead leaves from the philodendron on his way out.

As the automatic doors closed behind him, I faced Kostas, saying what I had to say.

“What about you? Do you know?”

“I don't, dear lady. I don't.”

“But you did know what was going on.” It wasn't a question.

Kostas squirmed. “Some of it, dear lady. Some of it only.”

“Which one of you wrote the poems?”

“Marc-André.”

“I see.”

“No, dear lady, ye probably don't.”

“Try me.”

“I blame myself. I should never have told him.”

“Told him what?”

“The poems were old ones, when Marc-André was learning to write. He outgrew them. Wasn't all that interested in light and romantic stuff. He began to write more in French than in English. I rescued that notebook from the fireplace just in time. If I hadn't, probably none of this would have happened. Or at least if I hadn't left it lying around.”

Of course. “So, Benedict visited you and found it?”

He nodded. “I didn't think anything of it at the time. Talked a bit about Marc-André and how he'd moved on. Didn't even notice the notebook gone. I can't tell you the shock I had, dear lady, finding out that scamp had made out they were his own. I think he was trying to get the old girl to bankroll him. You know.”

“No kidding. And how did Marc-André react?”

“He was mad as hell when he recognized a stanza of one of his own poems on the radio when they announced the Flambeau Prize. You can imagine.”

I could. “What happened then?”

“He was going to confront Benedict, especially since everyone told him Benedict had been bragging about some big deal. But he never got a chance. That Dolan did it for him.”

“And why did Dolan come after Marc-André?”

“I can't be sure, but I think somehow, someone might have let it slip he was the real poet and rightly steamed about it. Word must have leaked out.”

I had a pretty good idea who “someone” might have been.

“And where did I come in?”

“Ah, dear lady, I feel a bit ashamed, now. Our fondness for you isn't in the least bit simulated. Of course, we didn't know you at first, but we decided we'd have to find out about you. Play along with the scattering. In case you were not what you claimed to be. I mean, he was found... Do you know what I mean? We weren't sure, but we wanted to keep an eye on you.”

“That's why the attention? That's why you got me the car?”

He nodded a miserable little nod.

I wasn't in a position to lecture. I'd used them as much as they'd used me.

“One more thing. What is your real name?”

You would have thought I'd slapped him. It took a very long time for him to answer. “Hector Baggs. My mother always called me Heckie. Not much of a name for a poet and an artistin-wool. Not like Seamus Heaney or Benedict Kelly or Marc André Paradis. It was nothing but a handicap. I'd no choice at all but to change it into something more interesting.”

“So you're not from Ireland?”

“Not in the least, I'm afraid not. But then, no one's perfect, dear lady.”

It was three in the morning before Liz was able to determine that Marc-André had a chance. Aside from the good news, I was glad to see her, since Hector (my mother always called me Heckie) Baggs and I had not been the most congenial company for each other.

“We can go home,” Liz said. “They won't let anybody see your precious poet yet. And certainly not you, Little Miss Kiss of Death.”

I dropped Kostas off at Evening's End. What was an extra half hour drive on slippery back roads in the driving rain with Liz snoring in the back seat? I wasn't in any hurry. I wouldn't be able to sleep anyway. I declined Kostas's offer of protection.

“Dolan's dead now. I'll be okay.”

I declined Liz's offer too. For all the good it did me. She insisted on coming home with me. I couldn't sleep and wasted the rest of my night at the computer.

“Darling,” Brandon sputtered, struggling to keep from slipping on the slimy rocks. “Can you ever forgive me? I can't imagine living my life without you.”

Cayla studied him silently, the sea wind whipping her hair like a rebellious halo. Tears stung her amazing azure eyes. He was so handsome and so faithless and, so...unable to take care of himself.

How long, she thought, would he even survive if he tried to live his life without her? He'd get trampled by the first runaway horse he encountered or he'd slip into an abandoned mine shaft under the main street or he'd stroll through a plate glass window or...

“Angel bug, please answer me. This is it. The big commitment. Heart and soul. For all time. Violins. Orange blossoms. Matching towels. Theirs and theirs. Can't you see it, Cayla? Say something. I can't...” His face crumpled with barely suppressed emotion. “I can't face my bran flakes every morning without you.”

Cayla reached her hand across the windswept rock to touch him. His presence electrified her. Her breathing became fast and shallow.

“Oh, Brandon,” she cried, as they sought each other greedily, hands and mouths touching. “Brandon, darling, be careful of the sea weed. Eaaaaaaughhh!”

“Darling, it's really quite shallow here,” Brandon said, emerging. Water dripped from his nostrils. “And quite romantic, don't you think?”

Sure, why not, Cayla thought, as she clung to him and wiped the sea water from her eyes, I can always buy another sweater if this one shrinks.

“Snuggle bun,” Brandon coughed, as they sank together beneath the playful waves, their hearts beating as one, “wouldn't it be wonderful to be married here?”

“I think inland might be better,” Cayla said, spitting out a bit of sand.

“Darling, whatever you want. I'm so happy we're...”

“Brandon,” Cayla asked when they surfaced for air.

“Hmmm?” He nuzzled her damp ear.

She traced the lines of his nose, stopping short of the nostrils, which were draining.

“Yes, Cayla,” he gasped.

“You do have insurance, don't you, darling?”

“You know,” I said to Liz as the sun came over the horizon. “There's supposed to be good money in cook books. I'm thinking of making the switch.”

Liz agreed. “Cookbooks? Good idea. Then I suppose it won't matter if you sleep alone.”

With Dougie Dolan dead, I was safe at last, a good feeling. As a bonus, I was yesterday's news. No one had picked up on the toilet tank lid as a front page teaser. Instead, the media hounded Sarrazin and hung out in front of the hospital. I raced around St. Aubaine with impunity. I felt great—except for worrying about Marc-André.

I got home to find Josey sitting in the porch swing, wearing the binocular case and struggling with ten different colours of wool and a new pattern. “I heard from Kostas this morning that Marc-André is going to be all right.”

“Let's hope. And you're supposed to be in school.” I said without much enthusiasm.

“I made you a present.”

“School. Now.”

“It will only take a minute, and then I can concentrate on getting to school.”

I considered that. “All right. What is it?”

“Go ring your doorbell.”

“Please, Josey, I've had a rough night.”

“Jeez, Miz Silk. Don't make such a big deal about everything. Just press it.”

I walked to the door and pressed.

Josey's disembodied voice echoed. “Miz Fiona Silk cannot come to the door right now, but leave a message after the beep and she'll get back to you, if she feels it is sufficiently important.” The machine beeped.

“You're amazing, Josey. This is the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me.”

Her cowlicks stood on full alert. Triumphant.

“And to show my appreciation, I'm going to take you to school in a decent car for once.”