Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle (6 page)

“Chelsea. And she's an
executive
assistant.”

Naturally, Chelsea did not answer when I crossed the foyer again and knocked at the office door. Probably still cowering under the desk, I decided.

My cell phone rang, and I snatched it up.

“Philip?” I said, continuing to walk back down the hill toward the village.

“Oh là là.”
My friend Hélène Lamontagne laughed her silvery laugh. “I have been leaving messages at home for you.”

“Haven't been home most of the day,” I said.

“You are lucky. It will be like an oven at your place now. Why don't you and Tolstoy come over for a swim?”

That was a tricky one. How can I loathe Jean-Claude and spurn his offers, then go take a dip in his oversize pool? Where's the dignity in that?

“The thing is, Hélène, Jean-Claude and I had a little dust-up over my property today. I can hardly...”

“Fiona. I am
not my
husband. I have nothing to do with his real estate business. Nothing. I am your friend, and I am asking you to come to
my
home and keep me company. How can that be a problem? By the way, do you know where Josée can be found? She might like to join us.”

Josey was looking particularly innocent at the moment, which made me wonder if she'd set up the call.

“I will see the three of you soon,” Hélène said. “And by the way, Jean-Claude will be out this evening. He has an important meeting.”

“It may take a while,” I said. “I found a wallet belonging to one of the
En feu!
producers, and I need to return it to her.”

“Ah oui.
Who is it? I know a lot of those people.”

“Harriet Crowder.”

“Oh là là là.
” I imagined Hélène rolling her eyes.

The level of excitement rose higher every hour. In fact, the whole village seemed to be on the verge of frenzy.

“Wow, no wonder people are excited, Miz Silk. It's Marietta!” She tugged at my hand, pulling me along the sidewalk toward the waterfront.

Marietta turned to us in surprise. A small puff of smoke escaped from her lips. She dropped a cigarette and ground it out. “You caught me. It's naughty, I know, but...”

Josey blurted out. “This is Miz Fiona Silk, and I am her executive assistant, Josey Thring. We're big fans of yours.” She snapped open her little notebook with the blue pages, I suppose to drive home the executive assistant point.

Up close, Marietta was a feast for the eyes. Her luxurious mane of chestnut hair did not frizz in the heat and humidity like mine. Her make-up was perfect, the olive skin glowing and flawless. Her full red lips curved in a wickedly conspiratorial smile. The smile went all the way to her dark brown eyes. Every male who walked past us did a double take. I attributed those reactions to Marietta's dangerous curves and her startling cleavage.

Josey said, “We're looking for Harriet Crowder. She's your producer, isn't she?”

Marietta bubbled with laughter. “Oh, my poor Harriet. What's she done now?”

Josey said. “Nothing, except yell at some people. But that's none of our business. Miz Silk found her wallet. We tried to talk to her at the Wallingford Estate but...”

“Her tail was on fire?” Marietta laughed.

“Something like that,” I said, cutting into the conversation. “She was pretty fierce.”

“Poor little Harriet. She's upset about a few things today. She's really all sound and fury, and one of these days she really should learn to pick her battles. Even so, I don't know why people are so frightened of her. Sticks and stones, right?”

“Perhaps you could give her the wallet,” I suggested, not wanting to test the sticks and stones theory. “Since you know her.”

Marietta put her soft, warm hand on my arm. “I'm just off to meet someone, or I'd love to. But listen, I'm sure I saw Harriet heading toward the parking lot across the street. We're having a bit of trouble with the air conditioning up at the estate. When she gets too hot, she gets into her
SUV
to cool off. She doesn't usually go anywhere, so you should be able to catch up with her, no problem.” As Marietta sashayed off, a perfectly normal-looking man walked straight into a telephone pole as he followed her progress.

“She was real nice, wasn't she, Miz Silk? And she's so beautiful. Just like on television.”

“Right. Let's just get this over with.”

I looked both ways but didn't see any combinations of red hair and leopard print. Or any tails on fire. Normally someone like Harriet would have stood out in our community. But today, the population had changed.

Josey raised her binoculars. She never leaves home without them. “Oh, Marietta was right. There's the
SUV
!”

I saw the spiky red head disappearing into the Café Belle Rive.

Josey said, “I can't believe someone would drive down that little hill instead of walking. Come on, Miz Silk.”

Sometimes it's a curse to be polite. “Excuse me,” I said as we pushed through the crowd on the sidewalk. “Pardon me. Coming through. Excuse me.” Talk about a waste of words. I might as well have been invisible. Josey was quite far ahead of me before I finally broke through a knot of chattering young women, but she waited for me to catch up.

“Miz Silk, you'll never get anywhere if you wait for people to let you do what you want.”

The story of my life.

The Belle Rive was a venerable restaurant in a restored building teetering on the edge of the Gatineau River. It's a popular spot for tourists and locals. The tourtière and chutney are homemade, and the salads come from a local organic farm. The house wine is very drinkable, and no one there is ever in a hurry. Perhaps there's something romantic about eating French country cooking on the misty shore, because a high percentage of the diners always seemed to be holding hands and gazing with cow-eyed admiration at the person opposite. I followed Josey through the door. Usually at that time of day, the restaurant celebrated happy hour with cocktails and canapés. It was way too late for lunch, and dinner service didn't begin before seven.

A beaming young woman carrying a stack of menus greeted us. “I'm sorry. We're full, with a forty-five minute wait. You might try Oops! across the street.”

“Just looking,” Josey said, slithering past her. She quickly checked the dining room and scooted out to the outdoor seating.

“We're trying to find an, um, acquaintance,” I said. “Do you mind if we check on the verandah?”

Of course, it was a bit too late to ask permission. Josey had disappeared.

“No problem,” the hostess said. “Let me know if you want to reserve a table for later.”

As usual, every seat on the verandah was occupied. No one looked like Harriet Crowder. But at the far end on the right was a table tucked out of view. I happened to know that spot had the best view of the river. An oversized bag with the
En feu! Hot Stuff!
logo hung over the side of a chair, but I couldn't see the people at the table.

“That must be her bag. Excuse me, pardon me,” I said as I eased my way along the narrow passageway toward the end of the verandah, trying not to let my overstuffed carryall knock anything off the intimate little café tables. I couldn't help but note that everyone seemed to be sipping chilled wine and gazing at their partners with something like ardour.

Josey had already reached the end, eager to tell Harriet that we had her wallet, I suppose. I could feel a puce blush spreading up my neck and over my face. A nervous woman grabbed her wine glass as I sped up to get ahead of her.

Josey tapped the woman at the end on her bare and golden shoulder. “Miz Crowder? Oh...”

“Very, very sorry,” I said to the two people at the table. “Case of mistaken identity.”

Anabel Huffington-Chabot turned and frowned. So did her companion. In fact, he dropped her well-manicured hand as if it were a live grenade. What was he doing there? And more to the point, what was he doing with
her?

Words almost failed me.

“Please, excuse us. So many people, so easy to get confused
with all the crowds. We found Harriet Crowder's wallet, and I thought I recognized her bag. Can I leave it with you to give to her? No? I suppose not. Sorry.”

“But Miz Silk. That's...”

“Come on, Josey. Let's go.”

“I think we should...”

“I apologize for interrupting your meeting,” I added. I backed hastily down the narrow aisle, pulling Josey with me.

Outside Belle Rive, I took a deep breath.

“Jeez, Miz Silk. Did you just see what I did?”

I nodded.

“I don't know why you dragged me away.”

“Oh yes you do.”

“Harriet's not here. I don't know where she went. But what kind of a meeting was that anyway?”

“A private one,” I said. “It wasn't appropriate to interrupt.”

“Well, what kind of business do you think it was?”

“It doesn't matter. She's a businesswoman, and he's an investor.”

“It seemed pretty weird to me.”

I didn't want to get into a long discussion with Josey over the fact that Jean-Claude Lamontagne had had his tongue hanging out over Anabel Huffington-Chabot. If we hadn't shown up, he might have smothered in that engineered cleavage. I hoped Josey had missed the hand-holding part. “Sometimes it's better to let it go. You've heard the expression ‘discretion is the better part of valour'?”

“That Anabel was wearing really high heels. Maybe she was the person who locked you in the toilet stall.”

“But why would she?”

“Maybe she knows how you feel about Jean-Claude.” Josey goggled at me.

I said, “You were distracted and didn't get a good look at whoever it was. And I just heard the heels. I can't imagine the owner of a place like the Domaine Wallingford would lock someone in the ladies' room. Bad publicity if it got out.”

The thin shoulders slumped. “I don't like her much. You think Miz Lamontagne is going to be upset?”

“Upset?”

“Sure, you didn't notice that his lordship was holding his colleague's hand at that important meeting? And staring down the front of her top.”

I hesitated. “We won't mention it to Hélène. Maybe we just misinterpreted it.”

Josey scowled. “Maybe.”

“Let's go hunt for Harriet.”

An hour later, after cruising through every street and parking lot in the village of St. Aubaine, we'd still had no luck. We picked up Tolstoy and made tracks for Hélène's.

Hélène may be my closest neighbour on our winding semirural road, but there's not much in common between the two houses. Her six thousand square foot two-storey custom-built stone home sits on top of a completely man-made hill at the end of a long, winding driveway. Paved, naturally. Each giant blue spruce perfectly placed on the manicured lawns had been delivered by truck and planted by certified forestry types.

My cottage, on the other hand, is the same ramshackle dwelling that my great-aunt Kit inherited from her parents. Well, okay, it was winterized sometime in the early sixties, when Aunt Kit moved in permanently, and she did have a proper bathroom installed. But aside from that, it's not much
different. Many of my trees have been there for nearly a hundred years. I'm a lot happier with my glimpse of the Gatineau River than I would be with any landscaper's dream.

Some things money can't buy.

I was damp and sweaty by the time we'd trekked the quarter mile to the Lamontagne's, but I held my back straight and my head high as Josey rang the doorbell. Even the damned chimes sounded pricey. Hélène's Mercedes was parked in front of the house, but as expected, there was no sign of Jean-Claude's silver Porsche Carrera.

“Fiona! Josée! Tolstoy! I am glad you could all make it.”

I adore the woman, even if she is married to my nemesis. I don't understand it, but I don't hold it against her. After all, hadn't I spent many long years with Phil? I didn't understand that either. Some decisions are beyond comprehension. An unfathomable swamp of pheromones, desperation and the desire to wear a long white dress just once.

But friendship trumps all that.

She'd obviously been at the pool. She looked stylish in a white eyelet beach cover-up that contrasted nicely with her tan and her burgundy hair. The Gucci sunglasses were a smart touch, as were the bejewelled flip-flops. I'd picked my own sunglasses at the local Giant Tiger. My swimsuit had long ago lost its sproing.

“Come on in for a swim,” she said as I followed her.

I wasn't sure how much I would be able to relax, knowing more than I should about Jean-Claude's activities.

Hélène walked ahead through the long marble foyer and the newly renovated designer kitchen, which Josey claimed had cost Jean-Claude close to a hundred thousand dollars. We followed her through the screened porch to the glittering custom swimming pool, surrounded by acres of manicured
property. It's magazine quality, but except for the company, I would just as soon be taking a dip on the rocky shore of the Gatineau on my own property. However, Josey loved the pool, and it suited her new status as an
EA
.

Hélène headed for the sparkling new stainless steel patio bar. “Why don't you get changed, and I'll mix us some sangria. And the Shirley Temple version for you, Josée.”

Sometimes it's pointless to argue. Sangria was a great idea.

By the time I managed to get into my suit, Josey had already been in the pool. So had Tolstoy. Hélène had worked some magic with drinks. Everyone was in a good mood, and Tolstoy had found himself a shady spot on the cool slate patio.

“Josée has offered to help me with the organizing for the community logistics connected with
En feu! Hot Stuff!”
Hélène said. “That is very kind of her.”