Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle (60 page)

“And he couldn't stop.”

She shrugged. “Benedict taunted him. Dougie blew a fuse. I can't say I felt sorry that Benedict died. I enjoyed watching Dougie work him over. I hated to leave for my bridge game, but lucky I did. Couldn't have had a better alibi when I needed one.”

Bridget swayed in the rain, laughing loudly at the memory.

My stomach knotted.

“It was a damned nuisance, because we still didn't know where the money was hidden. That's where you came in.”

“You put Benedict's body in my bed.”

“Dougie did the labour. I was the artistic director. I stagemanaged the whole thing from the pay phone in the Emergency Ward. Did a lovely job too. Wasn't it a wonderful image? That champagne and the rose? The little smile on his face? I'm so sorry I didn't get to see the finished product.”

“How did you know I was out?” Stall, stall.

“Don't be stupid, Fiona. This is St. Aubaine.”

“How did Dougie get in?” Keep stalling.

“There isn't a lock made that Dougie couldn't get through. If he could have been counted on not to make some stupid mistake once he was in, he could have made a bundle.”

“But it had to be you who left the note in Benedict's cabin.”

“Of course.”

“But why me?”

“They always figure it's the nearest and dearest in the death of a loved one. I had to provide a distraction. I thought of little old ‘lost love' you. Lucky me, I found the thank-you note you wrote me for ordering those Irish coffee glasses. I stuck in a couple of extra x's and o's, Dougie popped it over to Benedict's place, and there you go, evidence.”

It made as much sense as anything else. Behind me, I heard Josey softly rustling inside the van. Was there anything she could do to save herself and Tolstoy?

“So, no insurance?”

“Of course not. I can't believe you were that stupid.”

“And those bequests from Benedict?”

Her smile came straight from the heart of a glacier.

“To bring out the people I didn't know about. I knew Benedict hadn't carried this off by himself. And I figured Abby didn't know where the money was. She was too stupid to keep something like that from slipping. Dougie was to follow you. The answer had to be with someone connected with Benedict somehow. I figured the ones you brought gifts to would tell you about others and sooner or later the ones who knew about the money would reveal themselves. And Dougie could chat with them. And it worked. See?”

“That's why there was nothing for Marc-André. You didn't even know he existed,” I whispered.

“I knew some bloody poet somewhere cooked up that book. It was just a matter of time until he crawled out to get the cash.”

“And Rachel,” I said, “what part did she play in it?”

A snort. “Silly cow. She's always done everything I asked her to. Gullible as they come. I told her to keep quiet about Dougie.”

I exhaled slowly. I could figure out what was coming next.

“So that's it,” she said. “And now you've done what I hoped you might. So, I guess I don't need you any more.”

Josey.
Would she feel a bullet after I did? Did you even live long enough to feel them? Somehow I managed to keep the fear out of my voice.

“But, of course,” I said, “I think you'll be at some risk when they find my body. After all, you arranged for me to hold the scattering, you knew all the victims, Benedict, Abby. And me. Rachel's talking to the police now.”

“Do you have any idea how deep this quarry is? They'll never find your body. Most likely they'll think you found the money and ran.”

I was running out of stall tactics. Behind me, Josey tapped at the van wall.

“So, Fiona, I'll be simply devastated when I hear the news of your duplicity. After I stood by you through everything.” She raised the gun.

I tried not to wet my pants.

The mocking smile set off fireworks in my head. Did Dougie have to be the only time bomb? Why did I never get to be a time bomb? Bridget had her back to the quarry. If I were going to die, could I at least take her with me?

My hands clenched and unclenched behind my back. My mind raced. A straightforward body tackle might do the trick. It wouldn't take much to tip Bridget into the pit behind her.

Keep talking. “I suppose Abby was part of your plan.”

Bridget sneered. “She was part of her own plan. To find the money. To get rid of you in the process, I imagine. Our little Abby became a wee bit unhinged, don't you think?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Dougie and I worked out she was tracking you because she suspected you had the money, but she was so overcome by jealousy, she had to harm you. She couldn't control herself.”

“But why was she so jealous of me?”

Bridget chuckled. “That was the funny thing about it. You see, the only three people in the world who really knew Benedict wasn't in your bed when he died were Dougie, me and you. The idea of Benedict spending his last night with you really tortured her, so that had its satisfactions. But she became a liability.”

“And so you had her killed?”

Bridget shrugged. “Dougie killed her. After that craziness at the Findlay Falls, we couldn't take a chance she might actually do you in while you might still be useful to us.”

I couldn't believe Bridget would plan to spend the rest of her life with old ticking time bomb Dougie.

“Were you planning to get rid of Dougie in the end?”

“Of course.” The icy smile emerged again. “Once he'd served his purpose. Dougie was dangerous and greedy, and I didn't want to split the money with him. I've had enough of men taking more than their share. Lucky for me, someone else finished him off.”

I worked to control my shivering. “You couldn't trust Dougie, but you can trust me. I don't have anything to do with the money.”

She laughed again. “Very good. But, of course, I can't trust you in the least. Even if you weren't carrying that Jiffy bag, you know too much. I'm always cleaning up after other people, it seems. And now...”

A shout distracted Bridget. Rachel's voice rang out.

“Bridget! Dear God, no. Don't shoot her!”

Bridget jerked towards the sound. At first my heart soared.

Bridget couldn't shoot Josey and me in front of Rachel. But it didn't take long to conclude that there was a point beyond which Bridget had nothing to lose.

Bridget raised the revolver and pointed it in Rachel's direction. Rachel stopped moving.

“No,” she screamed.

I lunged for the pile of scrap metal searching for something to use as a weapon. I grabbed the first thing I spotted in the scrap pile. A crumpled hub cap. Except for the weight, it felt like a Frisbee, the one thing I could throw with some accuracy. I aimed towards Bridget and hurled the hub cap as hard as I could. It struck her chest with enough force to knock her backwards. She whipped around and teetered on her bad ankle. It didn't stop her from firing off a wild shot at me. Her second bullet ricocheted off a pile of rusted metal in Rachel's direction.

“Get away, Rachel,” I yelled.

Bridget lurched behind a truck carcass. She raised her arm again toward Rachel.

“Stupid interfering bitch. Will I never get rid of you?” The next bullet pinged off the truck door.

I searched for something else to use against Bridget. A rearview mirror!

“Bridget. Oh, God, no, Bridget, how can you say such things?” Rachel stumbled toward Bridget, wailing. “You know how I feel about you.”

I prayed Rachel would stop worrying about Bridget's affections and get herself out of the line of fire.

Bridget whirled and fired in my direction. The shot connected with a rusted-out station wagon ten feet away. She twisted back to Rachel and raised the revolver, holding it straight with both hands.

As I flung the rearview mirror at Bridget, the revolver fired. I heard a jagged scream from Rachel as she lurched behind a pile of tires.

Bridget lowered her gun. I snatched up a stickshift and lobbed it. Bridget's presence filled my eyes and my mind. Another shot rang out, this time inches from my head. Bridget crouched and staggered closer. My knees shook. The blood pounding in my skull drowned out all other sound.

I grabbed a broken steering wheel and aimed. And missed. Bridget's eyes met mine. Without blinking, she raised the revolver, before I could stoop to find another projectile.

Something that looked like a pair of binoculars flew from the van and smashed into Bridget's knee. She squawked and crumpled. The gun flew out of her hand and landed in a heap of twisted metal parts.

I lunged toward the gun. So did Bridget. I jerked into a crouch and jumped. A jagged bit of scrap metal gouged my thigh as I landed. The knifelike pain in my leg brought me to a stop, gasping. Tears stung my eyes, and I fought to catch my breath.

Bridget inched toward the bumpers, her faced contorted.

My head swam. I dragged myself toward her, reaching out. Bridget edged forward.

I grabbed a piece of metal bumper and hurled it. I heard a grunt from Bridget. I didn't turn my head. I kept inching forward, focusing on the gun. Sharp metal bits cut my hands, but I reached the gun before Bridget. I collapsed on my belly with my arms extended, both hands clutching the weapon. Blood dripped from my shredded palms. Pain surged through my leg. I felt waves of nausea, and I tried not to retch.

I levelled the gun at Bridget's face. Blood and water dripped from my sleeves. My hands shook.

I kept my mind on Rachel, probably dead or dying among the car bodies, and on Josey and Tolstoy trapped in the chip van.

Bridget's bruised and bloody face, full of hate and pain, swam in and out of focus. Her arm hung at a bizarre angle. She lurched two feet in my direction.

Someone will come, someone will come. Don't press the trigger, I told myself, no matter how much you want to. I was startled by how much I wanted to.

The gun felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. I barely held on until I heard the sound of a siren. Josey's faraway voice drifted from the van. “Don't let go, Miz Silk.”

Bridget watched with the eyes of a fox, waiting for the chickens to do something stupid.

Flashing lights reflected now in the windows of the dead cars. Someone must have called the police. Possibly Paulie Pound, worried about losing some of his valuable scrap. In St. Aubaine, gunshots lead to phone calls.

“You hang on, too,” I managed to shout.

No one answered. Car doors slammed. Voices called.

Bridget's eyes met mine. I knew what she was thinking as she limped to the the edge of the quarry.

“Bridget, don't.”

Nothing prepared me for the feeling as she stepped calmly off the edge.

I lowered the gun and wept.

Outside my little house, chill rain pelted the windows. With luck, soaking the latest tribe of media. Of course, they had nothing to complain about. Kostas had given them an excellent interview, covering mostly sweaters—with samples shown. He'd made a fine warm-up act for Woody. Liz had lounged in the background, looking remarkably wellpreserved.

I basked in being warm, dry, bandaged, and newly revaccinated against tetanus. Not to mention alive, vindicated and untelevised.

Kostas puffed. “I've been saving those sweaters for yis.”

Josey's sweater featured a girl with round, blue eyes, her hair spiky and uneven, something the uninformed might have attributed to the geometry of knitting. I saw Josey there, right down to the bandage embroidered on her knee, captured by Kostas O'Carolan, artist-in-wool.

My own sweater reflected the red, yellow and orange of fall foliage.

Josey kept staring at her sweater. One of her more inscrutable expressions occupied her face.

“It's nothing, of course,” Kostas said, with becoming modesty, “compared to what you'll be doing yourself, my dear girl, if you keep on progressing at the rate you are.”

Josey nodded with the solemnity I would normally have associated with someone embracing Holy Orders.

“And you'll be in touch, my girl, at me new address?”

“You have a new address?” Josey asked. “Where?”

Kostas twinkled a bit more than usual. “At the home of Miss Mary Morrison, where I will be ensuring her security and preventing her last years being spent in loneliness and misery.”

And preventing Kostas's last few years being spent in a tumble-down cottage with a leaky roof and no hot water.

“I will miss Evening's End and me view of the river, but there are compensations. And me dogs are welcome at Mary's.”

Josey approved. “That worked out well,” she said.

No kidding.

“Indeed, and I do believe it calls for a little celebration.”

I fished my bottle of Courvoisier out of the washing machine and kissed it good-bye. I whispered in Kostas's small pink ear, “Don't worry, Heckie, your secret's safe with me. In fact, I've already forgotten it.”

“Dear lady, I am grateful. And shall we toast to absent friends?”

Rachel lay back on her hospital bed, her eyes closed, the streaks of tears harsh against the bone colour of her skin. Her arm was in a sling, and I knew more bandages strapped her ribs.

She opened her eyes and struggled to a sitting position.

I had mixed feelings about Rachel at that moment. Rachel, who'd known that Dougie Dolan was a walking time bomb.

“Ah, please don't hate me, Josey dear.” Josey's expression remained guarded. “I know it's hard to understand, but I loved Bridget,” Rachel said. “She told me Fiona really was responsible for Benedict's death, and Dougie was going to follow and get proof. But once I got to know you and Fiona a bit, I figured out Bridget and Dougie might have been mixed up in something terrible. I had to face it. That last morning she sounded really out of control.”

I thought I heard Sarrazin mutter, “
Merde
.”