Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle (61 page)

Josey patted Rachel's good arm. “If you hadn't followed Bridget and distracted her, Miz Silk and I might both be dead now. Tolstoy too.”

Sarrazin cleared his throat. Maybe he felt as I did. If Rachel had spoken earlier, Abby Lake would have been alive and Marc-André breathing without life support. And Dougie Dolan, a guest of the government instead of the graveyard. On the other hand, I wouldn't have wanted to try to explain Bridget's death to Sarrazin without Rachel as a witness.

The Gatineau river shone fast and silvery.

“I guess this guy's had enough funerals now,” Josey said.

She gazed through her binoculars and over the inlet as Benedict's ashes drifted on the breeze and settled on the lapping water. A clump of ash caught in a small eddy and whirled around for slow seconds before sinking.

The air was full of fiddling and sniffling. A cluster of O'Mafia read their poems before the dozen fiddlers tuned up to pay their last respects to a wild Irish poet and legendary lover.

Zoë stood off from the crowd, red head high and shoulders squared. Dignity personified. Unlike Mme Flambeau, puffyeyed and shuddering and unable to utter her formal goodbyes. Lucky for her, Josey took pity, providing her with a steady supply of fresh tissues and a shoulder to lean on.

Even Stella showed up, holding her twins by the hand.

Kostas, hoarse from booming his epic forty-two verse memorial poem to Benedict, stood with his pudgy mitt on Miss Mary Morrison's shoulder. I was pleased to note the absence of Sarrazin, probably tied up with the coroner. But then Sarrazin's absence spelled good news, since Uncle Mike had made a rare public appearance. Josey had dusted him off and propped him up next to Natalie. If all went well, they could keep each other busy and out of trouble.

Around the fiddlers, women blew their noses and cried. Even I felt a ache in my throat for Benedict, whose wicked ways had cost his own life and three others, Abby, Dougie and in the end, Bridget.

The sun dipped behind scudding clouds and the river reflected the hillside. I held my breath as Benedict's ashes drifted and merged with the waves. The last tangible remnants of Benedict Kelly, poet, philosopher and lounge lizard, swirled and sank into waters as green as any graveyard.

Text © 2013 by Mary Jane Maffini

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior consent of the publisher.

Cover art: Victoria Maffini

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