Читать книгу Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle - Mary Jane Maffini - Страница 10

When I got home, I checked my messages. Aside from the earlier ones from Hélène, nothing. Nada. No offers of work. No calls from Philip. Nothing at all about that damn wallet. I tried to find a phone number for the Domaine Wallingford, but nothing was listed. I googled it. Nothing. I tried Philip five or six more times. Then I left a message with my new agent, Lola. I hit my office and dusted off a few proposals and old articles. I sent out some emails to long-ago colleagues and editors, checking the waters. I knew that the start of the summer months wasn’t the best time to get a bit of government writing or editing work, especially when you’ve been out of the loop for a few years. But I had to try something. I opened the file with my novel and closed it again.

I distracted myself by rigging up two ancient fans to get a breeze going in the house. Outside was cooler of course, but much too buggy by the river to stay long. Josey had decided to spend the night at my place. In return for the use of the futon in my office, she was making a fresh supply of icy lemonade, using lemons borrowed from Hélène. I had sugar and ice on hand, mint that Josey had planted and a crystal carafe to contribute to the effort. I had left Josey in the small pine kitchen and just started out to take Tolstoy for a walk, when my friend Dr. Liz Prentiss drove up in her Audi Quattro.

“Make yourself at home,” I said.

“I will.”

Of course, I knew that only too well. But what are friends for?

By the time it took me to get Tolstoy out for his constitutional and back, Liz had managed to ferret out my last bottle of Courvoisier and had already helped herself to two fingers. I was sure I’d hidden it better than that.

I was still feeling the effects of the sangria, so I had some of the lemonade Josey had made. I could hear her humming in the kitchen. I sat in the wingback chair. Liz might be a physician, and she is a close friend, but she is not the kind of person to tell your worries to, so I left out the accident, the money problems and all that. But I had to talk about Marc-André.

“You need to lighten up, Fiona.”

Liz had been my friend since kindergarten some forty-one years earlier, so as a rule I cut her some slack. However, there are times when she pushes the limit. This was one of them.

“I am lightened up.” I eyed her from the wingback chair, where I was fanning myself furiously. The evening mist on the river gave a visual clue to the stifling heat and humidity. The fans didn’t really cut it.

“And you need to get air conditioning.”

Air conditioning is not an option for me, partly because of the shape of my converted cottage home, mostly because of the cost. “Don’t push your luck.”

Liz shrugged. She had a talent for pushing her luck.

She peered into her brandy snifter then raised the bottle again. I was too hot to heave myself out of the chair and snatch the Courvoisier from her. I clutched my icy glass of lemonade and said, “I can’t believe you told me to lighten up. I am talking about a man I care deeply for. You’re a doctor, for heaven’s sake. You should be capable of some small amount of compassion.”

“Pull yourself together. It’s not like he’s dead. He was in a coma for months, and now he’s coming out of it. Great. But you let yourself get so worked up about every little thing.”

Every little thing? I almost choked on that. “He’s finally regained consciousness, and he doesn’t remember my name!”

“And that’s too bad, because you seem to be so besotted with him.”

“What is the matter with you? He’s a wonderful person, who didn’t deserve to die at the hands of a crazed killer. And now he doesn’t deserve to live without a memory.”

“That’s the trouble with head injuries, they have hellish implications.”

“But he’ll get his memory back, won’t he?”

She shrugged. “I’m a GP, not a neurosurgeon. Sometimes they’re left with gaps.”

“Oh.” I knew all about gaps. There had been a serious one in my life since a screaming ambulance had carried Marc-André away from a crime scene.

Liz said, “He’s going to need a ton of physio just to be able to walk. And when he was at his best, you only knew him for, what, a couple of weeks? It’s not like you were married to him. You have no idea what you’ll be taking on. This guy is probably going to have impaired cognitive ability for the rest of his life, and you’ll end up taking care of him. I see the impact of that in my practice all the time. Don’t take this personally, but you’re not that great at looking after yourself, let alone some guy who will be totally dependent. Maybe it’s best if you move on. Oh, don’t get that look on your face. You’re just getting your life together after those miserable years with Phil. Who listened to that sad story? Trust me, I have your best interests at heart.”

I scowled at her.

She said, “You’ll find the right man. You’re still attractive, Fiona. Men seem to go gaga over all that kinky ash-blonde hair. And your eyes are your best feature, that unusual violet blue. I keep telling you to play them up a bit, slap on some make-up. Just don’t give up.”

I didn’t plan to give up on Marc-André, that was definite, or on myself for that matter, although I’m not the type for eye make-up. I felt a surge of sympathy for the patients in Liz’s medical practice. Even though I knew she believed she was helping me avoid problems, I searched my mind for a suitably scathing retort but came up empty. Didn’t matter, because Liz had changed the topic back to her where it usually was.

“Do these pants make my butt look enormous?” she said.

“First of all, Liz, your butt is in my beanbag chair, which makes everything look enormous, and second, don’t interrupt me, you are a size two. A cardboard refrigerator box wouldn’t make you look...”

“Easy for you to say.”

“It is easy for me to say. And easy for me to mean too. Anyway, I don’t give a flying fig about your butt. I have important matters to worry about.”

“Oh sure, you can be offhand and uncaring. I’m alone in the world. You already have a boyfriend.”

“But not a boyfriend who remembers me.”

“Don’t be so negative. It could be very, very good from a sexual novelty point of view.”

My jaw crashed to the floor and smashed into a... Hang on, that wasn’t my jaw, although it might have been. I whirled to face the doorway. Josey stood, white-faced, freckles popping, mouth gaping, up to her skinny ankles in shards of glass.

I said to Liz, “Oh, great. That was my antique cut glass lemonade pitcher. Now look what you’ve done.”

Liz shrugged. “Me? Talk to the person who dropped it.”

“She was shocked.” I lowered my voice. “For heaven’s sake, Liz. She’s an innocent kid. Why would you say something like that in front of her?”

“Don’t be daft,” Liz said. “Kids are not innocent.”

“She is,” I said, sticking with the whisper.

“Oh, get over it. She has to grow up some time.”

No, she didn’t, I thought. Josey’s life had been bleak and deprived. She’d never had a chance to be a kid, why should she have to hear about sexual novelty here in my little house? If I hoped anything, it was that Josey would have a glimpse of normal life when she was with me. That wasn’t so likely when Liz was on the premises.

“I am really sorry about your lemonade jug, Miz Silk. I know it belonged to your aunt. I’ll try to find you another one just like it. I’ll check out the antique stores and the pawn shop.”

“Don’t worry about it. Accidents happen.”

“Do you really have a new boyfriend, Miz Silk?”

“No, Josey, I...”

“What about Marc-André? It hasn’t even been a year.”

“Don’t move your feet, Josey. There’s glass all around your sandals. Let’s watch out for Tolstoy.”

In his corner, Tolstoy raised his handsome Samoyed head, struggled to his feet and headed down to the basement again. I think we were too much for him.

“And don’t worry. I’ll be there for Marc-André,” I said.

Josey beamed. “Well, that’s the best news. Because, if there’s going to be any of that sexual novelty stuff, don’t you think it should be with him, and not some new guy?”

If you drew up a ledger for my life, with columns headed “positives and negatives”, Josey would be at the top of the positives, and not just because for a small fee she could mow my lawn and fix my sticky windows and ferret just about anything out of the local library, including the reference department. In the time I’d known her, she’d become like family. Like the child I would never have. Tolstoy, being a dog, naturally would make the plus side, darn near tied for first place with Josey and Marc-André. My friends Liz and Woody could be on the positive side, depending on their moods. Also a plus, along with the house, the garden and the village, was the Colville painting that Aunt Kit had left me. I loved it more than any other object.

On the negative side was my financial situation. Negative meaning, in the red, out of credit, here comes trouble, what now, dear God, that kind of thing. And my career as a romance writer, since I hadn’t earned out my last advance. I suppose we shouldn’t forget my car, which was gasping its last. And definitely, you could add the phone, which was now ringing, and which never brings anything good.

I let it shrill on and on until I heard my agent, Lola, on the answering machine.

“Pick up, Fiona, darling. You’ll be glad you did.”

I picked up. As a rule, I put Lola on the positive side. Even though she was calling at nine in the evening. After the day I’d had, I might have already gone to bed, except that Liz was still there and showed no sign of leaving.

Lola takes a little getting used to. By getting used to, I mean three things: first, don’t expect her to actually listen to anything you have to say and second, do expect to be startled by almost every word that flies out of her mouth. For a third, don’t be surprised that she calls everyone darling, even, say, police officers attempting to give her speeding tickets.

Lola had what she thought was a great idea.

“I should write a what?” I said, predictably startled by her opening gambit.

“An erotic cookbook. Isn’t that too perfect? I told your assistant this afternoon. I hadn’t realized that you had an assistant.”

“Sorry?” I said again, thinking I must have heard wrong. Something that happens quite often with Lola.

“Never mind, darling. It’s none of my business if you have an assistant when you’re too broke to breathe.”

“Listen, Lola. Your confidence in me is gratifying, but there’s no way I can write an exotic cookbook.”

“Erotic!” Lola shrieked.

“What? Erotic? Are you insane? That’s even worse. That’s not even possible.”

“Bixby and Snead are keen to have you do one. They’ll really play it up on next fall’s list. There’s a spot, and the topic’s hot.”

“What do you mean they’re keen to have me do one? Do you think maybe they have me mixed up with someone else? Say, for instance, with someone who could write an erotic cookbook? Hang on! What did you tell them?”

“This is no time to be overly fussy, darling. We have a chance at a terrific high-profile project. You’ll get tons of media and better yet, money. Let me remind you, you can use it.”

I started to say that I hate media, but Lola was too fast for me. “Stop resisting. You need this deal desperately, and I mean that in the kindest possible way.”

“I can’t cook.”

“You can read, can’t you?”

“Of course, I can read.”

“If you can read, you can cook.”

I was pretty sure that wasn’t true, but I tried another tactic. “I have no sex life. None whatsoever. Don’t you think that might make things difficult?”

“Pay attention, darling. I represent a couple of crime writers. They don’t go around bumping people off or solving cases. Get with the program.”

I was about to say, I’m not turning out to be much of a writer, when it occurred to me I shouldn’t remind my agent of that. “Aside from my unsuitability, I wouldn’t even know where to start a project like that.”

“Start with research.”

“I don’t know anything about...”

“A bit of erotic lore, aphrodisiac foods, seasonal variations, recipes. Whip it all together, ha ha. A few anecdotes, memories. Nothing to it.”

I said, “Wait a minute, I have to know, why me for this project? Is it because of what happened with Benedict?”

“Perhaps you shouldn’t dwell on that.”

“That was murder. And now they want to splash my name all over the papers again? I’m not the kind of person who can deal with that kind of attention.”

“What you are, darling, is not the most solvent of my clients. And in this business, that’s saying something. So yes, it was my idea and, yes, the thing with what’s his name is a fabulous hook. Especially the bed part. It means you’ve got name recognition.”

“Because my lover was found dead in my four-poster, and everyone in Canada saw a clip of me on the news? That’s supposed to be a good thing?”

“Don’t complain. You know your career’s tanking. Lots of writers would kill to have this problem.”

That Lola. What a way with words.

I took a deep breath. “I don’t even get the idea of food being sexy. I can’t imagine a single sexy food.”

“Don’t be silly, darling. Food is very sexy. What about a can of whipped cream? Who doesn’t find that sexy?”

“Whipped cream? I don’t. Listen, Lola, thanks a lot, but I don’t believe I can do this project.”

“Think again, darling. I’ve got you a good advance too. I told them you have a desperately sick relative, and they coughed up a cheque. That doesn’t happen every day. Up front on signing. The contract’s on its way. I sent it yesterday by XpressPost. I’m surprised you don’t have it already.”

“Yesterday? But you hadn’t even spoken to me.”

“You should answer your phone more often. You’ll get a cheque on signing. I told them you’d be thrilled.”

“You told them what? Lola? Lola? Lola!”

I returned to the living room, somewhat dazed.

“I wouldn’t want you to break a rib, laughing like that,” I said to Liz, who seemed unable to catch her breath, once I told her Lola’s plan.

“Arrrotteeecogggbkkkk!” Liz howled before falling out of the beanbag chair with a thump.

“How can I do an erotic cookbook? It’s out of the question. Stop snickering. I mean it. You know, that’s a really unbecoming position you’re in,” I said.

She continued to wheeze.

I added, “And it does make your butt look big.”

Josey popped her head in the front door, clutching a fist full of envelopes. “What is that exactly? What she said?”

“Nothing,” I said.

Tolstoy had emerged from the cool of the basement. He greeted Josey by thumping his tail on the floor.

Liz wiped her eyes. “Now I’ve heard everything. It would be like asking SpongeBob SquarePants to head up the UN.”

“That’s so uncalled for, Dr. Big Butt.”

“But what is it, Miz Silk, that’s so uncalled for?”

“It’s just a mistake, Josey. A project that’s not going to happen.”

“Sure, whatever. It’s after nine. I picked up your mail. You shouldn’t leave it in your mailbox at night. People could steal it.”

“There’s nothing worth stealing, Josey,” I said.

“You never heard of identity theft, Miz Silk? Where do you want me to put this stuff?”

I held out my hand. I find it’s best to be brave with mail and face it squarely, no matter if FINAL NOTICE is stamped in red on the front. Of course, if I were brave, I would have picked up my mail in the daytime like everyone else.

“I’ll open it for you,” Josey said.

“Thank you, but that’s not necessary.” Of course, that was pretty well drowned out by the sound of the letter opener doing its thing.

“Oh boy, Miz Silk. Disconnect notice from Hydro Quebec. That’s bad. You wouldn’t want to be without your electric fans this summer, that’s for sure.”

“People’s bills are private, Josey. I believe I’ve mentioned that on a previous occasion.”

“Well, sure. But I didn’t think you meant private from me. I can understand if you don’t want Dr. Prentiss to see them, but I’m staff.”

Liz said, “Hey. I’m the best friend, remember? Through thick and thin for more than forty years. Anyway, what’s that kid doing here at this time of night? She can’t be biking all the way up those back roads in the dark. Too dangerous.”

When Josey doesn’t go home at night, there’s always a good reason for it. I don’t push her to tell about it. I know she’s proud. And I also know that Uncle Mike spends a lot of time in the local hoosegow. When he’s home, some of his friends leave a bit to be desired. “She’s spending the night here. She’ll give Tolstoy a couple of extra walks to make up for the ones he’s missed.”

Liz shrugged. “Your life.”

Josey went back to the mail. “And what’s this one? Oops, that doesn’t look good either. But here’s an XpressPost.”

I snatched the mail from her. Looked like I was going to have to tackle that ridiculous cookbook after all.

The next morning, Josey was gone before I got out of bed. Her note said: “Tolstoy had a nice long walk. Your coffee is made and in the thermos.”

The day was soft and warm, still comfortable, although the mist rising from the Gatineau hinted at lurking humidity. That was the perfect time to take a stroll by the river’s edge with Tolstoy. I ambled along and thought about the cookbook project. It was the kind of day when anything seemed possible. When I got back, well before Lola would be at her desk, or even out of bed, I left a message telling her I’d signed the contract and would get it back to her pronto. Then I poured myself a cup of French roast. I took the mug of coffee out on to the porch, where I could watch the river and take note of what my flowers had managed in twenty-four hours. I am a flower person. Outdoor flowers. Call me hopeless with herbs or grass or indoor plants. Let me add that I like to ease into the day watching for passing cardinals, jays and finches. And I figured the soothing atmosphere on my porch might awaken my cookbook muse. Lola was right. I did need to do this project. My main hope was that, unlike the previous day, today would be tranquil. I sat there imagining what an erotic cookbook would look like, or at least what the kind I might write might look like. I stared through the trees to the water, hoping for inspiration from nature.

A bearlike man lumbered around the corner of the house. I jumped, spilling my coffee. There are people you don’t want to see in your backyard in the morning. Sgt. F. X. Sarrazin of the St. Aubaine police, for example. Everything about him reminded me of the events which had led to Marc-André’s current situation. Scenes flickered through my mind like a bad reel of film.

“Madame Silk,” he said.

No point in staying outside and having Sarrazin ruin the view. One bright note, at least Josey had already cleaned up after herself and departed, leaving no indication she’d ever been there. Possibly she’d even gone to school, although that would have been a surprise. At any rate, she and Sgt. Sarrazin were not a good mix in an enclosed space, so I was thankful. I pointed toward the sofa. But as usual on these visits, he chose the delicate Queen Anne chair. I was sure I heard it squeal as he lowered his bulky body onto it. I took the wingback.

Tolstoy loved Sarrazin, for some reason. He had his head scratched and lay down at Sarrazin’s size thirteens, smiling.

Sarrazin glanced around at the sad philodendron, another relic from my aunt. He reached over and picked off a couple of leaves.

“I’m better with outdoor plants,” I said.

“I understand,” he said, in his completely unaccented English, “that you observed the vehicle that was involved in the crash on Highway 5 yesterday.”

“Yes.”

“I’d like you to tell me what you saw.”

“Was it a fatal accident?”

He nodded. “Yes, madame.”

“I wasn’t sure. The ambulances were...”

“You told the officer you had encountered the vehicle earlier.”

“I did.”

“Can you tell me what you observed?”

I said, “Okay. On the Hull ramp onto Highway 5, a black Cadillac Escalade passed me on the right.”

Sarrazin nodded. “Is that it?”

“Not exactly.”

“What else occurred?”

“First, he came shooting right up behind me, well above the ramp speed, and laid on his horn.”

“Why?”

“I have no idea.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Well, my car might have stalled getting onto the highway. But it re-started right away. These things happen. I’ts not like I did it on purpose.”

Sarrazin gazed out the window at the Skylark, then turned back to face me. He raised his inch-thick eyebrows. “And?”

“And he gave me the finger. And he shouted at me.”

“You heard him shouting?”

“His window was open.”

“Was the driver swerving at all?”

“Swerving?”

“Yes.”

I thought for a couple of seconds. “No. I’m pretty sure I would have noticed swerving.”

“Anything else?”

“Isn’t that bad enough? I was unnerved by it.”

“Happens all the time.”

“I’ve never seen a fatal collision before. The weird thing is, I feel responsible somehow.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Why should you feel responsible?”

“I swore at him.”

“That’s it?”

“Well, it’s not like me.”

He chuckled.

I said, “I’m not that kind of person.”

He nodded. “Don’t worry about it. You’re probably okay under the Criminal Code on that one.”

“Funny.“

Sarrazin met my eyes. “Did you know him?”

I shook my head.

“Think about it.”

I said, “I didn’t know him.”

“Take your time.”

I stared. “I just told you I didn’t know him.”

“You want to close your eyes and relive the scene? You might recognize him then.”

“I really don’t want to relive that scene.”

“Take your time. Break it down into frames. Maybe it will come to you.”

“Why? Who was he?”

“Sorry, madame. We will not be able to release the name until the family has been notified.”

“Oh. But...”

“Is there a particular reason you want to know, madame?”

“Because you are asking me about him, even though I keep telling you I didn’t recognize him. And, all right, I’ll admit there was something familiar about him. I just don’t know who he was. And everybody looks familiar lately. But what happened to the woman?”

“What woman?”

“His passenger.”

Sarrazin frowned. “There was no passenger.”

“Sure there was.”

He blinked first. “I am certain of it. There was only one body found in the vehicle.”

“Maybe she was destroyed by the fire. Maybe her body was...”

“It doesn’t work that way. If there had been another person in that Escalade, we would have known.”

“But I saw a woman. I’m positive that—” I stopped myself. “Well, I sure don’t want to hope that someone else was in that crash.”

“You were under stress from the hospital.”

“You knew I was at the hospital?”

“I am a police officer. Everyone in the village knows that you visit Marc-André Paradis several times a week.”

“They do?”

“People think it’s nice. They know he’s in bad shape. They know what happened to him. They hope that he gets better. Anyway, it must have been difficult for you, that particular visit.”

“Surely that hospital aide didn’t...”

“No madame. Just...”

“Gossip?”

“We call it intelligence. Anyway, you were rattled, the way the guy intimidated you. He gave you the finger. He was driving aggressively. Most people would find that upsetting.”

I nodded.

He said, “So, it would be easy to be mistaken about seeing someone else.”

I cast my mind back to the scene. “I hope you’re right.”

But I knew he was wrong.