Читать книгу Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle - Mary Jane Maffini - Страница 18

Yes, madame.”

“Well, he was alive and obnoxious the last time I saw him. Oh. Did someone shoot at him from the side of the road? A rifle? Because...”

He shook his head. He reached out and picked a shrivelled leaf from the poor old philodendron that Aunt Kit had left behind.

“Please leave my plant alone and tell me what happened.”

“Preliminary tests indicate the presence of drugs.”

“Drugs? He took drugs?”

“GHB. A date rape drug. I suspect he didn’t know he was taking these.”

I stared at him. “You can’t think I had anything to do with it. I barely knew him. And what about the woman who was with him? Maybe she—”

“There was no woman.”

“Believe me, I don’t hallucinate women. What if someone gave her drugs too, and she was injured or shocked, and she crawled into the woods.”

He shook his head. “You saw the vehicle. No one would have made it out of that.”

“Perhaps she was thrown from the vehicle on impact. That happens. Doesn’t it?”

“Sure, but there’s a body when it does happen. Based on what you said, we did a very careful search of every centimetre of that ravine. Believe me, no one crawled away from that accident.”

“I can’t believe you suspect me.”

“I don’t.”

“Are you asking everyone in St. Aubaine if they blamed Danny Dupree for their problems? How about my neighbour Jean-Claude Lamontagne? I bet you’re not asking him.”

“You are right, madame. I am not. I’m just doing—”

“Well, I’d like to be doing my job too, but the police won’t leave me alone. This situation isn’t the same as the last time. I actually had a relationship with Benedict, but Danny Dupree meant nothing to me. Hardly even an acquaintance. There would be hundreds of people more involved with him than I was.”

“We got a tip.”

“A tip? What do you mean a tip?”

“A tip. Everyone knows what a tip is. Someone called the station and suggested that you had something to gain from Danny Dupree’s death. I have no choice but to follow up.”

“I have nothing to gain from his death. I keep telling you, we’re not connected. He held some of my husband’s investments, that’s all.” I thought about my words. Unfortunately, it was too late to call them back.

“That’s what our caller said. You want your husband to settle your property division, and he’s stalling. Dupree was helping him with that game.”

“Game?”

“Sure. Men play it all the time. Maybe women do too. But mostly it’s men. This Dupree was your husband’s ally. So, poof, you even the odds.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“You do need money, madame.”

“Lots of people need money. Most of us don’t bump people off to get it though.”

He shrugged yet again.

“The woman saw me. She even tossed a cigarette out the window. Oh wait, she must have called in the tip.”

He shook his head.

I said, “Well, none of it makes sense. Who else would call in a tip like that about me?”

“Someone who has a grudge against you and wants suspicion deflected from them?”

“I don’t know who that could be.”

“Your ex-husband perhaps.”

“No. Trust me, Philip is a jerk, but he’s not a crook.”

“We’ll be checking him out.”

“Oh, boy.” That’s all I needed—Philip, distracted from the business of settling up with me, liquidating everything he owned to fight false charges, weeping because the laundry services in the local slammer didn’t put the right amount of starch in his shirts.

Sarrazin unbent from the sofa. “And madame?”

“Yes?”

“This plant is in the wrong place. If you don’t move it so it gets more indirect light, it’s just going to get worse.”

Tolstoy was sorry to see him go.

Josey showed up so soon after Sarrazin’s departure that I could only surmise she had been hiding out behind a tree. Perhaps studying since, once again, it turned out to be a study day. Where were all these sunny June study days when I’d been chained to a desk at school?

“You know what I think would be sexy, Miz Silk?”

“What?” I gulped.

“Breakfast in bed. With homemade waffles and maybe peaches. And fresh orange juice with champagne. Wouldn’t that be great?”

“It would. Of course, I have no idea where you’d start with something like that.”

“Try here,” she said and handed me a fresh batch of cookbooks from the library. I took them to the lumpy sofa as she headed into the kitchen with a package to install a spice rack. I didn’t like to ask where she’d gotten it. What do I know about product placement?

I was working my way through the latest pile of cookbooks and looking forward to The Wacky World of Waffles. A tap on the window caught my attention.

I looked up from my spot on the sofa to see Hélène Lamontagne’s attractive nose pressed against my living room window. She doesn’t bother with the door since I rarely answer it, but Hélène is one of the few people I am always glad to see.

I hoisted myself off the lumpy sofa and headed for the door.

“Fiona!” she said, sweeping into the room. “Oh là là.”

“Oh là là?”

She wiggled her shapely eyebrows. “I heard.”

“Um, heard what?” Did she think I was a murderer too?

“About your book.”

“You mean the...?”

“Of course. Is there another book?”

Certainly not my great Canadian novel mouldering quietly in the middle drawer of my battered desk. No one would ever oh là là over that.

“No. Where did you hear about it?”

“It is all over the village, Fiona. Spreading like a feu de forêt. In both official languages. You have almost but not quite replaced Rafaël and Marietta as the most interesting topic of the day. Why didn’t you tell me yesterday?”

I flopped onto the sofa again and groaned. “Because I didn’t want to talk about it. It’s a new project, and I’m not wild about the idea. What do you mean it’s all over the village?”

“Well, what did you expect? In a town like this...” She shrugged beautifully, being French and all. “Surely you remember the last time. Oh mon dieu. Where is your furniture?”

“It’s been borrowed. Are you sure? All over the village?”

“Certainement, by now it will be halfway to Hull. Or Ottawa.”

“And I only told three people.”

“And I noticed that I was not one of them. That was not very nice of you, Fiona. I like to be on top of things in St. Aubaine.”

“Next time I’m not telling anyone anything.”

“But why are you not happy? The timing for this new book could not be better.”

Josey stuck her head around the corner. Hélène smiled fondly at her.

“Hi, Miz Lamontagne,” Josey said. “Miz Silk has to write a sex cookbook. But she doesn’t have anything to cook with.”

Hélène flashed me a glance.

“Not my fault,” I said. “She was here when the call came in. She spoke to my agent. Anyway, it’s not really that.”

“I believe it’s an erotic cookbook,” Hélène said. “So much more elegant, n’est-ce pas?”

“I guess so,” Josey said. “Does it make a difference what you call it?”

“But of course, Josée. Every woman has her little secrets to keep some spice in her life.”