Читать книгу Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle - Mary Jane Maffini - Страница 6

As I drove through the village, I couldn’t help noticing the neon yellow banners with red letters screaming EN FEU! HOT STUFF! The banners were strung across Rue Principale. Naturally, here in Quebec, the French words had to be twice as big as the English ones. We have rules. Rules or no rules, the signs didn’t mean anything to me in either official language. Every now and then, the village boosters go off the deep end. This might have been one of those times. I was shaking my head as I drove under the banners and past a line of large white trucks parked casually by the side of the road for no reason that I could see. And frankly, at that moment, I didn’t care.

I needed an ATM, and I needed it fast. I snagged a parking spot then stood in line for fifteen minutes at the Caisse Populaire. I stared in disbelief at the crowd ahead of me. There’s never a lineup in St. Aubaine. And if two people are waiting, they strike up a conversation, or suggest that you go ahead. It’s that kind of community.

St. Aubaine is full of aging hippies, old farming families, snowboarders, retired public servants, struggling musicians, blocked writers, starving artists, bad poets and, increasingly, young organic farmers. Oh, right, and tourists. We locals lean toward clothing from Mountain Equipment Co-op, or Tigre Géant, or even Canadian Tire. But this crowd seemed fairly young and oddly urban. Lots of tousled blondes with the kind of hair you see in magazines. Who were these people? Whoever, they weren’t inclined to chat with the locals.

Was some edgy new band playing at the Pub Britannia perhaps? Maybe they were attracting the trendy set.

A woman with spiked hair the colour of a freshly polished fire truck pulled up to the edge of the sidewalk in a white Lexus SUV. She hopped out, left it running and raced over to CeeCeeCuisine, the pricey new kitchen supply shop. I was still cooling my jets in line when she returned, carrying a cluster of distinctive green shopping bags with the CeeCeeCuisine logo. She opened the idling SUV and tossed the parcels in. She slammed the door, hustled over and elbowed ahead of me. Stunned as I was by this behaviour, I still couldn’t help noticing the startling amount of stretch in her dress and the equally amazing number of rhinestones studding her black glasses. Me, I probably wouldn’t have chosen a leopard-patterned headband to go with that look. She sported straw sandals with towering wedge heels, probably the highest I had ever seen in St. Aubaine. Even so, she hardly came up to my chin. She was as stocky as my old washing machine. The wedgie sandals showed off the blood-red polish on her toenails.

I didn’t bother to argue over my place in the line. I’m never in a hurry to deal with any bank. When I finally got up to the machine, I popped in my card, pecked in my PIN and picked SAVINGS. I already knew that Mother Hubbard’s CHEQUING cupboard was bare.

Oops.

I downgraded my request to twenty dollars.

The hell with you, said the ATM, or words to that effect.

I tried CHEQUING again.

It was not to be.

Well, that’s just plain bad when you don’t have twenty dollars in the bank.

I yanked back my card before the machine confiscated it. It looked like I would have to dig into my drop-dead emergency fund to get through the month.

Then what?

Nothing but grim days ahead.

I turned to leave and banged into Jean-Claude Lamontagne, my least favourite person on the planet. Too bad he’s also my closest neighbour. I might have been awash in perspiration, but Jean-Claude was a vision of dry elegance in his light-weight silk suit, silver grey, of course, one of the money colours.

“Hello, Fiona,” he said.

Personally, I thought the salon tan clashed with the cool of the handmade suit, but what do I know? I was wearing my pink flip-flops, my three-year-old jean skirt and a black T-shirt with sparkly white letters that said “Leave Me Alone”. I’d lost nineteen pounds since I’d started visiting Marc-André. Maybe it was the smell of all that institutional food. Whatever the reason, it had left me with a limited wardrobe.

Jean-Claude smirked, but then he usually does. Maybe it wasn’t the outfit. Had he seen the screen message of AMOUNT REQUESTED EXCEEDS BALANCE? Oh, rats. That was all I needed.

“How are you, Fiona?” Jean-Claude always speaks English to me. I’m pretty sure that’s just a dominance thing. He knows perfectly well I can get along en français. He makes a point of emphasizing my name.

“Très bien. Parfait. Fantastique,“ I said. I did my best to look like someone who hasn’t sailed past her agreed-on overdraft amount. “I have just been visiting my friend Marc-André Paradis at the rehab centre, and he seems to be getting better again.”

“Really? Yet you are...distressed.”

“Well, I’m a bit warm, if you must know.”

Of course, he could tell that by looking at me. My hair couldn’t have been frizzier if I’d stuffed my tongue into an electrical socket.

“Well, I can certainly understand. Things are definitely heating up in St. Aubaine,” he said.

I am always trying to figure out the subtext of what he says. Where there is Jean-Claude, there is always some kind of worrisome undercurrent. Plus, I trust him as far as I could toss him and his shiny new silver Porsche Carrera.

I smiled. “Absolutely.”

“Lot of building going on. Boom economy.”

Right. Now I knew where we were headed. Same old same old. Jean-Claude has been the driving force behind most of the development in and around our picturesque and historic town. He wasn’t satisfied with two monster home developments or his new batch of condos cluttering the waterfront. His latest plan was a grand riverside development just north of the village.

I said, “I’m not planning to sell. Not now. Not ever. Just in case that’s where you’re going.”

“I think you should hear me out. That place you have is a lot of work for a single woman, two acres, a big lawn, that old cottage needing repairs all the time. I couldn’t help noticing your driveway needs regrading. I imagine keeping the woods clear of deadfall must get you down. You must worry in this kind of weather. Brush fires, things like that.”

“I’m happy there.”

“I can’t even imagine the state of your wiring.” He gave an elegant shudder.

“I love my home. I believe I have mentioned that before. I am sure that my wiring is fine. And if it’s not, it can be fixed. I’ll never find another place like that.”

“Well, it’s a beautiful spot, and a lot of waterfront property for sure. But it’s not the only nice place in the area. Everyone knows you are broke. I could make it worth your while to sell.”

“No,” I said, a bit louder than I intended.

The stocky redhead with the towering heels had been lingering by her idling car, maybe counting her cash or even just waiting for someone. She checked her watch conspicuously and scowled in our direction. I was pretty sure that Jean-Claude was the focus of her attention.

Jean-Claude seemed to be totally unconscious of her presence as he turned his back on her. I wondered about that, since he does nothing without a good business reason. He didn’t even glance when a couple of giggling teenagers bumped into her. She dropped her purse, scattering the contents. She knew some interesting words, for sure. Everyone around got an earful as she jammed her belongings into an oversized red bag with En feu! written on it. Still swearing, she climbed back into the giant vehicle, squealed off down the road, turned sharply and roared up the hill to the old Wallingford Estate, now known officially as Le Domaine Wallingford.

I couldn’t help but watch her, but Jean-Claude didn’t take his eyes off me. “You could get something a bit more modern, lots of places with nice views a few miles north. Perkins, Kazabazua, Rupert.”

“I like the view I have now.”

“Continue to think about it,” he said. “I will be very fair to you. You’d have money to buy a new place and enough left over to pay things off. Relax a bit. Get some clothes, perhaps travel.”

I turned back to Jean-Claude. “Not a chance,” I said with a tight smile that hurt my mouth.

Jean-Claude had pressured my late aunt Kit in her final years. She’d left me the little house on the two wooded acres near the water. It came with all the memories of the happy summers I’d spent there as a child. I’d promised her I’d never let him get his manicured mitts on it.

“You wouldn’t have to worry about money any more.”

“Not happening.”

“And you could use a new car as well.”

I turned to cross the street.

“Well, give it some more thought and get back to me,” he called after me.

When you talk to Jean-Claude, it’s as though nothing you say registers. But this time, he seemed even more confident and arrogant than usual. Did he have some way of knowing that I was already worrying about my overdue tax bill? Jean-Claude had a finger in every pie in town. Everyone owes him something, except me, and he’s related to half the town. He probably knew the state of my bank account and how little time I had to settle my tax bill before the municipality could take my property.

I kept my head high and didn’t notice an object on the ground until I stumbled over it. I bent and picked up a leather wallet with a leopard print design. The red-headed woman must have dropped it.

I opened the wallet and checked for a name. Harriet Crowder would notice the loss of her ID, credit cards and five hundred dollars pretty quickly, I thought. I couldn’t find a telephone number. Maybe the people at CeeCeeCuisine would know how to contact her.

The sight of all that cash reminded me that I didn’t have a sou. I pulled out my cell phone and called Philip again. This time I didn’t even get Irene.

Across the road near CeeCeeCuisine, a huge sign said: Rafaël et Marietta seront ici!!! What did that mean? Who were they? Some people with a big budget were getting married? I wasn’t the only one who was asking. A small, excited clutch of people were pointing at the sign. Apparently, it was big news. Not big enough to take my mind off the horrible accident I’d seen, the fact that Marc-André was languishing in the rehab centre, while Phil was stonewalling, my bank account sat below zero, and Jean-Claude was scheming to get my property.

I had hit rock bottom.

That made me crave food with an equal measure of fat, starch and salt. The kind of stuff that you find in small-town greasy spoons. Stuff like poutine. I had just enough change to manage it. I made my way to Chez Fred, my favourite greasy spoon. The Chez has air conditioning, and air conditioning trumps everything. Plus the greasier the spoon, the better the poutine.

I glanced down the street and spotted a rickety bicycle hurtling toward me. The bike squealed to a halt, and fifteen-year-old Josey Thring hopped off and propped it against the wall. She angled it carefully so the homemade sign for her handygirl operation, THE THRING TO DO, showed to advantage. Josey’s freckles stood out against her pale skin, and her cowlicks were on full alert.

“Hey, Miz Silk, I’ve been hoping to run into you.” Josey likes to get business out of the way early in a conversation. “You must need a lot of stuff done in your garden. I’ll come by and cut your grass. Heat wave like this, you must be up to your neck in weeds. Dust too, I suppose.”

“Don’t worry about it, Josey.”

“It’s a pretty hot day. You’re looking kind of cooked. I could walk Tolstoy for you.”

“Thanks, but it’s too hot for Tolstoy to walk right now. He’s hiding out in the basement, sound asleep. I’ll have to wait until it cools down.”

“Oh sure, I can come by later.”

With Josey, you have to fight fire with fire. “Shouldn’t you be studying tonight? You must have your exams coming up.”

“I had a study day today. I guess I should check your gutters too.”

“And what exactly were you studying?”

Who was I kidding? Josey never studied for a minute, and as far as I could tell, she rarely went to school. On the other hand, she passed with excellent marks every year, and I did need my grass cut. It wasn’t even summer yet, and I’d already given up the war against the weeds. And for all I knew, my gutters did need cleaning. I was a bit unclear on that detail. Josey could provide any kind of house maintenance service you needed. She was clear on details and finer points. Plus she was one of those people who are born knowing how to do things. Too bad I was not one of those people born knowing how to earn enough money to have things done.

“Trouble is, I’m pretty broke, Josey.”

“What about your divorce settlement?”

“Still dragging on. That’s one of the problems with divorcing a fast-talking lawyer who doesn’t plan to remarry any time soon.”

“Yeah right, who’d marry him anyway?”

“I did.”

Josey shook her head. “Doesn’t count. You were young and probably really foolish. Maybe even drunk.”

“I wasn’t drunk! And I wasn’t young enough to fully explain my foolishness. He had a certain attraction, big man on campus, that kind of thing. Good-looking, smart, ambitious. Somehow, over the twenty-five years, it faded.”

“Maybe because he expected you to iron his socks.”

“I never actually ironed his socks, Josey.”

“Of course not, but face facts, Miz Silk, he’s a real jerk. Anyway, you’re free now, so you have to make sure he doesn’t take advantage of you. You need a good lawyer.”

“I have an excellent lawyer. Marie-France Sauvé. Unfortunately for me, she works on her own. No back-up. Right now she’s on her honeymoon, and she’s out of communication range. When Marie-France gets back, she’ll fix Philip’s wagon but good.”

“Get another lawyer and take him to court, Miz Silk.”

“That’s one of the problems. Philip’s really plugged in to the legal community. He made sure I’d have trouble finding a lawyer in West Quebec. Marie-France came up against him in some case and didn’t like his tactics. I was lucky to get her.”

I wasn’t so sure I should take legal or relationship advice from Josey, given that she hadn’t quite hit sixteen and her mother had headed out for a pack of smokes some five years earlier and hadn’t been seen since. I knew nothing about her father. So maybe her perspective was skewed. On the other hand, my own strategies had been spectacularly useless.

“How about your book writing, Miz Silk? That must make you some...”

I shook my head. “Not going well. I’m hoping something will come up soon, but for now I’m really strapped.” I didn’t have the heart to mention negative royalty statements to Josey.

“Don’t worry about the money, Miz Silk. Your credit’s good. You can run a tab. Wouldn’t be the first time. Things will get better for you soon. I’ll swing by later this afternoon and get started.”

“No,” I said, firmly. But of course, resistance was futile.

Josey added, “I’m really glad to get this extra work, because I’m saving for my driver’s licence. I’m turning sixteen in September.”

Of course, I knew that well enough.

“And I need money to take the Drivers Ed,” she continued. “If I take it, I can get my licence in eight months; otherwise, I got to wait for a year. They call it your 365, ‘cause of the number of days. So you get the idea why I don’t want to wait.”

Absolutely. Josey lives in the back of beyond in a ramshackle cabin with her Uncle Mike, when he’s not in the slammer. It’s a long, rickety bike ride from anywhere, and Uncle Mike is usually too drunk to stand, let alone drive. Still, I knew better than to badmouth him in front of Josey.

“It’s seven hundred bucks for the course,” she said. “That’s a lot. My dog walking business already goes to pay for my cell phone, and I got other expenses too, you know.”

“Um.”

“I’ll come by later then. You getting poutine, Miz Silk?”

I mentally calculated the money in my purse to see if I had enough to manage a pair of poutines. I didn’t want to sit there bathed in guilt while Josey chewed through her savings for her beginner’s licence. If I used the parking change in my car, I had just enough for two orders of poutine and a tip. And it would be an early dinner too.

“My treat,” I said. “But first I have to check in CeeCeeCuisine to see if they know how to reach the woman who dropped this wallet. Hold on.”

“Are you kidding? I love that place. They got such great stuff. I bet they’re making a fortune. I’m coming with you.”

Josey is never one to miss an opportunity to see someone with a good business model. CeeCee’s sure had that. The aisles were jammed. Who were all these people? I tried to get the attention of one of the frazzled clerks. She was coping with some highly focused customers. Maybe there’s something about expensive kitchen gear that brings out the beast in us. Not even the soft scent of lavender calmed that crowd.

“Can’t help you right now,” she said. “If you can come back later, I’ll check the credit card slips for a telephone number.”

“I’ll be at Chez Fred for the next while if she comes in looking for it. I’d be pretty worried if I were her.”

I slipped the clerk a piece of paper with my name and telephone number.

“Will do,” she said, turning back to the pushiest customer. One less problem to worry about.

The Chez was jammed too, but then it always is. No matter how many wonderful trendy restaurants open in the village, we locals still hang out at the Chez. There are times when roasted rosemary and exotic salads are not what we need.

As preferred customers, Josey and I bypassed those who were waiting and scored a window booth. We ordered two poutines, which would be prepared in the kitchen, along with the Chinese take-out by the Chilean cook under the watchful eyes of the Lebanese owner.

“What’s going on in town?” I said, avoiding eye contact with resentful folks who’d been there first. “Who are all these people?”

“They’re here for Hot Stuff,” Josey said. “I bet that woman who lost the wallet has something to do with it too. It doesn’t sound like she’s from around here.”

“She’s definitely not from the village. I saw some banners for this En feu! hot whatever. What is that anyway?”

“It’s En feu if you’re French. Hot Stuff for us. They’re here for the television show. It’s the big thing, Miz Silk. The Cooking Channel.”

“There’s a cooking channel?”

“Sure. On satellite TV. Everyone gets it. You don’t know about the cooking channel, Miz Silk? What about reality television?”

I said evenly, “I can read, so I do know about reality television. But what does all that have to do with St. Aubaine? We don’t even have a television station. Our population is two thousand, including stray dogs. Not exactly New York or LA.”

“You really need to get satellite, Miz Silk. How do you think I keep up with what’s happening in the world? Trends and everything. Do you know there are even business report channels?”

I shuddered.

Josey wasn’t letting go of this idea. “But, you’ll have to buy a new TV set first. I can find you one pretty cheap. Uncle Mike knows a guy...”

“No thanks,” I said quickly.

“And I can pick you up a dish and receiver at a garage sale. People are always upgrading. Uncle Mike can get you the cheat card, and you’ll get hundreds of channels, just like that. Everyone does it. Even if they trace your signal, the worst they’ll do is fry your receiver.”

I blinked.

She beamed at me. “Easy as pie, Miz Silk. Then you can move into the twenty-first century.”

“I don’t think so, Josey.” Of course, I might have been one or two centuries behind, but I wasn’t foolish enough to believe I had heard the last on the satellite issue.

She chattered on. “Anyway, the reason all these people are here...”

I smiled. Josey really cares a lot about Marc-André. She’d be happy to hear that he’d been awake and talking that afternoon. “It’s okay. Here’s our poutine. And I have good news today. You know what...Josey?”

Josey’s fork landed with a clatter. I was so surprised, I dropped mine too. “What?”

Josey’s mouth hung open. I followed her gaze. It led to a young man ambling along the sidewalk.

“Holy smokes. That’s...”

I stared. “Who?”

“I can’t believe it!”

“Me neither. But who is it I can’t believe?”

“You’re kidding me, right?”

“I’m not. Who is he? And why do we drop our forks when we see him?” I glanced around the Chez. We were not the only fork droppers. Every woman in the place was staring out the window. A few went so far as to rush for the door. From a distance, he seemed lean and hip Quebec stylish, but I couldn’t really get a look at his face. He was talking intently to a dark-haired woman with splendid curves and a wide, sexy smile that lit up her face. She put a seductive hand on his shoulder. I wouldn’t have been surprised if it had left a burn mark.

Josey lowered her voice. “It’s Rafaël.”

“Hmm.”

“You don’t actually know who Rafaël is, do you, Miz Silk?”

I shook my head.

“He’s just the most famous TV chef around. He’s really, really big in Quebec, and now he’s got a new show on English television too. And a magazine. I think he’s going to be even bigger than Marietta.”

“Who is Marietta?”

“The woman he’s talking to. She’s big news. She’s got books and two shows. She’s on magazine covers and even business news. She’s what they call a brand. People call her Naughty Marietta, because she’s really sexy. I heard she was going to start a whole line of cooking equipment and food too.”

“A brand. Unbelievable.” I sighed. “Well, I’ve never heard of either of them.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Miz Silk, but who have yon heard of?”

Something told me that Homer (not Simpson), Shakespeare and Margaret Atwood weren’t going to cut it here.

“Pop culture isn’t my thing, Josey. What are they doing in St. Aubaine?”

“I’ve been trying to tell you, Miz Silk. It’s all about En feu! Hot Stuff! Rafaël’s going to be shooting a special here with Marietta. That’s going to be amazing. Even if his lordship did help to make it all happen.”

“Oh. Jean-Claude is behind this too?”

“He’s involved. Not the only person, though.”

“Isn’t it enough that he’s trying to redevelop the whole waterfront, stick up giant houses and condos and change the character of the village into something...?”

“Snooty patootie?” Josey suggested.

“Exactly. Anyway, when did we stop calling it ‘town’ and start calling it ‘the village’?”

Josey hesitated. “I don’t know. It just sort of snuck up on us, I guess. It sounds a bit trendier than ‘town’. I wouldn’t be surprised. Maybe Jean-Claude was behind that too. He called the new condo development Le Village au bord de la Rivière. That changed the whole look of the place. Did you know that now he’s teamed up with those people who bought the Wallingford Estate? They’re supposed to be turning it into a world class resort and spa.”

“I must have missed that.”

“But you keep to yourself, Miz Silk. The grand opening is going to be in a couple of weeks. They’re letting the production team use the site free, and they gave Marietta and Rafaël the really fancy rooms. They call them suites. It’s amazing PR. Then when the program airs, they’ll get exposure across the country. Everyone says Jean-Claude made the connection with the television producers and the new owners of the resort.”

I said, “Huh.”

“I’ve never been to a spa.”

“I haven’t either.”

“Not even when you were married to that lawyer?”

“Especially not then.”

Time to change the topic. “I guess I missed out on this news entirely. The Wallingford Estate was abandoned when I spent my summers here as a kid. It must have had the best river view in the whole village, from up there on that hill, but even then it was kind of creepy. I haven’t heard about the people who bought it.”

“You’re the only one, then. Her name is Anabel Huffington-Chabot. She’s very glamorous, used to be a model. You never met her?”

I shook my head. “Doesn’t mean a thing. I know Jean-Claude, and that’s enough to put me off the project.”

Josey turned toward the window and craned to watch as Rafaël crossed the road. An SUV squealed to a halt and the red-headed woman who’d dropped the wallet jumped out. She appeared to be accosting Rafaël. Marietta jumped back. I watched with my mouth open. A plump young man in skinny white jeans and a form-fitting T-shirt ran up to them and fluttered around waving a clipboard frenetically. I wasn’t sure that this was the perfect day to wear cowboy boots, but, as usual, what did I know?

“That’s her. The woman who dropped the wallet,” I said and started to get out of my seat. Before I’d left the booth, the conversation ended with much arm waving, and Rafaël headed off up the hill, holding on to Marietta’s hand. The red-headed woman hopped into her SUV and nearly flattened a few unwary pedestrians as she rocketed out of sight in the opposite direction. The young man in the cowboy boots stood watching with one hand over his mouth.

I noticed a few local women wandering after the famous pair, sort of like a crowd of possessed peasants in a cheesy horror movie.

I said, “Who was that again?”

Josey stared at me with pity. “It’s what I’ve been telling you about. He’s Rafaël. She’s Marietta. They will be doing a cooking show together. Sort of competition with each other over food. You know. That lady with the ketchup-coloured hair is the producer for the show they’re doing together. I forget her name, but I saw her picture in the paper, and she’s responsible for a lot of hit cooking shows.”

Hit cooking shows? My mind boggled. “How do you know these things, Josey?”

“It was on local TV and even in the St. Aubaine paper. You got to stay on top of things, Miz Silk.”

I dug into the poutine. I didn’t plan to stay on top of anything that had to do with Hot Stuff, Rafaël, Naughty Marietta, Anabel Huffington-Chabot (if that could possibly be someone’s name), Jean-Claude Lamontagne or anyone else connected with the whole ridiculous scene.