Читать книгу Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle - Mary Jane Maffini - Страница 8

You know what I forgot, Miz Silk?” Josey said when she’d finished her poutine.

“What?”

“Your agent called. She said it was good news.”

“How do you know?”

“I dropped in to your house, and I answered the phone because it was ringing, and that’s it.”

I took a deep breath, then said, “You shouldn’t be in my house without letting me know, Josey, and you definitely shouldn’t be answering the telephone. Especially when you don’t have a key.”

“That’s okay, Miz Silk. It’s no problem.”

“It’s a problem for me.”

“Why?”

“Privacy. You have to learn to respect that.”

“Sure, privacy’s good, but I’m like your assistant. I can screen all your calls if you want.”

“I can’t pay you to be an assistant.”

“That’s okay. You can run a—”

“And I am not going to run a tab for the assistant I can’t afford.”

“Fine. I volunteer. You need my help, Miz Silk.”

“I guess I’d better head home and call her back.”

Josey flipped open a small striped notebook with blue pages. “Don’t rush. She’s out at a reception now. She’s a really neat person. She said she’ll call you back tonight. See? I’ll take care of the messages, and if it’s urgent, I’ll get back to them.”

“But...”

She snapped the notebook shut and beamed. “In the meantime, I can tell you’re worried about this wallet.”

“I am. I know that I’d be in a panic if it was mine.”

“Not everybody’s like you, but anyway, I bet if we went up to the Domaine Wallingford where the En feu! production is happening, we could find someone to give it to her. All these extra people you see around town are either connected with the production or they’re fans here to catch a glimpse of Rafaël and Marietta.”

“Can they do a show in front of an audience?”

“I don’t think they’re doing that. But Rafaël and Marietta are each supposed to pick a different restaurant every night and have dinner there. So people are trying to be in the right one at the right time. People have driven in from Toronto, Montreal. I heard they’re supposed to start production tomorrow.”

“Amazing.”

“Sure is. That’s why Jean-Claude was behind it. It really puts the spotlight on the town, which will help him sell his projects. The cameras will be on Rafaël and Marietta in the restaurants too. And the people at the Wallingford Estate, they offered not only the space, but their big kitchen too. It’s going to be great publicity when they open as an auberge with a spa and a restaurant. Good business all round. It will be fun to see what’s going on up there. What did you say her name was? I forget.”

“Harriet Crowder.”

“See? You could give her back the wallet and then you could relax. Maybe later we could even go for a swim at Miz Lamontagne’s place and tell her about it.”

I chuckled. “Hélène hasn’t invited us. And I wouldn’t want to run into Jean-Claude twice in a day, that’s for sure.”

“His lordship doesn’t spend much time at home, you know that. Miz Lamontagne loves us. And you have to consider Tolstoy in this hot weather.”

“Forget the pool. Let’s go get rid of this damn wallet.”

The Wallingford Estate had been imposing even during the many years when it had stood abandoned and crumbling. I’d never fully understood why someone who wanted a relaxing summer getaway would construct a multi-storey home out of granite, on a hill across the old road along the river. But then I wasn’t a nineteenth century lumber baron. And I had to admit the place had a certain grandeur, from the Scottish baronial style of the main house to the extravagant flowing lawns and gardens. The only thing that screamed contemporary was the collection of vans and SUVs parked outside. Josey and I were puffing by the time we’d walked from the centre of the village up the long, craggy hill.

Minutes later, when we’d caught our breath, we swept up the wide stone exterior staircase and into the main foyer, a cool, contemporary, slightly Zen atmosphere that came as a surprise. The Zen thing was a bit disrupted by the frantic scurrying of young people in T-shirts and camouflage cut-offs. Most seemed to be carrying mikes, cameras, wires and other equipment.

A young man walked past us and raised an eyebrow. I recognized his white jeans and cowboy boots. He was still clutching the clipboard. Only now he also had an earpiece connecting him to someone somewhere. He also had something twinkly on the side of his nose and was sporting a strange hairdo that seemed to come to a point.

“I’m sorry,” he smiled, showing teeth that must have been professionally whitened. “But the facility’s not open to the public yet. Is there anything...?”

“We’re here to see Miz Harriet Crowder. This is Miz Fiona Silk, and I am Miz Josey Thring. Her assistant.” Josey flipped open the little notebook with the blue pages, just in case.

His nose twitched alarmingly before he got control again. “I’m Brady Davies. I’m an assistant director,” he said. “All to say, I don’t know where Harriet is right now. Is she expecting you?”

I said, “No.”

“Ah. Well, um, I can...”

“We have her wallet. Miz Silk here found it,” Josey said.

I broke in. “Perhaps you could see that she gets it.”

“Are you kidding?” Brady blurted. “I don’t go close to the Red Devil. She’s mad at me. She’d—”

I interrupted. “Is there someone else I could leave it with? I’d just like to get it back to her.”

As this little scene was playing out, a striking woman with shoulder-length blonde hair emerged from an office toward the back of the foyer. She closed the door behind her and headed in our direction. She must have been five nine, with a remarkable bosom, given how slender she was. I estimated the annual upkeep on those blonde highlights could have wiped out my little tax problem. Her crisply tailored cream suit must have been designed for her, then applied with a sprayer. Her expression told me we were going to get the boot, maybe because my three dollar pink flip-flops and the black T-shirt from Giant Tiger weren’t in the right league. At the sound of a shrill voice in the distance, she froze, pivoted and hurried up the wide main staircase, tanned legs moving fast, stiletto heels clicking. Whoever she was, she was beautiful, expensively dressed, confident and oddly familiar.

Josey probably has the loudest whisper anywhere. She turned to watch the splendid departure. “That’s Anabel Huffington-Chabot. She’s the person behind all this. And her husband too, but all everybody talks about is her.”

“Um, he’s no longer in the picture,” Brady whispered back.

I said, “Ah.” Sometimes no longer in the picture is best.

“She’s the queen now.” There was a funny little twist to his mouth. Stories to be told, I imagined, under the right circumstances.

“Oops,” Brady squeaked as Harriet Crowder burst into the foyer.

I stepped forward and said, “Excuse me...”

Harriet ignored me, pounded on the office door and yanked it open. We could hear a soothing, almost musical voice from inside. However soothing, it didn’t seem to do the trick.

“That looked like Harriet,” Josey whispered.

“Sure did,” Brady said.

Whoever was on the receiving end of the tirade had my sympathy. Brady shrugged. “I’m sorry. Harriet’s obviously in the middle of...”

Harriet Crowder’s voice rose like a siren. “You tell that bitch Anabel if I find her before she fixes this, I’ll split her down the middle and slow roast her on the barbecue. That’ll get the ratings up.”

She didn’t seem to notice us as she stalked out of the office and back the way she’d arrived. She also didn’t glance up the wide staircase, but if she had, Anabel Huffington-Chabot would have done well to dive out the nearest mullioned window.

Doors continued to bang along the corridor.

Josey said, “Wow.”

The door to the office closed softly.

“Oh, boy,” Brady said. “Poor Chelsea. She doesn’t deserve that.”

“Who’s Chelsea?” Josey said.

I gave her a nudge. “Never mind, Josey. Thank you, Brady.”

Brady said, “No problem. Chelsea’s Anabel’s EA. She’s a doll, unlike her boss.”

“What’s an EA?” Josey said.

“Nothing,” I said.

“Executive assistant,” Brady said. “In this case, to the world’s chilliest woman. But still better than Harriet, the red devil on steroids.”

I sighed.

“Executive assistant. Oh, boy.” Josey scribbled something in her little notebook.

I was pretty sure I hadn’t heard the end of that.

Brady said, “Um, I don’t think you should bother Chelsea yet. She just had a rough ride.”

Josey answered for me. “Is anybody else around? Marietta or Rafaël?”

I said, “We don’t really need to see anybody else.”

“Sorry I couldn’t help,” Brady said. “The thing is everyone’s terrified of Harriet. If there’s the slightest thing, she goes off the deep end. You just saw a sample of that.”

“Do you mind if we try to find her? Maybe she’ll calm down.”

“Sorry. We’re setting up for the production. I can’t let anyone have unaccompanied access to Wallingford House. We’re having a problem with light-fingered locals, I mean, visitors.”

“No! People stealing?” Josey said, scandalized.

Brady chuckled. “Yes. In fact, lots of local shops and suppliers and even farmers are dropping off wonderful gifts to show goodwill for the show. And half of these goodies are walking right out the back door. We’ve had to put a padlock on the freezer. You could wait here to see if she comes back.”

Josey drew herself up to her full height, five three on a good day. “Miz Silk would never steal anything.” Not like Uncle Mike for sure.

Brady’s eyes widened. “Oh, I’m sure of that, but Anabel Huffington-Chabot owns this facility, and she’d freeze me to death on the spot if I let you in.”

Josey echoed, “Facility,” slowly savouring the word. I imagined I’d be hearing more of it.

“Can’t I just leave the wallet with someone?” I said, feeling exasperated. “I’m just trying to do a good deed. And move on with my life.”

“I sympathize, but you picked the wrong person. Harriet doesn’t understand the concept of good deeds.”

“Fine, I’ll just mail it to her.”

Brady bit his lip, then said, “Of course, if anything goes wrong and Harriet needed the wallet tonight, she’d think nothing of suing you over it. She tends to win her lawsuits too. But it’s up to you. Perhaps you have time and money to spare.”

“But that’s hardly fair!” I said.

“Fair,” he twittered. “Another foreign concept to the red devil.”

Josey said, “Maybe we better wait.”

I thought I knew her motivation, and it wasn’t Harriet. “A couple more minutes wouldn’t hurt, I suppose. Don’t want to get sued. Do you have a ladies’ room I could use while I’m waiting?”

“Sure. Use the staff one right across there. All the prima donnas appear to be offstage.” He pointed to a door and scurried off down the hallway in the opposite direction from Harriet Crowder.

In this particular case, I was very happy to avoid the impending catfight between Harriet and Anabel. Conflict is not my best thing. And I really couldn’t imagine myself rooting for either one of them.

“I’ll keep an eye out, Miz Silk,” Josey said, obliquely.

“Before I go in, tell me, Josey. Did Brady have a diamond stud in his nose, or did I imagine that?”

She nodded. “Might have been cubic zirconium, but I’m betting it was a diamond. He’s really cute. He had a cool fauxhawk too.”

“What’s a...oh, never mind. I’m better off not knowing.”

As I pushed open the door, I took a deep breath. Since the previous autumn, I’d found ladies’ rooms alarming, and there were good reasons for that. Of course, there was no need to be skittish in a luxurious spot like this.

A person could get used to the subdued lighting, dark minimalist woodwork, toilet stalls with tumbled marble walls and dark-stained louvred doors. I had to admire the stacks of real towels and the delicate dispensers for soap and lotion. There was a lingering scent of fresh paint and new wood, two of my favourite fragrances. A pair of smartly dressed middle-aged women passed me chatting on the way out. One of them stopped to pick up a briefcase from the counter.

A minute after I entered a stall, I heard the click of stilettos outside my door. I thought nothing of it. Until I tried to open the door. I flipped the lock and turned the handle. Nothing happened.

Stuck? Not possible.

I turned the handle both ways. I tried again. I pushed and pushed again, a bit harder each time. Nothing. I tried pounding. Maybe the wood had swelled in the high humidity. I tapped the top, middle and bottom. No luck.

By this time, my heart was thundering. As long as you maintain your dignity, that’s the main thing, I told myself. I hammered on the door. No response. I banged my fists and kicked. Silence.

To hell with dignity. “Let me out!” I hollered at the top of my lungs.

When that didn’t work, I went back to banging. I added kicking to the mix. Suddenly the door flew open, and I tumbled out and landed on my knees on the marble floor. Let’s just say I prefer softer materials.

“Jeez Louise, Miz Silk! I’m really glad I heard you yelling! You could have been in there forever.”

I picked myself up. “Thank you, Josey. The door was stuck.”

“Miz Silk. It wasn’t stuck. It was—”

“Let me wash my hands and get out of here. I feel like a fool. Not able to open the door, how ridiculous is that?”

“No, it was—”

“Let’s go. I don’t even want to talk about it.”

“Miz Silk! You have to listen to me!” Josey’s freckles stood out in sharp relief against her pale face. Her cornflower blue eyes bulged.

“What?”

“You weren’t stuck in there. Someone barred you in.”

“Oh, Josey, don’t try to make me feel better. I know what happened.”

“No, you don’t, Miz Silk, or you wouldn’t be saying that. Just look at this!” She pointed.

I followed her gesture. “What am I supposed to look at?”

“This chair.”

I blinked. It was an attractive chair, but that’s all I could say about it.

“It was blocking your door.”

“But how...”

“Miz Silk, someone put it there.”

“I don’t see how that could be. It’s not very heavy.”

Josey made a soft expression of exasperation. “It was stuck under the knob like this. See?” She grabbed the chair with its thin metal back and tilted it so it fit under the knob.

I stared.

“Now do you believe me? I don’t know how you didn’t see it.”

“I’m sorry, Josey. I was in a panic. Who expects a chair blocking their door? Who would do such a thing?”

She stared back at me. “Well, it has to be one of the ladies who came out of here, doesn’t it?”

“A couple of women left when I first got here. But they were gone before I even went into the stall.”

“I saw them. One of them is a dog walking client of mine. She’s here to talk about a catering contract. She wouldn’t pull a mean trick like that. A blonde lady went in right after you, just as they were coming out. She left before you did. That makes sense.”

“I don’t know. I can’t understand why anyone would do such a thing in the first place.”

“She was out of there like a bat out of hell. I didn’t get a look at her. I was talking to my client about her catering business. Hey, maybe she’s someone you used to know. She could be really mad about something you did in the past.”

“I can’t imagine what.”

“Or she could be just a bit crazy. Or doing something on a dare. Although I didn’t think adults pulled that kind of stunt. Miz Silk? Are you listening? You have a kind of faraway look in your eyes.”

“Hmm? Oh, right. Did you happen to notice what kind of shoes this woman was wearing?”

“Oh, sure. High-heeled sandals, really high. She was used to them, too. She didn’t even teeter. Do you think that’s a skill a person could learn?”

I shook my head to clear the image of Josey striding around in spike heels. “I never have,” I said. “For what that’s worth.”

“I know that, Miz Silk. But I was just wondering how come some people can do it and look so natural.”

“It’s a mystery. What about the other two women? What kind of shoes were they wearing?”

“One had those clunky sandals, and the other one had leather walking shoes. How come you’re asking?”

“I definitely heard the click of high heels on the marble floor just outside the door of my stall. I didn’t think too much about it. Just figured someone was checking to see if it was vacant. Now it’s obvious she must have been pushing the chair up against the door. For whatever crazy reason.”

“She can’t be that far away, Miz Silk. It’s only been a couple of minutes.”

“Do you think it might have been Anabel Huffington-Chabot?”

“Oh, wow, Miz Silk. I really wasn’t paying attention.” Josey radiated guilt. “I was talking to my client and kind of keeping an eye out in case Marietta or Rafaël showed up.”

Obviously Josey had not been quite as impressed with Anabel as I had been. I said, “Don’t worry about it.”

“Never mind, Miz Silk. Let’s go find Harriet.”

“But Brady said we couldn’t have access without... Josey, come back.”

I had no choice but to chase after her down the long corridor where we’d last seen Harriet. No one spotted us. It wasn’t long before we recognized a shrill voice.

Josey managed to get ahead of me, and before I could stop her, she’d pushed open the swinging doors and barged into the huge kitchen area at the rear of the facility. I’d never seen a kitchen like it. For starters, it was forty feet long, with acres of stainless work surface and a twelve burner stove. Cameras had been set up to face the vast granite-topped island that occupied the centre of the room. Here and there were boxes of groceries and supplies. I could see what Brady meant. A large flowering azalea with a Bonne Chance! Good Luck! card sticking out of it sat next to two large green tins of high-end imported extra-virgin olive oil sporting the logo of CeeCeeCuisine. Next to them, I spotted a jumbo jug of my favourite maple syrup from the local sugar bush. Oh yes, and stubby little Harriet had the hapless Brady backed up against the stainless steel double-door refrigerator.

“Wow,” Josey said.

“Hello,” I said.

Harriet was in mid-shriek. “You can’t pull this kind of stunt! We have contractual agreements. We will pull the plug.”

Brady managed to squeak out a plea, “I’m on your side, remember. You have to talk to Anabel. She’s the one making the decisions about the site.”

“If I catch that little tart, I will. And don’t you walk out on me, you quivering little wretch. I will find out what’s going on.”

Brady fled, letting the exterior door swing behind him. Harriet put out her hand to stop it before it smacked her in the face.

“I have your wallet,” I called out, a bit too late.

Josey and I watched in astonishment as Harriet stomped out the back door, climbed into her Lexus SUV and tore off down the driveway, spraying gravel in her wake.

“I guess it wasn’t the best time for handing over the wallet,” Josey said.

“Right. And I suppose we should get out of here before we get accused of pilfering. I think they’re serious,” I said, pointing to the huge walk-in freezer with the padlock on it.

As we headed toward the foyer, Anabel was descending from upstairs. She glanced around quickly, probably keeping an eye out for Harriet. The blonde highlights swirled as she swept out through the front door and down the long stone steps. The only part missing was the full orchestra.

I decided to try to leave the wallet with her assistant, even if she had been given a rough ride by Harriet. None of this had to be my problem. “What was the assistant’s name again, Josey?” I asked. Josey has an uncanny ability to remember people and details.

“Chelsea. And she’s an executive assistant.”

Naturally, Chelsea did not answer when I crossed the foyer again and knocked at the office door. Probably still cowering under the desk, I decided.

My cell phone rang, and I snatched it up.

“Philip?” I said, continuing to walk back down the hill toward the village.

“Oh là là.” My friend Hélène Lamontagne laughed her silvery laugh. “I have been leaving messages at home for you.”

“Haven’t been home most of the day,” I said.

“You are lucky. It will be like an oven at your place now. Why don’t you and Tolstoy come over for a swim?”

That was a tricky one. How can I loathe Jean-Claude and spurn his offers, then go take a dip in his oversize pool? Where’s the dignity in that?

“The thing is, Hélène, Jean-Claude and I had a little dust-up over my property today. I can hardly...”

“Fiona. I am not my husband. I have nothing to do with his real estate business. Nothing. I am your friend, and I am asking you to come to my home and keep me company. How can that be a problem? By the way, do you know where Josée can be found? She might like to join us.”

Josey was looking particularly innocent at the moment, which made me wonder if she’d set up the call.

“I will see the three of you soon,” Hélène said. “And by the way, Jean-Claude will be out this evening. He has an important meeting.”

“It may take a while,” I said. “I found a wallet belonging to one of the En feu! producers, and I need to return it to her.”

“Ah oui. Who is it? I know a lot of those people.”

“Harriet Crowder.”

“Oh là là là.” I imagined Hélène rolling her eyes.

The level of excitement rose higher every hour. In fact, the whole village seemed to be on the verge of frenzy.

“Wow, no wonder people are excited, Miz Silk. It’s Marietta!” She tugged at my hand, pulling me along the sidewalk toward the waterfront.

Marietta turned to us in surprise. A small puff of smoke escaped from her lips. She dropped a cigarette and ground it out. “You caught me. It’s naughty, I know, but...”

Josey blurted out. “This is Miz Fiona Silk, and I am her executive assistant, Josey Thring. We’re big fans of yours.” She snapped open her little notebook with the blue pages, I suppose to drive home the executive assistant point.

Up close, Marietta was a feast for the eyes. Her luxurious mane of chestnut hair did not frizz in the heat and humidity like mine. Her make-up was perfect, the olive skin glowing and flawless. Her full red lips curved in a wickedly conspiratorial smile. The smile went all the way to her dark brown eyes. Every male who walked past us did a double take. I attributed those reactions to Marietta’s dangerous curves and her startling cleavage.

Josey said, “We’re looking for Harriet Crowder. She’s your producer, isn’t she?”

Marietta bubbled with laughter. “Oh, my poor Harriet. What’s she done now?”

Josey said. “Nothing, except yell at some people. But that’s none of our business. Miz Silk found her wallet. We tried to talk to her at the Wallingford Estate but...”

“Her tail was on fire?” Marietta laughed.

“Something like that,” I said, cutting into the conversation. “She was pretty fierce.”

“Poor little Harriet. She’s upset about a few things today. She’s really all sound and fury, and one of these days she really should learn to pick her battles. Even so, I don’t know why people are so frightened of her. Sticks and stones, right?”

“Perhaps you could give her the wallet,” I suggested, not wanting to test the sticks and stones theory. “Since you know her.”

Marietta put her soft, warm hand on my arm. “I’m just off to meet someone, or I’d love to. But listen, I’m sure I saw Harriet heading toward the parking lot across the street. We’re having a bit of trouble with the air conditioning up at the estate. When she gets too hot, she gets into her SUV to cool off. She doesn’t usually go anywhere, so you should be able to catch up with her, no problem.” As Marietta sashayed off, a perfectly normal-looking man walked straight into a telephone pole as he followed her progress.

“She was real nice, wasn’t she, Miz Silk? And she’s so beautiful. Just like on television.”

“Right. Let’s just get this over with.”

I looked both ways but didn’t see any combinations of red hair and leopard print. Or any tails on fire. Normally someone like Harriet would have stood out in our community. But today, the population had changed.

Josey raised her binoculars. She never leaves home without them. “Oh, Marietta was right. There’s the SUV!”

I saw the spiky red head disappearing into the Café Belle Rive.

Josey said, “I can’t believe someone would drive down that little hill instead of walking. Come on, Miz Silk.”

Sometimes it’s a curse to be polite. “Excuse me,” I said as we pushed through the crowd on the sidewalk. “Pardon me. Coming through. Excuse me.” Talk about a waste of words. I might as well have been invisible. Josey was quite far ahead of me before I finally broke through a knot of chattering young women, but she waited for me to catch up.

“Miz Silk, you’ll never get anywhere if you wait for people to let you do what you want.”

The story of my life.

The Belle Rive was a venerable restaurant in a restored building teetering on the edge of the Gatineau River. It’s a popular spot for tourists and locals. The tourtière and chutney are homemade, and the salads come from a local organic farm. The house wine is very drinkable, and no one there is ever in a hurry. Perhaps there’s something romantic about eating French country cooking on the misty shore, because a high percentage of the diners always seemed to be holding hands and gazing with cow-eyed admiration at the person opposite. I followed Josey through the door. Usually at that time of day, the restaurant celebrated happy hour with cocktails and canapés. It was way too late for lunch, and dinner service didn’t begin before seven.

A beaming young woman carrying a stack of menus greeted us. “I’m sorry. We’re full, with a forty-five minute wait. You might try Oops! across the street.”

“Just looking,” Josey said, slithering past her. She quickly checked the dining room and scooted out to the outdoor seating.

“We’re trying to find an, um, acquaintance,” I said. “Do you mind if we check on the verandah?”

Of course, it was a bit too late to ask permission. Josey had disappeared.

“No problem,” the hostess said. “Let me know if you want to reserve a table for later.”

As usual, every seat on the verandah was occupied. No one looked like Harriet Crowder. But at the far end on the right was a table tucked out of view. I happened to know that spot had the best view of the river. An oversized bag with the En feu! Hot Stuff! logo hung over the side of a chair, but I couldn’t see the people at the table.

“That must be her bag. Excuse me, pardon me,” I said as I eased my way along the narrow passageway toward the end of the verandah, trying not to let my overstuffed carryall knock anything off the intimate little café tables. I couldn’t help but note that everyone seemed to be sipping chilled wine and gazing at their partners with something like ardour.

Josey had already reached the end, eager to tell Harriet that we had her wallet, I suppose. I could feel a puce blush spreading up my neck and over my face. A nervous woman grabbed her wine glass as I sped up to get ahead of her.

Josey tapped the woman at the end on her bare and golden shoulder. “Miz Crowder? Oh...”

“Very, very sorry,” I said to the two people at the table. “Case of mistaken identity.”

Anabel Huffington-Chabot turned and frowned. So did her companion. In fact, he dropped her well-manicured hand as if it were a live grenade. What was he doing there? And more to the point, what was he doing with her?

Words almost failed me.

“Please, excuse us. So many people, so easy to get confused with all the crowds. We found Harriet Crowder’s wallet, and I thought I recognized her bag. Can I leave it with you to give to her? No? I suppose not. Sorry.”

“But Miz Silk. That’s...”

“Come on, Josey. Let’s go.”

“I think we should...”

“I apologize for interrupting your meeting,” I added. I backed hastily down the narrow aisle, pulling Josey with me.

Outside Belle Rive, I took a deep breath.

“Jeez, Miz Silk. Did you just see what I did?”

I nodded.

“I don’t know why you dragged me away.”

“Oh yes you do.”

“Harriet’s not here. I don’t know where she went. But what kind of a meeting was that anyway?”

“A private one,” I said. “It wasn’t appropriate to interrupt.”

“Well, what kind of business do you think it was?”

“It doesn’t matter. She’s a businesswoman, and he’s an investor.”

“It seemed pretty weird to me.”

I didn’t want to get into a long discussion with Josey over the fact that Jean-Claude Lamontagne had had his tongue hanging out over Anabel Huffington-Chabot. If we hadn’t shown up, he might have smothered in that engineered cleavage. I hoped Josey had missed the hand-holding part. “Sometimes it’s better to let it go. You’ve heard the expression ‘discretion is the better part of valour’?”

“That Anabel was wearing really high heels. Maybe she was the person who locked you in the toilet stall.”

“But why would she?”

“Maybe she knows how you feel about Jean-Claude.” Josey goggled at me.

I said, “You were distracted and didn’t get a good look at whoever it was. And I just heard the heels. I can’t imagine the owner of a place like the Domaine Wallingford would lock someone in the ladies’ room. Bad publicity if it got out.”

The thin shoulders slumped. “I don’t like her much. You think Miz Lamontagne is going to be upset?”

“Upset?”

“Sure, you didn’t notice that his lordship was holding his colleague’s hand at that important meeting? And staring down the front of her top.”

I hesitated. “We won’t mention it to Hélène. Maybe we just misinterpreted it.”

Josey scowled. “Maybe.”

“Let’s go hunt for Harriet.”

An hour later, after cruising through every street and parking lot in the village of St. Aubaine, we’d still had no luck. We picked up Tolstoy and made tracks for Hélène’s.

Hélène may be my closest neighbour on our winding semirural road, but there’s not much in common between the two houses. Her six thousand square foot two-storey custom-built stone home sits on top of a completely man-made hill at the end of a long, winding driveway. Paved, naturally. Each giant blue spruce perfectly placed on the manicured lawns had been delivered by truck and planted by certified forestry types.

My cottage, on the other hand, is the same ramshackle dwelling that my great-aunt Kit inherited from her parents. Well, okay, it was winterized sometime in the early sixties, when Aunt Kit moved in permanently, and she did have a proper bathroom installed. But aside from that, it’s not much different. Many of my trees have been there for nearly a hundred years. I’m a lot happier with my glimpse of the Gatineau River than I would be with any landscaper’s dream.

Some things money can’t buy.

I was damp and sweaty by the time we’d trekked the quarter mile to the Lamontagne’s, but I held my back straight and my head high as Josey rang the doorbell. Even the damned chimes sounded pricey. Hélène’s Mercedes was parked in front of the house, but as expected, there was no sign of Jean-Claude’s silver Porsche Carrera.

“Fiona! Josée! Tolstoy! I am glad you could all make it.”

I adore the woman, even if she is married to my nemesis. I don’t understand it, but I don’t hold it against her. After all, hadn’t I spent many long years with Phil? I didn’t understand that either. Some decisions are beyond comprehension. An unfathomable swamp of pheromones, desperation and the desire to wear a long white dress just once.

But friendship trumps all that.

She’d obviously been at the pool. She looked stylish in a white eyelet beach cover-up that contrasted nicely with her tan and her burgundy hair. The Gucci sunglasses were a smart touch, as were the bejewelled flip-flops. I’d picked my own sunglasses at the local Giant Tiger. My swimsuit had long ago lost its sproing.

“Come on in for a swim,” she said as I followed her.

I wasn’t sure how much I would be able to relax, knowing more than I should about Jean-Claude’s activities.

Hélène walked ahead through the long marble foyer and the newly renovated designer kitchen, which Josey claimed had cost Jean-Claude close to a hundred thousand dollars. We followed her through the screened porch to the glittering custom swimming pool, surrounded by acres of manicured property. It’s magazine quality, but except for the company, I would just as soon be taking a dip on the rocky shore of the Gatineau on my own property. However, Josey loved the pool, and it suited her new status as an EA.

Hélène headed for the sparkling new stainless steel patio bar. “Why don’t you get changed, and I’ll mix us some sangria. And the Shirley Temple version for you, Josée.”

Sometimes it’s pointless to argue. Sangria was a great idea.

By the time I managed to get into my suit, Josey had already been in the pool. So had Tolstoy. Hélène had worked some magic with drinks. Everyone was in a good mood, and Tolstoy had found himself a shady spot on the cool slate patio.

“Josée has offered to help me with the organizing for the community logistics connected with En feu! Hot Stuff!” Hélène said. “That is very kind of her.”

“Oh, indeed,” I said. I wondered if any of those logistics would put Josey within swooning distance of Rafaël. “Very public-spirited.”

Josey beamed.

“I can use all the help I can get,” Hélène said, shaking her artful burgundy mane.

“Mmm,” I said.

“So many things to do,” she said.

“I suppose,” I said.

“Volunteers make for a strong community,” she added.

“For sure.”

“Sangria?” she said, giving the carafe a playful swirl.

“Absolutely. I love sangria.”

“Me too,” Josey said.

I raised an eyebrow.

“Without the whatever,” Josey said.

I wasn’t sure what sangria without the whatever would consist of, but I was grateful that Hélène had made her the Shirley Temple version. Josey was still clean and sober, unlike the rest of her relatives. And me, of course.

“Ah oui, “ Hélène said, “I have many happy memories of sangria.”

“Right,” I said. “I suppose Jean-Claude likes it too.”

She shook her head. “No, he does not. Sometimes he is so...”

Josey said, “Pig-headed?”

Hélène frowned, “No, not exactly, I was going to say he is more...”

Luckily, I stopped myself from saying, “Sleazy?”

“Serious,” she said. “Un homme sérieux.”

“Oof,” Josey said.

“I suppose he is,” I said. A thousand adjectives would have popped into my mind first, but I had to keep in mind the feelings of the lovely person who was handing me a drink in a tall, frosty glass.

“Oui,” Hélène said, narrowing her eyes a bit.

Something told me that serious didn’t have all that much appeal right at the moment. I had no problem with that. I never understood what a lovely person like Hélène saw in St. Aubaine’s version of Donald Trump anyway. All right, better looking, better hair. But even so.

Josey said, “I wonder if Rafaël likes sangria?”

Hélène arched her back. “Certainement. He would.”

I took a sip, savoured the citrusy sweetness and waited for the little kick. I lay back on the stylish padded lounge chair.

Hélène took the chair beside me. “Fiona, you are gripping that glass so hard, I can see your knuckles. Even Harriet cannot be that bad.”

My mind was whirling from everything that had happened that day: the horrible image of the burning Cadillac Escalade, Marc-André lying in his hospital bed, my empty bank account, my invisible ex-husband, Jean-Claude’s attempt to get my property while I was down, and now the guilty knowledge that he might be having a fling with Anabel Huffington-Chabot behind Hélène’s back while the village watched and smirked.

I sighed. “Harriet and her wallet are the least of my problems.”