Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle (10 page)

“You sure you heard right? Any chance she asked you to write a neurotic cookbook? That would make more sense.”

“Okay, that's it. Tolstoy, we're out of here,” I said.

Tolstoy was slow to move. He loves Woody and Woody's store, since Woody has no problem with him. Of course, Woody doesn't enforce any regulations on general principles. Tolstoy was standing underneath the
INTERDIT AUX CHIENS
sign. It means no dogs, but then again, Tolstoy doesn't read French, and Woody doesn't believe in it.

“Come on, kiddo. Where's your sense of humour? I'm stunned anyone would think of you for a job like that. You sure this Lola's playing with a full deck? When did you ever cook anything? You live on take-out. If it weren't for the hummus and pita here in L'Épicerie, you'd have starved.”

“Well,” I said.

“Although I don't know how anyone can eat this stuff. Give me Mickey Dee's any old day. I can't wait until the Golden Arches comes to St. Aubaine.”

I glanced around. No one was paying any attention. For some reason, Woody's customers see no incongruity in his personal lifestyle and opinions and the high-end organic products he sells.

Woody held up his hand. “I know you make great coffee, but in no way does brewing java count.”

“That's not fair.”

“Tough luck, kiddo. The irrefutable fact is that cookbooks almost always include solids.”

“I look after Tolstoy.”

“Do you make his food?”

“I open the tins and mix it with his kibble. He really likes the way I do it.” Tolstoy's tail thumped on the wooden floor.

“But any examples of cooking for, say, human beings?”

“I can't remember. I made food when I was still married to Phil. I'm sure I did. I must have. I've tried to blank out those years. But that's not the point.”

“Oh right, so for the erotic cookbook, the point is your exciting and varied love life?”

“You are being just plain mean, Woody.”

“I'm merely pointing out that any guys I know you to have been associated with are either dead, suffering from head wounds and amnesia, or you've just divorced them. Well, I guess I'm leaving out agents of the police, but that's different. Aside from me, of course. But hey, there's an idea.”

I said, “In no way is that an idea. And this is just a cookbook, not an autobiography. I don't have to provide the erotic realism. They just need recipes and text. I suppose. And photos. Oh, maybe not photos.”

“Haven't you been complaining about your books tanking?”

“I just couldn't get the right romantic mood going in the last two. The novel I'm working on is, um, coming along slowly, and my proposals have been generally sneered at. So, I take your point. But I'm still going to try.” I wasn't sure how, but I couldn't say that to Woody. He'd never let up then.

“You were in the news not long ago. Right across the country.
TV
, newspaper headlines. That'll help. It was pretty steamy. I imagine any cookbook you produce will just fly off the shelves.”

I reached for a container of hummus and a package of whole wheat pita bread, which was what I'd come for. “I'm sure that's what's behind the whole deal. Put this on my tab, will you?”

Woody still chortled. “You're the only person I know who runs a tab in the health food store, kiddo. I shouldn't let you get away with it, but you always give me my daily smile.”

I ignored that. “I'm heading home to get started. I've got nothing but time on my hands, I need the money and, anyway, in spite of your mean-spirited comments, how hard can it be?”

“Hey, don't get all bent out of shape. I'm just being friendly. I can help you.”

Oh, right. Woody's pushing sixty, with a pot belly and receding hairline and a long grey braid to take your mind off that. He spends his days in his chair guzzling Jolt Cola or Red Bull, eating cheeseburgers and blowing smoke in your face. He loves to terrify the locals when he barrels through St. Aubaine in his specially-built van. It has an unusual combination of hand controls inside and custom flame designs decorating the exterior. Woody's loud, opinionated and inclined to run over your foot with his wheelchair. He's a great and loyal friend when he's in a good mood, and even if he's not. But Woody's no heartthrob. Maybe it's all those Grateful Dead T-shirts.

“Don't get that look on your face, kiddo. There's life in the
old guy yet. Women love me.”

“I'm sure they do,” I said, watching a middle-aged customer pivot and scurry off as fast as her Mephistos could carry her.

“And I have ideas.”

Yes. And I didn't want to think about them.

“Aren't you going to ask me what ideas?”

I sighed.

He yelled, “Spotted Dick!”

I stood rooted with horror. “What is the matter with you, Woody?”

“Nothing. Spotted Dick. It's a traditional English dessert. Come on. You mean you never heard of it?”

“Really? It sounds more like a...” I was about to say an
STD
, but of course, everyone in the shop was eavesdropping.

There was no point wasting time explaining to Woody the difference between eroticism and boyish double entendres.

“I'll take it under consideration,” I said, meaning I would never give it another thought as long as I lived.

“And there's...” he said.

“Not to change the subject,” I said, “but since you are the gossip epicentre of the village, have you heard about the man who was killed in that accident on Highway 5 yesterday?”

“The cops are keeping quiet about that. No details yet about the guy.”

“I thought you might have found out anyway. Sgt. Sarrazin told me it's because they haven't informed the next of kin yet.”

“Bunch of killjoys. The cops I mean, not the dead guy. And, hey, do you have time to come in back and see my big renovations? My living quarters are finished. I blew a bundle, but it really rocks.”

“Later,” I mumbled. Although I was sure I would have found Woody's newly done apartment fascinating and no doubt quite
surprising, I had an overwhelming need to go home.

“It's quite the pad,” he said, waggling his eyebrows.

“I bet.”

“Hot tub.”

“Huh.”

“Mirrors.”

“Oh.”

“Media room.”

“My, my. Maybe I'll get the tour another time.”

But Woody had already lost interest in me. Perhaps because Marietta had entered L'Épicerie 1759. I was lucky I wasn't flattened when he rolled forward to intercept her.

As I pulled into my driveway, I spotted the battered bike and the familiar sign. Josey was back.

“Hi, Miz Silk. I fixed that leaky tap in your bathtub,” she said, waving a wrench triumphantly. She must have brought it with her. I was pretty sure I didn't own a wrench.

“You really shouldn't just let yourself in.”

“Why not? I'm staff. We've discussed all that. Right? I think an executive assistant has to know everything about the executive. Are you just jumpy because of this cookbook?”

“The cookbook? Of course not.”

“Okay, okay, don't get upset. It's just that everyone is saying...”

“What? What are people saying? What is the matter with this place? Can't a person have a single thought or action without the whole village commenting?” I paused for breath, and Josey stared at me. She ripped one of the blue pages out of the notebook and crumpled it into the wastebasket.

I said, “All right, I'm sorry. What exactly are people saying?”

“Today I heard you are going to have to sell your house because you can't pay your taxes, and you can't pay your hydro, and Jean-Claude Lamontagne has made you an offer you can't refuse.”

“Not true.”

“Oh boy, Miz Silk. I would hate it if you had to sell your place. I love this house. It's the only place I really feel at home.” A guilty look flashed across her freckled face. “Except at home, of course.”

I'd seen that cabin in the woods, seen Uncle Mike passed out. “I'll manage to hang on.”

“But things are bad for you right now, aren't they?”

“They are. I'm stuck with this icky project.”

“That project sounds like fun, but if you really hate the idea, I have an idea for how you can get your hands on some serious cash.”

No point in trying not to listen. I would just get worn down. “How?”

“Sell that picture of the woman in the boat. The one over your desk. I know you really like it a lot, but—”

“Josey, I can't.”

“Sure you can, Miz Silk. That picture's worth a bundle. I checked out that artist, Alex Colville, and his stuff sells for a lot of money.”

“I am not selling the painting. End of conversation.”

“One of his pictures went for more than $400,000 at an auction, last year. Do you know how much that is?”

“Well, of course, I do.”

“So, maybe they're worth even more now. It's just one little picture. It's worth more than the whole property and everything on it.”

“The painting means a lot to me. And I'm not going to sell it.” Josey folded her arms. The freckles stood out, almost three
dimensional. “You could get a lot of special paintings for less than that, Miz Silk. And pay your taxes and all your bills and get a new car.”

“Won't be happening, Josey.”

“You could even build a ramp so that Marc-André could come and visit. I'd help with that. I even got a set of plans.”

A ramp for Marc-André!

“It would be wonderful to have a ramp like that, and I know how much you want Marc-André to get better and get out of rehab, but I will never sell that painting, Josey. I'm not even going to discuss it any more. We'll have to come up with some other solution to this latest cash crunch.”

Josey shrugged. Of course, I wasn't dumb enough to dream that I'd heard the last about selling the Colville.

“I'm trying to find a way to make my, um, cookbook project work.”

“Pretty hard to do a cookbook in the state of that kitchen.”

“What does the state of my kitchen have to do with it? Don't I just have to find a few recipes? I'm a whiz with the microwave. My aunt had some cookbooks. I think they might be in the attic. I'm going to crawl around up there and find them. I might get some ideas for the framework of the book.”

“Jeez, Miz Silk. Cookbooks have to be up to date. They have to have food that's in style, the latest ingredients, techniques. They have to look right.”

“There are styles in recipes? You're kidding, right?”

“No way. People follow trends in the food world. I can't believe you don't know about that. You better get that satellite dish.”

“Forget it.”

“There's fashionable food and unfashionable food. You got to have clear glass bowls for your ingredients. All sizes.”

Clear glass bowls? That made no sense. “You're kidding. Anyway, what kind of food goes out of style?”

She frowned. “I'm not really sure. But turnip, I hope. And Brussels sprouts.”

“I hear you.”

“I'll get you some recipe books from the library.”

“You don't have to do all that, Josey. I can look after myself, you know.”

“It's okay, Miz Silk. Remember, I'm saving up. I got a lot of expenses and more coming. I need all the odd jobs I can get. You got until I turn sixteen to settle your tab.”

I said, “Well...”

“You should ask Miz Lamontagne if she has any food magazines.”

What was this thing everyone had with trying to solve my money problems? Everyone except the one person who had a legal obligation, namely Philip.

I picked up the phone. While I was out, Josey had thoughtfully programmed Philip's home, office and cell phone numbers into the speed dial. First, she'd found a phone set for me that had a speed dial, back when I still had a few dollars. The phone rang on and on, as it had on my previous seven tries. Finally, blessedly, it was snatched up.

“Philip,” I chirped, “let's agree to get this settled once and for all. Imagine how much happier we'll both be. Freedom from each other at last! How exhilarating would that be?”

“Look, Fiona, you have to stop hounding me.”

“Hounding you? You mean my phone calls this week? You've been artfully stalling for months.”

“Hardly. I'm a busy man.”

“Right. You're a busy man with property and assets. All I want is my share. I realize you'll cheat me, and I don't even care. Let's just get it finished. “

“Sure, now that you're not making it as a writer, you want to plunder my assets. Get the rewards without working for them. If you wanted the good life, you should have stayed married.”

I was proud of myself. I didn't let him get to me. I didn't bleat that I had put him through law school working multiple jobs when he didn't have two cents to rub together. I didn't mention that I'd spent the entirety of our marriage in dreary but well-paying employment that had sapped my spirit.

He knew that just as well as I did. There was no point in bringing it up. I wanted to rid myself of Philip, not plunge back into the unwinnable situation of two people who never should have hooked up together in the first place.

Move on, I breathed to myself.

“No problem,” I said. “You can talk to my lawyer next. Or your lawyer can. Of course, that'll cost you.”

“That's easy for you to say. Hit me when I'm down. That's just like you, Fiona. Take advantage when I'm distraught.”

There was so much wrong in that statement, I hardly knew where to begin. I started with, “What do you mean down?”

“You haven't heard?”

I bit back irritation. “Heard what?”

“You're just doing this to get to me.”

“You know what? You're getting to me. Take care of the settlement and make it snappy.”