Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle (20 page)

“Sure thing, Miz Silk. I already put them on the kitchen table with the rest of the library books and the recipes that people have given you.”

“Thanks. Do you really have to take everything off the wall?”

“Don't want this new electrician to do any damage, do we? Sometimes they have to go behind the walls and up in the ceiling.”

“I guess. I've got a really crazy day, but if you're free later, I'd like you to come back with me to Hull before the staff changes to the afternoon shift. I'll stay outside the rehab, but I'd like you to go in and explain to Marc-André why I won't be able to visit. Right now, I'm headed out to do a lot of stuff I should have done a long time ago.”

The manager at the Caisse Pop was not understanding about the wiring situation. Something about taking a loan against a house that might burn down before the day was out. Even when I explained that he had nothing to lose, as the lot was
probably worth more without the house, he still gave the mortgage the thumbs down. Of course, he did golf with Jean-Claude. I added “find a new bank” to my list of things to do.

Next I made my way to the Wallingford Estate in search of the elusive Harriet Crowder. At least this time I was able to talk my way past the security folk. Maybe I seemed harmless without my eyebrows. Maybe they felt sorry for me because of my red and blistered forehead. Who knows?

Once inside, I found Chelsea Brazeau, the very chilly Anabel's lovely, warm executive assistant, fluttering about in the office. She was wearing a sharp yellow dress and jacket that set off her lustrous honey-brown hair and hazel eyes. She smiled in welcome. For a brief second, I wondered why I hadn't been born with lovely, smooth, rich chestnut hair like that. Hair that would always look great. And the confident personality that seemed to go with it. Of course, it would have been nice to be twenty-five again too. Except for egotistical trophy hunters like Jean-Claude who preferred blonde and Botoxed, I thought most men would fall for her at the first sign of that melting smile.

“You get full marks for getting past security,” she said with a grin. “Unfortunately, Harriet's not available. I don't even know where she is. But you can often find her sitting in her vehicle with the motor running to keep cool while she makes her phone calls out of earshot. She's very secretive.”

“Huh,” I said. “Well, please pass on this message. I'm out most of the day, but I'll be home tonight. And she could leave a message for me, if that's not convenient. Here's my address, here's my phone number. If I haven't heard from her tonight, I'll send the wallet by registered post tomorrow, to the address I found in her
ID
.”

“Ooh,” said Chelsea. “Good luck. Just keep in mind that she's very vindictive.”

“It's not going to be my problem any more. She can sue me if she wants.”

Chelsea grimaced. “Well, she's no Miss Congeniality, but she probably won't really sue you. Very likely no one's told her. I tried to after we first spoke, but she was already on the warpath, and she cut me off. She's her own worst enemy. I left her a note in her pigeonhole.” She turned and pointed to a large wall of boxes with names on them. The one marked
HARRIET
was crammed with paper and yellow messages.

A voice behind me made me jump. “There's plenty to do here without providing message services to the villagers.” I turned to face Anabel Huffington-Chabot. She strode past me to the far side of the desk. She scowled at me and ignored her
EA
.

Chelsea interjected mildly. “But Anabel, Fiona is just trying to help. Couldn't we...?”

Oops. Apparently not. I pitied Chelsea working in that environment.

“Thanks, Chelsea. Sorry to disturb.” I felt I could trust Chelsea to deliver the message. I got the impression she'd be happy to help me, but it would have to be behind Anabel's cold, hard back.

I stepped into the hallway and nearly knocked over pudgy little Brady, still wearing his cowboy boots. He made a sympathetic face, ran his hand over his fauxhawk, and pretended he hadn't been listening at the door.

A pattern was emerging. It reminded me of how glad I was to work for myself, despite the setbacks.

Philip was still not returning calls. No big shock there. But I'd decided I was finished with his
BS
at this point. When I
reached his office in the old Hull sector, I was ready for war. This time, no matter what, I intended to come away with a cheque. He could deduct it from the settlement. He could charge me interest. He could wreck the knees of his Harry Rosen suit while he hid under the desk, but I damn well didn't plan to leave empty-handed.

I pulled up in front of the impressive historic home on Rue Laurier that housed his legal office. For the record, Phil owned the building and rented out the second floor to a notary public and the third to an interior designer. He owned the building next door as well, and two or three others in the neighbourhood. I parked on the street and trotted up to the door. The first part of the battle would be getting past Irene. But I was prepared. I'd given myself one long pep talk all the way down from St. Aubaine.

I hadn't left a message to say I was coming, because that would have eliminated the element of surprise. I stomped up the stairs and yanked at the door. It failed to open.

I checked my watch. Just before noon. Prime business hours. Philip might have been in court or at a meeting or even on one of his preferred golf courses, but where was Irene? As long as I'd known her, she'd taken her lunch and breaks in the office. Not at her desk, of course, but in the tiny staff room in the rear of the office.

After five minutes of banging on the door, I stood back. Fine. I ignored the amused glances from two people heading upstairs. I tried the second floor office, then the third. Even when I asked nicely in French, no one could tell me anything about Philip or Irene. The usual shrugs and a
“désolé, madame”
or two. The back door had a tiny window into the small staff room. No Irene there. No Philip either. Neither car was parked in the reserved spots.

What was going on?

It felt very odd parking in front of the home that I'd shared with Philip. I hadn't been near it since my stormy departure more than three years earlier. It was a beautiful place set on immaculate lawns. You might expect that I would have a pang of regret. I was pangless, although I did notice that my fingers were white from gripping the steering wheel.

I pulled up by the front stairs. I looked around. Philip had treated himself to a brand new
BMW
M5-E60, perfect for driving a single lawyer from home to work to golf club. Especially perfect for someone who hadn't settled with his ex-wife. The Beamer was nowhere to be seen. I tried the doorbell. No answer. I strolled around to the back of the house. No Philip. He was still a creature of habit, though. I extracted the spare key from the hiding place under the back porch and let myself in. First, I checked the garage. No car.

Of course, I felt furtive and even slightly criminal. I had to remind myself that I was still a half-owner of this house. I hurried into the kitchen to leave him a note. I stood still, shocked. A few dishes lay scattered around the counter. A half-full cup of cold coffee waited on the table. Papers had been tossed in disarray onto the ceramic tile floor. What was going on? I headed upstairs. His book-lined study was in its usual immaculate order. I stopped and peeked through the bedroom door at the king-size bed we'd shared. Unlike me, Philip had always been a neat sleeper. His side of the bed had obviously been slept in. The sheets were tossed back in a tangle. The pillow lay on the floor.

My heart raced. Philip could no more stand to leave the house with his bed unmade than he would tolerate a family of rats residing in his imported German toaster.

It didn't make sense.

I felt a bit shaky as I made my way down the stairs, out through the kitchen towards the back door. This time I saw something I'd missed before. Near the phone in the kitchen, a glass lay shattered on the ceramic tile. On the way out, I stooped and felt the soil in the droopy flower pots on the shady side of the patio. Bone dry. Wherever Philip was, he hadn't been home for a while. And he must have been in a state when he was last there. Unmade bed, dirty dishes, broken glass. I never thought I'd see anything like that in Philip's house.

I turned around and checked out the main level again. Had he been kidnapped? Had a burglar broken in? Or a vandal? Had he been tied up and locked in a closet while some thief made off with his car? I headed back upstairs. I checked each storage area. All were prime examples of the anal-retentive personality. Philip's own walk-in closet was in its usual impeccable state. But in the bathroom, towels lay on the floor. Dirty water stagnated in the sink. It seemed to me that these things were the mark of a distracted person rather than a struggle. Had Philip been too distressed about something to make his bed, sweep up the broken mug and water the dying plant?

When we'd last spoken, he'd been upset by Danny's death, for sure, but he'd still sounded like the same old fusspot. Something else must have precipitated this. Something worse. I asked myself what could be worse than finding out that your friend and business partner had been killed?

I opened the bathroom linen cabinet and checked. As usual, a year's supply of toilet paper, neatly stacked. Extra toothpaste for sensitive teeth, boxes of tissues, hair products to keep baldness at bay, Egyptian cotton towels. Everything you might expect and lots of it. But his leather toiletry kit was gone.

In the study, I searched for something that might give me
Irene's home address. I had a vague recollection of where she lived, but not enough to do me any good. Despite my best efforts, I probably left the study worse than I found it. Luckily, I turned up a spare set of keys to the downtown office. I stuck those in my pocket.

Before I headed out, I picked up the phone and called Sgt. Sarrazin. Oddly enough, I knew his phone number by heart. I listed the things that had bothered me about Philip's departure in a message and asked him to follow up. I left my cell phone number, explaining I was on the run. Before leaving, I checked the call display on Philip's phone. He'd had a lot of calls from Danny Dupree and one from a blocked number. That was all. Phil's social life definitely hadn't improved.

I watered the droopy plant on the way out. I kept the key.

Contributed by Dr. Liz Prentiss

The ultimate tropical drink.

2 ounces rum (light or dark)—chilled

5 ounces pineapple juice—chilled

2 ounces coconut cream—chilled

3 ice cubes

Pour the rum, pineapple juice, coconut cream and ice cubes into a blender and whir for several seconds until well mixed. Better yet, get someone else to do that for you. Pour mixture into popsicle forms overnight or until frozen (may take longer).

Or just forget the freezer part, put in a glass, top with a maraschino cherry and chug away.

My cell phone was out of range just long enough to miss Sgt. Sarrazin's response to my call.

“About your call,” his message said. “Your husband's an adult, and he's been separated from you for nearly three years, unless I hear wrong. We don't usually follow up over broken coffee mugs and unmade beds.”

I hoped he was right.

The cell phone buzzed. “Sgt. Sarrazin?” I said. “It's just that you don't really know Philip. Honestly, this is so out of character—”

“Fiona, forget the police for once. It's me. Liz.”

“Oh, Liz. Something's wrong with Philip. He left the—”

“Who cares about that tightwad? I don't have all day, Fiona. But I do have a recipe for that book you keep fussing about.”

“What?”

“Piña colada popsicles.”

“I'm sorry. Did you
say you
had a
recipe?”

“Very funny. I'm doing you a favour. No need for sarcasm. I'll drop it off next time I'm by the house. I have to go now. I have patients waiting.”

On the way home, I stopped off at L'Épicerie to pick up something to eat. Josey was chewing the fat with Woody when I walked in. They both wore expressions of barely contained glee. I tried to suppress my alarm.

Woody said, “Hoo boy, wait'll you hear this.”

Josey's freckles stood out almost three-dimensionally. “Guess what?”

“Just tell me.”

“That aide? The one where Marc-André is?”

“Yes. I know who you mean. Paulette. What about her?”

“Uncle Mike drove me in to Hull, Miz Silk. Remember you said you would drive me in, and I would tell Marc-André what happened and why you couldn't visit him. You were real busy today, and it would have been a waste of your time to wait outside. So Uncle Mike and me worked together like a team. Family, eh?”

My head buzzed briefly.

“You want to know what we found out?” she said.

“Sure.”

“Paulette just recently arranged to transfer into that area.”

“Who told you that?”

“I have my sources. I know somebody who was able to find out. Uncle Mike helped. He's real good with people. He has a contact in Personnel at the rehab.”

Woody guffawed from his wheelchair. “Like to hear how that would hold up in court.”

“Okay, I no longer want to know how you found out. But I think you can get into trouble doing things like that.”

“Things like what?”

“Like whatever you did. Personnel records. Privacy issues. I hate to even think about it.”

“We were just people talking to people. And there's more.”

“Come on, Josey. I don't think...”

“So you don't want to know about the Jean-Claude connection?”