Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle (23 page)

I spoke to Sarrazin. “If you need to talk to me, I'll be at Woody Quirke's place. If I'm not there, Woody will probably know where I am. Or try my cell.”

Sarrazin seemed less than convinced. “You sure that's the place for you?”

He'd probably raided Woody looking for dope or something. Not that I would know anything about that.

“I'll be fine,” I said. He raised an eyebrow. The unspoken words hung in the air. “If it doesn't work out, I'll find something else. It's the least of my problems.”

“Yeah, I can see that.”

“Thank you.”

“I'm not such a bad guy, you know.”

“I never thought you were,” I fibbed.

It took a while to get the soot out of my hair and the stench off my body. Woody had installed a capacious shower, designed for a wheelchair. Tolstoy got a shampoo in there and was happy to cool off. Woody doesn't really subscribe to germ theory, so he had no problem with a large dog in the shower. I chose the soaker tub in the guest bathroom. Hélène had been kind enough to pick up two bras and two pairs of matching panties for me. The bra and panties were perfect, but the cotton sundress she'd brought was too small. I borrowed a T-shirt from Woody and a pair of baggy shorts. I tossed my own clothes into the washing machine.

Woody's renovation was quite wonderful: the smell of cedar was everywhere, plus light, fresh walls and comfortable window seats with cushions. The guest room had a handmade quilt and high-count cotton sheets. I don't know who he'd been expecting, but I was sure glad he'd done such a good job of it.

“This is great, Woody,” I said, towelling my hair dry. “It looks so comfortable.”

“Glad I can help, kiddo,” he said. “You and pooch can stay here as long as you want.”

“Thanks. I'll be able to take care of myself soon as the cheque clears.”

“What? What is it? Why are you so pale? Here, you better sit down, kiddo.”

I slumped into the nearest chair.

Woody said, “A bit of a delayed reaction to losing your house? You've had a big shock.”

“The advance cheque,” I croaked.

“What about it?”

“It was in the Skylark.”

“That's rough.”

“I wrote a post-dated cheque against it for the taxes.”

He stared at me. “Oh crap, kiddo.”

“I'd better make a call.”

Lola's line rang on and on. Finally, the answering machine kicked in. “Hi, this is Lola. I will be at BookExpo Canada making things happen this week. Please leave a message, whoever you are, darling, and I'll get back to you as soon as I can.”

Damn. I knew how busy Lola could get during the big trade show for the Canadian publishing industry. She'd be on the floor
all day and out for dinner or industry parties until whenever. Then a round of breakfasts would start. She usually stayed in the conference hotel. Would she even pick up the message before the show was over? I left a babbling message talking about the fire and the cheque and the need for a replacement
ASAP
. I hoped she'd get it. I hoped she'd understand it if she did.

When I hung up, Woody was looking even more serious than before.

“Trouble, kiddo,” he said. “That big cop wants to talk to you. He's not coming here, though. Wants you to meet him at the tea shop. Better than the cop shop, but don't you trust him any further than you can throw him. Listen, Tolstoy's okay. Leave him with me. He'll keep the customers in line.”

I blinked at Sarrazin, amazed. I was used to him asking tough questions at the Sûreté and even at the Chez. It seemed just plain weird to be interviewed by the police in the cozy tea room atmosphere of Thé Pour Deux, surrounded by china teapots, delicate cups, lace-edged napkins and the subtle scents of imported teas and homemade shortbread. Sarrazin blinked back at me. It might have been because I was wearing Woody's shorts and Marijuana Party T-shirt.

It felt wrong to be there in the evening; it's definitely a morning kind of shop. But with
En feu!,
the proprietors weren't going to miss an opportunity. I guess that was a good business decision, because the place was jammed.

“I didn't know you felt that way,” he said, referring to the T-shirt.

“I borrowed it. It's not a political statement.” I didn't disagree with the sentiments on the shirt, but I did regret that I
hadn't picked one of the Grateful Dead ones.

“Glad to hear it. I have a pretty good idea who you borrowed it from. At least it looks a lot better on you than it would on the original owner. Now, you'd better sit down.”

I sat. He had already ordered iced tea for both of us and homemade lemon shortbread cookies.

“I don't want to beat around the bush, but there's no doubt about it,” he said.

“About what?”

“Didn't Woody tell you what I wanted to talk to you about?”

I shook my head.

“I figured you'd want to hear what I have to say in some kind of privacy.”

I glanced around the tea shop. Everyone was busy pretending not to gawk at us. It seemed fairly obvious they were listening intently.

I said, “Privacy?”

“Best I could do. Even though we don't have the full report from the Fire Marshall, all the indications are that an accelerant was used in your home.”

“An accelerant?” I blurted.

Heads turned.

I lowered my voice. “What are you talking about?”

“People use them to start fires,” he said.

“Well, I know what an accelerant is, of course. It must have been used on my car too.”

He cleared his throat. “We're pretty sure that the car was torched separately. As a rule, in cases of arson—”

“So it's arson!”

Heads around us snapped.

My voice rose. “But I'm usually home at that time of day. My car was parked by the house. Tolstoy could have been
killed. And Josey might have been there.”

“We don't know that anyone intended to kill you. As a rule, it's either the owner wanted insurance—”

We both looked up as a shadow fell over the gingham tablecloth. Josey stood there with her hands on her hips. I hadn't heard her come in, but then she had perfected the art of arriving without warning.

She snorted. “Well, Miz Silk doesn't have any insurance. So you can just forget that.”

Sarrazin glanced at her and furrowed his eyebrows. He turned back to me and said, “Does this Thring kid have to be everywhere?”

I nodded. “Yes. I'm always glad to see her. She could have been killed in the fire. I think you should be happy too.” Mainly I was hoping he would forget her words at the fire.

“Everyone's glad she's alive, not that there was any question about that. It's not the point. She's a juvenile for one thing, and for another, she never seems to be in school.”

“Exam prep, all week,” Josey said. “Plus it's the evening, if you haven't noticed.”

“Is that so? Then maybe you better go prep for your exams.”

For a fleetingly admiring moment, I thought I could learn a few lessons in hardball from Sarrazin.

Josey met his eyes. “I'm prepped.”

“I could check with the school.”

“Trust me.”

Sarrazin hauled out his tiny cell phone. “Not so much. I think I'll just verify that.”

“Go right ahead. See if you can get anyone this time of night, but if you do, they'll tell you I always get straight As.”

So much for hardball. I would have given up after the first lob back at me. Not Sarrazin. He smiled. “It's good that you're free. You might want to check at home. I hear the boys are
about to pick up your uncle Mike for dealing in stolen goods. Second time in a week. They say it's a big screen plasma television this time. Over five thousand, he's facing serious time. Never mind that released-on-his-own-recognizance crap.”

Josey's eyes widened. Her freckles stood out. Her cowlicks quivered. She turned as white as the crisp linen napkins in Thé Pour Deux. “You're bluffing.”

Sarrazin said, “What's that you said before? Oh yeah. Trust me.”

As I watched Josey explode through the door and head for her bike, he cleared his throat.

I turned back to him. “I'm pretty sure he's just a drunk.”

“He handles some stuff that falls off trucks.”

“This is St. Aubaine. Who doesn't? Surely you're not going to raid their cabin just because of what Josey said.”

“Maybe I'm mistaken about that raid. Got a lot on my mind lately. Now,” he said, “what's all this about M. Jean-Claude Lamontagne having reason to burn down your house?”

“Don't you think I did it?”

“No, madame, I do not.”

“Oh. I was sure you suspected me.”

He shook his head. “And I would have good reasons. Our murder rate went sky-high when you moved in, but I have learned to see past all that.”

“Glad to hear that you're open-minded.” I stirred an extra teaspoon of sugar into my tea and nodded. “I've learned to see past things too. I had trouble believing that Jean-Claude would go far enough to burn my house down. Really. He's my neighbour and my friend's husband. Josey suspected him all along. I kept reminding myself that Josey and Jean-Claude have a history of mutual dislike.”

“They sure do. That Thring girl got her drunk uncle to call
the station with the information that the residents' aide who made the accusation against you at the rehab centre was Jean-Claude's cousin. He said she set you up.”

“And was she Jean-Claude's cousin?”

“Afraid so.”

“And did you talk to her?”

“She's making herself scarce, but don't worry, I'll catch up with her. That's a serious accusation she made against you. Some people might have believed it.”

“I'm glad you didn't.”

“Making that kind of false accusation is serious too. In more ways than one. That fellow there, Marc-André Paradis, she deprived him of the one thing that gave him a little bit of happiness.”

“I thought she was jealous.”

“According to the people I did talk to, there's more to it than that. Apparently she was asking around, trying to find dirt to use against you. Other staff members spoke in your favour. I thought you might like to know that. Since everyone knows Jean-Claude wants your property, I intend to find out if he was behind this too.”

“I have no trouble believing he would arrange a stunt like that at the rehab. He's not in the least bit sentimental, and he's cold and calculating, but to think that he would torch my house. That's a shock.”

“I don't care how rich and important he is, if he did this, we will get him, and he will go to prison. But I need to know if he threatened you.”

“Not threatened, no.” Here was my chance to do the dirty on my old enemy, the man who had bullied his way to the top of the West Quebec heap. The man who had done his best to intimidate Aunt Kit and to steamroller me. But I couldn't lie about it.

Sarrazin shifted in his chair, folding his arms and staring at me.
“People are funny. He tried to get you charged after that fire in his kitchen. Madame Lamontagne put her foot down on that.”

An idea flashed through my brain. “It was after that fire that Faron Findlay dropped by to tell me he had to cancel my insurance policy.”

Sarrazin plopped two sugar cubes into his tea. “Just before this fire?”

“That's what Josey meant. Faron Findlay had to cancel my policy because of the wiring. The electrician told him about it.”

“So you won't be able to replace anything?”

“Nothing,” I croaked through the lump in my throat. “A lot of it was irreplaceable anyway. My manuscripts. My computer files. Family heirlooms. I lost a valuable painting.”

Sarrazin slipped another shortbread cookie onto my plate. “Everyone in the village knows you're broke. I've heard over and over again about your stalled career, the back taxes, the final notice from the Hydro, the broken down car, the tab at L'Épicerie.”

It was my turn to shrug. “It's the price you pay for living in a small town where everyone knows everyone's business.” I didn't mention that Sarrazin's relationship with coroner Dr. Lise Duhamel was also a topic that inspired much speculation from Le Nettoyeur to the Chez.

“They're getting a lot of conversational mileage out of the new project with the cookbook.”

“That's gone too. My computer. The contract. The advance cheque was in the car. Pffft. I guess that can be replaced.”

“You could have sold this artwork.”

“I would never have sold it. It was an Alex Colville. And it wasn't properly insured even when my policy was in effect.”

“But the arsonist might not have known that.”

“So?”

“If someone thought you could sell that painting and pay
your taxes and all that, and they wanted your property, they might want to get rid of it.” It made sense, in a horrible stomach-clenching way. “Was that the big painting in your office?'

Sarrazin didn't mention that he was well-acquainted with my office because he'd once done a crime scene investigation there. I appreciated that.

“Yes.”

“Interesting, because it looks like the office is where the fire started. Maybe they weren't trying to kill you.”

“Just keep me from having my home and my livelihood and the things I loved.” I picked up my iced tea with a shaking hand. I put it down again before I sloshed it over Woody's shorts. “Somebody must hate me.”

Sarrazin nodded. “Sure looks like it. And one name comes to mind.”

I don't know why I got Cyril to drive me back to Chemin des cèdres to see the house. Although it was the longest day of what seemed like the longest week of my life, I couldn't see myself sleeping otherwise.

It was after nine by the time we got there. It had turned into a dusky June evening, but the rising full moon was enough to light the area. I blinked at what used to be my home, the burnt shell of the Skylark, and the singed grass and trees. The smell of scorched plastic, drywall and textiles stung my nostrils. I walked around the remains, pausing to stare at my trampled flowers and herbs. The birdfeeder lay broken on the ground. The sound of the cardinals' cheer-cheer-cheer was probably gone from this place forever. The only thing I owned that had escaped damage was the garbage can at the end of the driveway.
Someone had done this to me deliberately. I needed to get my head straight, because there was a good chance it wasn't over yet.