Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle (34 page)

Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars! That was more than the International Dublin
IMPAC
prize. It made the Giller and the Governor General's awards look picayune. How the hell did Benedict get his mitts on that? Looked like I wasn't the only one surprised by the choice. The Toronto and Montreal papers dusted their write-ups with faint praise like “travesty” and “garbage”.

The only poem of Benedict's I could even bring to mind was a seasonal favourite entitled “Turkey Farts”. The critics must have read that one too.

Despite a grudging agreement that his latest book of poetry,
While Weeping for the Wicked
, was unlike anything else he'd ever written, the papers were united in their shockedness and appalledness. The major French-language dailies fumed about French-Canadian poets being passed over for a Quebec literary plum. I couldn't say I blamed them.

The weekly
St. Aubaine Argot
was alone in its enthusiasm.

The Flambeau Foundation Prize for Literature

This prestigious literary honor is awarded at the discretion of Mme Velda Flambeau, reclusive widow of the late mining magnate, Alphonse Flambeau. The Flambeau, which has not been awarded in the five years since it was established, is estimated to have an accrued value of $250,000, and this year will honour our own local son, the poet Benedict Kelly.

According to the Flambeau Foundation, Kelly's poetry is tender, emotive, deep and touching in its pure, soaring spirit.

We rejoice with St. Aubaine's well-known, favourite poet as he finally receives the recognition he deserves.

The
Argot
didn't mention that the so-called favourite poet was best known locally for cadging drinks and mooching other people's fries at the Britannia.

As usual, the St. Aubaine French-language weekly,
L'Impératif
, went too far in the opposite direction, bleating about the insult to Marc-André Paradis, a mechanic who was also a poet. Apparently, this Marc-André Paradis was pretty hot stuff. Every French paper mentioned him as a far more deserving recipient of the Flambeau than the late you-know-who. Come to think of it, most of the English ones named him, too.

I'd never heard of him.
L'Impératif
had a special reason to bleat. Didn't MarcAndré Paradis turn out to be another local boy.

At the best of times, it's hard enough cranking out three novels a year. Especially if they're romances and your own life is one hundred per cent romance-free. Add an intimate little murder, and just watch those adjectives shrivel. But since my bank account had sunk even lower than my spirits, I had no option.

I spent the rest of the evening trying to entice my fictional would-be lovebirds, the twittery Cayla and the accident-prone Brandon, as far as the bearskin rug in front of the roaring blaze in the fireplace at Brandon's remote log cabin.

“Cayla, Cayla, I've waited so long for this...”

“Oh darling, I can't believe it's finally really happening.”

“Cayla!”

“Brandon!”

Thunk.

“Brandon? What happened, darling? Did you hit your head on the sharp stone at the edge of the...? Brandon? Brandon?!! Oh God, speak to me! Oh God, no. Help him! Somebody help him!”

Deep, wrenching sobs shook the lonely, log...

I crumpled the printout and threw it in the wastepaper basket. That's what really bugged me. How the hell did Benedict, a boozed-up, undisciplined skirt-hound, capture one of Canada's most prestigious literary prizes while I couldn't even pump out a decent piece of genre fiction?

The next morning, Tolstoy regarded me with sympathy and concern. Although I may have misinterpreted his expression, as he had the Frisbee in his mouth.

I'd tossed on the lumpy sofa all night trying to figure out what was going on. Why Benedict? Why me? Even with the herd of reporters thinning and the phone unplugged and Josey Thring hired to take Tolstoy for his outings, I couldn't relax, and I couldn't work. And I couldn't eat, because I had no food in the house. A drink would have been nice, but Liz had polished off the Courvoisier.

Plus, I had an urgent need to visit the dry cleaner as a result of spills received during dinner at Les Nuances. With my one good outfit badly stained, if I had a social engagement, such as an arraignment, I'd have to wear jeans and a tee.

I had no choice but to head into St. Aubaine, gossip capital of the Western World. Fine, I decided, in and out as soon as possible. I grabbed my cheque book, my credit card and my dirty clothes.

Of course, if you've been touched by scandal in any way, a trip into St. Aubaine would feel like wearing a neon KICK ME sign. The kicking started in the driveway, when the engine of my old Skylark failed to take flight. Cars are not my best thing. On the bright side, the reporters were haring off after someone else. The coast was clear.

Remorquage Bye-Bye, my local towing service, cheerfully informed me that they were having a busy, busy day and it would be roughly an hour and a half before I might expect to see them.

I chose Option B.

Tolstoy and I were perched on the porch, out of the drizzle, enjoying the view of the Gatineau river and the absence of media, when Cyril Hemphill's cab pulled up ten minutes later. Tolstoy perked up immediately. Not me. I was spending a lot more time in Cyril's cab than I wanted to. The advance from my unfinished novel was earmarked to purchase a newer car and beam me out of Cyril's life for ever.

“Nice doggie.” Cyril opened the front door for Tolstoy and patted the seat.

I hoped Cyril and Tolstoy would keep each other busy while I sat in the back clutching my cleaning and quietly obsessing about Benedict. No such luck. For once Cyril didn't want to talk about the weather.

“Boys, oh boys, Miz Silk, that dead guy in your bed sure did get the whole village buzzin'.”

“I bet it did.”

“The police even talked to me about it. Lucky for you, Miz Silk, old Cyril here's got a one hundred per cent memory.”

We barreled through the puddles on Chemin des Cèdres with no regard for the speed limit. I can always tell we're going too fast when the yellow
Citizen
and red
Le Droit
newspaper boxes blur.

“What do you mean?” I clung to the armrest as Cyril whipped past the
ARRÊT
sign and onto
Autoroute
105.

“They were triple-checkin' your story about you and Doctor Prentiss being picked up at Les Nuances high as kites and having to practically get poured through your front door by yours truly.”

“They were triple-checking?”

“You don't think they'll take your word about your own whereabouts in a murder case, do you?”

Silly me.

“I told them you sure didn't kill the guy, because at the time in question you and Dr. Prentiss were both pretty well hammered.”

“Thank you, Cyril.”

“Dr. Prentiss even waved her bare feet out the window. First time that ever happened in this old cab.”

Cyril's moon face glowed at me from the rear-view mirror.

“So everyone thinks I was deranged enough to kill Benedict Kelly in my own bed?”

“Oh, no, ma'am, we all know you were pissed as a newt, pardon my French.”

First stop, food.

We rocketed down Rue Principale and squealed to a halt in front of L'Épicerie 1759. Cyril offered to wait for me. His smile dipped a bit when I reminded him to shut off his meter.

“Of course, Miz Silk, I would of done it anyways.”

L'Épicerie 1759 was formerly known as Woody's Health Foods, before the Quebec language police made Woody take down the English sign. Woody insists the 1759 in the new name refers to the serial number on his first cash register, since discarded, and not to the year of Wolfe's victory over Montcalm in the Battle of the Plains of Abraham.

Woody gets his kicks trying to see how much tourists will pay for his “pure” maple syrup and “homemade” bakery products.

I left Cyril at the front of L'Épicerie humming along with the sitar music. I picked up whole wheat pita bread, some hummus and a large bag of organic dog biscuits. With Tolstoy at my side, I pushed my way past the tofu, pesticide-free leeks and giant brown bottles of beta carotene and headed to the rear of the store. The signs in the store say
INTERDIT AUX CHIENS
.
Tolstoy doesn't read French.

Woody lurked in the back storeroom washing down a chili dog with a can of Jolt. The Grateful Dead boomed out from all four speakers on his CD player. His grey braid drooped freely, no hair net in sight. Somehow the people who write the tourist guides never seem to sniff out the real Woody.

“Weh-hell,” he said, reeling a bit in his wheelchair, “if it isn't the divinely dangerous Fiona. Way to go.”

“It's not that great. Trust me.”

“You kidding? It's fabulous. You've been on all the networks. That shot of you and Tolstoy slamming the door, that's freakin' terrific. You ask me, they'll pick it up on CNN.”

Only one day after the big event, and already Woody had taped the headlines and cutlines from the local papers on the wall.

FLAMBEAU FATALITY
: Foul play suspected as Canada's greatest poet found dead in bed of estranged wife of prominent West Quebec lawyer.

LOVE NEST ENDING FOR ROMANTIC RHYMER
: Poet dies alone in four-poster as girlfriend parties in exclusive restaurant.

Canada's greatest poet, my fanny.

Prominent West Quebec lawyer, that would be Philip. No doubt some kind soul had already faxed him copies of the articles. Girlfriend turned out to be me. Apparently I hadn't shut the door quite fast enough. If you were searching for a poster girl to illustrate guilt, this might do. My hair looked like it was exploding, which would account for the wild gleam in my eyes. Tolstoy might have been a white pit bull from his snarl.

“They must doctor those photos.”

“Hey, think what this kind of publicity can do for your book sales.” Woody twirled with glee.

“Oh, absolutely.”

No one mentioned Krazy Glue or that Benedict had been naked. I was grateful to Sarrazin. I wondered if Dr. Lise Duhamel had leaked the bit about the four-poster.

“Kiddo, you sure give people lots to talk about.” The wheeze was Woody's equivalent of a fond chuckle. Sometimes, it's not easy being the only person in the world Woody really, really likes.

I sighed. “Let's hear what they're saying.”

“First, your former husband.” Woody never says Philip's name. “Lots of people think he might have done it.”

“Lots of people who never met him, I imagine.”

“Some say maybe your latest boyfriend did it because he went ballistic when Benedict crawled back into your life, and he planted the body to teach you not to fool around on him. Heeheehee.”

At this point, I helped myself to a Diet Coke. I wondered aloud who my latest boyfriend was.

“Don't get tense, kiddo. I'm only giving you the scuttlebutt.”

“Try not to enjoy it quite so much.”

“My personal favourite is you killed the guy somewhere else, transported him to your place and made a lot of public noise with Liz Prentiss to throw the police off the scent. Hahaha.”

Even I chortled at this one. “So what was my motivation?”

“Stay tuned for the final details. It'll get juicier,” he said, happily.

“I don't suppose you heard any good and useful reports about Benedict lately?”

“Benedict? Nah. Not recently. Just that poetry thing. And now this dead thing. So, what you got in that bag?”

“Your homemade hummus, some pita and stuff.”

He lit a cigarette. “Don't know how you can eat that shit, kiddo.”

When I left him in the back room, I felt worse than when I'd arrived. For one thing, Woody was in for a major letdown when the world realized I had nothing to do with Benedict's death.

Cyril Hemphill had heard all the same gossip plus more in the short time we'd been in the village. The best story featured a complex mix of international terrorism and home-grown passion.

“And those are only the English rumours—who knows what the French are saying.” Cyril shook his head.

“What about Benedict? Any good poop about him?”

“Benedict? No. He's been minding his Ps and Qs this last couple of years.”

Right.

I'd written a cheque for my purchases at Woody's plus fifty dollars to snag a bottle of Courvoisier at the Régie d'Alcool and an extra ten to hire Josey to pick up on any worthwhile rumours about Benedict.

Courvoisier is always appropriate for those occasions when you can't even set foot outside your house without people pointing and suggesting you killed your lover because he refused to settle your gambling debts, or whatever.

All conversation stopped in the Nettoyeur Le Quikie when I dropped in my periwinkle silk blouse and matching suede skirt for cleaning.

The girl behind the counter stared. “What are those stains?”

At least ten eyes zeroed in on my dirty clothes.

“Chocolate mousse.”

She shrugged, Frenchly. “It will take about a week.”

“A week?” I squeaked. This is the problem with spilling dessert on your one good outfit, and then sleeping on the floor. You're up the creek if you get an interesting offer. Not that I'd had an interesting offer for seven or eight years.

“Nothing I can do about it,
madame
. And we cannot guarantee suede. You must acknowledge that you understand this. Sign here.”

With everyone still watching, I signed, grabbed my receipt and hightailed it out the door and through the puddles, eyes front.

I got more looks in the Régie.