Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle (37 page)

Sarrazin made me nervous. Not just because he was in my living room at nine in the evening when you'd think a rural detective should be off duty. Not just because it hadn't been all that long since his last visit. Not just because he seemed to have spent the day trying to tie me closer to Benedict's death, if that was possible. He also made me nervous because he was a one-man crowd.

He shook off his umbrella and headed straight into my living room, cutting off my suggestion we talk in the kitchen.

I hated that. My living room is where I relax with my dog in front of the fireplace, where I read, where I lose at Scrabble, where I laugh with my friends. I didn't want it contaminated by a bear with the power to arrest me.

At least I had support; Liz had dropped in for a drink for the third time that day. She took one look at Sarrazin and headed straight for the front door.

“Time for me to make my house call,” she said. Since when did Liz make house calls?

“Where are you going?” I whispered. “Stay put.”

Talk about feeling betrayed. Maybe Liz was my alibi, but if she hadn't insisted on tying one on for her forty-fifth, I would have been curled up in bed in my flannel pjs that night and, assuming no one would have killed Benedict before my astonished eyes, I wouldn't have needed an alibi in the first place. All to say, the least she could do was hang around when the police pulled out the rubber hoses.

“You know, this is getting serious, Fiona. It might be time for you to get a lawyer,” she said, closing the door in my face.

Sarrazin glared at the Scrabble game as he lowered himself onto the Queen Anne chair. Naturally. The larger the man, the more likely he will be to sit on the only small, delicate chair in the room. I took my place in the wingback.

Tolstoy greeted Sarrazin with a wagging tail. I did not suggest coffee this time. There are limits.

Sarrazin loosened his size seventeen collar and cleared his throat before frog-marching me through every minute of the night of Benedict's death. One more time. Exquisite attention to detail. Had I gone to the Ladies' Room in Les Nuances? How long had I been gone? Had Liz gone anywhere? Had we seen anyone we knew?

What made me nervous were the questions backing into the afternoon of the same day. Where had I been? Who had I seen? When? What about my note they found in his cabin?

Here. There. Nobody. Who knows? And, damn, what note?

“I don't know anything about a note.”

“Funny, it has your signature.”

“It can't have my signature.”

“You sure?”

“Of course, I'm sure. I hadn't been in touch with him for...” I was distracted by his bearlike smirk. “What does it say?”

“You tell me.”

“I've
told
you... Wait a minute. Maybe it was an old note.”

“Nice try. Too bad it was dated March 14th. This year. Not seven years ago. Not eight either.”

I felt my head swim as the implication sank in. Benedict hadn't been the only target of this murder. Someone
wanted
me in the role of murderer. And the police thought that was just ducky.

I managed to say, “I believe I have a right to know what was in this alleged note.”

“Sure, why not? It said, Many thanks for all your trouble, xoxoxo, Fiona.”

Not what you'd call romantic. In fact it was just like a thousand thank you notes I have written in my life, although not a single one of them would have been to Benedict. So what was that about?

When Sarrazin left, he took a sample of my handwriting and signature. “You understand why I'm interested,” he said on his way out.

I tried working to get my mind off the prospect of getting arrested.

A seductive rivulet of rain snaked sensuously down Cayla's capacious cleavage. Her hair was plastered against her head, her lips parted. Around her the storm raged.

“Darling,” Brandon gasped, “at last I'm out of that damned neck brace. I'm longing to...”

Cayla arched. A shudder ran through her. Her eyes closed, her nose seemed to pinch. She opened her mouth.

“GEEYAAAAACH,” she sneezed.

“Bless you.” Brandon wiped himself off. “Are you...?”

“CHEESH, CHEESH, CHEESH,” she sneezed.

“...coming down with a cold?”

“Ub course. I'b cubing dowd wid a code,” she snarled. “Why else would I be sdeezig?”

Oh dear, Brandon thought, turning away bitterly. Sneezing did not become her.

You jerk, Cayla thought. If I could stick by you when you were in that hospital trussed up like a Christmas turkey and snivelling at the nurses for pain killers, you'd better be able to...

Despair slunk through my being. My novel was crap. The only positive thing I could think about it was that those two world class whiners, Cayla and Brandon, did not exist outside of the manuscript, and at least I could be rid of them once I completed the cursed thing. If I hadn't desperately needed the advance to purchase a replacement for the Skylark, I would have deleted the two of them from the hard disk with a smile on my face.

“What's the matter, don't you like writing?”

I jumped. Josey! I hadn't even realized she was in the house.

“Of course, I love it.” Not strictly speaking true, since my latest incoming cheque had been a royalty cheque for $12.62, and with every word I typed I asked myself if the world was trying to tell me something.

“I wondered, because your mouth gets all shrivelled, and your eyes get kind of slitted. And I heard you hissing.”

“How did you get in?” My heart was still thumping.

“You always ask me that. Anyone could open that lock.”

Right. Get the geedee lock changed, I reminded myself.

“Can't you see I'm working?” I have to admit this was mean-spirited of me since Josey was soaking wet and showing a definite slump in her shoulders.

She gave me a look that could slice and dice. I felt a jab in my conscience. After all, I wasn't the only person in the world. Just the most miserable.

“Sorry, Josey.” But I was talking to her back.

“You should do something soon about this lock before someone comes in and kills you too.” The door slammed behind her.

I caught up to her at the end of the driveway, just as she was getting on her bike. I talked her back into the house. I made a fire, some cocoa and a couple of grilled cheese sandwiches. I endorsed the cheque for $12.62 and lent her some dry clothing and a squall jacket before sending her off to dig up all that was fit to print about the totally unavailable Mme Flambeau.

I felt better after that. Which only meant I was psychologically unprepared for my next visitor.

The news that Benedict's body had been released to Bridget and expeditiously cremated was only exceeded in awfulness by her idea of the subsequent step.

“You can't be serious, Bridget.” I was so stunned I forgot that it's not nice to leave visitors teetering in the rain while you reel in dismay.

She swayed on her crutches at my front door, clutching a plastic bag from Forty Shades of Green. Her skin was so pale, you could practically see her skinny little bones.

“Of course, I'm serious. Rachel took care of the whole shebang. I couldn't handle it myself.”

“I don't mean the cremation. I mean the, um, other thing.”

“Oh, I'm sorry. But didn't you ask me if you could do anything?”

Anything at all, I'd said. And meant it at the time. Anything but this.

Bridget teetered. She started to cry, which wasn't immediately obvious with the rain dripping off her nose. Not the first time she'd been crying that night either.

“No, I'm sorry. You'd better come in. You need coffee. Maybe a bit of Irish coffee. That's what you need. I'll have to use Courvoisier, if that's all right.” That would give me a chance to use the Irish coffee glasses I'd splurged on and ordered through her.

“Thanks. I could use a bit of a treat. Courvoisier's fine. Aren't we all part of a global village now?” She hobbled toward the living room. “The police finally let me get access to Benedict's place. I sure need something.”

Tolstoy rubbed himself against Bridget's leg, in case that was what she needed.

Bridget settled into the wingback chair. Her cast stuck straight out on the footstool. I sat on the floor. That way I wouldn't have to fall off something if Bridget had any more surprises, such as knowing something about the note Sarrazin claimed had been found in Benedict's cabin.

She clutched her glass. Two Irish coffees and two handkerchiefs later, she said: “Isn't it terrible? What kind of a measure of a life is this? All those years, and he hardly left a thing of substance. Nothing tangible. Just these little things, souvenirs he wanted given to old friends.” She blew her nose. “I'm sorry. I was okay until I tried to clean out his little cabin. Oh, God, get a load of me, will you, I'm shaking. He meant so much to me. Now I have nothing left.”

“You cleaned out his cabin?”

“Rachel did all the physical stuff. I sat blubbering and making decisions I'll probably regret. Oh, listen to me whining. You've been through a lot too. It must be terrible having all that stuff in the papers.”

Seeing Bridget, nose like a fire hydrant, made me feel sadder for her than for Benedict. “Don't worry about what he didn't leave. Benedict didn't care about things, except for books, booze and buddies.”

“And bimbos,” she said. “Um, and women, certainly.” I was unwilling to put either Bridget or myself into the bimbo category.

Bridget smiled. “At any rate, you said you wanted to help, so I'm hoping you won't mind delivering these few bequests while you're doing the other thing. He left a list of people he wanted to have special little trinkets. I don't think I can do it without breaking down. Maybe in six months, but not now.” She fished small wrapped parcels out of the green bag.

I gawked at her. I hadn't wanted anything to do with Benedict for more than seven years, and that went double now. Of course, I couldn't say that out loud. But if Bridget could take the location of Benedict's death with such grace, who was I to refuse her this small but incredibly irritating set of errands?

“No problem. But about that other thing...”

She was ready for me. “It was his last wish, Fiona.” She was busily arranging a pile of slim books next to the parcels.

“What do you mean? He didn't have a last wish. He didn't know he was going to die.” My voice broke on a squeaky note.

“And these books,” Bridget said. “
While Weeping for the Wicked
. It's his latest volume of poetry. Probably what won him the Flambeau. I have just a few. So very good friends only. One for you, of course, and I have a list of who else gets books and mementoes. I hope I haven't missed anyone. It's very hard for me to think clearly.”

“About this last wish thing...”

“You know, it's funny,” Bridget said, soothing as cough syrup, “Benedict might not have had a will, but on several occasions he specifically mentioned he wanted to be scattered over the river. And who are we to argue?”

Unable to argue, I found myself sputtering. “But you can't seriously expect me to scatter them and give a speech.”

“He would have wanted it. Well, maybe not the speech. I know you aren't all that outgoing. But creating a memorial event that will be a testament to his spirit. You're the only one I can ask.”

“But, don't you want to do it yourself?”

“Oh, no, I can't stand the thought of it. In fact, I can't stand period.” She pointed to the cast. “My doctor says it will be another two months before I resume normal activities.” Bridget's voice wobbled, reminding me she was close to the edge.

“What about Rachel? She handled things for the Memorial and the cremation.”

Tolstoy pricked up his ears. He hates it when I wail.

“No way. Poor Rachel has her hands full with the Bed and Breakfast. It's not easy running a business on your own.”

It wasn't easy writing romances on your own either, especially when you had no sex life and were stuck with Cayla and Brandon as ingredients. But before I could say that, Bridget added, “
Rachel
never cared for Benedict.”

Unlike me. Having someone else's lover found dead
in
flagrante
on your best sheets landed you in major psychological debt.

“In fact, she really couldn't stand him.”

“Fine. What about someone who could stand him? One of his many grieving friends? One of the lady poets perhaps?”

Bridget's lips tightened.

“All those ‘lady poets' have glamorous jobs to keep them in designer clothes while they're pretending to sacrifice over their poetry. They're much too busy.”

Bridget would have chug-a-lugged hemlock before she would have turned over Benedict's last rites to Abby or Zoë. Stupid of me to even suggest it.

“Oh. Wait a minute. What about all his drinking buddies? One of the O'Mafia? They're perfect. They can't possibly be employed. I mean, they'd know what would be important for Benedict.”

Important for Benedict
. As if he were still alive. Of course, when I considered the amount of aggravation he could still generate, it was as if he'd never died.

“You must be kidding. Those idiots? What do you think is the likelihood of Benedict's ashes ending up in the right place? And, anyway, hard as it is to believe, they all have jobs too.”

“Wait a minute, so what if they have jobs? How much time can it take to arrange this scattering?”

“Precisely. It's not a matter of time. It's a matter of having it handled properly. It has to be somebody who has brains and flexibility, and a bit of time on their hands, such as yourself. It has to be somebody I could trust to do the job properly. As Benedict would have wanted it. That would be you.”