Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle (4 page)

Josey's fork landed with a clatter. I was so surprised, I dropped mine too. “What?”

Josey's mouth hung open. I followed her gaze. It led to a young man ambling along the sidewalk.

“Holy smokes. That's...”

I stared. “Who?”

“I can't believe it!”

“Me neither. But who is it I can't believe?”

“You're kidding me, right?”

“I'm not. Who is he? And why do we drop our forks when we see him?” I glanced around the Chez. We were not the only fork droppers. Every woman in the place was staring out the window. A few went so far as to rush for the door. From a distance, he seemed lean and hip Quebec stylish, but I couldn't really get a look at his face. He was talking intently to a dark-haired woman with splendid curves and a wide, sexy smile that lit up her face. She put a seductive hand on his shoulder. I wouldn't have been surprised if it had left a burn mark.

Josey lowered her voice. “It's Rafaël.”

“Hmm.”

“You don't actually know who Rafaël is, do you, Miz Silk?”

I shook my head.

“He's just the most famous
TV
chef around. He's really, really big in Quebec, and now he's got a new show on English television too. And a magazine. I think he's going to be even bigger than Marietta.”

“Who is Marietta?”

“The woman he's talking to. She's big news. She's got books and two shows. She's on magazine covers and even business news. She's what they call a brand. People call her Naughty Marietta, because she's really sexy. I heard she was going to start a whole line of cooking equipment and food too.”

“A brand. Unbelievable.” I sighed. “Well, I've never heard of either of them.”

“Don't take this the wrong way, Miz Silk, but who
have
yon heard of?”

Something told me that Homer (not Simpson), Shakespeare and Margaret Atwood weren't going to cut it here.

“Pop culture isn't my thing, Josey. What are they doing in St. Aubaine?”

“I've been trying to tell you, Miz Silk. It's all about
En feu! Hot Stuff!
Rafaël's going to be shooting a special here with Marietta. That's going to be amazing. Even if his lordship did help to make it all happen.”

“Oh. Jean-Claude is behind this too?”

“He's involved. Not the only person, though.”

“Isn't it enough that he's trying to redevelop the whole waterfront, stick up giant houses and condos and change the character of the village into something...?”

“Snooty patootie?” Josey suggested.

“Exactly. Anyway, when did we stop calling it ‘town' and start calling it ‘the village'?”

Josey hesitated. “I don't know. It just sort of snuck up on us, I guess. It sounds a bit trendier than ‘town'. I wouldn't be surprised. Maybe Jean-Claude was behind that too. He called the new condo development Le Village au bord de la Rivière. That changed the whole look of the place. Did you know that now he's teamed up with those people who bought the Wallingford Estate? They're supposed to be turning it into a world class resort and spa.”

“I must have missed that.”

“But you keep to yourself, Miz Silk. The grand opening is going to be in a couple of weeks. They're letting the production team use the site free, and they gave Marietta and Rafaël the really fancy rooms. They call them suites. It's amazing
PR
. Then when the program airs, they'll get exposure across the country. Everyone says Jean-Claude made the connection with the television producers and the new owners of the resort.”

I said, “Huh.”

“I've never been to a spa.”

“I haven't either.”

“Not even when you were married to that lawyer?”

“Especially not then.”

Time to change the topic. “I guess I missed out on this news entirely. The Wallingford Estate was abandoned when I spent my summers here as a kid. It must have had the best river view in the whole village, from up there on that hill, but even then it was kind of creepy. I haven't heard about the people who bought it.”

“You're the only one, then. Her name is Anabel Huffington-Chabot. She's very glamorous, used to be a model. You never met her?”

I shook my head. “Doesn't mean a thing. I know Jean-Claude, and that's enough to put me off the project.”

Josey turned toward the window and craned to watch as Rafaël crossed the road. An
SUV
squealed to a halt and the red-headed woman who'd dropped the wallet jumped out. She appeared to be accosting Rafaël. Marietta jumped back. I watched with my mouth open. A plump young man in skinny white jeans and a form-fitting T-shirt ran up to them and fluttered around waving a clipboard frenetically. I wasn't sure that this was the perfect day to wear cowboy boots, but, as usual, what did I know?

“That's her. The woman who dropped the wallet,” I said and started to get out of my seat. Before I'd left the booth, the conversation ended with much arm waving, and Rafaël headed off up the hill, holding on to Marietta's hand. The red-headed woman hopped into her
SUV
and nearly flattened a few unwary pedestrians as she rocketed out of sight in the opposite direction. The young man in the cowboy boots stood watching with one hand over his mouth.

I noticed a few local women wandering after the famous pair, sort of like a crowd of possessed peasants in a cheesy horror movie.

I said, “Who was that again?”

Josey stared at me with pity. “It's what I've been telling you about. He's Rafaël. She's Marietta. They will be doing a cooking show together. Sort of competition with each other over food. You know. That lady with the ketchup-coloured hair is the producer for the show they're doing together. I forget her name, but I saw her picture in the paper, and she's responsible for a lot of hit cooking shows.”

Hit cooking shows? My mind boggled. “How do you know these things, Josey?”

“It was on local
TV
and even in the St. Aubaine paper. You got to stay on top of things, Miz Silk.”

I dug into the poutine. I didn't plan to stay on top of anything that had to do with
Hot Stuff,
Rafaël, Naughty Marietta, Anabel Huffington-Chabot (if that could possibly be someone's name), Jean-Claude Lamontagne or anyone else connected with the whole ridiculous scene.

Makes at least 12 servings

Marinating time: at 3 hours or longer

This is a special wine summer drink to serve for casual entertaining. Red wine can replace the white wine, but use colourful available fresh fruit such as oranges, red apples, berries or grapes.

3 cups chilled dry white wine (750 ml bottle)

½ cup (125 ml) Cointreau or brandy

2 to 3 tablespoons (25 to 45 ml) granulated sugar, or to taste

1 each lime and lemon, cut into thin slices, pits removed

1 peach, peeled and sliced

1 unpeeled green apple, cored, cut into thin slices

1 cup (250 ml) green grapes, halved and pitted

Ice cubes

1½ cups (375 ml) club soda

In large glass pitcher, combine wine, Cointreau or brandy, sugar and pineapple or peach, apple and grapes. Chill in the refrigerator for at least 3 hours to mix the flavors.

To serve, add ice cubes and club soda to the pitcher. Serve in large glasses with two or three pieces of fruit in each glass.

You know what I forgot, Miz Silk?” Josey said when she'd finished her poutine.

“What?”

“Your agent called. She said it was good news.”

“How do you know?”

“I dropped in to your house, and I answered the phone because it was ringing, and that's it.”

I took a deep breath, then said, “You shouldn't be in my house without letting me know, Josey, and you definitely shouldn't be answering the telephone. Especially when you don't have a key.”

“That's okay, Miz Silk. It's no problem.”

“It's a problem for me.”

“Why?”

“Privacy. You have to learn to respect that.”

“Sure, privacy's good, but I'm like your assistant. I can screen all your calls if you want.”

“I can't pay you to be an assistant.”

“That's okay. You can run a—”

“And I am not going to run a tab for the assistant I can't afford.”

“Fine. I volunteer. You need my help, Miz Silk.”

“I guess I'd better head home and call her back.”

Josey flipped open a small striped notebook with blue pages.
“Don't rush. She's out at a reception now. She's a really neat person. She said she'll call you back tonight. See? I'll take care of the messages, and if it's urgent, I'll get back to them.”

“But...”

She snapped the notebook shut and beamed. “In the meantime, I can tell you're worried about this wallet.”

“I am. I know that I'd be in a panic if it was mine.”

“Not everybody's like you, but anyway, I bet if we went up to the Domaine Wallingford where the
En feu!
production is happening, we could find someone to give it to her. All these extra people you see around town are either connected with the production or they're fans here to catch a glimpse of Rafaël and Marietta.”

“Can they do a show in front of an audience?”

“I don't think they're doing that. But Rafaël and Marietta are each supposed to pick a different restaurant every night and have dinner there. So people are trying to be in the right one at the right time. People have driven in from Toronto, Montreal. I heard they're supposed to start production tomorrow.”

“Amazing.”

“Sure is. That's why Jean-Claude was behind it. It really puts the spotlight on the town, which will help him sell his projects. The cameras will be on Rafaël and Marietta in the restaurants too. And the people at the Wallingford Estate, they offered not only the space, but their big kitchen too. It's going to be great publicity when they open as an
auberge
with a spa and a restaurant. Good business all round. It will be fun to see what's going on up there. What did you say her name was? I forget.”

“Harriet Crowder.”

“See? You could give her back the wallet and then you could relax. Maybe later we could even go for a swim at Miz Lamontagne's place and tell her about it.”

I chuckled. “Hélène hasn't invited us. And I wouldn't want to run into Jean-Claude twice in a day, that's for sure.”

“His lordship doesn't spend much time at home, you know that. Miz Lamontagne loves us. And you have to consider Tolstoy in this hot weather.”

“Forget the pool. Let's go get rid of this damn wallet.”

The Wallingford Estate had been imposing even during the many years when it had stood abandoned and crumbling. I'd never fully understood why someone who wanted a relaxing summer getaway would construct a multi-storey home out of granite, on a hill across the old road along the river. But then I wasn't a nineteenth century lumber baron. And I had to admit the place had a certain grandeur, from the Scottish baronial style of the main house to the extravagant flowing lawns and gardens. The only thing that screamed contemporary was the collection of vans and
SUV
s parked outside. Josey and I were puffing by the time we'd walked from the centre of the village up the long, craggy hill.

Minutes later, when we'd caught our breath, we swept up the wide stone exterior staircase and into the main foyer, a cool, contemporary, slightly Zen atmosphere that came as a surprise. The Zen thing was a bit disrupted by the frantic scurrying of young people in T-shirts and camouflage cut-offs. Most seemed to be carrying mikes, cameras, wires and other equipment.

A young man walked past us and raised an eyebrow. I recognized his white jeans and cowboy boots. He was still clutching the clipboard. Only now he also had an earpiece connecting him to someone somewhere. He also had something twinkly on the side of his nose and was sporting a strange hairdo that seemed to come to a point.

“I'm sorry,” he smiled, showing teeth that must have been professionally whitened. “But the facility's not open to the public yet. Is there anything...?”

“We're here to see Miz Harriet Crowder. This is Miz Fiona Silk, and I am Miz Josey Thring. Her assistant.” Josey flipped open the little notebook with the blue pages, just in case.

His nose twitched alarmingly before he got control again. “I'm Brady Davies. I'm an assistant director,” he said. “All to say, I don't know where Harriet is right now. Is she expecting you?”

I said, “No.”

“Ah. Well, um, I can...”

“We have her wallet. Miz Silk here found it,” Josey said.

I broke in. “Perhaps you could see that she gets it.”

“Are you kidding?” Brady blurted. “I don't go close to the Red Devil. She's mad at me. She'd—”

I interrupted. “Is there someone else I could leave it with? I'd just like to get it back to her.”

As this little scene was playing out, a striking woman with shoulder-length blonde hair emerged from an office toward the back of the foyer. She closed the door behind her and headed in our direction. She must have been five nine, with a remarkable bosom, given how slender she was. I estimated the annual upkeep on those blonde highlights could have wiped out my little tax problem. Her crisply tailored cream suit must have been designed for her, then applied with a sprayer. Her expression told me we were going to get the boot, maybe because my three dollar pink flip-flops and the black T-shirt from Giant Tiger weren't in the right league. At the sound of a shrill voice in the distance, she froze, pivoted and hurried up the wide main staircase, tanned legs moving fast, stiletto heels clicking. Whoever she was, she was beautiful, expensively dressed, confident and oddly familiar.