Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle (41 page)

She had a point. “It doesn't matter. You're going to school.”

“No, I'm not. It's Founders' Day.”

“Founders' Day? There's no such thing.”

“Better call the school board and tell them.”

“You're absolutely sure this is Founders' Day?” Now that my painkillers had kicked in, I could think more clearly about the school thing. I think the tow-truck argument tipped the balance.

The back roads of St. Aubaine and surrounding hamlets presented many challenges. For one thing, the so-called roads were about six inches wider than two small cars. For another, the ones I needed were not paved. The locals barrelled their pickup trucks along at an alarming velocity, passing in the face of on-coming traffic. And, of course, none of the roads would appear on any map. It would be very handy to have Josey along.

Josey had a fine time. So did Tolstoy. “Look at how beautiful it is,” she said. “Even through the rain, you can see the river and the mountains. And the trees are starting to change already. If this keeps up, we'll have the best fall colours in years.”

She was right, but she still didn't fool me. It was a perfect day to play hooky. I was contributing to the delinquency of a minor, and this would add to my growing stature in the community.

A pickup truck flashed by us on the other side of the road, close enough for us to smell the driver's breath mints.

“They drive kinda fast around here, don't they?” Josey said, with a hint of admiration.

I clutched the steering wheel and peered through the sloshing wipers. The sooner I tracked down these poets and found out what Benedict had been up to, the sooner Josey could get back to school and I could get back to work.

“You know, maybe Dr. Prentiss was right about the Findlay Falls,” Josey said.

“No falls,” I said, feeling my leg get worse.

“Miz Kilmartin had some nice brochures on stuff, and they were mentioned. She said you might enjoy it when your leg is better.”

Fine, maybe my leg was never going to be better.

Eventually we found Mary Morrison's small pink symmetrical bungalow nestled not more than two feet off the roadway. Late-blooming roses grew up both sides of the front door. I felt a wash of relief at having survived the drive.

Tolstoy stayed in the car with the windows rolled down one-quarter. Just enough so he could breathe, and the seats could get wet. We took our rain jackets.

“They must be rain roses,” I complained.

“The rain is good. Keeps things green,” Josey said.

Things were not supposed to be green. They were supposed to be starting to turn red and orange and bright yellow and gold. We were supposed to have warm, sunny days and crisp, cool, dry nights. That's what fall in the Gatineau is about. As far as I was concerned, she could keep the rain. I made this point.

“It's not fall until September 21st, and the leaves never change colour this early. What's the matter with you, Miz Silk? You should be glad it's still summery.”

It would have been about the only thing I had to be glad about.

I thumped on the door. We stepped back in surprise when it opened. The fragrance of fresh apple pie drifted out and mingled with the roses. A delicate creature with pink scalp showing through soft curling white hair greeted us with the confidence of someone who could make apple pie and knew her way around roses.

“Oh, sorry, we were looking for Mary Morrison,” I said.

“I'm Mary Morrison.”

I'd been expecting one of Benedict's lady poet projects. Someone with cleavage or endless legs or recently enhanced lips.

“My name is Fiona Silk and this is Josey Thring. I'd like to talk to you about Benedict Kelly.”

“Benedict.” She lit up even more. “Oh, yes. Please do come in.”

Josey gave me a sideways glance that said, great, and now we get to tell this sweet little old lady he was found you-knowwhat and you-know-where.

There'd be no talk of you-know-where, I decided.

The doll-sized parlour was furnished with a faded brocade sofa, two large armchairs and a stack of large-print library books. No sign of a television set or a newspaper. No sound of a radio. Good. Excellent.

At least forty framed photos hung on the walls. Dozens of photo albums sat in stacks. More photos spilled out of boxes.

We perched on the sofa and waited. Miss Mary Morrison bustled to get us tea, rejecting our offers of help. I could feel my heart thudding at the idea of stifling that luminous smile.

She set out a tray with a china pot of tea, cups and a plate each of still warm pie. “Tell me, how is that rascal, Benedict?”

Naturally. She was the one person in the Western World who hadn't heard the news, and I had to be the one to break it to her. Josey gazed at the photos on the wall with interest. I examined the pie. “I'm afraid ...”

“Oh. Has something happened to him?”

Josey exhaled. I took a deep breath.

“Yes,” said Josey.

“Umm,” I said.

“Dead, is he?”

I coughed in surprise. “I'm afraid so,” I said.

“What a shame. But you get used to it, you know.”

“Used to it?”

“Death.” She lifted her tea cup. “Everyone's been dying.”

Surprise, surprise.

“I'm the only one left of my brothers and sisters. All my friends are dead. The ones in their seventies are starting. Imagine. No staying power. But as I said, you do get used to it. And now Benedict. It's a shame, even so.”

I nodded. Things were looking up. I might not have to explain what happened to Benedict. I let my shoulders relax.

“What happened to him?” she asked.

I could feel Josey's eyes on me.

“He broke his neck. No one is quite sure how.”

“Oh, well, murdered, I imagine,” she said.

My jaw plummeted in astonishment. The truth, of course, but exactly what I'd been hoping to spare this fine and delicate old lady.

After a pause, I admitted it was murder.

“Oh, dear, poor Benedict. But he would get mixed up in things he shouldn't, wouldn't he?”

A shiver rippled up my back. “He would,” I said. What things, I wondered.

“He was always like that. Even as a boy. I knew someday it would all catch up with him. Still, it's sad.” She clutched the pink china cup with her tiny faded fingers. “I taught him, you know, when he was a little boy. Back in the St. Aubaine Elementary School. Always into trouble and never having to deal with the results. Some other little boy would get punished for something Benedict had done. Oh, and he could lie like a rug. Charm a snake. You knew it couldn't last forever.”

Miss Mary Morrison had understood Benedict very well.

“He wanted you to have some things to remember him by.”

She chuckled, “As if I could forget the scamp.”

I rustled in my carryall. And fished out two packages Bridget had wrapped in white tissue paper. Mary Morrison opened the first package and took out a gold Saint Christopher medal.

The unspoken thought hung in the room. Saint

Christopher must have been on vacation when Benedict needed him.

“Allow a little old lady a bit of rudeness and tell me, were you Benedict's...” she hesitated, “...special friend?”

Josey exuded interest.

“Absolutely not,” I said, with more emphasis than I intended. I switched to a softer tone. “We were good friends years ago. Seven or possibly even eight.”

“I only asked because it was just month or so ago that he visited here with a lovely young lady.”

“Oh?” This in itself shouldn't have surprised anyone.

“Yes. He was very excited. Things were going very well for him at last. He said he was about to come into some ‘serious dollars'.”

Benedict talking about coming into serious dollars? What a con artist! He couldn't have known he'd win the Flambeau before it was announced.

“A young lady? What was her name?”

Mary Morrison quivered. “Oh, dear, I can't remember. It's a lot easier to remember people from forty years ago than last week.”

“I understand completely. Do you remember if Benedict said where this serious money would come from?”

“Indeed no, I took it for another bit of his malarkey.” Before I could frame another question, Mary continued with her own. “So Benedict asked you to deliver these objects?”

“Um, no, Bridget Gallagher asked me. Do you know Bridget?”

“Of course, I taught her in St. Aubaine too. Always crazy about Benedict, even when she was a small girl. I would love to see Bridget. Why didn't she come herself?”

“I'm sure she would have, but she has trouble getting around. She broke her ankle.”

“A shame.”

“Also, she was quite worried about her emotional reaction telling people the news of Benedict's death.”

“Understandable. Still she's been doing well with all of her businesses, hasn't she? Much better than Benedict was, I imagine. Still, I'm sure Benedict's passing would be hard for her. When she's my age, she'll be used to it. You can pass that on from me.”

I thought I might not. The second parcel held a miniature water-colour of the river, soft and moody. I was pretty sure some old girlfriend of Benedict's had painted it, or else Bridget would have kept it, since it was so lovely.

Mary Morrison's eyes filled with tears. We sat in silence. After a while, she wiped her eyes and managed another smile.

“But here, take a peek at Benedict before you go.”

Benedict rated more than one photo. A graduation shot. A casual smiling Benedict, leaning against the hood of a car.

Josey pointed at a picture of a class of school children, taken maybe thirty-five years earlier. Benedict's good looks and charm dominated the photo. “Look, and this must be Bridget. You could tell her anywhere. Look at her beautiful red ringlets.”

“And there's Rachel.” I pointed to a square-faced, solemn child staring beefily at the camera.

The children's expressions ranged from toe-turned shyness to bold confidence. An old collection of young faces, most familiar. But I'd probably seen them all around St. Aubaine. They were all in their mid-forties now. At least one was dead.

I said, “And before we go, Miss Morrison, I'd like you to have Benedict's latest book of poetry.”

“Humph,” she said, holding back a smile. “I hope that scamp finally learned to spell.”

Absolutely.

Things got better. Miss Morrison was more than happy to buy two tickets to the One Act Play Competition and equally pleased to engage Josey to paint her kitchen cupboards as soon as Uncle Mike could drive her out for the day.

Mary Morrison snapped a nice photo of us both framed by the cottage door as we left. We waved as we dashed to the car, rain slashing in sheets, sharp enough to sting. We pulled our jackets over our heads. The Skylark sputtered and reluctantly started.

“Boy, how come I never had a teacher like that?” Josey said. Mary Morrison had passed the test.

Tolstoy licked our ears, indicating we had passed his test.

The entire trip had passed my test. I now knew Benedict had visited his old teacher not so long before with a lovely young lady, all excited about some serious money.

Well, well.

Now just what the hell was that all about?

Kostas O'Carolan was next on the list. Bridget had written “poet” next to his name. What else would he be with a name like that? A Greco-Celtic bard to round out Benedict's collection. When we rolled to a stop in front of what was supposed to be Kostas O'Carolan's house, I shook my head.

“It can't be here. This looks like an abandoned barn or something.”

As I spoke, a border collie strolled over and relieved itself on my left front tire. The door of the house opened. Santa Claus rolled out.

We edged ourselves out to meet Santa, leaving Tolstoy, who was not too happy about this Border Collie business, in the car.

Josey scrutinized Kostas O'Carolan's round rosy cheeks, his round rosy nose and his round blue eyes.

He beamed at us. “Ladies, ladies. Come in. Come in.” There was that Irish accent again. How the hell many expatriate Irish could be living in our region, I wondered. And was I going to have to meet every damned one of them, as I represented the ghost of the poet past?

The place looked like a death trap, with a deep sag in the roof and more than one window covered with cardboard. I didn't care for the tilt of the chimney either.

Josey scampered through the door, no doubt expecting a sack full of gifts and a turkey dinner waiting on the other side. I inched in and tried not to wrinkle my nose at the combined essence of raw wool, old dog, musty paper, booze and sweat. What the room lacked in furniture, it made up for in stacks of books. Five or six baskets containing half-finished knitting projects perched on top of books and on the floor. Knitting needles stuck out of the baskets.

I checked around for other signs of Mrs. Claus, but found none.

“Now then.” Kostas O'Carolan rubbed his hands. “Now then.”

“Right,” I began, trying not to breathe too deeply.

“Exactly, exactly, exactly. My dear ladies, what do yis say to a jar of something?” He pointed to a bottle of Jameson.

Josey blinked.

“Bit early for me,” I said.

He tsked. “Past lunch.”

“In that case,” I said, sinking onto a stool.

Josey perched on a chair and shook her head.

“Oh, dear,” he said, sorrowfully. “Tea, perhaps?”

“Yes, please. That would be nice,” Josey said, in a way that would make any mother in the world proud. “Why don't I make it? Miz Silk can tell you why we're here.”

I hoped she'd check the cups for mould. I decided not to peer too closely into the glass of Jameson he thrust at me.

“Miz Silk?” Kostas O'Carolan said.

“Fiona.” We hadn't introduced ourselves or given any indication why we were there. Not that it seemed to make a difference.