Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle (46 page)

Her eyes filled, and the tiny hands shook a bit. “After you visited me, the same night, someone broke in here and made off with some of my things. Imagine, right here in my little cottage while I slept. You know, we always used to say, safe as houses. And now my nephews are all up in arms and insisting I can't stay alone.”

I imagined Mary Morrison transported away from this world of green tunnels and fields and river and mountain and the scent of roses. I imagined her reaction to the dubious advantages of city life. It would be the end of her. I reached out and touched her shaking hand.

Josey chose that moment to arrive from the kitchen with a tray, loaded with teapot, milk and sugar and a flowered plate with precisely arranged squares.

Mary Morrison didn't even notice when Josey set her tray on the small table between us and plunked herself into a chair.

“What did the robbers take?” I asked.

“They stole my past.”

Josey sat up and stared. “Your past? How?”

“My pictures, my photographs. All my photographs. Every one, even the boxes from the cupboard.” The tears spilled over and trickled down her cheeks. “Why would anybody do that?”

We paid no attention to the tea or the lemon squares. Mary Morrison's loss of a lifetime of memories blotted out everything else.

I thought I knew why. “Tell me, did many people know you had these photographs?”

“Everyone knew. Everyone who's ever been here.”

“And no one ever tried to take them before?” Even as the words tumbled out of my mouth, I realized how foolish they sounded.

Mary Morrison didn't react to the foolishness. “No one ever did,” she said. “In fact, that's why the police wanted to talk to the two of you.”

Josey was less upset by the police wanting to talk to us than by the plan to uproot Mary Morrison. “Toronto is supposed to be a nice place to visit, but you wouldn't be happy living there.”

“Thank you, my dear. I know.” She reached for a cup of tea.

I wondered how long she would remain alive, if she were yanked from her roses and her view of the river and the mountains.

“I don't think we can let them take you,” Josey said.

Mary Morrison perked up, perhaps from the combined effects of the English Breakfast tea and Josey's call to rebellion.

“But my nephews are frightened this robber or some other one will come back, and perhaps this time I'll be hurt or maybe even have a heart attack.”

Josey pursed her lips. “It's your life, isn't it? Where do you want to live?” She shot me a look dripping with meaning.

“Here in St. Aubaine,” Mary Morrison said, “in this house.”

“There's a lot of unemployment around here. Couldn't you make arrangements for some young kid to be here every night, as a protection? Pay them a few dollars, so you don't have to feel obligated. You could get them to help you in the garden.”

This gave me new insight into Josey. Maybe instead of a career as a wild-eyed entrepreneur, she would make her mark on the world as a defender of the rights of the downtrodden. She could give Natalie, the lawyer, lessons.

But I needed to get our business accomplished. “Miss Morrison, we came here to ask about one of the children in the school photo with Benedict.”

She put her hand to her head and rubbed her temple. “My dears, this robbery is such a terrible thing for me. I can hardly think straight. Usually, I can see the faces of those children as clearly as if they were right here in this room. Now, it's like I've lost my memory.”

“Of course, it's the shock.” I reached over to pat her hand again. “I'd like you to think about it if you can, and I'll come again when you're feeling more settled.”

Mary Morrison opened her mouth to speak when the knock came on the door. She motioned us back into our chairs and teetered over to answer it. She teetered back in, followed by the last man in the world that I wanted to see.

“Oh, dear,” she said, “oh, dear.”

Sarrazin settled his large frame into Mary Morrison's remaining chair. He smiled affectionately at her. He retracted the smile and focussed his black bear eyes on us.

“Must have been rough, kiddo. That Sarrazin guy? He's a weirdo, all right,” Woody said. “Can't stand the sight of him. I don't think he has the brains for the police. Kinda makes you sick, doesn't it.”

Our humourless encounter with Sarrazin hadn't bothered Josey much. She comes from a long line of Thrings, all of whom had a lifetime of disagreements with the law. But I found it hard to get used to being suspected of breaking and entering. And theft. At least being suspected of murdering Benedict had a certain passionate grandeur.

Josey and I were in Woody's back storeroom, recovering from our interview. With Woody's help. Tolstoy crunched organic dog biscuits underneath the
I
NTERDIT AUX
C
HIENS
sign. Josey snacked on some all-natural sesame bars. I had some sunflower seeds.

Woody passed around cans of Jolt. “You want a burger? We can send out.”

“He's a detective. He must have brains,” I said.

“You ask me,” Woody said, apparently to himself, “he's a lousy detective. Look at his priorities.”

Woody had a point. Sarrazin was the senior detective in St. Aubaine. It was strange he'd put a murder investigation on hold to hightail it over to question me about some old photos.

Woody said, “He was just sticking his nose into it because of Miss Morrison. He'd stand on his head for her. Let's put it this way, my business was burgled. It took him two days to send someone here.”

It made me think, which wasn't that easy since Woody never shut up. “No Jolt, kiddo? What about a Diet Coke? Put a little colour in your cheeks?”

Josey was chortling, as only a Thring, hearing disparaging remarks about the constabulary, can chortle.

Woody was on a roll. He basked in Josey's amusement. “Listen, I know about this guy. I remember him from St. Aubaine Elementary. Booted out of class. Getting the strap. Came from a real rough family. Trouble reading and everything. Never did his homework. Got everything bass ackwards. Especially Bs and Ds.”

Josey stopped chortling. Much as she disliked the police, her sympathies would always lie with the outcast in the classroom. “That wasn't his fault, was it? He must be forty-five years old, and people still remember every mistake he made in
elementary
school? It's extremely mean, Mr. Quirke.”

If Woody was startled when her eyes got to the size of soup bowls and her freckles became three-dimensional, he chose not to mention it. Being Woody, he just kept on talking. “That Miss Morrison? She was the best teacher we ever had at that school. She worked with him and worked with him. I guess it made a difference. He seems to have done all right for himself.”

Josey nodded with some satisfaction. She liked stories to end well, even if a teacher played a role.

“I thought he came from Montreal.” I said.

“Nah. He went to Montreal. You ask me, he couldn't cut it. Couldn't take the big-time pressure. Hopped home again. Major frog in a minor puddle here, ha ha. Probably going to end up Chief of Police here. Big deal.”

“I love a happy ending,” I said.

“You were lucky Miss Morrison put in a good word for you. If it hadn't been for her, you might have found yourselves overnighting it in the slammer.”

“Humph,” said Josey. “It didn't stop him from searching our vehicle and going back and rooting through Miz Silk's house again.”

Woody nodded. “Right on, ferreting for loot.”

“We had nothing to hide,” I said.

“And what did he think we were going to do with a bunch of photos of people we never even knew?” Josey said.

“Hey, I don't read minds. But I think that guy means trouble. He's been talking to a lot of people about your alleged relationship with Benedict. Asking about your about-to-be-ex. That's what I heard from Gisèle at the Caisse. Philip was bad enough when he thought you were as pure as the driven. I can't imagine what he'd be like now that everyone's talking about events in your bed.”

“I
am
as pure as the driven,” I muttered. Well, I had been fairly pure before I'd spotted a certain mechanic.

“That's the news. Don't worry about it, kiddo. The publicity's dying down, but we can find a way to make this stuff pay off for your career.”

“I don't think so, Woody.”

I leaned on a bag of whole wheat flour, getting jangled on Jolt and fretting about dyslexic detectives.

Josey grinned. “That Miz Morrison sure has a lot of control over that cop, though.”

Woody snickered.

I struggled to keep a straight face but was overcome by the memory of Mary Morrison, armed only with Sarrazin's history of backwards Bs and Ds, chastising the big detective for bothering her guests. He'd been blushing when he backed out of her cottage with our keys to check my house and car for stolen photos.

Even though we were laughing, I figured Woody was right: if we weren't careful, F. X . Sarrazin could mean even more trouble.

I volunteered Josey to give Woody a hand while I kept my appointment with Marc-André. Josey bit her lip. She'd already noticed I was wearing my good black jeans and a relatively new black turtleneck and my camelhair blazer, all freshly pressed. She was probably worried about what kind of fool I would make of myself if she left me alone with him. And she'd miss out on being called “
mademoiselle
”. On the other hand, helping Woody could mean money. And food. And weird insights into the behavior of the police. Tough one.

I sneaked off while she weighed her options.

Tolstoy stayed with Josey. Maybe it was those organic dog biscuits.

I tried to keep my mind on the car engine as Marc-André Paradis performed an assiduous diagnosis. I was more concerned about his effect on my systems than the Skylark's.

I missed the prognosis.

“Thank you,” I breathed.

“My pleasure.”

I had exhausted my conversational abilities. I tried smiling.

He wiped his hands on a rag. I couldn't take my eyes off them.

“I'm finished for the day,” he said.

“Oh.”

Silence. I tried to remember what I wanted from him.

“Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“Oh, yes.”

I followed the poet-mechanic to the barn next to the garage. The barn turned out to be a home, and a nice one at that. Good, now we'll meet his wife, I thought. That's better. With luck there'll be five kids, and I'll see him in a more sensible light. Just another man worrying about meeting the mortgage payments on the barn and wiping baby food off his shirt after his daily grind of metaphors punctuated with the odd European carburetor.

We entered through a back door. Marc-André Paradis stood back to let me go ahead, and I quivered when I brushed past him. We passed through the u-shaped kitchen. No dirty dishes anywhere, orderly and elegant, with the granite counter and the small table top gleaming. And a
cafetière
, which caught my eye. No toys, no aprons, no fridge magnets holding kid stuff.

“We'll go into the
salon
, okay?” he said, pointing the way.

Except for the kitchen, it was the only room in the downstairs area. He made coffee. I admired the unbroken stretch of hardwood floor. He had few possessions. Aside from the deep leather sofa I sat on and the leather lounge chair across the room, he had a stereo, with stacks of cassettes, LPs and CDs. An antique maple table sat in the middle of the floor, taking advantage of the huge window with the river view. Papers were stacked precisely on the table, and an ergonomic chair was tucked neatly into it. I liked the idea that Marc-André Paradis kept the best river view for his work area.

I don't know much about art, but I knew the abstract canvas on the wall had set the purchaser back a good ten thousand smackers. The poetry industry might be in recession, but people still needed their Beemers fixed.

A clinking signalled Marc-André and the coffee. I checked if my hair remained in half-decent shape. Too much to hope for.

“Nothing elegant, but it should do,” Marc-André Paradis said, putting down a smooth carved maple board holding the mugs. And a bottle of Armagnac. “I don't get a lot a social callers. Good thing Kostas gave me this last Christmas. A little something in yours,
madame
?”

“No, I'd have to let it wear off before I drive home.”

“Are you in a rush?”

My head thundered. I wasn't. I managed a tiny “no”.

“Then why not let it wear off?” Marc-André Paradis added a little something to my coffee and his own. He sat on the sofa. I hoped I wouldn't blow an aorta.

We talked about me. We talked about him. We talked about writing poetry. We talked about writing romances. We talked about my-about-to-be-ex-husband. We talked about his late wife. We even talked a bit about Benedict, but we didn't say anything useful.

Marc-André didn't show much grief for the scoundrel who'd scooped nearly a quarter of a million dollars from him.

“How did you feel when he won the Flambeau?” I asked.

“It was a surprise. More than that, a shock. I did not realize he was a serious poet.”

No kidding.

“The only poem I ever remember reading of his was called, let me think, oh yes, ‘The Effect of Beans Upon the Constitution'.”

“A lot of people were surprised you didn't win.”

He shrugged.

“And then he died. That must have felt worse,” I said

“What difference did it make? Whether he was dead or alive, I didn't win it.”

“True, but...”

“And I didn't want it. People don't become poets for prizes. Or money. They often give up money to become poets.”