Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle (50 page)

“You mean Sarrazin wouldn't take it seriously?”

“Perhaps
he
would have, but he was not on duty.”

I thought, maybe you should have called Dr. Duhamel's place.

Hélène said, “He is taking it seriously now. He wants to talk to you.”

Naturally. So what else was new?

“I will try to get Jean-Claude to give Josée another chance. But please, do not count on it. And, by the way, no luck yet with Mme Flambeau.”

Once again I felt bewildered, inept and guilty. Not to mention loaded down with volunteer commitments.

Wasn't that the effect that being close to Benedict, even in his ashy state, had on women? Didn't he always cause some kind of mental meltdown?

“Dessert and coffee,
madame
.” I jerked back to earth.

Marc-André served the coffee. Josey carried the goodies.

“My wife always found a
pâtisserie
was the best thing when she was depressed. And she was a nurse.”

“Good enough for me,” said Josey.

Marc-André grinned. His teeth weren't completely straight. A tiny imperfection that only made him sexier.

“Tell me,” I said, “when Benedict visited you, he was with a girl. What was her name?”

Marc-André's hand jerked slightly, spilling a couple of drops of coffee on the bird's eye maple table.

“It is difficult to keep wood from getting marked, isn't it?” he said, wiping with energy.

“Yes, it is. Do you remember her name?”

“I'm afraid I do not.” He didn't meet my eyes.

“Kostas said they had quite a long visit with you.”

“I don't really recall it in detail.”

“It's important.”

“Fiona, he is dead now, and he wasn't the most faithful man...but you have to move on.”

I blinked, my mug of coffee suspended. “Oh. No. You mustn't think...”

Marc-André shook his head. “I know how hard it is to get used to the idea that someone you love is dead. I loved my wife very much. It is not easy, but there are things, habits and attitudes, that make it worse for us.”

“You don't understand. I didn't love Benedict. We had a sort of involvement, maybe eight or even nine years ago. I broke it off.”

The expression on his face said, perhaps.

“Definitely,” I said. “My only reaction to Benedict's demise was relief I wouldn't have to pay someone else's parking tickets in addition to my own.” Not strictly true and certainly coldhearted if it were, but I wanted to squash any idea that Benedict had a place in my heart.

“I see.” The peacock-blue eyes watched, sharp and challenging. “Wasn't he found in an intimate situation...?”

I straightened. After all, he did read the papers.

“That's right. And I don't know how he got there. That's why I have to know what's going on. This girl with Benedict might have nothing to do with it, but at the least her name will fill in a piece of the puzzle.” I sat back and watched him.

Under close examination, he was even less perfect. Not just the teeth. His nose had a little twist in it. Add that to the scars on his hands, machine shop stuff, and a pair of misshapen knuckles, and he wasn't a screen idol. Just a decent mechanic, missing his dead wife. All right, he was a poet of some note, with nice silver hair, a leather jacket and a fine collection of modern art.

Naturally, I found him more tantalizing than ever.

Josey's head whipped around, and she narrowed her eyes. Could she read my thoughts?

“I guess there's no harm in telling you,” Marc-André said.

Josey and I held our breath.

“Abby,” he said. “Her name was Abby Lake.”

Of course. Abby Lake, with her dancer's body, her pale brush cut, her immense green eyes brimming with tears.

Abby Lake. So, why wasn't Abby racing all over hell and creation lugging Benedict's geedee ashes and posthumous gifts?

The answer was simple.

Bridget would never have stood for it.

Kostas arrived, quivering like a tomato aspic, driving all thoughts of Abby from my head. “Ladies, ladies, step outside for a minute. I have a surprise for yis.”

We stepped outside.

Kostas said with pride, “We have succeeded in obtaining an almost exact replica of your recently departed vehicle.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Jeez,” Josey said.

Kostas's face told us he expected more.

“Hmmm,” I said.

“Yeah,” Josey added.

Kostas inclined his head expectantly.

“How ever did you find it?” I tried to squeeze some level of enthusiasm into my voice without giving myself a hernia.

“My dear ladies, it was not at all easy.”

I felt ungrateful. After all, it's not every day your friends find you a car. But did it have to be an exact replica of the one you never liked in the first place?

“Thank you for everything,” I glanced from Kostas to Marc-André and back. “I guess it's time for us to go.”

“Marc-André and I think, for the next while, you'll be safer with someone around to watch out for yis, don't we, Marc André? Since you need to be in your own home to prepare for the scattering, we're thinking someone should be with yis. A neighbour woman has graciously offered to care for me dogs, so me time is me own, and that means I'm yer man.”

“I would join you myself, but...” Marc-André gestured towards the garage, where a line of upscale imports sat waiting.

“He'll be with us in spirit. And in person if we need him. He's given us his cellphone. Isn't that grand?” Kostas patted his pocket with pride. “First time I've had one of those.”

That's when I dropped my bomb. “There's not going to be a scattering.”

“No scattering?” Josey's freckles stood out in sharp relief.

Kostas sputtered. “No scattering, but, my dear lady, why?”

“For one thing, there are no ashes.”

“Jeez, right,” said Josey. “We have nothing to scatter.”

“That is true,” Marc-André said, his brow furrowing.

Kostas didn't say anything for at least a minute. Finally he said, “By Jazus, we needn't let a small detail like that hold us back.”

“Uh, perhaps you didn't hear me. There are no ashes.”

“My dear people, there are two things we must consider. One, half of West Quebec is already coming to this ceremony. Two, these ashes are merely a symbol of Benedict.”

“A symbol?” I squawked. “They're more than a symbol. They're him. They're all that's left of him.”

“So, Kostas, you're saying the more important thing is the
symbol?
” Josey said.

“Benedict would have really loved the idea of a mob of people giving him a last goodbye, no matter what, dear lady.”

“Knowing the man, I would agree,” Marc-André said.

I slumped against the exact replica. What nonsense was this? “Won't half of West Quebec notice the lack of ashes?”

“Ashes are ashes, dear lady. And they're not hard to come by. Everyone has a wood-burning stove.”

“But that's not at all...” I sputtered.

“In short, we'll get some other ashes and scatter them. Who will know?” Kostas beamed at his new idea.

“Just us and the guy who stole them,” Josey said.

“Exactly, dear ladies, exactly.”

Our first stop would be Miss Mary Morrison's. With Kostas as our navigator, we zigged across the back country roads in what seemed to me to be a random pattern. Even a skilled tracker would have had trouble tracing us.

Josey sat in the back seat with Tolstoy. It gave her more room to spread out her expanding knitting project. Her needles clicked. Kostas gave her his attention.

“Watch yer tension, me dear, that's the secret of fine knitting. If ya wish to become an artist-in-wool, yer stitches must be smooth and even, showing a serene soul.”

Nothing I needed to worry about. I imagined Marc-André and how nice it would be when all this stuff with Benedict was sorted out and we could...

Josey shouted. “Kostas.”

Was it a knitting crisis? I kept my eyes on the road.

“I see it again,” Josey said.

This time I whirled around. “What? You saw what?”

Josey's face had turned milk-white, her giant freckles on full alert.

“The little car that hit you. The guy with the red baseball cap. The one that shot at us.”

I stared back at an empty road. “I can't see anybody.”

A white Jetta popped over the hill behind us. I stood on the brakes. “Just a quick look at his face, then we boot it,” I said. I knew he had a gun, and he liked to pull the trigger.

I strained to see in the rearview mirror. “Okay, time to make tracks,” I said.

I made a 270˚ turn at the first crossroad. We bounced along a road designed only for the hardier varieties of bear. I raced through the thick overhang which closed behind us like a dripping green curtain.

Josey squinted through the rear window for signs of pursuit. We shot out of the cow path and onto a dirt road.

“We lost him!”

I said, “Her. We lost her.”

Josey's eyes shone like new hub caps. “What do you mean, her?”

“The cellphone, Kostas,” I said.

I keyed in Sarrazin's number. I didn't need to look it up any more.

Josey raised her voice. “We have a right to know who you saw, Miz Silk.”

“Right,” I said as Sarrazin's voice mail answered. “News flash. The guy in the baseball cap who has been following us is none other than Abby. Abby Lake.”

She had her colour back and some pep in her step. Mary Morrison didn't let break, enter and theft slow her down for long, particularly since she was no longer being pressured to leave her home. And she seemed glad to see us, even at nine in the evening.

“Come in, come in. You're just in time for a snack.” She pointed to a heaping plate of raspberry squares and a pot of tea.

“Neighbours. You were right, of course, they're not about to let me down. The young lads down the road have been taking turns sleeping here. And there's four of them, they won't even wear out soon. Won't take a thing for it either. They're exactly like their father was when I taught him thirty years ago.”

“So you're okay?” Josey said.

“Indeed, and you'll be coming to the scattering ceremony we're planning for poor aould Benedict?” Kostas said.

“A ceremony for Benedict? I wouldn't miss it.”

“And you won't have to move?” Josey asked.

“I managed to calm the nephews for a wee bit.”

“Move? Sweet Jazus,” Kostas blurted. “What a shame. To have to leave a lovely house like this, my dear lady, it breaks me heart. And me with me roof falling in. Sure, there must be a way to keep ya here safe enough on a permanent basis.”

“Yes,” said Josey, stroking her upper lip thoughtfully, “there must be.”

“Miss Morrison,” I said, “I hope you won't find this distressing. Do you remember there was someone in one of your stolen photos I wanted to identify? Who else might remember the names of all the boys who went to school with Benedict?” At the back of my mind, I wondered if we should bother to pursue the angle of the large man now that we had Abby Lake fingered.

“Someone who might remember all the boys? Maybe, my dear, maybe it wouldn't even be necessary. My head's a bit clearer now that I don't have to pack up my home. I was in a bit of shock the first time you asked. Which lad was it?”

“In the same class photo as Benedict. A tall, chunky boy with dark eyes, a little downward slant to them and a wide strong face, heavy cheekbones.” Probably a waste of time describing someone she'd taught thirty years earlier. What were the chances his name would pop up as a result of my description? “His hair was dark then. But he might bleach it now.”

“Oh, dear, that would be Dougie,” she said, without hesitation. “Dougie Dolan.”

“Dougie Dolan?” Somehow that didn't sound threatening. “Who else could it be? Look for trouble, and you'll find Dougie. What did he get up to now?”

A truly gratifying reaction. Whatever this Dougie Dolan had morphed into as an adult, it wasn't a pillar of the community.

“Is he another scamp?”

“Much more than a scamp, I'm afraid.”

“He appears to be following us. We don't know why.”

“Something in it for him, I'd say. Always wanted something for nothing, even as a child. Now he's after the easy money.”

“He's always after easy money?”

“Oh, definitely. If Dougie Dolan had spent half the energy on legitimate activities, like a job, as he did trying to get rich quick, he'd be living in a castle. I'm sure of it.”

“Bit of a lad, is he?” asked Kostas.

“A bad hat. Don't you know him, Kostas?”

“Heard of him, of course.”

“I'm not surprised.”

“And Benedict. Did he stay in touch with Benedict?” I asked.

“I don't believe so, dear. They weren't the best of friends, even as children.”

“They didn't like each other?”

“Hated each other. Benedict always made the mischief, and Dougie always took the blame.”

“That isn't fair,” Josey said.

Mary shrugged. “Dougie Dolan got away with plenty himself.”

“Miss Morrison, would Dougie Dolan have known about your photos?” I asked.

“Of course. Everyone knew about them. Why?”

“I think he may have stolen them so we couldn't identify him.”

“Oh, good,” she said, her eyes lighting up.

“Good?” I almost dropped my raspberry square. “Why good?”

“Because, knowing Dougie, he'll not have destroyed them. He'll hang on to them in case they come in handy sometime. He might even present them back to me and expect a reward or something. Wouldn't be the first time.”