Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle (54 page)

Josey and Kostas selected Rocky Road. I had Mint Chocolate Chip. They discussed techniques for Fair Isle knitting.

First things first. Ten minutes spent tossing the Frisbee to the loyal hound. Then Josey took over, and I listened to the river lapping on the shore and admired its crayon blue colour. I wished I could relax in this wonderful spot as a regular ordinary unpursued visitor. I scanned the environment for signs of something not quite right and kept my back from being exposed. The slightest crack of a twig made me spin around, my heart thumping like a reggae drummer.

Of course, I felt even more guilty about Josey. Rationally, I had no problem placing her with Stella. Josey was a fourteenyear-old girl. I was an adult. I had a responsibility not to get talked into things I knew were wrong. No arguments.

Emotionally, I knew she'd do a number on me. And I always fall for Josey's numbers. What a patsy. For the first time in my nearly forty-five years, I wondered how parents cope.

Josey and Kostas joked and bantered. The ice cream had rekindled our spirits. But the Mint Chocolate Chip wasn't enough to do the trick. Kostas and I practically tripped over each other when we spotted Abby Lake's small white Jetta snuggled next to Skylark Jr.

Even from a distance, you could tell at least two of the Skylark's tires had been slashed. A few cars away, a young couple leaned against a Jeep Cherokee with Manitoba plates.

I felt a rush of rage. She'd managed to track us, when the police should have been watching her. You couldn't trust that Sarrazin as far as you could toss a grizzly.

Abby sat behind the wheel of the Jetta, resting.

“Thank heavens you're here,” the young woman by the Jeep said. “We've been waiting for you. And we wrote down her license number, in case she left. I can't imagine why anybody would do such a thing.”

“You saw her? You saw her slash our tires?”

She nodded. He said: “When we were coming out of the trail. I guess we should have spoken to her, but she had that knife, so we decided to call the police and wait here, out of her sight.”

“And anyway,” she broke in, “when we went to the phone booth, a man went over to her car. I think he gave her a piece of his mind for slashing your tires.”

I felt a little buzz of anger around my ears. Abby Lake represented the story of my life. My forty-four years and some months of being badgered, bossed and bothered by anyone who felt like pushing me around. My ex-husband-to-be, my friends, my dog. Everyone from country policemen to nosy neighbors, to fourteen-year-old girls. Everyone figured they could tell me what to do, what not to do, how to live my life, where to keep my booze. The fact I found myself in charge of Benedict's scattering was typical of the life of Fiona Silk, prize wuss.

And now, ten feet away sat the deranged woman who had endangered our lives and given me nightmares. Relaxing a bit after destroying my tires. If that's not pushing you around, I don't know what is. I stood totally still, rage washing over me.

Kostas tugged at my arm. I pulled away and barrelled toward the Jetta. I approached the car window. “Miz Silk,” Josey yelled. “Don't go, the cops are already on the way.”

Oh, right. We just knew how much we could count on them.

It was time to look her right in the eye and say “enough”. Of course, I also figured this would be less dangerous than it sounds. Even Abby Lake wouldn't shoot or stab me with four witnesses staring straight at her. Especially with the wail of a siren getting closer.

But Abby Lake didn't pull out any guns. She didn't react. When I stuck my head in the open car window, I could see why.

Abby's dead white hand lay draped over Benedict's urn. A revolver sat propped beside it, on the seat. Abby's head was turned toward the window, a single, perfect bullet hole centred in her forehead.

If Sarrazin was a black bear, the officer who took my statement was Winnie the Pooh. Lucky for me he was not only cute and cuddly, but he spoke fluent English. You can't always count on it. My tolerable command of the French language had deserted me along with my normally adequate control over my knees.

For the second time in one day, I found myself behind the door of the Sûreté. It wasn't the kind of place to grow on you, even when Sarrazin was off duty. Five agitated people and one dog garnered stares from the other officers. One by one, we repeated our explanations with carefully selected background bits to the nice Sergeant. This time I took the precaution of calling my lawyer.

Natalie was not available. Why was I not surprised?

The young couple who'd witnessed the shooting found the situation much more dramatically satisfying than I did. Kostas exuded bonhomie throughout, surprising me somewhat, and Josey quivered with suppressed enjoyment. Go figure.

I couldn't erase Abby's final appearance from my mind. The hole in her forehead, the immense green eyes, staring. Her open mouth, bright with fresh red lipstick.

The Sergeant looked like he'd missed his honey at eleven. Such a nuisance finding women shot to death in local picnic areas.

“Let's start at the beginning,” he said.

“Absolutely.”

By the time I finished talking, he was rubbing his temples.

“So there's a strong possibility of suicide while distraught.”

“Suicide? I don't think so.” Abby might have searched my house and attacked me twice, but someone else had killed her. Whoever killed her, and it sounded like Dolan, hadn't done it for the ashes or for Benedict's books. Abby herself must have been the target.

I felt intense gratitude to the people from Manitoba. They'd seen Abby Lake get into her car. Alive. They'd seen a big man with peroxided hair approach her car, lean over and apparently speak to her and then leave in a black Acura with gold markings and a mud-covered license plate.

We were lucky they'd seen Abby alive while we were in the park. And they were even luckier the killer hadn't seen them.

“And the man you think might be responsible?”

“His name is Dougie Dolan, and he drives a car like the one the witnesses saw. And he's big, and did I say he has bleached yellow hair? First we thought he was following us, but now we figure he was following Abby Lake, and she was following us.”

Officer Winnie fiddled with his computer. “Dolan, Dolan,” he muttered to himself. “There he is. My my my.”

Skylark Junior was finito. What the four slashed tires hadn't accomplished, the sugar in the gas tank had.

Luckily, I knew a good-looking poet.

We were on our way, once again, wedged into Marc André's BMW, with me in the front and Josey, Kostas and Tolstoy in the back. I worried about Tolstoy's dirty paws on the spotless upholstery, but on the plus side, at least I didn't smell bad this time.

Josey was in excellent humour. “Now that she's dead, I guess I can go back with you until Uncle Mike gets his situation resolved.”

My neck tensed. “Not until they arrest Dolan.”

“We're not in any danger from him.”

“Guess again. We may not know what he's up to, but we know he killed Abby. That's dangerous in my books. Sorry, Josey, you have to stay with Stella until it's over.”

The temperature in the Beemer dropped. One good thing though, we now knew how Abby had tracked us, despite Kostas's brilliant attempts to evade her. Winnie the Pooh had been thoughtful enough to tell us about the receiver in Abby's car and the transmitter stuck underneath ours. “Easy enough if you know how.” It made me wonder if Abby had used the same trick with the original Skylark. At least it was one small part of the mystery cleared up.

On the other hand, we still didn't know how Dolan had kept up with us.

Even if the police did know about Dolan, I had plenty of reason to stick close to Kostas and, with any luck, Marc André, until everything was sorted out. Things were going to be fine if we could only avoid dangerous men and police officers until this geedee scattering.

Naturally, I'd forgotten about the media.

A convoy of vans blocked my driveway. No way to get in without encountering hand mikes and boom mikes and chipper, hair-gelled interviewers. But at least it was raining heavily again, and they all looked miserable.

Heads whipped towards the Beemer. Noses pressed against windows. Soggy feet hopped.

“Don't even slow down,” I said to Marc-André.

Marc-André stepped on the gas, looking grim. Perhaps he could understand my reluctance to deal with the media. Perhaps he was getting claustrophobic with the crowd in the car. Perhaps he was worried about getting stuck with me forever.

I chewed my nails. “Doesn't anything else newsworthy ever happen in this region? Does it always have to be us?”

“I wouldn't mind talking to them,” Josey said.

“Indeed, my girl, you're right on the money. Excellent advertising. The best. A picture is worth a thousand words. Dear lady, are you sure you won't reconsider?”

I didn't have the heart to say the fourth estate was not interested in Josey's gardening specials or Kostas's latest sweaters designs. Just the hole in Abby's forehead.

“And I needed to pick up a few things,” Josey grumped, as the old Beemer shot onto Route 105.

I explained to Josey, and not for the first time, that Tolstoy and I would be perfectly safe without her in the house. No one was likely to murder us in full view of
TV
vans.

Still, she gave off a guilt-inducing vibe for the duration of the drive to Stella Iannetti's. Stella was glad to see us. Behind her smile, I sensed quivering energy. “I heard it on the news. I can't believe it. Abby dead. Come on in.”

She even gave Josey a hug. Josey, who's not crazy about being touched, submitted. I got a pat on the arm. Tolstoy got one on the head. Kostas got two pecks on the cheeks and Marc-André a frankly speculative appraisal.

We all had cookies. Some with milk. Some with coffee. Some with a bowl of water. Stella's husband, who might understandably have objections to the murder
du jour
crowd dropping in, seemed fine. Of course, bath time was in full swing, and that was now in Josey's job description. Josey relaxed enough to check out her new room.

Perhaps it was the cookies. More likely it was knowing Josey was out of the line of fire. I could feel myself unkink.

Stella dropped her bombshell as we were leaving.

“About
While Weeping for the Wicked
,” she whispered.

“What about it?”

“You don't actually believe Benedict wrote those poems.”

“What?” “Didn't you read it?”

“Absolutely.” I met her eyes. “Right. Okay, I couldn't bring myself to.”

“Can't say I blame you. But you missed some dynamite poetry.”

“They're good?”

“Yup.”

“And how can you tell Benedict didn't write them?”

“
Because
they're good.”

Of course. How blindingly obvious. Maybe if the whole set-up hadn't been so bizarre, I would have figured it out myself. At least, I'd like to think so.

“Abby?”

“No. As a poet she made a good dancer. Here, take the book and check it out. You'll see.”

I was distracted in the car, thinking about who might have written those poems.
While Weeping for the Wicked
, a limited edition small press publication, had been good enough to scoop the Flambeau. Why would another poet donate firstrate pieces of writing to benefit a worm like Benedict? It would have to be a poet who was either crazy or not too bright. Like pretty well anyone in the O'Mafia.

Unless the poet had been unaware. Or in love. Or if Benedict had just plain stolen them.

Abby? I agreed with Stella on that one. No chance.

Zoë? People knew her for her sculpture, but I remembered hearing her read once, and she had a gift for poetry too. But would she give her poems to Benedict? Not if she thought Abby Lake was still around. I remembered her reaction to
While Weeping for the Wicked
. The way she'd stroked the cover and fingered the pages. It had seemed obvious she hadn't known about the book. So, Zoë. Obsessed and crazy, yes. Angry and vengeful because he'd stolen her poems, no.

Even Kostas, old buddy and mentor, hadn't known that Benedict had published
While Weeping for the Wicked
. Maybe Zoë gave her poems to Benedict before she found out Abby was in the picture. Maybe she found out and flipped. Zoë with her chunks of marble and her strong hands and her blowtorch. From what I knew about her, if she'd found out Benedict was using her poetry to get rich and live happily ever after with Abby, Benedict might have been seriously singed.

Kostas was a bit put out at being dropped off at Evening's End.

“Dear lady,” he said, “I'd be more than happy to share your home again tonight.”

“That is very kind of you, but I will make certain she is safe,” Marc-André said.

The fact was, I would rather face a crazed killer than keep bumping into people in my own house. Liberty and equality were in bad enough shape. Fraternity didn't even rate.

We didn't spot a single vehicle near my home. Yahoo. I felt the pressure of Marc-André's hand as we sprinted to the front door. Nothing like the absence of the media to pump up your libido.

Alone at last, and alone with the right person. Tolstoy kept a discreet distance. Marc-André and I careened through the front door cheek to cheek, followed by lip to lip, hip to hip and zip to zip. It worked for me. Twentysome years of marriage to you-know-who had dulled my senses, but I could still identify the melting tingle and the urge to rip someone's clothes off.

There were only two problems. They were seated in the beanbag chair and Woody's wheelchair, respectively. But not respectfully.

“Look who's here,” Liz said.

“I get to say that,” I said.