Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle (8 page)

“What do you mean they're keen to have me do one? Do you think maybe they have me mixed up with someone else? Say, for instance, with someone who could write an erotic cookbook? Hang on! What did you tell them?”

“This is no time to be overly fussy, darling. We have a chance at a terrific high-profile project. You'll get tons of media and better yet, money. Let me remind you, you can use it.”

I started to say that I hate media, but Lola was too fast for me. “Stop resisting. You need this deal desperately, and I mean that in the kindest possible way.”

“I can't cook.”

“You can read, can't you?”

“Of course, I can read.”

“If you can read, you can cook.”

I was pretty sure that wasn't true, but I tried another tactic. “I have no sex life. None whatsoever. Don't you think that might make things difficult?”

“Pay attention, darling. I represent a couple of crime writers. They don't go around bumping people off or solving cases. Get with the program.”

I was about to say, I'm not turning out to be much of a writer, when it occurred to me I shouldn't remind my agent of that. “Aside from my unsuitability, I wouldn't even know where to start a project like that.”

“Start with research.”

“I don't know anything about...”

“A bit of erotic lore, aphrodisiac foods, seasonal variations, recipes. Whip it all together, ha ha. A few anecdotes, memories. Nothing to it.”

I said, “Wait a minute, I have to know, why me for this project? Is it because of what happened with Benedict?”

“Perhaps you shouldn't dwell on that.”

“That was murder. And now they want to splash my name all over the papers again? I'm not the kind of person who can deal with that kind of attention.”

“What you
are,
darling, is not the most solvent of my clients. And in this business, that's saying something. So yes, it was my idea and, yes, the thing with what's his name is a fabulous hook. Especially the bed part. It means you've got name recognition.”

“Because my lover was found dead in my four-poster, and everyone in Canada saw a clip of me on the news? That's supposed to be a good thing?”

“Don't complain. You know your career's tanking. Lots of writers would kill to have this problem.”

That Lola. What a way with words.

I took a deep breath. “I don't even get the idea of food being sexy. I can't imagine a single sexy food.”

“Don't be silly, darling. Food is very sexy. What about a can
of whipped cream? Who doesn't find that sexy?”

“Whipped cream? I don't. Listen, Lola, thanks a lot, but I don't believe I can do this project.”

“Think again, darling. I've got you a good advance too. I told them you have a desperately sick relative, and they coughed up a cheque. That doesn't happen every day. Up front on signing. The contract's on its way. I sent it yesterday by XpressPost. I'm surprised you don't have it already.”

“Yesterday? But you hadn't even spoken to me.”

“You should answer your phone more often. You'll get a cheque on signing. I told them you'd be thrilled.”

“You told them what? Lola? Lola?
Lola!”

I returned to the living room, somewhat dazed.

“I wouldn't want you to break a rib, laughing like that,” I said to Liz, who seemed unable to catch her breath, once I told her Lola's plan.

“Arrrotteeecogggbkkkk!” Liz howled before falling out of the beanbag chair with a thump.

“How can I do an erotic cookbook? It's out of the question. Stop snickering. I mean it. You know, that's a really unbecoming position you're in,” I said.

She continued to wheeze.

I added, “And it does make your butt look big.”

Josey popped her head in the front door, clutching a fist full of envelopes. “What is that exactly? What she said?”

“Nothing,” I said.

Tolstoy had emerged from the cool of the basement. He greeted Josey by thumping his tail on the floor.

Liz wiped her eyes. “Now I've heard everything. It would be like asking SpongeBob SquarePants to head up the
UN
.”

“That's so uncalled for, Dr. Big Butt.”

“But what is it, Miz Silk, that's so uncalled for?”

“It's just a mistake, Josey. A project that's not going to happen.”

“Sure, whatever. It's after nine. I picked up your mail. You shouldn't leave it in your mailbox at night. People could steal it.”

“There's nothing worth stealing, Josey,” I said.

“You never heard of identity theft, Miz Silk? Where do you want me to put this stuff?”

I held out my hand. I find it's best to be brave with mail and face it squarely, no matter if
FINAL NOTICE
is stamped in red on the front. Of course, if I were brave, I would have picked up my mail in the daytime like everyone else.

“I'll open it for you,” Josey said.

“Thank you, but that's not necessary.” Of course, that was pretty well drowned out by the sound of the letter opener doing its thing.

“Oh boy, Miz Silk. Disconnect notice from Hydro Quebec. That's bad. You wouldn't want to be without your electric fans this summer, that's for sure.”

“People's bills are private, Josey. I believe I've mentioned that on a previous occasion.”

“Well, sure. But I didn't think you meant private from me. I can understand if you don't want Dr. Prentiss to see them, but I'm staff.”

Liz said, “Hey. I'm the best friend, remember? Through thick and thin for more than forty years. Anyway, what's that kid doing here at this time of night? She can't be biking all the way up those back roads in the dark. Too dangerous.”

When Josey doesn't go home at night, there's always a good reason for it. I don't push her to tell about it. I know she's proud. And I also know that Uncle Mike spends a lot of time in the local hoosegow. When he's home, some of his friends leave a bit to be desired. “She's spending the night here. She'll give Tolstoy a couple of extra walks to make up for the ones he's missed.”

Liz shrugged. “Your life.”

Josey went back to the mail. “And what's this one? Oops, that doesn't look good either. But here's an XpressPost.”

I snatched the mail from her. Looked like I was going to have to tackle that ridiculous cookbook after all.

The next morning, Josey was gone before I got out of bed. Her note said: “Tolstoy had a nice long walk. Your coffee is made and in the thermos.”

The day was soft and warm, still comfortable, although the mist rising from the Gatineau hinted at lurking humidity. That was the perfect time to take a stroll by the river's edge with Tolstoy. I ambled along and thought about the cookbook project. It was the kind of day when anything seemed possible. When I got back, well before Lola would be at her desk, or even out of bed, I left a message telling her I'd signed the contract and would get it back to her pronto. Then I poured myself a cup of French roast. I took the mug of coffee out on to the porch, where I could watch the river and take note of what my flowers had managed in twenty-four hours. I am a flower person. Outdoor flowers. Call me hopeless with herbs or grass or indoor plants. Let me add that I like to ease into the day watching for passing cardinals, jays and finches. And I figured the soothing atmosphere on my porch might awaken my cookbook muse. Lola was right. I did need to do this project. My main hope was that, unlike the previous day, today would be tranquil. I sat there imagining what an erotic cookbook would look like, or at least what the kind I might write might look like. I stared through the trees to the water, hoping for inspiration from nature.

A bearlike man lumbered around the corner of the house. I jumped, spilling my coffee. There are people you don't want to see in your backyard in the morning. Sgt. F. X. Sarrazin of the St. Aubaine police, for example. Everything about him reminded me of the events which had led to Marc-André's current situation. Scenes flickered through my mind like a bad reel of film.

“Madame Silk,” he said.

No point in staying outside and having Sarrazin ruin the view. One bright note, at least Josey had already cleaned up after herself and departed, leaving no indication she'd ever been there. Possibly she'd even gone to school, although that would have been a surprise. At any rate, she and Sgt. Sarrazin were not a good mix in an enclosed space, so I was thankful. I pointed toward the sofa. But as usual on these visits, he chose the delicate Queen Anne chair. I was sure I heard it squeal as he lowered his bulky body onto it. I took the wingback.

Tolstoy loved Sarrazin, for some reason. He had his head scratched and lay down at Sarrazin's size thirteens, smiling.

Sarrazin glanced around at the sad philodendron, another relic from my aunt. He reached over and picked off a couple of leaves.

“I'm better with outdoor plants,” I said.

“I understand,” he said, in his completely unaccented English, “that you observed the vehicle that was involved in the crash on Highway 5 yesterday.”

“Yes.”

“I'd like you to tell me what you saw.”

“Was it a fatal accident?”

He nodded. “Yes, madame.”

“I wasn't sure. The ambulances were...”

“You told the officer you had encountered the vehicle earlier.”

“I did.”

“Can you tell me what you observed?”

I said, “Okay. On the Hull ramp onto Highway 5, a black Cadillac Escalade passed me on the right.”

Sarrazin nodded. “Is that it?”

“Not exactly.”

“What else occurred?”

“First, he came shooting right up behind me, well above the ramp speed, and laid on his horn.”

“Why?”

“I have no idea.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Well, my car might have stalled getting onto the highway. But it re-started right away. These things happen. I'ts not like I did it on purpose.”

Sarrazin gazed out the window at the Skylark, then turned back to face me. He raised his inch-thick eyebrows. “And?”

“And he gave me the finger. And he shouted at me.”

“You heard him shouting?”

“His window was open.”

“Was the driver swerving at all?”

“Swerving?”

“Yes.”

I thought for a couple of seconds. “No. I'm pretty sure I would have noticed swerving.”

“Anything else?”

“Isn't that bad enough? I was unnerved by it.”

“Happens all the time.”

“I've never seen a fatal collision before. The weird thing is, I feel responsible somehow.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Why should you feel responsible?”

“I swore at him.”

“That's it?”

“Well, it's not like me.”

He chuckled.

I said, “I'm not that kind of person.”

He nodded. “Don't worry about it. You're probably okay under the Criminal Code on that one.”

“Funny.“

Sarrazin met my eyes. “Did you know him?”

I shook my head.

“Think about it.”

I said, “I didn't know him.”

“Take your time.”

I stared. “I just told you I didn't know him.”

“You want to close your eyes and relive the scene? You might recognize him then.”

“I really don't want to relive that scene.”

“Take your time. Break it down into frames. Maybe it will come to you.”

“Why? Who was he?”

“Sorry, madame. We will not be able to release the name until the family has been notified.”

“Oh. But...”

“Is there a particular reason you want to know, madame?”

“Because you are asking me about him, even though I keep telling you I didn't recognize him. And, all right, I'll admit there was something familiar about him. I just don't know who he was. And everybody looks familiar lately. But what happened to the woman?”

“What woman?”

“His passenger.”

Sarrazin frowned. “There was no passenger.”

“Sure there was.”

He blinked first. “I am certain of it. There was only one body found in the vehicle.”

“Maybe she was destroyed by the fire. Maybe her body was...”

“It doesn't work that way. If there had been another person in that Escalade, we would have known.”

“But I saw a woman. I'm positive that—” I stopped myself. “Well, I sure don't want to hope that someone else was in that crash.”

“You were under stress from the hospital.”

“You knew I was at the hospital?”

“I am a police officer. Everyone in the village knows that you visit Marc-André Paradis several times a week.”

“They do?”

“People think it's nice. They know he's in bad shape. They know what happened to him. They hope that he gets better. Anyway, it must have been difficult for you, that particular visit.”

“Surely that hospital aide didn't...”

“No madame. Just...”

“Gossip?”

“We call it intelligence. Anyway, you were rattled, the way the guy intimidated you. He gave you the finger. He was driving aggressively. Most people would find that upsetting.”

I nodded.

He said, “So, it would be easy to be mistaken about seeing someone else.”

I cast my mind back to the scene. “I hope you're right.”

But I knew he was wrong.

Contributed by Woody Quirke of L'Épicerie 1749

⅓
cup butter

⅓
cup white sugar

2 eggs

1½ cups self raising flour

1 teaspoon baking powder

Pinch of salt

⅓
cup milk

1 tablespoon water

½ cup sweetened dried cranberries

Grated zest of one large lemon