Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle (21 page)

Damn. “Connection?”

Woody was chortling away. “I think she's got you.”

Josey said, “It's okay. I'd hate to compromise your integrity or however you say that.”

“Go ahead. Just this once. Compromise my integrity. What connection?”

She took a deep breath. Woody continued to chuckle and twirl all through this exchange.

Finally, I snapped. “Josey!”

“She's his lordship's cousin,” Josey shouted triumphantly.

“Well, hell,” Woody said, stopping. “That
is
news.”

Josey said, “I bet your tame cop will want to hear that.”

“I don't actually have my own cop. Tame or otherwise. Anyway, everyone in this entire region seems to be related to everyone else. There's no law against being someone's cousin.”

“You think? She was working for him until just last week. Before she became a resident's aide.”

“Oh.”

“He put in a word with someone high up at the rehab. And that word came down to Personnel. She wanted to work in that same section where Marc-André is. Although nobody mentioned his name. And why do you think that was?”

“To undermine my relationship with Marc-André? But that's horrible. Marc-André needs help and support, and I need to be there for him. That whole situation at the hospital was so stressful. Not to mention, I could be charged with trying to extort money from him.”

“Bingo,” Josey said. “He's chipping away at you. I told you he's a cruel man.”

“I believe I will mention this to Sgt. Sarrazin. I'll tell him I heard a rumour. He can follow up legally.”

“It's okay,” Josey said. “I already let him know.”

“But he won't believe you.”

“Come on, Miz Silk. I didn't make the call myself. Let's just say he got an anonymous tip.”

“Oh, my God.”

“Don't thank me, Miz Silk. What's the good of having an executive assistant, if I can't help you out of trouble?”

Of course, it explained the second message from Sarrazin on my cell phone: “And the other thing? You might want to rein in that Thring girl. Maybe if you just encouraged her to go to school, she might stay out of trouble for a day or two.”

I supposed he'd recognized Uncle Mike's voice and unique ability to slur his words. The problem was, he didn't indicate how he would react to the information.

I was so distracted I almost forgot about the appointment with the V-E-T.

I popped home to pick up Tolstoy and passed the mail truck. I raced for the mailbox. Sure enough, a small XpressPost envelope from Lola. I opened it with shaking hands and found a cheque large enough to settle the tax bill, fund the rewiring project and a new bottle of Courvoisier. Maybe even a few frozen diet dinners. Yee-haw!

I was busy bribing Tolstoy to leave the basement when Josey arrived, notebook in hand. She glanced at her watch.

I said, “When did you start wearing glasses?”

“They're not real. I got them at the Roi du dollar. They make me look more serious. That's important for an executive assistant.”

There was no value in telling her she looked like a kid with cowlicks and freckles wearing dollar store specs with clear glass. Why ruin her day?

She said. “I'm glad you're dressed up a bit. Rafaël is making time to see you right after they finish shooting. This is great news for us.”

“But I have to take Tolstoy to the V-E-T for his S-H-O-T-S,
so I can't do it right away. And I have to dress down a bit for that. You know there's always a bit of wrestling involved. Plus I have to pay my taxes today. The tax wicket is open late today, and so is the Caisse, so I can get that off my mind.”

“Oh boy, Miz Silk. I didn't know you had an appointment you know where for you know whats.”

“I never thought to mention it.”

“Well, how am I supposed to be your executive assistant if you keep me in the dark about things?”

I was about to protest my innocence when I realized what a waste of words that would be. I said, “Good point. I'll get Tolstoy ready. You take care of the cheque. I don't want to forget it and have to come back.”

“Sure, right away,” she said, calling over her shoulder. “Hey, this is great! I'll clean out your car to celebrate!”

Tolstoy had been lured up the stairs by a dog biscuit, and I had the leash behind me, ready to snap it on, when she returned. “All your junk's in the garbage can, Miz Silk. The car looks much better. The cheque's in the glove compartment. But getting back to Rafaël, the problem is that he's a big star, and it wasn't easy getting an appointment with him. Everyone wants to see him and talk to him. There are food groupies all over, and they'd turn green if they knew.”

“I understand, but I can't cancel the vet this late. Oops.”

Tolstoy bolted out of the hallway and into the living room. It took the two of us five sweaty hard-breathing minutes to finally corner him. I gave him a treat and caught my breath. “I hate V-E-T day.”

Josey said, “It's just a matter of time until he learns to spell it.”

A few more treats got the usually amiable Tolstoy into the Skylark. Josey and I hopped in too.

“Just remember,” she said, “act natural. Don't be intimidated.
When we see him, don't let the fact that he is a huge star in the food biz throw you off. He's just a normal human being, even if he looks like a movie star, and his show is a mega hit and he has magazines and cookbooks and...”

“I'll try to pull myself together,” I said. Privately, I thought it couldn't be nearly as stressful as the V-E-T.

I turned the key. Nothing. I tried again. Still nothing.

I should be used to non-performing cars, but I'm always caught by surprise when they let me down. Hélène would have given us a lift if we'd asked, but she had a regular manicure scheduled every Thursday at this time. Liz would be tied up with patients, and Tolstoy's not good on a bike. No choice but to call a cab.

“Want me to check under the hood?” Josey yelled out as I called Cyril Hemphill on my cell phone.

I shouted over my shoulder, “Just make sure you-know-who doesn't escape.”

“Right,” she said, “before we get to the you-know-what.”

Five minutes later, Cyril sprayed gravel as he spun his cab into the driveway. He opened the passenger door. Tolstoy hopped in right away. He still loved Cyril, in part because we have never been known to take a cab to the you-know-what. As Cyril is paunchy and bald with quite remarkable ear hair, he accepts affection where he finds it.

I waited until I cut a deal with Cyril. “I'll have to run a tab,” I said. “Until a cheque clears.”

“Oh, sure. That the one from the dirty book?”

“What?”

“Whole town's talking about that, all right.”

“I bet it is.”

“Never mind. Yer credit's good with me. You know the terms. I bet this one will make you a mint. Even if your ex is
hanging you out to dry. You can show him a thing or two.” Cyril turned to leer at us as we climbed into the back of the cab.

Josey leaned forward and said, “What terms?”

“Not your business, girlie.”

“Yes, it is. I'm her executive assistant.”

“That a fact?” Cyril barely suppressed a snicker.

Josey snapped. “Yes, it is. What are the terms?”

“Interest and all that. It's between me and Mrs. Silk.”

Josey narrowed her eyes. “Not any more it isn't. Everything goes through me.”

I could have leaned forward myself at this point and established my personal sovereignty. However, in the face of having someone else deal with the slippery, usurious Cyril, a little loss of autonomy was a small price to pay.

“Twenty-eight per cent.”

“Too high.”

“Same as Visa.”

“Not our problem. Ten per cent, starting at the end of the month of the debt. Nothing if the debt is discharged first,” Josey said. For some reason, she always sounds like a forty-year-old accountant when discussing money. I attributed it to business programs on the damn satellite service.

“Don't insult me, girlie.”

Josey shrugged. “It's not like you're the only game in town.”

This was a nervy bluff, because, in fact, Cyril was the only game in town.

“Take it or leave it,” said the only game in town.

“We'll leave it. Come on, Miz Silk, Tolstoy. We're calling my Uncle Mike.”

Cyril's bald head turned a peculiar shade of crimson. “What are you talking about, girlie. Your uncle Mike's probably having a siesta in the slammer.”

“Not today, he isn't. Got out early. Released on his own recognizance. And he's sober as a judge. He'll be happy to drive Miz Silk. Won't charge her anything, never mind interest.” Josey swung open the door.

I imagine that Cyril and I were equally astounded by this development. Still, there's no point in having an executive assistant if you're not going to take advantage. Of course, if the bluff failed, I would have to cancel the appointment, because I was pretty sure that Uncle Mike never really sobered up, recognizance notwithstanding. Still, I slid back out of the car. I knew what team I was on.

“Eighteen,” Cyril said.

“Eight,” Josey said.

“What? That's not the way it works.”

Josey narrowed her eyes at him. “It is now.”

They sawed off at nine. No interest for the first thirty days. It worked for me. Tolstoy hopped back in and licked Cyril's ear in an expression of solidarity.

“We have an appointment with Rafaël up at Wallingford Estate after the V-E-T,” Josey said haughtily. “We'll need you to wait to take us home.”

“Sure thing, Mrs. Silk,” Cyril said, making eye contact with me. “I'll be waiting.”

“With the meter off,” Josey said.

Tolstoy was not in a forgiving mood after his rabies shot, but I figured some takeout fries from the Chez would fix that. I planned to take care of that the minute we finished with Rafaël. Jean-Claude showed up at the Wallingford Estate just ahead of us. He buttoned the middle button of his silk suit
and curled his lip at us as we approached the house. He'd already vanished from sight as we entered.

Brady was passing through the foyer. He clutched his clipboard in front of him and shuffled his cowboy boots nervously.

A siren sounded along Rue Principale, drowning out what he said.

Josey said, “What?”

“He's not available,” Brady said, looking miserable.

“Are they still shooting?” I interjected.

“No. They finished a while ago, and I'm afraid he had to leave.”

“Well, we'd like to reschedule,” Josey said, whipping out her agenda.

It was time for me to act like a functioning adult. Not my best thing, admittedly, but I had to try.

“Thank you. We were very happy to have this appointment, but things do come up. Could you thank Rafaël for making room for us in his busy schedule and tell him I hope we can get together for a few minutes when it's convenient for him.” I smiled, almost sincerely.

Josey looked like she might self-combust. Brady, on the other hand, seemed grateful. “It's not his fault,” he whispered. “Someone
else
has a bee in her bonnet. I'll let him know what you said. He probably has no idea what's going on.”

“What about Marietta?”

“She's not available either.”

Josey said, “Does this have something to do with Miz Huffington-Chabot and a certain local big cheese?”

Brady flushed to the top of his fauxhawk. He turned to leave.

“One last attempt to track down Harriet.”

“Harriet? Good luck if you find her. She didn't even show up for the shoot today. Or yesterday. That's unheard of, even for the Red Devil. Anabel's having a hissy fit over it. It puts a
lot of stress on everyone. Lucky for us, Rafaël and Marietta are easy to deal with. Sorry, I've got to go.”

He turned and scurried off down the hallway toward the kitchen area. Josey's blue eyes were narrowed and stormy as she came stomping out of the Wallingford estate.

“Something's going on, Miss Silk. I smell a rat.”

I smelled the same large, silk-clad, hyphenated rat. As we headed for the car, Jean-Claude passed us in the Porsche. He waved and gave us one of his custom-made humourless smiles. The ones that make your spine snap.

Tolstoy gave his opinion by lifting his leg and sprinkling the decorative juniper outside the house.

I didn't bother trying to shout over the noise as a pair of fire engines roared down Rue Principale, drowning out all other sounds. I was wondering about Harriet Crowder and what would possess a producer to miss a shooting day.

Apparently Josey had places to go, people to see and things to do, and I was happy to toodle about the village without an executive assistant. I planned to pick up a bit of food at Woody's, deposit the advance cheque, then settle my tax bill by post-dated cheque, since the Caisse always holds my cheques until they clear. But Jean-Claude's silver Porsche was now parked right in front of the Caisse, and I also planned to avoid him. I headed for City Hall, or Hôtel de Ville, as we call it in these parts. This was the one day of the week when they had late hours for the convenience of the locals wishing to have their taxes squeezed out of them.

The middle-aged clerk at the tax wicket took my post-dated cheque and handled it as though it contained anthrax spores.

“A post-dated cheque?” she said. “That account is in serious arrears.”

My familiar puce blush raced up my neck and across my face. “I realize that,” I said, “and I'm very sorry. I've been
waiting for a payment to come in, and it has finally arrived. I'm going to deposit it now, and in five days it will clear. Because it's a large amount, and they...”

She sighed. “I don't know. I'll have to get authorization for this.”