Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle (30 page)

I stumbled backward as she lunged, swinging the club. I stared around wildly, looking for a weapon to defend myself. There are many dangerous items in a commercial kitchen, but nothing that protects against a golf club. Chelsea stepped closer. I backed further and further away, until I felt the doorknob at my back. I grabbed it and tried to open it. Would I be better off in the side garden of the house? Chelsea's smile said no. She raised the club and advanced. I feinted to the right then ducked toward the far side of the giant kitchen island as she swung toward where I'd been.

“You won't get away,” Chelsea said, laughing.

“It's a game to you, isn't it? The scams. Outwitting people. Tricks, disguises. But this game is over. The police are coming. You don't want to add another murder to your list of crimes. You'll be caught in the act this time.”

“What do I have to lose?” Chelsea said. “If they have the evidence you claim, I'm done. But this way I have the satisfaction of getting you first. And I'll probably still get away.”

“But they'll find you.”

“The police are idiots. They've never found me before.”

“Well, I agree with you about the police. Absolute fools. They're looking for my ex-husband, Philip, now. Why don't you pin the killings on Philip? Have you thought of that?”

She hesitated. “Don't be stupid.”

I tried to keep my voice from shaking. “He was Danny's business associate. He was angry at Danny. I'll tell them.”

She laughed. “Sure you will, and then you'll change your tune as soon as we're out of here.”

Here was my last panicky chance to play a bit of her own
deceitful game. I needed to stay alive until help arrived.

“Are you kidding? I hate the bastard. I'd be happy to tell them he burned down my house so that he could get half the money from the sale of the property. But mostly, he did it for spite. He could easily have killed Danny if he thought Danny was stealing the money from him. And he is perfectly capable of attacking Arlen to implicate me. He's always hated Cyril. They've had public battles. I'll say that you're lucky he didn't get you.”

A smile flickered at the corners of her mouth. She obviously liked the idea of Philip being charged with the arson that she'd committed. The same arson where she'd stolen the walking stick to frame me when she attacked Arlen. She said, “I don't trust you.”

“Trust this. Philip will go to jail. You'll go off to do whatever comes next. I'll get access to what's left of his property, and I'll have the pleasure of revenge. We'll both win.”

She tapped the golf club against the floor, just to remind me who was really in charge.

“And the best thing is that the police are already looking for Philip for the arson. They won't want to start again. With my testimony they'll get a conviction. How good is that?”

She narrowed her eyes, thinking.

A dim noise reached us from the front of the house. She whipped around toward the entry door at the far end of the kitchen. Just for a second, but it was long enough. I reached onto the counter and snatched the big green tin of olive oil. Lucky for me, it had been opened.

She swivelled to face me. “Thanks for the kind offer,” she said. “But I think I'll go it alone. I don't want to have you holding anything over my head for the rest of my life. Like I'm holding this golf club over yours.” She raised the club and
slashed. I shook the container and spewed oil as far as I could. Chelsea slipped, fell and swore. I made a dash for the other end of the vast kitchen island. Chelsea struggled to her feet and turned around.

“You're never going to make it,” she shrieked.

“Watch me!” I turned the container upside down and spread the rest of the oil over the stretch of floor between us.

“You can't stop me.” She stood up, raised the club with one hand and grabbed the side of the island with the other. I used every scrap of strength I had to heave the empty can of oil at her head. It made a very satisfying thunk. The tin crashed onto the floor as I raced to the end of the kitchen and flung open the swinging doors. I heard a resounding
“Tabernac!” as
the door smacked Viau on the forehead. I collapsed against Sarrazin. Viau, holding his head, staggered ahead, along with several armed officers.

From the sounds in the kitchen, Chelsea put up a good fight. The officers had some challenges with the oily floor. But they also had weapons.

Sarrazin growled as he stepped past me to join the fray. “Okay, madame, exactly what part of ‘don't go to the Wallingford Estate' was unclear?”

“The Josey part. I think Chelsea stuck her in the walk-in freezer. It's been padlocked. Watch out for the oil on the floor. Oops.”

Contributed by Woody Quirke

1½ ounces aged brandy

½ ounce bitters

1 ounce white crème de menthe

In a mixing glass half-filled with ice cubes, combine all of the ingredients. Stir well. Strain into a cocktail glass.

For emergency use only.

There was something fitting about our gathering that night at Hélène's. Not only were there special guests, but the kitchen refinishing had been completed, and Jean-Claude was nowhere to be seen. The heat wave had broken, and Tolstoy was able to wag his tail again. Oh right, and Josey and I were alive. We'd had a few hours to recover and get our adrenaline levels back to normal.

“His lordship must be in the doghouse,” Josey whispered to me. She was still a bit pale after her ordeal in the freezer.

Hélène glided around the patio serving hors d'oeuvre. Bottles of chilled Pinot Grigio stood open next to a fresh pitcher of her signature sangria. Woody had parked his wheelchair at the poolside bar and was busy mixing himself something he called a “corpse reviver”. He claimed it could work wonders for anyone's sex life. Not that anyone had requested this information.

He chortled. “That Hélène is one classy broad. No other bar in this village would have ten-year-old brandy, bitters and white crème de menthe. You want one, kiddo? These suckers are seventy proof. Knock you right on your keister.”

Liz snorted from a deck chair. She had beaten Woody to the bar and discovered that the Lamontagne household had an excellent supply of Courvoisier.

Hélène approached us with a plate of smoked salmon canapés. She reached down and offered one to Tolstoy. He likes the finer things in life too. Josey's new project, Sweetheart,
was resting near her feet. She had her own steady source of treats. Of course, her presence was purely temporary, because Arlen was expected to recover.

“Josée told me that Jean-Claude's cousin, Paulette, interfered with your visits to Marc-André at the hospital. Is that true?”

“Of course it's true,” Josey said.

“It is so very serious that I need to hear it from Fiona, Josée.”

“Yes,” I said. “She called security on me and claimed I had tried to defraud Marc-André.”

“Very painful and embarrassing for you,” Hélène said. “And it must have hurt Marc-André terribly too.”

“Yes. And also robbed us of some time together, because who knows—”

“C'était épouvantable!”

“Sure was scary,” Josey said grimly.

“Josée and I have had a nice discussion,” Hélène said.

“Oh, good. I've been worried about...words that were said. I wanted to talk to you about it again, but...”

“You had other things on your mind, Miz Silk.”

“You mean like murder,” I said.

“And your book!”

“You know what? I'm not sure I ever want to set foot in a kitchen again.”

“You don't need to, Miz Silk. Marietta and Rafaël said they'd do the recipes for you, as many as you want. They said it's a piece of cake for them, although that's like a joke. Your name will still be on the cover. Here they come now.”

Marietta and Rafaël strolled toward us, hand in hand. Marietta swooped in for a pair of air kisses. “I am so grateful,” she said. “Poor Harriet did a lot for me. I know that no one else cared much for her, but she was unique. Thank you for finding who killed her.”

Rafaël put his arm around her shoulder.

I said, “Huh.”

That little bit was the most dramatic moment of the party, up until Jean-Claude appeared. For once, the smug superiority was missing. His lordship was definitely subdued.

Hélène clinked on a glass to get our attention.
“Mes amis, écoutez!
Jean-Claude has a happy announcement to make.”

Conversation lulled, but I could still hear murmurs and giggles here and there.

Jean-Claude cleared his throat and frowned. Something told me this happy announcement was going to hurt. Hélène nodded encouragement.

“Our neighbour, Fiona Silk, as you know, has suffered a serious personal setback in the loss of her home,” Jean-Claude said, his voice cracking.

The group fell silent at that, except for Josey, who muttered, “And whose fault was that?”

“My company, Les Entreprises Lamontagne, will reconstruct the house at no cost to Fiona, as a gesture of community support. Work will begin as soon as the arson investigation is complete.”

“You can go ahead any time,” a bearlike voice said. Jean-Claude turned and did a double-take at the sight of Sarrazin.

Josey whispered, “Who invited him?”

“I did. The sergeant has been very helpful to me. He has given me a
lot
of useful information,” Hélène said, with a sly look at Jean-Claude.

Jean-Claude paled. I was too flabbergasted by this news to utter a single word.

“We're done with the site,” Sarrazin said. I noticed his eyes were focussed on the plate of smoked salmon canapés. “Just thought you'd like to know that Arlen Young was able to identify Chelsea Brazeau as the woman who attacked him. So
has Cyril. And we have been able to confirm that she is wanted on fraud and extortion charges, under various names, in other jurisdictions. We'll get her for both murders and for the arson too. So that's good news for you, Jean-Claude.”

“What about locking Miz Silk in the ladies room so she wouldn't recognize her from the Escalade? Before she got her hair dyed?” Josey said. “That was just plain mean. I guess now we know what Chelsea was really like, we shouldn't be surprised that she'd do something like that to embarrass a person.”

Sarrazin seemed to be having some trouble with his mouth, a twitch or something.

“It's okay, Josey, we'll let the past go,” I said. “Some people are naturally malicious. Chelsea enjoyed all the trouble she caused, big and little, I know that now.”

“She will go to prison for a long time, I am sure.
Mais, c'est merveilleux, n'est-ce pas,
Jean-Claude? And is there something else you want to mention,
chéri?”

As Sarrazin edged his way toward the smoked salmon plate, Jean-Claude recovered his composure. He smiled his familiar shark smile. “As part of this goodwill project, of course, we will provide Fiona with new appliances, furniture and housewares.”

“Whoa. Really must have been in the doghouse,” Josey said in another non-whisper.

“That's terrific,” Liz said. “Does that mean you don't need your old chairs back, Fiona?”

“No, it doesn't,” Josey snapped. “They have sentimental value. Those snifters and the good dishes do too.”

“Thank you, Hélène,” I said. “I'm completely overwhelmed. I don't know what to say.”

“This is all Jean-Claude's doing,” she said, with an angelic smile. “From now on, things are going to be much better on Chemin des cèdres.”

I didn't have the heart to tell her that Faron Findlay had contacted me and explained that my insurance company might have to pay out anyway, because I hadn't received the official notice of termination by registered mail before the fire. Time would tell how that would play out. But Jean-Claude could dangle in the meantime. It was the least I could do to thank his wife.

Contributed by Marietta and Rafaël

1 tablespoon melted butter

1 finely minced garlic clove

1 tablespoon finely chopped green onions or finely minced fresh chives

pinch of salt and pepper 6 large shrimp

2 tablespoons white wine

Crumbled feta cheese, enough to cover shrimp

Mix together butter, garlic, onions, salt, pepper and shrimp. Put three shrimp each in small (4 ounce) ovenproof dishes or ramekins, add tablespoon of wine to each dish, and cover with enough crumbled feta to make a nice crust.

Put pots on baking sheet and bake in 400°F oven for 10-12 minutes or until shrimp are pink and cooked through and the feta is slightly browned.

Share with someone you love.

It ain't over ‘til it's over. One month later, my house rebuilding was coming along nicely, I had learned to cope with living in Woody's spare room, and some of my nineteen lost pounds had found their way home as a result of his breakfasts. A book of sorts had been submitted to Lola for Bixby and Snead's fall list, mostly due to Marietta and Rafaël. I still blushed when I thought about that particular book, but you do what you have to. Plus, Josey kept hinting at a big surprise. Naturally that made me nervous.

“What kind of surprise?”

“I can't tell you, Miz Silk, or it wouldn't be a proper surprise. You should know that.”

“I hate surprises. And you should know that.”

Tolstoy gave Josey a nuzzle. He loves surprises, especially if they involve food.

“Boy, Miz Silk, I think you'll like this one. Just keep driving. It's not far from here.”