Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle (52 page)

“Of course,” she said. “There's some important stuff going on today. Real important stuff.”

“Fine,” I said, feeling like I had come off badly in a diplomatic skirmish. “I'll take my coffee and get ready. I have an important day myself.” Kostas and Josey were determined to work out a cable stitch. I left them together in the living room, with Tolstoy's chin on Josey's feet.

The three of them more or less ignored me as I polished off the French roast in the largest mug I could find.

“Be on that bus,” I called out every now and then.

Of course, I could always drop her off myself.

I headed out into the rain for my next task, alone at last.

Bridget had a right to know. I practiced the best way to tell her that crazy Abby Lake had stolen Benedict's ashes and Stella's copy of
While Weeping for the Wicked
. By the time I arrived at Forty Shades of Green, I was pumped up. Too bad the shop was closed. No wonder. It was nine in the morning in a tourist village on a rainy weekday in the early fall.

I hit the Régie first for a bottle to top up the washing machine supply, then sat in the Bistro across the street from Bridget's shop, read the papers and charged cappuccinos at three bucks a pop until I saw Bridget pull up.

I brought her a large cappuccino as an advance peace offering.

Bridget looked ten years older this morning. She whirled as I caught up to her at the front door. A touch of bitterness contaminated her laugh. “I know I look awful. Hope I didn't scare you, Fiona.”

“Of course you didn't scare me,” I said, following her into Forty Shades of Green. “I'm the one who sneaked up on you.”

“True, but you should have seen your face.”

The shop looked cluttered and chaotic, boxes and parcels piled up in the aisles, sweaters unfolded and hanging messily from displays, papers strewn across the sales counter. Bridget hadn't tidied up after the previous day's shoppers.

“You should have someone to give you a hand here. How can you manage?” I said.

She shook her wet curls. “You mean give me a foot? I'm sure my staff feel like giving me a boot, I've been such a witch lately. But speaking of hand, is that a cup of cappuccino I see in yours?”

The private, allegedly witchy Bridget faded away, to be replaced by the familiar funny and charming Bridget.

For a minute, I considered Forty Shades of Green as a place to stash Josey until things simmered down. Josey could help out and go home with Bridget in the evenings. On the other hand, Josey took a bit of getting used to. Bridget probably did too.

Plus, who was to say Abby wouldn't make Bridget her next victim? Josey could still get caught in the crossfire.

Bridget settled in at her antique desk and opened the top of the cappuccino cup with girlish pleasure.

“I don't want to keep you from your work,” I said. “I'm sure this is a busy time of the year.”

“Busy? I wish. This crappy rain must be washing our customers into the river, because they're sure not coming in here.”

“I suppose it must have an effect.”

“Worst year we've ever had. Same with everyone in St. Aubaine. I don't mind saying I'm at the end of my rope.”

I took a deep breath. “I hate to tell you this when you already have enough troubles but you've got to know. Abby Lake has gone right off the rails. She's shot at Josey and me and trashed my car and...”

The cappuccino slopped onto Bridget's lap. “Don't tell me she's lost it completely. I always thought she was a few sandwiches short of a picnic. Oh, God, what am I doing making silly remarks, Fiona. This must be awful for you.”

“It's all right now,” I lied. “The police are on to her. So it won't be long until...”

“She gets committed?”

“...they get to the bottom of things.”

“Sorry. As I believe I've mentioned, that woman really gets up my nose.” A crooked grin crept onto Bridget's pale face. “I'll be glad if she gets hers.”

“She hasn't got hers yet. And she might think you should be getting yours. So watch out for a small white Jetta and a guy with a red baseball cap. That's Abby.”

“Wait a minute, if they already know who she is, and what she's done, surely even these clowns here on the St. Aubaine police force must be able to handle one dancer.” She gasped and held on to her cup. “She must have been the one who killed Benedict. Of course. I should have known she had the strength to...”

She stopped before she had to say, “...beat him to death.”.

“Maybe she didn't. There appears to be someone else involved. A man named Dougie Dolan.”

“Dougie Dolan?” She slammed the cappuccino cup down on the desk. “Damn, look what I've done now. Maybe I shouldn't have caffeine.”

I kept my mouth shut while she mopped up the latest spill. I could have helped her, but being quiet and calm seemed like a better plan.

Finally, she said, “Okay, I'll get a grip on myself. That creep Dougie Dolan? What's he got to do with it?”

“I wish I knew.”

“Dougie's always been a complete jerk. And I never would have wanted to run into him in a dark alley, but why do you think he'd be involved? A thing for Abby? They'd be made for each other. A real pair of losers.” Two angry red spots had appeared on her pale cheeks.

“A pair of losers, maybe, but possibly dangerous ones. Watch out for him too. He was hanging around outside your house dressed like a bum during Benedict's memorial.”

“Don't worry, I'd know that turkey anywhere.”

“I guess that's good. Another thing, Bridget. Rachel would know Dougie Dolan, would she?”

“Of course. We were all in the same class. But she would never have anything to do with the likes of him.”

“Can you think why she'd let on she didn't know who he was?”

“Rachel? Sure. You know how soft-hearted she is. She's got to be everybody's mother. Probably thought she was bailing him out. She should have more sense. So he was hanging around at her place too. God, what is this all about?”

“I wish I knew.”

“Like a nightmare,” she said with a shaky little laugh. “I'll give Rachel a call and tell her not to be stupid. And I'll be careful myself. You too, Fiona.”

“Absolutely.”

“It can't last forever, and we'll be glad when it's all over and the police, such as they are, have figured it out.”

I was glad she didn't call them clowns as she usually did. It might have weakened her theory. “Listen,” I said, “there's something else I have to tell you.”

“And then when Benedict's had his proper ceremony with everything just lovely, we'll all feel better. A perfect end for him. Something to remember.” She stared out at the rain running down her storefront window. “You know, I think we'd better have a rain date for that scattering. Maybe even two. We wouldn't want a single thing to ruin it.”

So it turned out not to be the ideal time to mention Abby had made off with the urn. Not cowardice on my part, just consideration. I gave a lying, cheating wave and stepped out into the monsoon.

It was bad enough when I was avoiding the police but now, as far as I could tell, the police were avoiding me. I took my chances and stormed the Sûreté. I sat in the waiting room, fidgeting and wondering what species those molded plastic seats could have been designed for, when Sarrazin loomed into view.

I guess I wasn't the first one to comment on the high level of security in the building—coded passes, bulletproof glass, intercoms. It bordered on the ridiculous, considering it was the police force for a pretty sleepy district. “Well, it does make you wonder how Mike Thring ever managed to break in here. If you can believe that old story,” I said.

That only earned a grunt.

This time I didn't end up in an interview room. Sarrazin's post was past the ID camera and fingerprint area. He didn't rate an office, just a desk, one of three, in the middle of an open area. Maybe he was surly because he couldn't get used to working without the excitement of the Montreal police force. Not every police officer takes well to small-town Canada. He didn't look all that domesticated. On the other hand, he did have a flourishing collection of African violets on the left side of his desk. Not a withered leaf among them.

I sat down and decided to try for the upper hand. “Since I've been leaving you messages and haven't been hearing back, I decided to drop in and see how things were going. I'm quite anxious to get my life back in order.”

He stayed on his feet and leaned against the desk. His black eyes glittered. Apparently he also preferred to have the upper hand.

“I've been answering your messages, Ms. Silk.”

Damn. I hadn't checked my messages that morning. “I'm having a little trouble with that gadget.”

“That a fact? You seem to be out a lot. Maybe one of these trips you can get your machine fixed.” He inspected the underleaves of the nearest violet.

“Hmmm.”

“That reminds me, I've even been around and knocked on the door a few times.”

“Have you? Unfortunately, the door answering system is also on the fritz.” I didn't really expect him to bite on that one.

“So these messages you've been leaving, listing other suspects we might want to talk to. Are there any more now? Or perhaps you'd like us to investigate everyone in the telephone directory for St. Aubaine? In between interviews, we could call you and keep you posted. It will help to fill our time.”

So far our heart-to-heart wasn't going all that well. “Let's just say...” I sounded like a boy soprano. I dropped an octave. “Let's just say that after the body in the bed, I've been hit by a car, my own vehicle has been trashed, my clothing has been slashed, my home has been broken into and I've been shot at. I've called and given you the names of two people who have been seen following me, both of whom were connected with the late Benedict Kelly, and one of whom is an unsavoury character. I don't understand why you don't believe me.”

I think I would have been ahead in the debate, except that my voice shot back up to high C somewhere in the last sentence.

“Yeah, well, I can see where you'd want us to finger other people.” Was he laughing at me?

“Don't get me wrong, but it is in your interest to look seriously. There have been other witnesses. If something happens to me, you'll have a hard time explaining to the media why you didn't take the appropriate steps.” There. I held my voice steady. I was starting to feel like a competent adult when I realized he wasn't laughing. It was more like a smirk.

“Witnesses?”

“Yes.”

The smirk turned into a snort. “You mean the Thring girl? And Kostas O'Carolan?”

“Yes,” I said with great dignity.

“Yeah, right, they'll be great in court.”

“They probably will be. But it shouldn't come to that. Have you questioned Abby Lake? What about Dougie Dolan?”

“We will.” The smirk was replaced by an inky stare.

That meant only one thing to me. Sarrazin hadn't talked to Abby Lake or Dougie Dolan yet.

“Whatever your opinion of me, there are other people to consider. Josey could get injured. Or worse. And Bridget Gallagher. Abby's never liked her. God knows what could happen there.”

I thought I spotted a little flash in his eyes.

I said, “This woman has a
gun
. A revolver or something. You don't find that somewhat unusual?”

He leaned forward inkily. “We have only your word for that. And the Thring girl's.”

“But my car was trashed. You saw it.”

“Yeah, yeah. I hear you had a lot of trouble with that car.”

“Yes?”

He shrugged. I hate those shrugs. “I hear you're broke.”

“And?”

“I ask myself if it could be handy for you to get a hold of bit of cash.”

“Cash? The Skylark wasn't worth six hundred dollars, working. I sold it for scrap to Paulie Pound. A hundred and fifty bucks. And I got that much only because Josey found a separate buyer for the tires, the hub caps and the sideview mirror. I didn't even have collision coverage. I think you...”

“You know what I think? I think you should leave it to us.”

“I'd be happy to leave if to you if you were doing your job.” I couldn't believe that I, Fiona Silk, semi-professional doormat and all round chickenshit, would speak to the police like that.

Neither could he, judging by the colour his neck turned. He stood up straight and headed towards the exit, indicating our chit-chat was over. “I don't tell you how to write your books, Madame Silk. Don't tell me how to be a police officer. As far as I'm concerned you are still a suspect.”

I skedaddled after him. Considering the implications of what he'd just said, this seemed like an excellent time to leave the police station.

Although as a general rule, the reluctant lawyer, Natalie, and Sarrazin were tied for last place in the people-I'd-like-tospend-time-with category, (excluding murderers). Natalie was looking better by the minute.

I thought I saw a twitch in the plein jour curtains at L'Auberge des Rêves. After ten minutes of banging on the door, I gave up. That was no way to run a bed and breakfast, leaving potential guests standing in the rain. Fine with me. Maybe Rachel would answer the door for Sarrazin when he came knocking.

I barged back into my house, tucked away the new bottle of Courvoisier, and grabbed my own copy of
While Weeping for
the Wicked
for Stella. I called out for Tolstoy.

The Irish Rovers were blasting from the stereo. I turned down the sound and left a voice mail for Liz requesting Natalie's number and telling her why.

I had my hand on the door when I stopped, stunned. Kostas padded down the hallway, wrapped in a towel, his hair tucked under Aunt Kit's pink shower cap, holding a bottle of Jasmine Bubble Bath.