Title Page

      LAMENT

      for a

      Lounge Lizard

      A Fiona Silk Mystery

      Acknowledgements

      I would be lost without insights and inspiration from the usual suspects: Mary Mackay-Smith, Linda Wiken, Sue Pike, Vicki Cameron, Joan Boswell and the late Audrey Jessup. Jane Plastino, Lois O'Neill and Giulio Maffini generously offered their encouragement and eagle eyes. Virginia and Barry Findlay and Victoria Maffini Dirnberger and Stephan Dirnberger have the most unusual information at their disposal and are always happy to share. I thank Leona Trainer for her faith in me and my projects. My publisher, Sylvia McConnell, and brave editor Allister Thompson continue to be surprisingly calm and good-humoured. Bob McConnell merits a special merci beaucoup.

      It should be no great surprise to anyone that any errors are my own.

      A word to the wise: St. Aubaine, Quebec, is a fictional community. It is not like any place that you’ve been. Don't bother calling your lawyer.

      Epigraph

      Liberty, equality, privacy. You can keep fraternity.

      -Fiona Silk

      Dogging Your Footsteps

      When walking your pooch

      Make sure you take care

      To scoop up the poop that is sure to be there

      Wherever you choose to be strolling beware

      For the ooze on their shoes could drive others to tear

      Out your hair

      -Benedict Kelly

      Foreword

      Marci Glickman’s 2003 Gourmet Guide to

      Best Getaways in Small-town Canada

      St. Aubaine, Quebec

      Scalloped along the banks of the Gatineau River, mountains looming in the distance, this picturesque community of two thousand has grown from a simple village settled late in the last century by brawling French-Canadian and Irish loggers. The main streetscape features authentic examples of the traditional Québécois-style house with its steep roof, prominent dormer windows, and full-length front veranda. The origin of the name seems shrouded in mystery: Is it a historical mispronunciation of the martyred St. Aubin? Since Aubaine means, among other things, ‘godsend’ and ‘windfall’, perhaps it reflects its early inhabitants’ delight in the setting. Today’s bilingual village continues the best of its English and French traditions and certainly delivers on its name.

      In early parts of this century, St. Aubaine was a favourite summering spot for the well-to-do from Ottawa. Summer homes ranged from magnificent Victorian structures, complete with gingerbread, to simple riverside cottages. Many of today’s coveted riverside residences began as converted cottages.

      Services of the Upper Gatineau Railway Line have been restored and day trippers can make getting to St. Aubaine half the fun by connecting with the train in Gatineau from May 1 to October 15th. After disembarking, history buffs will head for the lovely stone structures of Christ Church (1789) and Église St. Mathieu (1704) and their historic graveyards. Visitors can savour home-made scones, fresh-fruit jams and fragrant Earl Grey in Thé Pour Deux while enjoying the breathtaking expanse of the Champlain rapids. Le Bistro Bijou shares the river views and adds a very fine espresso (in all the popular variations) and a rich, dense, chocolate mousse cake that must have resulted from a pact with the devil. No, they don’t give out the recipe. We tried.

      You can take home a taste of St. Aubaine from L’Épicerie 1759, a unique foodshop featuring local maple syrup in the form of liquid, candy or fudge, unusual homemade baking and a variety of surprising health food products. Shopaholics cruise the craft and antique shops across the boardwalk from the marina with its cluster of sail boats. Browse through exclusive designer ladies’ wear at Boutique Réjeanne and delightful Irish imports at Forty Shades of Green. La Tricoterie features one-of-a-kind designer sweaters from “Evening’s End”. Look for original watercolours, oils and acrylics, pottery and glass at Le Mouton Noir. Or join the flocks of bargain hunters at the “factory outlets” on the perimeter. St. Aubaine is more than shopping and snacking and sailing: If you decide to make a getaway weekend of it, check out the romantic ambience of the local Bed and Breakfasts in our listing. For sensuous comfort and fabulous hospitality, you can’t do better than L’Auberge des Rêves. Top off your visit with a memorable dining experience at Restaurant Les Nuances, an elegant dinery in a Victorian mansion. It’s a tribute to Chef Pierre Valentin that the lights on the dramatic riverscape scarcely distract from the wonderful food.

      Many poets, musicians, and artists make their homes in this community. Check local listings for literary happenings and readings. Don’t miss the live music at the Pub Britannia. Up and coming bands play to a packed house on most weekend nights. Entertainment ranging from traditional fiddle, country blues, rock, stand-up comedy and the occasional string quartet pulls in fans from near and far. There’s never a dull moment at the Britannia.

      Skiers and snowboarders have unparalleled access to the slopes of Mont St. Martin. Lovers of the outdoors will also enjoy the trails for nature walks and hiking in summer, cross-country skiing and snowshoeing in winter. For the other three seasons, avail yourself of the well-groomed bike path that hugs the river for more than five miles. If you’re energetic, climb the rugged woodland trail to the Findlay Falls, but allow yourself a full day for the experience: those who make it claim the spectacular 360˚ view of falls, river, mountain, forest and farmland is worth every ache and pain, especially in autumn! Bring your binoculars.

      Whenever you go, remember: like all our getaways, St. Aubaine is warm, welcoming and very, very safe.

      One

      I wasn’t expecting a man in my bed. Especially not one who brought his own bottle of Pol Roger and two champagne flutes and had the good taste to have a Chopin nocturne playing on the stereo. But there he was. Light from my bedside lamp washed over Benedict Kelly’s bare torso as he lounged against the headboard of my antique four-poster, his famous lips curved in a smile.

      I sagged against the foot of the bed and squinted at him. No question, it was Benedict, all right. Naked as a jay.

      Being more or less three sheets to the wind myself, I leaned closer to get a better look and hiccuped softly in surprise. The light warmed the pale blue sheets, glinted off the glass in Benedict’s hand and illuminated Tolstoy, my so-called watchdog, zonked out at the foot of the bed, snoring.

      On my bedside table, a yellow rose lay next to a box of chocolate truffles. Looked like Benedict believed candy was dandy, even though liquor was quicker. That night, he wasn’t taking any chances. The rose must have been for insurance.

      It somehow crossed my soggy mind that good champagne, roses, music and soft lighting were not really Benedict’s style. He’d prefer to seduce you with a shot glass of Jameson whiskey, take-out fries and a promise to get your poems published.

      But I had to admit, Benedict had never looked better. Rumpled and Irish and wild, with his grin a little more crooked than usual.

      Too bad he was dead.

      No. That couldn’t be. I reached over and touched his face. He was too cold to be alive. I fumbled for a pulse. No pulse. I crumpled on the floor and passed out, maybe from the shock of that cold cheek, maybe from my night on the town, it’s hard to say. When I opened my eyes again, a rosy dawn streaked the sky. A hangover drilled in my head. Tolstoy continued to snore, a smile on his sleeping Samoyed face, dreaming of Frisbees, most likely. And Benedict still grinned from the bed. As dead as ever.

      I hoisted myself