Lament for a Lounge Lizard. Mary Jane Maffini
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“...he was driving along in some kind of antique MG convertible. I saw it from a distance.”
“Have you seen that car anywhere?”
“No, not for the last...”
“That’s starting to get on my nerves.”
“What do I have to do? Write it in blood?”
“Which reminds me, the dry cleaners called us about your clothing.”
“That was chocolate mousse, and you know it. Your technicians already checked everything.” I couldn’t afford to have my only decent outfit disappear into the St. Aubaine Sûreté’s evidence room.
But this went beyond a wardrobe problem. I had the distinct impression nothing would suit F. X . Sarrazin quite so much as tidying the loose ends on this case by tossing me into the slammer. Which would explain why he was spending a perfectly good Sunday asking questions in my kitchen.
“I imagine I’ll be back.” He left without smiling.
* * *
“I’m sorry, Phillip, that you have to call from San Francisco to express your disapproval. It’s too bad you’re embarrassed by the body in my boudoir, as you so amusingly call it. Imagine how I feel.” I’d learned much earlier to hold the receiver away from my ear. I should have learned not to pick up the phone.
“No, I did not have a long and passionate and incredibly sleazy affair with Benedict while we were married.”
Of course, the truth wasn’t far from that. I’d had a long and passionate series of fantasies matched by frequent offers from Benedict, but when it came time for action, I’d wimped out. I’d turned down Benedict’s last proposal to pinch Philip’s new Audi and his credit cards and head for Montreal for a dirty weekend. Instead I’d applied myself to the task of making my marriage work. Go figure.
“No, I will not pick up the cost of your calls. If you don’t want to pay, don’t play.” I hung up in the middle of his response and went back to my cognac. Liz was examining her elbows in the living room mirror. I hoped she wouldn’t sprain her neck.
“That’s just Phillip trying to wear me down so he can offer me a reduced settlement.”
“Got to hand it to the man. He’s a world class tightwad,” Liz said.
“Agreed, but Phillip doesn’t really matter.” Only two people really mattered. F. X . Sarrazin, for the wrong reasons, such as his powers of arrest and his apparent belief that a corpse in the bedroom should lead to a quick slam of the jailhouse doors, and Bridget, who was definitely entitled to an explanation.
“Don’t let him get to you.”
“I suppose I could get the telephone disconnected, although it might be handy to have in an emergency.”
“Funny. Now pay attention. Elbows. Take a gander.”
I peered at Liz’s elbows. I didn’t see anything unusual.
“What about them?”
“What about them? They’re one of the sure signs of age, that’s all. You can hide a lot of stuff with clothes or make-up or you can get surgery. But what the hell are you going to do about elbows that resemble miniature bloodhounds hanging off your arms?”
I could not recall having a single elbow thought in my life.
“Well?” she said. “How bad are they?”
What could I say? They fell short of the miniature bloodhound description, but they did have a certain shrivelled droopiness.
“Don’t be such a coward. How many times have you spotted elbows like these and figured some woman was at least ten years older than she pretended?”
“Never.” For one thing, I didn’t really care how old people were and whether they were pretending to be some other age. For another, all my life I’ve had enough trouble maintaining my beauty rituals of flossing my teeth, keeping my hair from exploding and hunting under my bed for my only tube of lipstick. This elbow thing sounded like a real nuisance.
“I’m doing something about them,” Liz said. “And the dewlaps.”
“Me, too.” Meaning I would, from that point on, never check my elbows. Which wouldn’t present a problem. Avoiding the dewlaps might be a little trickier, since you could see them in the mirror. Unless you viewed the mirror dead straight on. Whatever works.
Liz helped herself to another cognac, perhaps in the belief the liver is not a barometer of beauty.
I had a coffee. I needed a clear head to make my plans to rid myself of the bothersome unknowns surrounding the Benedict-in-my-bed problem. I didn’t want the conversation to drift back to some other deteriorating body part, so I changed topics.
“I can’t believe he won that award. Can you?”
Liz shrugged. She picked up her cognac and headed back to the mirror to have another frown at her elbows.
“Who cares, Fiona? You know those things are always rigged.”
Rigged? Literary prizes are always rigged? I was stunned. Like so often in my life, once Liz left, her conversational droppings stayed around to smell up the atmosphere for hours.
Rigged? The Flambeau?
* * *
With a note of triumph, Montreal Directory Assistance informed me that Mme Velda Flambeau’s home telephone number was unlisted. The Flambeau Foundation number was not.
The Flambeau Foundation responded to my request for more information about Benedict’s win by asking me to state my name, the date and time and a brief yet meaningful message after the beep.
* * *
I stuck my head out the door and, spotting no media, made the trek a quarter mile down Chemin des Cèdres to the Lamontagnes’. Tolstoy came along for the walk, and I took the Frisbee. I tire of the Frisbee long before Tolstoy does, but there were other distractions for him. He likes to piddle his way up the long, elegant driveway leading to the two-storey grey stone building that tells you Jean-Claude Lamontagne has a shitload of money and isn’t afraid to show it. Since Jean-Claude is never home in the day and rarely in the night, I felt I could visit without running into him and having to deflect yet another offer to purchase my property.
Hélène was a bit surprised when Tolstoy and I returned her recycled newspapers. “I hope they were useful.”
“Not as useful as you’ll be. You know everything that goes on with the ritzy and glitzy. What’s the real story on the Flambeau? Could it have been rigged?”
She lowered her voice although we were alone in the sixthousand square foot house. “ Oh là là, Fiona. They are saying Mme Flambeau must have slept with Benedict Kelly to make such a crazy decision.”
“Slept with him? Ha ha. Isn’t she about eighty?”
“Oui, that’s what they’re saying. Et non, she’s not even sixty.”
“Have you never met her?” Sooner or later, Jean-Claude and Hélène meet everybody who is anybody in Quebec.
“No. But I hear from people who know that she is really spéciale.”
Meaning bizarre.
“I hope this doesn’t upset you,” Hélène broke in.
“No, no, I hadn’t seen him for seven years. Eight really.”
“And you seem so dérangée and after all...”
“Of course, I’m bothered. Benedict was murdered. You should hear the rumours about me. And I’m getting framed. Come to think of it, maybe Mme Flambeau was framed.”
“Oh là là.”
“Hélène.