Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle. Mary Jane Maffini
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has an unusual combination of hand controls inside and custom flame designs decorating the exterior. Woody’s loud, opinionated and inclined to run over your foot with his wheelchair. He’s a great and loyal friend when he’s in a good mood, and even if he’s not. But Woody’s no heartthrob. Maybe it’s all those Grateful Dead T-shirts.
“Don’t get that look on your face, kiddo. There’s life in the old guy yet. Women love me.”
“I’m sure they do,” I said, watching a middle-aged customer pivot and scurry off as fast as her Mephistos could carry her.
“And I have ideas.”
Yes. And I didn’t want to think about them.
“Aren’t you going to ask me what ideas?”
I sighed.
He yelled, “Spotted Dick!”
I stood rooted with horror. “What is the matter with you, Woody?”
“Nothing. Spotted Dick. It’s a traditional English dessert. Come on. You mean you never heard of it?”
“Really? It sounds more like a...” I was about to say an STD, but of course, everyone in the shop was eavesdropping.
There was no point wasting time explaining to Woody the difference between eroticism and boyish double entendres.
“I’ll take it under consideration,” I said, meaning I would never give it another thought as long as I lived.
“And there’s...” he said.
“Not to change the subject,” I said, “but since you are the gossip epicentre of the village, have you heard about the man who was killed in that accident on Highway 5 yesterday?”
“The cops are keeping quiet about that. No details yet about the guy.”
“I thought you might have found out anyway. Sgt. Sarrazin told me it’s because they haven’t informed the next of kin yet.”
“Bunch of killjoys. The cops I mean, not the dead guy. And, hey, do you have time to come in back and see my big renovations? My living quarters are finished. I blew a bundle, but it really rocks.”
“Later,” I mumbled. Although I was sure I would have found Woody’s newly done apartment fascinating and no doubt quite surprising, I had an overwhelming need to go home.
“It’s quite the pad,” he said, waggling his eyebrows.
“I bet.”
“Hot tub.”
“Huh.”
“Mirrors.”
“Oh.”
“Media room.”
“My, my. Maybe I’ll get the tour another time.”
But Woody had already lost interest in me. Perhaps because Marietta had entered L’Épicerie 1759. I was lucky I wasn’t flattened when he rolled forward to intercept her.
As I pulled into my driveway, I spotted the battered bike and the familiar sign. Josey was back.
“Hi, Miz Silk. I fixed that leaky tap in your bathtub,” she said, waving a wrench triumphantly. She must have brought it with her. I was pretty sure I didn’t own a wrench.
“You really shouldn’t just let yourself in.”
“Why not? I’m staff. We’ve discussed all that. Right? I think an executive assistant has to know everything about the executive. Are you just jumpy because of this cookbook?”
“The cookbook? Of course not.”
“Okay, okay, don’t get upset. It’s just that everyone is saying...”
“What? What are people saying? What is the matter with this place? Can’t a person have a single thought or action without the whole village commenting?” I paused for breath, and Josey stared at me. She ripped one of the blue pages out of the notebook and crumpled it into the wastebasket.
I said, “All right, I’m sorry. What exactly are people saying?”
“Today I heard you are going to have to sell your house because you can’t pay your taxes, and you can’t pay your hydro, and Jean-Claude Lamontagne has made you an offer you can’t refuse.”
“Not true.”
“Oh boy, Miz Silk. I would hate it if you had to sell your place. I love this house. It’s the only place I really feel at home.” A guilty look flashed across her freckled face. “Except at home, of course.”
I’d seen that cabin in the woods, seen Uncle Mike passed out. “I’ll manage to hang on.”
“But things are bad for you right now, aren’t they?”
“They are. I’m stuck with this icky project.”
“That project sounds like fun, but if you really hate the idea, I have an idea for how you can get your hands on some serious cash.”
No point in trying not to listen. I would just get worn down. “How?”
“Sell that picture of the woman in the boat. The one over your desk. I know you really like it a lot, but—”
“Josey, I can’t.”
“Sure you can, Miz Silk. That picture’s worth a bundle. I checked out that artist, Alex Colville, and his stuff sells for a lot of money.”
“I am not selling the painting. End of conversation.”
“One of his pictures went for more than $400,000 at an auction, last year. Do you know how much that is?”
“Well, of course, I do.”
“So, maybe they’re worth even more now. It’s just one little picture. It’s worth more than the whole property and everything on it.”
“The painting means a lot to me. And I’m not going to sell it.” Josey folded her arms. The freckles stood out, almost three dimensional. “You could get a lot of special paintings for less than that, Miz Silk. And pay your taxes and all your bills and get a new car.”
“Won’t be happening, Josey.”
“You could even build a ramp so that Marc-André could come and visit. I’d help with that. I even got a set of plans.”
A ramp for Marc-André!
“It would be wonderful to have a ramp like that, and I know how much you want Marc-André to get better and get out of rehab, but I will never sell that painting, Josey. I’m not even going to discuss it any more. We’ll have to come up with some other solution to this latest cash crunch.”
Josey shrugged. Of course, I wasn’t dumb enough to dream that I’d heard the last about selling the Colville.
“I’m trying to find a way to make my, um, cookbook project work.”
“Pretty hard to do a cookbook in the state of that kitchen.”
“What does the state of my kitchen have to do with it? Don’t I just have to find a few recipes? I’m a whiz with the microwave. My aunt had some cookbooks. I think they might be in the attic. I’m going to crawl around up there and find them. I might get some ideas for the framework of the book.”
“Jeez, Miz Silk. Cookbooks have to be up to date. They have to have food that’s in style, the latest ingredients, techniques. They have to look right.”
“There are styles in recipes? You’re kidding, right?”
“No way. People follow trends in the food world. I can’t believe you don’t know about that. You better get that satellite dish.”
“Forget it.”
“There’s fashionable food and unfashionable food.