Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle. Mary Jane Maffini
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her eyes. “Do you really expect me to believe that his first words would be ‘bored and miserable’?”
“But they were. He always speaks English to me.”
Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “Oh, does he? I don’t know what you’re up to, lady, but as of this moment, you are out of here.”
Assertiveness is not my best thing. Even so, I stood my ground. “I’ve been visiting him ever since he’s been in this facility. I’m here at least four times a week. This is the first time he’s spoken about going home. It’s an emotional moment. I’m not ready to leave yet.”
She crossed her well-muscled arms. “Oh, really?”
“Yes. Really.”
“Shall I buzz Security?”
“Security? For me?” I squeaked.
“You got it.”
“I’d just like to say goodbye.” So much for assertiveness. Mine evaporated with a slight flushing sound.
She nodded. “Make it snappy.”
I leaned over and gave Marc-André a peck on his pale forehead.
He opened his magnificent deep blue eyes again.
“Goodbye,” I said.
“So soon, madame?” he whispered.
“I’ll be back.” I squeezed his hand.
“I know that.”
Paulette gave no sign that she’d heard. She gestured toward the door. She mouthed “Security,” in case I needed a reminder.
Marc-André struggled to sit up. “Wait, madame.”
“Yes?”
“Please, don’t leave without telling me your name.”
My heart contracted.
“Fiona Silk,” I croaked.
“Have we met before?”
I felt Paulette’s smirk on my back long after I’d slunk down the hospital corridor. Despite the shimmering heat, I shivered for two blocks until I finally reached my free parking spot.
Before I began the long drive north from Hull to St. Aubaine, I’d opened all the windows of my overheated Skylark. Even so, my bare legs were sticking to the vinyl seat. The Skylark had recently developed a nervous tendency to stall at low speeds, especially while merging. I’d become pretty adept at a fast restart, but this time it wasn’t speedy enough for the guy behind me. He laid on the horn of his hulking black Cadillac Escalade. The blast caused me to yelp and grab my steering wheel. The Skylark stalled again. After fast restart number two, I jerked forward. The driver made an attempt to cut me off as the Skylark leapt like a startled rabbit. When that didn’t work, he passed me on the right of the entrance ramp and shot onto Highway 5.
A few minutes later, as I approached the Tenaga exit, I spotted the Escalade again. He was stopped on the side of the road. He glanced up as I passed and made a point of leaning out the window to flip me the bird. I caught a blur of sunglasses and a flash of super-white teeth. He gestured again to make sure I hadn’t missed it the first time. Not that I’m ultra-sensitive about road ragers as a rule, but this guy’s reaction seemed excessively personal. Worse, there was something familiar about him. Of course, his oversized designer shades didn’t help. In my rearview mirror, I caught a glimpse of blonde hair and a laughing red mouth as his passenger leaned forward. She shouted something stunningly unladylike.
I hadn’t gone far when the horn blared again. I glanced in the rearview again and saw the Escalade looming right on my bumper. As it rocketed past at roughly twice the speed limit, the laughing blonde passenger tossed a lit cigarette out the window. The smouldering butt just missed my face and landed on the passenger seat. I grabbed it and tossed it into the ashtray. Not quite quick enough, though. The reek of singed vinyl filled the air.
“May you get what’s coming to you,” I said. It’s my favourite curse, although singularly useless.
I didn’t know why I felt so shaken by that particular driver. I should have been used to horns blasting and rude gestures. After all, my shuddering old heap brought out the dominant urge in other drivers. It was worse on the highway, and especially with SUVs. This was Quebec, where no one tolerates a slowpoke. Anyway, I had plenty of other problems. I had no time to worry about a pair of jerks in a hundred thousand dollar status symbol.
I knew it was way past time to replace the Skylark, although my bank manager had nearly toppled off his leather executive chair laughing when I’d suggested it. But my mind wasn’t on the car or the parts that tended to drop off it, or even whether it would survive the forty-five minute trip. My mind wasn’t on any of my money problems or the fact that my writing career, for which I’d left a paying job, had stalled. Instead, I kept reliving the scene with the beautiful, bewildered man in the hospital bed. Was Marc-André back for good this time? Would he ever remember my name? For how long?
A police car with our regional logo whizzed past me. Too bad Mr. Oversized Cadillac Crazyass Jerk was already out of sight. I would have enjoyed seeing him taken down a peg. That kind of speed and the attitude he’d be bound to show would cost him serious dollars and points. The blonde lady wouldn’t be much help.
Get a grip, I told myself. That creep is the least of your problems.
Sometimes when things go bad, you need some kind of fix. And your dog does too. I pulled off at Tulip Valley and turned right. My best friend, Tolstoy, was suffering greatly from the heat wave. That’s the downside of being a white purebred with a Siberian heritage. You’re not so adaptable when the temperature hits 32°C, and the humidex breaks local records. As poor Tolstoy was hiding out in my basement, waiting for me to return and the heat wave to lift, I thought some Peanut Butter Dog Delights might improve his spirits. And the stop might take my mind off my troubles. I chugged onto the 105 and drove south again past Les Fougères toward my favourite bakery: La Boulangerie Suki. Inside, the scent of cinnamon, chocolate, vanilla and fresh pastry was enough to lift my mood. Suki handed over a large bag of the doggie treats. I also figured if I nibbled my way through one of those remarkable slices of chocolate Kahlua pound cake, code name Sex and Serotonin, I might be a better driver—in fact, a better human being. It was worth breaking my last twenty.
Slapping that on the counter reminded me that I wouldn’t have been down to that last twenty if my ex-husband hadn’t been hanging me out to dry on our property split. My friends had been telling me for years that I was a pushover for Philip. I’d been promising myself to stand up to him. I was getting better. He was getting worse.
Once I left Suki’s, I pulled out my cell phone to give him yet another call to suggest he quit stalling and just get it over with. Of course, he’s a lawyer, and a successful one at that, so there wasn’t much hope that I could scare him. But you can’t rule out the annoyance factor in negotiations.
Damn. I reached Philip’s long-time secretary, Irene Killam, an Olympic-class stonewaller. If she stood between you and Philip, you weren’t getting anything but a headache.
“He has an important appointment,” she said. It was clear from her tone that talking to me could not possibly be important. Never mind, I’ve had years to get used to that.
I was still working on an effective approach with Irene. “I need to speak with him.”
“He’s incommunicado.”
“He’ll have his Blackberry. I’m pretty sure he even takes it in the shower.”
“He isn’t in the shower. And I can’t reach him.”
“You could send him a text message.”
“I could, but he won’t get it. He’ll have the Blackberry turned off. I wish you would listen to me. You will just have to wait.”
We sparred like that for a bit, but she’s much better at it than I am. After