Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle. Mary Jane Maffini
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but the chocolate made up for it.
Minutes later, I was back on Highway 5, feeling a bit more relaxed. The slice of cake was just a fond memory and a few random crumbs on my T-shirt. I still had a half-hour drive north through the rugged Gatineau hills. On a normal day, I would have enjoyed the view and the rock formations along the road. This time I wasn’t paying much attention, until I crested the last hill near the end of Highway 5 and had to stand on my brakes. The Skylark squealed and smoked. Police cars blocked the road, roof lights flashing. An officer in the green uniform of the Sûreté du Québec stood in the middle of the road, waving traffic off to the side. A dozen cars were pulled over ahead of mine.
I shuddered to a stop, my heart thumping. What a weird place for a speed trap. Ridiculous. The Skylark could barely make the speed limit. What if I’d been going too slow, and there was some kind of fine for that?
But not everything was about me. I stepped out of the Skylark to see what was going on. A long skid mark on the highway showed the path of a vehicle. The bent guardrail on the side of the road hadn’t been enough to stop it. That vehicle now lay on its roof near the bottom, like a large dead June bug. Several small trees had been plowed over in its path. Firefighters were unfurling hoses from a pair of fire trucks angled on the side of the road. I stared down at the crumpled vehicle. Even with the covering of dust, I was pretty sure it had been big and black.
Could anyone have made it out alive?
An ambulance screamed along the highway and inched past the row of stopped cars. The wail of the siren sent shivers down my spine. I hoped the paramedics had made it in time. Sometimes these things look worse than they are, I told myself. Maybe the people in the car had survived. Even from that distance, I could tell it wasn’t likely.
A pair of firefighters in bulky brown gear and what looked like respirators on their backs made their way down the steep hillside. One had a hose snaked over his shoulder. Two others followed with ropes. As the first pair began to spray foam on the smoking wreck, the QPP officer approached my car and barked at me to get back in. A second officer had just finished setting up cones to close off the two lanes. He had begun to direct traffic back the way we’d come.
“This accident,” I said, “what happened?”
“Sorry, madame. We can’t really talk about it. You need to get back in your vehicle.”
“Please. Was it a black Cadillac Escalade?”
That got his attention. “Why do you ask?”
Of course, I hadn’t really wanted to get his attention. “No reason. I just saw one earlier.”
“And?”
“He was way over the speed limit. He passed me on the right, when I got on the highway near Hull, driving really aggressively. Then he came right up on my bumper and...so I wondered if it was the same one.”
“Can I see your licence and registration, madame?”
“My licence and registration? Why?”
“I’d like your name. In case we need to follow up.”
I could tell by his guarded expression as I handed over my licence that the crumpled vehicle was indeed the Escalade. And I knew as I watched the firefighters losing battle below that the driver would never give anyone the finger again. A blue truck from Remorquage Tom et Jerry edged closer to the scene, but I doubted there’d be much left to tow.
“Thank you, Madame Silk. We will contact you if we need to take a statement.” He pointed in the opposite direction. “You can turn around and go back the way you came. Take the old highway back to St. Aubaine.”
“I don’t think I can drive just yet,” I said.
He nodded.
“Do you ever get used to this?” I asked.
“No, madame,” he said.
He rejoined his colleague redirecting traffic. I sat there feeling sick as a body was unloaded from the smoking wreck.
The Chez Fred’s Special
Poutine
Okay, no one I know actually makes poutine at home. That’s why we have restaurants. But its hedonistic qualities make it Quebec’s favourite junk food.
2 cups beef gravy (you can make it if that’s important to you) Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
2 pounds Quebec potatoes, peeled and hand-cut into French fries
½ pound fresh cheese curd, crumbled
Vegetable oil for deep-frying
Fry the potatoes in hot vegetable oil until golden brown. Remove and drain on paper towels. Season with salt and pepper. To serve, mound the fries into bowls and cover with cheese curd. Spoon the gravy over the fries and cheese curd. Eat immediately! Serves four.
Two
As I drove through the village, I couldn’t help noticing the neon yellow banners with red letters screaming EN FEU! HOT STUFF! The banners were strung across Rue Principale. Naturally, here in Quebec, the French words had to be twice as big as the English ones. We have rules. Rules or no rules, the signs didn’t mean anything to me in either official language. Every now and then, the village boosters go off the deep end. This might have been one of those times. I was shaking my head as I drove under the banners and past a line of large white trucks parked casually by the side of the road for no reason that I could see. And frankly, at that moment, I didn’t care.
I needed an ATM, and I needed it fast. I snagged a parking spot then stood in line for fifteen minutes at the Caisse Populaire. I stared in disbelief at the crowd ahead of me. There’s never a lineup in St. Aubaine. And if two people are waiting, they strike up a conversation, or suggest that you go ahead. It’s that kind of community.
St. Aubaine is full of aging hippies, old farming families, snowboarders, retired public servants, struggling musicians, blocked writers, starving artists, bad poets and, increasingly, young organic farmers. Oh, right, and tourists. We locals lean toward clothing from Mountain Equipment Co-op, or Tigre Géant, or even Canadian Tire. But this crowd seemed fairly young and oddly urban. Lots of tousled blondes with the kind of hair you see in magazines. Who were these people? Whoever, they weren’t inclined to chat with the locals.
Was some edgy new band playing at the Pub Britannia perhaps? Maybe they were attracting the trendy set.
A woman with spiked hair the colour of a freshly polished fire truck pulled up to the edge of the sidewalk in a white Lexus SUV. She hopped out, left it running and raced over to CeeCeeCuisine, the pricey new kitchen supply shop. I was still cooling my jets in line when she returned, carrying a cluster of distinctive green shopping bags with the CeeCeeCuisine logo. She opened the idling SUV and tossed the parcels in. She slammed the door, hustled over and elbowed ahead of me. Stunned as I was by this behaviour, I still couldn’t help noticing the startling amount of stretch in her dress and the equally amazing number of rhinestones studding her black glasses. Me, I probably wouldn’t have chosen a leopard-patterned headband to go with that look. She sported straw sandals with towering wedge heels, probably the highest I had ever seen in St. Aubaine. Even so, she hardly came up to my chin. She was as stocky as my old washing machine. The wedgie sandals showed off the blood-red polish on her toenails.
I didn’t bother to argue over my place in the line. I’m never in a hurry to deal with any bank. When I finally got up to the machine, I popped in my card, pecked in my PIN and picked SAVINGS. I already knew that Mother Hubbard’s CHEQUING cupboard was bare.
Oops.
I downgraded my request to twenty dollars.
The hell with you, said the ATM, or words to that effect.