Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle. Mary Jane Maffini
Читать онлайн книгу.
plain bad when you don’t have twenty dollars in the bank.
I yanked back my card before the machine confiscated it. It looked like I would have to dig into my drop-dead emergency fund to get through the month.
Then what?
Nothing but grim days ahead.
I turned to leave and banged into Jean-Claude Lamontagne, my least favourite person on the planet. Too bad he’s also my closest neighbour. I might have been awash in perspiration, but Jean-Claude was a vision of dry elegance in his light-weight silk suit, silver grey, of course, one of the money colours.
“Hello, Fiona,” he said.
Personally, I thought the salon tan clashed with the cool of the handmade suit, but what do I know? I was wearing my pink flip-flops, my three-year-old jean skirt and a black T-shirt with sparkly white letters that said “Leave Me Alone”. I’d lost nineteen pounds since I’d started visiting Marc-André. Maybe it was the smell of all that institutional food. Whatever the reason, it had left me with a limited wardrobe.
Jean-Claude smirked, but then he usually does. Maybe it wasn’t the outfit. Had he seen the screen message of AMOUNT REQUESTED EXCEEDS BALANCE? Oh, rats. That was all I needed.
“How are you, Fiona?” Jean-Claude always speaks English to me. I’m pretty sure that’s just a dominance thing. He knows perfectly well I can get along en français. He makes a point of emphasizing my name.
“Très bien. Parfait. Fantastique,“ I said. I did my best to look like someone who hasn’t sailed past her agreed-on overdraft amount. “I have just been visiting my friend Marc-André Paradis at the rehab centre, and he seems to be getting better again.”
“Really? Yet you are...distressed.”
“Well, I’m a bit warm, if you must know.”
Of course, he could tell that by looking at me. My hair couldn’t have been frizzier if I’d stuffed my tongue into an electrical socket.
“Well, I can certainly understand. Things are definitely heating up in St. Aubaine,” he said.
I am always trying to figure out the subtext of what he says. Where there is Jean-Claude, there is always some kind of worrisome undercurrent. Plus, I trust him as far as I could toss him and his shiny new silver Porsche Carrera.
I smiled. “Absolutely.”
“Lot of building going on. Boom economy.”
Right. Now I knew where we were headed. Same old same old. Jean-Claude has been the driving force behind most of the development in and around our picturesque and historic town. He wasn’t satisfied with two monster home developments or his new batch of condos cluttering the waterfront. His latest plan was a grand riverside development just north of the village.
I said, “I’m not planning to sell. Not now. Not ever. Just in case that’s where you’re going.”
“I think you should hear me out. That place you have is a lot of work for a single woman, two acres, a big lawn, that old cottage needing repairs all the time. I couldn’t help noticing your driveway needs regrading. I imagine keeping the woods clear of deadfall must get you down. You must worry in this kind of weather. Brush fires, things like that.”
“I’m happy there.”
“I can’t even imagine the state of your wiring.” He gave an elegant shudder.
“I love my home. I believe I have mentioned that before. I am sure that my wiring is fine. And if it’s not, it can be fixed. I’ll never find another place like that.”
“Well, it’s a beautiful spot, and a lot of waterfront property for sure. But it’s not the only nice place in the area. Everyone knows you are broke. I could make it worth your while to sell.”
“No,” I said, a bit louder than I intended.
The stocky redhead with the towering heels had been lingering by her idling car, maybe counting her cash or even just waiting for someone. She checked her watch conspicuously and scowled in our direction. I was pretty sure that Jean-Claude was the focus of her attention.
Jean-Claude seemed to be totally unconscious of her presence as he turned his back on her. I wondered about that, since he does nothing without a good business reason. He didn’t even glance when a couple of giggling teenagers bumped into her. She dropped her purse, scattering the contents. She knew some interesting words, for sure. Everyone around got an earful as she jammed her belongings into an oversized red bag with En feu! written on it. Still swearing, she climbed back into the giant vehicle, squealed off down the road, turned sharply and roared up the hill to the old Wallingford Estate, now known officially as Le Domaine Wallingford.
I couldn’t help but watch her, but Jean-Claude didn’t take his eyes off me. “You could get something a bit more modern, lots of places with nice views a few miles north. Perkins, Kazabazua, Rupert.”
“I like the view I have now.”
“Continue to think about it,” he said. “I will be very fair to you. You’d have money to buy a new place and enough left over to pay things off. Relax a bit. Get some clothes, perhaps travel.”
I turned back to Jean-Claude. “Not a chance,” I said with a tight smile that hurt my mouth.
Jean-Claude had pressured my late aunt Kit in her final years. She’d left me the little house on the two wooded acres near the water. It came with all the memories of the happy summers I’d spent there as a child. I’d promised her I’d never let him get his manicured mitts on it.
“You wouldn’t have to worry about money any more.”
“Not happening.”
“And you could use a new car as well.”
I turned to cross the street.
“Well, give it some more thought and get back to me,” he called after me.
When you talk to Jean-Claude, it’s as though nothing you say registers. But this time, he seemed even more confident and arrogant than usual. Did he have some way of knowing that I was already worrying about my overdue tax bill? Jean-Claude had a finger in every pie in town. Everyone owes him something, except me, and he’s related to half the town. He probably knew the state of my bank account and how little time I had to settle my tax bill before the municipality could take my property.
I kept my head high and didn’t notice an object on the ground until I stumbled over it. I bent and picked up a leather wallet with a leopard print design. The red-headed woman must have dropped it.
I opened the wallet and checked for a name. Harriet Crowder would notice the loss of her ID, credit cards and five hundred dollars pretty quickly, I thought. I couldn’t find a telephone number. Maybe the people at CeeCeeCuisine would know how to contact her.
The sight of all that cash reminded me that I didn’t have a sou. I pulled out my cell phone and called Philip again. This time I didn’t even get Irene.
Across the road near CeeCeeCuisine, a huge sign said: Rafaël et Marietta seront ici!!! What did that mean? Who were they? Some people with a big budget were getting married? I wasn’t the only one who was asking. A small, excited clutch of people were pointing at the sign. Apparently, it was big news. Not big enough to take my mind off the horrible accident I’d seen, the fact that Marc-André was languishing in the rehab centre, while Phil was stonewalling, my bank account sat below zero, and Jean-Claude was scheming to get my property.
I had hit rock bottom.
That made me crave food with an equal measure of fat, starch and salt. The kind of stuff that you find in small-town greasy spoons. Stuff like poutine. I had just enough change to manage it. I made my way to Chez Fred, my favourite greasy spoon. The Chez has air conditioning, and air conditioning trumps everything. Plus the greasier the spoon, the better the poutine.
I glanced