Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle. Mary Jane Maffini
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this little scene was playing out, a striking woman with shoulder-length blonde hair emerged from an office toward the back of the foyer. She closed the door behind her and headed in our direction. She must have been five nine, with a remarkable bosom, given how slender she was. I estimated the annual upkeep on those blonde highlights could have wiped out my little tax problem. Her crisply tailored cream suit must have been designed for her, then applied with a sprayer. Her expression told me we were going to get the boot, maybe because my three dollar pink flip-flops and the black T-shirt from Giant Tiger weren’t in the right league. At the sound of a shrill voice in the distance, she froze, pivoted and hurried up the wide main staircase, tanned legs moving fast, stiletto heels clicking. Whoever she was, she was beautiful, expensively dressed, confident and oddly familiar.
Josey probably has the loudest whisper anywhere. She turned to watch the splendid departure. “That’s Anabel Huffington-Chabot. She’s the person behind all this. And her husband too, but all everybody talks about is her.”
“Um, he’s no longer in the picture,” Brady whispered back.
I said, “Ah.” Sometimes no longer in the picture is best.
“She’s the queen now.” There was a funny little twist to his mouth. Stories to be told, I imagined, under the right circumstances.
“Oops,” Brady squeaked as Harriet Crowder burst into the foyer.
I stepped forward and said, “Excuse me...”
Harriet ignored me, pounded on the office door and yanked it open. We could hear a soothing, almost musical voice from inside. However soothing, it didn’t seem to do the trick.
“That looked like Harriet,” Josey whispered.
“Sure did,” Brady said.
Whoever was on the receiving end of the tirade had my sympathy. Brady shrugged. “I’m sorry. Harriet’s obviously in the middle of...”
Harriet Crowder’s voice rose like a siren. “You tell that bitch Anabel if I find her before she fixes this, I’ll split her down the middle and slow roast her on the barbecue. That’ll get the ratings up.”
She didn’t seem to notice us as she stalked out of the office and back the way she’d arrived. She also didn’t glance up the wide staircase, but if she had, Anabel Huffington-Chabot would have done well to dive out the nearest mullioned window.
Doors continued to bang along the corridor.
Josey said, “Wow.”
The door to the office closed softly.
“Oh, boy,” Brady said. “Poor Chelsea. She doesn’t deserve that.”
“Who’s Chelsea?” Josey said.
I gave her a nudge. “Never mind, Josey. Thank you, Brady.”
Brady said, “No problem. Chelsea’s Anabel’s EA. She’s a doll, unlike her boss.”
“What’s an EA?” Josey said.
“Nothing,” I said.
“Executive assistant,” Brady said. “In this case, to the world’s chilliest woman. But still better than Harriet, the red devil on steroids.”
I sighed.
“Executive assistant. Oh, boy.” Josey scribbled something in her little notebook.
I was pretty sure I hadn’t heard the end of that.
Brady said, “Um, I don’t think you should bother Chelsea yet. She just had a rough ride.”
Josey answered for me. “Is anybody else around? Marietta or Rafaël?”
I said, “We don’t really need to see anybody else.”
“Sorry I couldn’t help,” Brady said. “The thing is everyone’s terrified of Harriet. If there’s the slightest thing, she goes off the deep end. You just saw a sample of that.”
“Do you mind if we try to find her? Maybe she’ll calm down.”
“Sorry. We’re setting up for the production. I can’t let anyone have unaccompanied access to Wallingford House. We’re having a problem with light-fingered locals, I mean, visitors.”
“No! People stealing?” Josey said, scandalized.
Brady chuckled. “Yes. In fact, lots of local shops and suppliers and even farmers are dropping off wonderful gifts to show goodwill for the show. And half of these goodies are walking right out the back door. We’ve had to put a padlock on the freezer. You could wait here to see if she comes back.”
Josey drew herself up to her full height, five three on a good day. “Miz Silk would never steal anything.” Not like Uncle Mike for sure.
Brady’s eyes widened. “Oh, I’m sure of that, but Anabel Huffington-Chabot owns this facility, and she’d freeze me to death on the spot if I let you in.”
Josey echoed, “Facility,” slowly savouring the word. I imagined I’d be hearing more of it.
“Can’t I just leave the wallet with someone?” I said, feeling exasperated. “I’m just trying to do a good deed. And move on with my life.”
“I sympathize, but you picked the wrong person. Harriet doesn’t understand the concept of good deeds.”
“Fine, I’ll just mail it to her.”
Brady bit his lip, then said, “Of course, if anything goes wrong and Harriet needed the wallet tonight, she’d think nothing of suing you over it. She tends to win her lawsuits too. But it’s up to you. Perhaps you have time and money to spare.”
“But that’s hardly fair!” I said.
“Fair,” he twittered. “Another foreign concept to the red devil.”
Josey said, “Maybe we better wait.”
I thought I knew her motivation, and it wasn’t Harriet. “A couple more minutes wouldn’t hurt, I suppose. Don’t want to get sued. Do you have a ladies’ room I could use while I’m waiting?”
“Sure. Use the staff one right across there. All the prima donnas appear to be offstage.” He pointed to a door and scurried off down the hallway in the opposite direction from Harriet Crowder.
In this particular case, I was very happy to avoid the impending catfight between Harriet and Anabel. Conflict is not my best thing. And I really couldn’t imagine myself rooting for either one of them.
“I’ll keep an eye out, Miz Silk,” Josey said, obliquely.
“Before I go in, tell me, Josey. Did Brady have a diamond stud in his nose, or did I imagine that?”
She nodded. “Might have been cubic zirconium, but I’m betting it was a diamond. He’s really cute. He had a cool fauxhawk too.”
“What’s a...oh, never mind. I’m better off not knowing.”
As I pushed open the door, I took a deep breath. Since the previous autumn, I’d found ladies’ rooms alarming, and there were good reasons for that. Of course, there was no need to be skittish in a luxurious spot like this.
A person could get used to the subdued lighting, dark minimalist woodwork, toilet stalls with tumbled marble walls and dark-stained louvred doors. I had to admire the stacks of real towels and the delicate dispensers for soap and lotion. There was a lingering scent of fresh paint and new wood, two of my favourite fragrances. A pair of smartly dressed middle-aged women passed me chatting on the way out. One of them stopped to pick up a briefcase from the counter.
A minute after I entered a stall, I heard the click of stilettos outside my door. I thought nothing of it. Until I tried to open the door. I flipped the lock and turned the handle. Nothing happened.
Stuck? Not possible.
I