to the Lamontagnes’. Tolstoy came along for the walk, and I took the Frisbee. I tire of the Frisbee long before Tolstoy does, but there were other distractions for him. He likes to piddle his way up the long, elegant driveway leading to the two-storey grey stone building that tells you Jean-Claude Lamontagne has a shitload of money and isn’t afraid to show it. Since Jean-Claude is never home in the day and rarely in the night, I felt I could visit without running into him and having to deflect yet another offer to purchase my property.
Hélène was a bit surprised when Tolstoy and I returned her recycled newspapers. “I hope they were useful.”
“Not as useful as you’ll be. You know everything that goes on with the ritzy and glitzy. What’s the real story on the Flambeau? Could it have been rigged?”
She lowered her voice although we were alone in the sixthousand square foot house. “ Oh là là, Fiona. They are saying Mme Flambeau must have slept with Benedict Kelly to make such a crazy decision.”
“Slept with him? Ha ha. Isn’t she about eighty?”
“Oui, that’s what they’re saying. Et non, she’s not even sixty.”
“Have you never met her?” Sooner or later, Jean-Claude and Hélène meet everybody who is anybody in Quebec.
“No. But I hear from people who know that she is really spéciale.”
Meaning bizarre.
“I hope this doesn’t upset you,” Hélène broke in.
“No, no, I hadn’t seen him for seven years. Eight really.”
“And you seem so dérangée and after all...”
“Of course, I’m bothered. Benedict was murdered. You should hear the rumours about me. And I’m getting framed. Come to think of it, maybe Mme Flambeau was framed.”
“Oh là là.”
“Hélène. I’d like to talk to Mme Flambeau. Any idea of how to reach her?”
“No.”
“Perhaps you could...?”
“I would love to help, but I am very busy lining up volunteers to sell tickets to the One Act Play Competition. As soon as that’s over, I will have time to make a few extra calls.”
“Right, well, you could put me down to sell a few tickets.”
“Ten?”
“Absolutely.” Ten is a lot of tickets when you think about it, especially if you’re trying to unload them to my friends. “While I’m here, you know anything about this local poet Marc-André Paradis?”
“He is supposed to be very good. Very émotif. He has a car repair shop somewhere on Autoroute 105, but that is all I know.”
I lit up. “Car repair? Excellent.”
Eight
I could understand why Mme Velma Flambeau, keeper of the Flambeau fortune, might want an unlisted number, but it seemed an unusual thing for a mechanic to have one. I was on my tenth attempt to find a telephone number for Marc-André Paradis when I decided on another strategy. I slipped into my old jean jacket, tucked my hair under a Blue Jays cap and started up the Skylark.
Five minutes later, I pulled into Auto Service Tom et Jerry, formerly Tom and Jerry’s Service Station. I filled up the tank, although I wondered if that was an unwise investment considering the Skylark’s terminal condition. Inside, I used my credit card to finance the unwise investment.
As soon as Tom recognized me, he swept a couple of newspapers underneath the counter and pulled out his spray container of Windex.
“Oh, hi, Fiona,” he said, “what’s new?”
“Nothing at all.”
He blinked. Furtiveness did not become him.
“Tell me,” I said, “you guys ever hear of someone named Marc-André Paradis? Supposed to run a repair shop up the highway a bit.”
“Paradis? Yeah, he does high-end imports only.” He flicked a glance toward the Skylark.
“Not for me, of course. I’m happy with you guys. Naturally.” Not that my car runs right or anything.
“Not for you?”
“A friend was asking. She has a...Saab.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“She should try the Saab dealer then. Paradis only takes people on referral.” Tom’s tone indicated he thought this was a pretty good idea. You could get a higher grade of customer. Not one driving a Skylark, for instance.
* * *
Sarrazin made me nervous. Not just because he was in my living room at nine in the evening when you’d think a rural detective should be off duty. Not just because it hadn’t been all that long since his last visit. Not just because he seemed to have spent the day trying to tie me closer to Benedict’s death, if that was possible. He also made me nervous because he was a one-man crowd.
He shook off his umbrella and headed straight into my living room, cutting off my suggestion we talk in the kitchen.
I hated that. My living room is where I relax with my dog in front of the fireplace, where I read, where I lose at Scrabble, where I laugh with my friends. I didn’t want it contaminated by a bear with the power to arrest me.
At least I had support; Liz had dropped in for a drink for the third time that day. She took one look at Sarrazin and headed straight for the front door.
“Time for me to make my house call,” she said. Since when did Liz make house calls?
“Where are you going?” I whispered. “Stay put.”
Talk about feeling betrayed. Maybe Liz was my alibi, but if she hadn’t insisted on tying one on for her forty-fifth, I would have been curled up in bed in my flannel pjs that night and, assuming no one would have killed Benedict before my astonished eyes, I wouldn’t have needed an alibi in the first place. All to say, the least she could do was hang around when the police pulled out the rubber hoses.
“You know, this is getting serious, Fiona. It might be time for you to get a lawyer,” she said, closing the door in my face.
Sarrazin glared at the Scrabble game as he lowered himself onto the Queen Anne chair. Naturally. The larger the man, the more likely he will be to sit on the only small, delicate chair in the room. I took my place in the wingback.
Tolstoy greeted Sarrazin with a wagging tail. I did not suggest coffee this time. There are limits.
Sarrazin loosened his size seventeen collar and cleared his throat before frog-marching me through every minute of the night of Benedict’s death. One more time. Exquisite attention to detail. Had I gone to the Ladies’ Room in Les Nuances? How long had I been
