born yesterday.”
“Oh.”
“The point is, after the loans and things are paid, I have enough to send him off in style. With a party. So select your date and make your arrangements.”
I cast around for more objections. Bridget reached into the green bag and produced a squarish object in a burgundy velvet bag. Behind the successful businesswoman exterior, I sensed Bridget’s emotional protection crumbling. She slipped the velvet bag off the object which I had already figured contained Benedict’s ashes. She ran her fingers over the sleek mahogany box containing the urn. A couple of tears dripped onto it.
Fine. I know when I’m beaten. “I guess I could do it.”
Bridget stood up and hobbled toward the fireplace. She got her balance long enough to place the urn in the centre of the mantel. “Thank you. You know, I came to ask you to do these things, but the thing is, I really wanted to talk to someone who knew and appreciated him.”
I bit my tongue.
She talked. And appreciated. Two hours later, I decided to call Cyril Hemphill to pour Bridget home.
The urn remained.
Now I couldn’t even look at my fireplace.
Nine
Another trip to the village. No way to avoid it. I was out of dog biscuits again and, trust me, life wasn’t worth living without them.
Plus Phillip had called twice (Los Angeles and Denver). Even Tolstoy didn’t care for the increasingly hostile tone of his messages, which was another reason to get out of the house, but the real problem was that I couldn’t take my mind off this scattering thing. How the hell was I ever going to reclaim my home with that miserable urn squatting on the mantelpiece?
On the bright side, the microscopic cheque I found in my mailbox meant a little of the green stuff to spread around.
It was raining too hard to walk. The Skylark responded with a click of the key in the ignition, the engine turned over and went back to bed. The good news was that at least I’d paid my Canadian Automobile Association premium, and it still had a month to run. For once, it was a slow day for Remorquage Bye-Bye. Tolstoy and I dashed through the downpour as the tow-truck pulled up.
“Can you take it to Marc-André Paradis’ garage?”
“Where’s that?”
“Up Highway 105, um, somewhere.” Water dripped off my nose.
“Never heard of it. You want to pay me to drive around and look for it? Extra eighty bucks an hour.”
Everybody’s an entrepreneur. The guy probably had a sex life too. “No thanks. Just haul it to Tom and Jerry’s.”
Tolstoy and I spent the next hour sulking to the tune of the “Water Music”. But sulk or no sulk, I needed to get around. I bit my lip for a long time before I called Cyril Hemphill. At least Cyril was happy about it. He and Tolstoy grinned dopily at each other in the front seat. I sat in the back enveloped in fog and bad feelings.
Cyril twisted right around to chat with me. “Don’t you worry, Miz Silk, I’m setting people straight about that murder.”
Tolstoy regarded Cyril with admiration.
“Yep, I told them no way a woman like you could beat a man to death. Leastways, not when you were...”
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
