and for encouraging Irish expatriates to pay for his drinks. And here all along they were serious works of literature. It just goes to show you.
The Flambeau was an erotic dream for poets. A serious pile of cash donated by the philanthropic widow of an industrialist. Of course, a lot of good it had done Benedict.
* * *
That’s the trouble with national public radio. It gets around. I wasn’t the only one who heard it. My ex-husband-to-be didn’t start with any of the more conventional conversational openings. “This is a singularly inconsiderate and flagrant thing to do, even for you, Fiona. This kind of behaviour is bound to impact your divorce settlement negatively.”
“Leave a message after the beep,” I said.
“And don’t pretend you’re not there. I know better.”
My divorce settlement. Just what I didn’t want to discuss. I needed a clear head to talk to Philip. And if I’d had a clear head, I never would have picked up the phone in the first place.
“Rats,” I said. “I thought you were in Vancouver.”
“Even three thousand miles away, Fiona, you manage to embarrass me.”
Embarrass him? I loved that.
* * *
I was still distracted by the idea of Benedict’s body, the Flambeau thing, my blue fingertips, and Philip’s call when I realized Tolstoy was three hours late for his morning outing.
“Good dog. Keep those legs crossed,” I said, fishing out my rain gear. And his Frisbee to make up for the long wait.
Flashbulbs went off in my face as soon as I opened the door. I did my damnedest to slam it before the trio of reporters reached my front steps. “Ms. Silk, how does it feel...? Ms. Silk, have you any comment...? Fiona, can we get a shot of the four-poster?”
Someone jammed his foot in the door.
Tolstoy recovered from the shock before I did and managed a convincing bark. The foot withdrew. Twelve minutes remained of my fifteen minutes of fame, and I didn’t think I could live through them. For once I was glad I had no living relatives, if I didn’t count Phillip, and why would I. Still I needed a solution to the reporters on the doorstep problem, or Tolstoy was going to have a long wait for relief.
* * *
It wouldn’t be the first time I’d asked Hélène Lamontagne, my good friend and closest neighbour down the road, to bail me out. Hélène is pure-laine Québécoise, charming and elegant. Plus she’s beautiful, a size four, with surprisingly becoming burgundy hair and a flair for the dramatic. She’s also one hell of a community organizer. Never mind. I like her anyway. In spite of the fact that her wretched husband had been trying to oust me from my little converted cottage on its two-acre riverside lot ever since I’d moved in two years earlier. He might have been sleaze personified, and I might have hated the sight of him, but Hélène’s a different matter.
“Fiona! I have been so worried. I phoned and phoned and you didn’t answer,” Hélène said.
“I’m not answering the phone,” I said.
“But what is this terrible news?”
I summed up my shock, paranoia, acute embarrassment and desire to evade the media.
“ Oh là là,” she said. Before I met Hélène, I would have sworn nobody outside of the movies ever says oh là là. But Hélène sometimes even adds an extra là.
“It is a shame. Right after he won such a big prize too. But Benedict was always trouble,” she said.
“No kidding. Which reminds me, do you still have any newspaper write-ups about Benedict winning the Flambeau?”
“In the recyclage.”
“Good. Recycle them to me. I need them.”
“And now you will need new sheets too.”
“Not only that, but Tolstoy needs to pee, and I need a diversion.”
“ Pas de problème. Leave it to me. By the way, did I mention I still need volunteers for the Charity Auction next month?”
“Anything,” I said. “Just get those turkeys off my lawn.”
* * *
The media vans peeled out of my driveway, three seconds after Mme Jean-Claude Lamontagne, glamorous wife of St. Aubaine’s most successful developer, let it slip to a reporter that she’d just sighted Fiona Silk, prime suspect, pawing through the black push-up bras over at the Boutique Minou. As soon as the vans disappeared, Tolstoy and I dashed out. My mind was on Hélène’s discarded newspapers. Tolstoy’s mind was on lower things.
* * *
Too bad there’s no answering system for doors. People could leave little messages, and you could let them know whether you were in...or not. Hi, this is Fiona and I never, never, never answer my door, but go ahead and leave a message if it makes you happy. Knock, knock...Hi, Jack here, I want to read your meter...give me a call...Hi, this is your newspaper carrier, you owe me for July and August and...Hi, how well do you know your Bible? I’d like to tell you how you can find peace and contentment. I’ll be back next Saturday morning at about seven-thirty. Hi, this is the media. We’d like to smear this story all over every front page and television set in the country. How about opening the door and spilling your guts?
But Dr. Liz Prentiss doesn’t stop just because you don’t answer. When I finally capitulated, she breezed through and slammed the door on a ferret-faced reporter just back from a wild goose chase to Boutique Minou.
She said, “Get me a drink on the double. The police have been trying to poke holes in your so-called alibi.”
What are best friends for?
Four
“What do you mean ‘so-called alibi’?”
“I’m your alibi. Remember? And the local hotshots just blew a lot of the taxpayers’ dollars trying to catch me in a lie.”
“Okay, but why ‘so-called’ ?”
“Get a grip. Your hands are shaking. Make sure you don’t spill my drink.”
She was right. My hands were shaking. After all, she is a doctor (even if no one can figure out when she keeps office hours), and doctors are trained to recognize things like shaky hands.
“I’ve been fingerprinted. I’ve outrun the media. I’ll never be able to sleep in my bed again. I can shake if I want to. What do you mean ‘poking holes in’?”
“Relax. They’re just doing their job.” Easy for her. She was already fully relaxed in the bean-bag chair in my living room, swilling the final two inches of my last bottle of Courvoisier.
“Yeah, but ‘poking holes’ in. I don’t like the sound of that.”
Liz rubbed Tolstoy’s
