slammed down the phone. A new behaviour for me. Thanks to Philip’s stonewalling, I was learning fast that there was more satisfaction in being the slammer rather than the slammee, which up until that moment had been the pattern in our relationship. I knew what he was up to. Wait me out, wear down my resistance. Over the years of our marriage, he had built up a stock of real estate and investments, not to mention what the legal types call “the matrimonial home”. I still thought of it as the place where I’d spent my paycheques for years. Anyway, I was much happier in my humble cottage. Nevertheless, the law said I was entitled to a serious chunk of Phil’s nest egg. Without a doubt, Phil would manage to prevaricate and hide assets, many of which I had contributed to myself. That was fine. I just wanted to pay my taxes and my hydro bill before something very bad happened.
Of course, I’d been pussyfooting around. But Philip wasn’t one to tiptoe. He knew I had assets too. The tumbledown cottage, the two-acre lot. When my Aunt Kit had owned this land, it had been in the back of beyond. Now it was prime real estate. Phil had calculated that value at the current market price, using what Jean-Claude could get for it, as far as I could tell. Of course, he hadn’t bothered to subtract the cost of upgrading the house to bring it up to contemporary standards. Not surprising, since that was something I probably would never do. That was all I had, really. I’d already pretty well blown through part of my RRSPs trying to make a go of writing, without going back to the not-so-wonderful government day job. I had years before I could access my pension, and I’d made sure the rest of the RRSPs were locked in. Aunt Kit had left me some crystal and china, which I loved, but even with the inflated estimates from Phil’s lawyer, it still wasn’t much. Luckily, Phil had never thought much of Aunt Kit’s taste in art.
I had to do something to take my mind off that. I drifted into the kitchen, which is pretty and pine, but not actually large enough for pacing. I stared around at the rustic cupboards and the wheezing old fridge. The open shelves looked pretty enough with the Fiestaware that Kit had collected. She’d sought out all the colours—ivory, cobalt, light green, turquoise, yellow and red—at second hand stores and garage sales over the years. The dishes didn’t get used enough, but I loved the look of them. The kitchen served mostly as a bar and dog food storage area. The fridge did a pretty good job of keeping my hummus fresh. The freezer section held ice cubes and a stack of diet dinners. Except for the microwave, the kitchen was the same as my childhood memories.
No matter how I looked at it, I couldn’t see too many erotic food possibilities coming out of this. Unless there was a market niche for an erotic cookbook using microwavable, prepackaged food. That I could manage.
I opened a few of the lower cupboards and poked around. I had a vague recollection that Kit had owned some cookbooks. Where would they be? Stored away? In the attic crawlspace? It was way too hot to climb up there amid the boxes. A person could die.
A new plan was needed.
I’d given up on Phil phoning me back when I finally bit the bullet and headed to the village. I opened the door to the basement and yelled goodbye to Tolstoy. He’d prefer chilling out in the cold storage room. And I figured I’d find support at the health food store. The owner, Woody Quirke, was the only person I’ve ever been close to who actually made his living from food. Granted, he was an old draft dodger, reputed former biker and resident English rights curmudgeon. But he was my friend. I picked up the contract to mail it, and before I reached the front door, Tolstoy bounded up the stairs. His Samoyed instincts are pretty good. He must have figured out where I was going.
Just as we were getting into the car, I remembered Harriet Crowder’s wallet. Why hadn’t I thought about that when Sarrazin was there? I could have unloaded the damn thing onto the police. Oh well, I hoped Harriet had gotten the message that I had it. If not, she might be cancelling her cards and getting new ID that morning. I knew how much I would hate that. I grabbed the wallet and hopped into the Skylark. Tolstoy joined me.
“One quick stop before Woody’s air conditioning,” I told him.
I parked in the shade of a spreading maple tree, told Tolstoy to stay on a shady part of the lawn and trotted up the stairs to the Wallingford Estate. I glanced around the huge cool foyer for someone I knew.
No sign of the plump, friendly Brady with his twinkling nose stud and fauxhawk. Nor of the cool, blonde glamourpuss Anabel Huffington-Chabot. Neither Marietta nor Rafaël was to be seen. Probably they were all behind the scenes doing whatever you do when a hit cooking show goes into production. Naturally, Harriet Crowder was not in sight either.
I asked a few scurrying helpers if they knew where I could find her. I got shrugs, plus a few muffled comments that told me she might not be the most popular person on the property. No one wanted to find her for me. No one gave a flying fig about her wallet.
I couldn’t leave Tolstoy long. I headed for the office and knocked.
The door was whipped open by a sweet, smiling young woman, about twenty-five, with soft honey-brown hair. At last, someone looked like a normal human being.
“Can you help me find Harriet Crowder?” I said. “My name is Fiona Silk. It’s very important and...”
She smiled at me, uncomplicated and friendly as any girl next door. She had a firm handshake and musical voice. Her brown eyes were meltingly warm. I felt a rush of relief as she waved me into the office. “I’m Chelsea Brazeau. I’m Anabel’s executive assistant.”
She must have been the person Harriet had savaged the evening before. That seemed a shame, because unlike Anabel Huffington-Chabot-Homewrecker, this Chelsea was lovely and welcoming. How did she manage to keep that warm smile while working for the Ice Queen and having to fend off the Red Devil? Didn’t seem fair, all those extremes in temperature. “Oh, right,” I said, glad that Josey wasn’t there. “Executive Assistant.”
“It’s a catch-all phrase,” she chuckled. “I’m doing the PR for the Wallingford Estate, and that means everything, including watering plants and unpacking boxes. And on one spectacular occasion, fixing a leaking pipe in the kitchen. You probably know that we’ll soon be reopening as InnCroyable. It’s going to be the best spa and restaurant in the region. Not that we’re bragging,” She gestured toward a wall with plans, plaques and photos prominently displayed.
“I didn’t know that.”
“You’re about to hear plenty about that and the shoot for En feu! Hot Stuff! You can’t imagine how exciting this is for me. I’m from a small town in northern Saskatchewan. I can’t believe I’m working right next to these big names in this beautiful place. But I’ll try to find Harriet for you. I warn you, though. Her bite is worse than her bark, and her bark’s awful. She hates me because I’m working with Anabel. That reminds me, I have to connect with her in...” she glanced at her watch, “Ohmigod, two minutes.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said.
“I’m so sorry. Let’s see. Harriet, Harriet, where can you be? I’m really scattered. We’ve been overwhelmed getting ready for all this plus our grand opening. Anabel’s got some promo shots on the putting green shortly.” She gestured vaguely at the bag of golf clubs in the corner.
I watched as she dialed number after number.
At the sound of heels clicking on the marble floor, she grimaced. “No luck. And here comes Anabel. We never, never, never want to keep Anabel waiting.”
“Do you have Harriet’s cell number?”
“I wish. Harriet doesn’t give it to anyone. She likes to be the caller.”
“I
