Free Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle by Mary Jane Maffini Page A

wouldn’t want to be without your electric fans this summer, that’s for sure.”
    â€œPeople’s bills are private, Josey. I believe I’ve mentioned that on a previous occasion.”
    â€œWell, sure. But I didn’t think you meant private from me. I can understand if you don’t want Dr. Prentiss to see them, but I’m staff.”
    Liz said, “Hey. I’m the best friend, remember? Through thick and thin for more than forty years. Anyway, what’s that kid doing here at this time of night? She can’t be biking all the way up those back roads in the dark. Too dangerous.”
    When Josey doesn’t go home at night, there’s always a good reason for it. I don’t push her to tell about it. I know she’s proud. And I also know that Uncle Mike spends a lot of time in the local hoosegow. When he’s home, some of his friends leave a bit to be desired. “She’s spending the night here. She’ll give Tolstoy a couple of extra walks to make up for the ones he’s missed.”
    Liz shrugged. “Your life.”
    Josey went back to the mail. “And what’s this one? Oops, that doesn’t look good either. But here’s an XpressPost.”
    I snatched the mail from her. Looked like I was going to have to tackle that ridiculous cookbook after all.
    The next morning, Josey was gone before I got out of bed. Her note said: “Tolstoy had a nice long walk. Your coffee is made and in the thermos.”
    The day was soft and warm, still comfortable, although the mist rising from the Gatineau hinted at lurking humidity. That was the perfect time to take a stroll by the river’s edge with Tolstoy. I ambled along and thought about the cookbook project. It was the kind of day when anything seemed possible. When I got back, well before Lola would be at her desk, or even out of bed, I left a message telling her I’d signed the contract and would get it back to her pronto. Then I poured myself a cup of French roast. I took the mug of coffee out on to the porch, where I could watch the river and take note of what my flowers had managed in twenty-four hours. I am a flower person. Outdoor flowers. Call me hopeless with herbs or grass or indoor plants. Let me add that I like to ease into the day watching for passing cardinals, jays and finches. And I figured the soothing atmosphere on my porch might awaken my cookbook muse. Lola was right. I did need to do this project. My main hope was that, unlike the previous day, today would be tranquil. I sat there imagining what an erotic cookbook would look like, or at least what the kind I might write might look like. I stared through the trees to the water, hoping for inspiration from nature.
    A bearlike man lumbered around the corner of the house. I jumped, spilling my coffee. There are people you don’t want to see in your backyard in the morning. Sgt. F. X. Sarrazin of the St. Aubaine police, for example. Everything about him reminded me of the events which had led to Marc-André’s current situation. Scenes flickered through my mind like a bad reel of film.
    â€œMadame Silk,” he said.
    No point in staying outside and having Sarrazin ruin the view. One bright note, at least Josey had already cleaned up after herself and departed, leaving no indication she’d ever been there. Possibly she’d even gone to school, although that would have been a surprise. At any rate, she and Sgt. Sarrazin were not a good mix in an enclosed space, so I was thankful. I pointed toward the sofa. But as usual on these visits, he chose the delicate Queen Anne chair. I was sure I heard it squeal as he lowered his bulky body onto it. I took the wingback.
    Tolstoy loved Sarrazin, for some reason. He had his head scratched and lay down at Sarrazin’s size thirteens, smiling.
    Sarrazin glanced around at the sad philodendron, another relic from my aunt. He reached over and picked off a couple of