That Lola. What a way with words.
I took a deep breath. “I don’t even get the idea of food being sexy. I can’t imagine a single sexy food.”
“Don’t be silly, darling. Food is very sexy. What about a can of whipped cream? Who doesn’t find that sexy?”
“Whipped cream? I don’t. Listen, Lola, thanks a lot, but I don’t believe I can do this project.”
“Think again, darling. I’ve got you a good advance too. I told them you have a desperately sick relative, and they coughed up a cheque. That doesn’t happen every day. Up front on signing. The contract’s on its way. I sent it yesterday by XpressPost. I’m surprised you don’t have it already.”
“Yesterday? But you hadn’t even spoken to me.”
“You should answer your phone more often. You’ll get a cheque on signing. I told them you’d be thrilled.”
“You told them what? Lola? Lola? Lola!”
I returned to the living room, somewhat dazed.
“I wouldn’t want you to break a rib, laughing like that,” I said to Liz, who seemed unable to catch her breath, once I told her Lola’s plan.
“Arrrotteeecogggbkkkk!” Liz howled before falling out of the beanbag chair with a thump.
“How can I do an erotic cookbook? It’s out of the question. Stop snickering. I mean it. You know, that’s a really unbecoming position you’re in,” I said.
She continued to wheeze.
I added, “And it does make your butt look big.”
Josey popped her head in the front door, clutching a fist full of envelopes. “What is that exactly? What she said?”
“Nothing,” I said.
Tolstoy had emerged from the cool of the basement. He greeted Josey by thumping his tail on the floor.
Liz wiped her eyes. “Now I’ve heard everything. It would be like asking SpongeBob SquarePants to head up the UN.”
“That’s so uncalled for, Dr. Big Butt.”
“But what is it, Miz Silk, that’s so uncalled for?”
“It’s just a mistake, Josey. A project that’s not going to happen.”
“Sure, whatever. It’s after nine. I picked up your mail. You shouldn’t leave it in your mailbox at night. People could steal it.”
“There’s nothing worth stealing, Josey,” I said.
“You never heard of identity theft, Miz Silk? Where do you want me to put this stuff?”
I held out my hand. I find it’s best to be brave with mail and face it squarely, no matter if FINAL NOTICE is stamped in red on the front. Of course, if I were brave, I would have picked up my mail in the daytime like everyone else.
“I’ll open it for you,” Josey said.
“Thank you, but that’s not necessary.” Of course, that was pretty well drowned out by the sound of the letter opener doing its thing.
“Oh boy, Miz Silk. Disconnect notice from Hydro Quebec. That’s bad. You wouldn’t want to be without your electric fans this summer, that’s for sure.”
“People’s bills are private, Josey. I believe I’ve mentioned that on a previous occasion.”
“Well, 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.
“Madame 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 leaves.
“I’m better with outdoor plants,” I said.
“I understand,” he said, in his completely unaccented English, “that you observed the vehicle that was involved in the crash on Highway 5 yesterday.”
“Yes.”
“I’d like you to tell me what you saw.”
“Was it a fatal accident?”
He nodded. “Yes, madame.”
“I wasn’t sure. The ambulances were...”
“You told the officer you had encountered the vehicle earlier.”
“I did.”
“Can you tell me what you observed?”
I said, “Okay. On the Hull ramp onto Highway