LITMIR.BIZ

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      “Chelsea. And she’s an executive assistant.”

      Naturally, Chelsea did not answer when I crossed the foyer again and knocked at the office door. Probably still cowering under the desk, I decided.

      My cell phone rang, and I snatched it up.

      “Philip?” I said, continuing to walk back down the hill toward the village.

      “Oh là là.” My friend Hélène Lamontagne laughed her silvery laugh. “I have been leaving messages at home for you.”

      “Haven’t been home most of the day,” I said.

      “You are lucky. It will be like an oven at your place now. Why don’t you and Tolstoy come over for a swim?”

      That was a tricky one. How can I loathe Jean-Claude and spurn his offers, then go take a dip in his oversize pool? Where’s the dignity in that?

      “The thing is, Hélène, Jean-Claude and I had a little dust-up over my property today. I can hardly...”

      “Fiona. I am not my husband. I have nothing to do with his real estate business. Nothing. I am your friend, and I am asking you to come to my home and keep me company. How can that be a problem? By the way, do you know where Josée can be found? She might like to join us.”

      Josey was looking particularly innocent at the moment, which made me wonder if she’d set up the call.

      “I will see the three of you soon,” Hélène said. “And by the way, Jean-Claude will be out this evening. He has an important meeting.”

      “It may take a while,” I said. “I found a wallet belonging to one of the En feu! producers, and I need to return it to her.”

      “Ah oui. Who is it? I know a lot of those people.”

      “Harriet Crowder.”

      “Oh là là là.” I imagined Hélène rolling her eyes.

      The level of excitement rose higher every hour. In fact, the whole village seemed to be on the verge of frenzy.

      “Wow, no wonder people are excited, Miz Silk. It’s Marietta!” She tugged at my hand, pulling me along the sidewalk toward the waterfront.

      Marietta turned to us in surprise. A small puff of smoke escaped from her lips. She dropped a cigarette and ground it out. “You caught me. It’s naughty, I know, but...”

      Josey blurted out. “This is Miz Fiona Silk, and I am her executive assistant, Josey Thring. We’re big fans of yours.” She snapped open her little notebook with the blue pages, I suppose to drive home the executive assistant point.

      Up close, Marietta was a feast for the eyes. Her luxurious mane of chestnut hair did not frizz in the heat and humidity like mine. Her make-up was perfect, the olive skin glowing and flawless. Her full red lips curved in a wickedly conspiratorial smile. The smile went all the way to her dark brown eyes. Every male who walked past us did a double take. I attributed those reactions to Marietta’s dangerous curves and her startling cleavage.

      Josey said, “We’re looking for Harriet Crowder. She’s your producer, isn’t she?”

      Marietta bubbled with laughter. “Oh, my poor Harriet. What’s she done now?”

      Josey said. “Nothing, except yell at some people. But that’s none of our business. Miz Silk found her wallet. We tried to talk to her at the Wallingford Estate but...”

      “Her tail was on fire?” Marietta laughed.

      “Something like that,” I said, cutting into the conversation. “She was pretty fierce.”

      “Poor little Harriet. She’s upset about a few things today. She’s really all sound and fury, and one of these days she really should learn to pick her battles. Even so, I don’t know why people are so frightened of her. Sticks and stones, right?”

      “Perhaps you could give her the wallet,” I suggested, not wanting to test the sticks and stones theory. “Since you know her.”

      Marietta put her soft, warm hand on my arm. “I’m just off to meet someone, or I’d love to. But listen, I’m sure I saw Harriet heading toward the parking lot across the street. We’re having a bit of trouble with the air conditioning up at the estate. When she gets too hot, she gets into her SUV to cool off. She doesn’t usually go anywhere, so you should be able to catch up with her, no problem.” As Marietta sashayed off, a perfectly normal-looking man walked straight into a telephone pole as he followed her progress.

      “She was real nice, wasn’t she, Miz Silk? And she’s so beautiful. Just like on television.”

      “Right. Let’s just get this over with.”

      I looked both ways but didn’t see any combinations of red hair and leopard print. Or any tails on fire. Normally someone like Harriet would have stood out in our community. But today, the population had changed.

      Josey raised her binoculars. She never leaves home without them. “Oh, Marietta was right. There’s the SUV!”

      I saw the spiky red head disappearing into the Café Belle Rive.

      Josey said, “I can’t believe someone would drive down that little hill instead of walking. Come on, Miz Silk.”

      Sometimes it’s a curse to be polite. “Excuse me,” I said as we pushed through the crowd on the sidewalk. “Pardon me. Coming through. Excuse me.” Talk about a waste of words. I might as well have been invisible. Josey was quite far ahead of me before I finally broke through a knot of chattering young women, but she waited for me to catch up.

      “Miz Silk, you’ll never get anywhere if you wait for people to let you do what you want.”

      The story of my life.

      The Belle Rive was a venerable restaurant in a restored building teetering on the edge of the Gatineau River. It’s a popular spot for tourists and locals. The tourtière and chutney are homemade, and the salads come from a local organic farm. The house wine is very drinkable, and no one there is ever in a hurry. Perhaps there’s something romantic about eating French country cooking on the misty shore, because a high percentage of the diners always seemed to be holding hands and gazing with cow-eyed admiration at the person opposite. I followed Josey through the door. Usually at that time of day, the restaurant celebrated happy hour with cocktails and canapés. It was way too late for lunch, and dinner service didn’t begin before seven.

      A beaming young woman carrying a stack of menus greeted us. “I’m sorry. We’re full, with a forty-five minute wait. You might try Oops! across the street.”

      “Just looking,” Josey said, slithering past her. She quickly checked the dining room and scooted out to the outdoor seating.

      “We’re trying to find an, um, acquaintance,” I said. “Do you mind if we check on the verandah?”

      Of course, it was a bit too late to ask permission. Josey had disappeared.

      “No problem,” the hostess said. “Let me know if you want to reserve a table for later.”

      As usual, every seat on the verandah was occupied. No one looked like Harriet Crowder. But at the far end on the right was a table tucked out of view. I happened to know that spot had the best view of the river. An oversized bag with the En feu! Hot Stuff! logo hung over the side of a chair, but I couldn’t see the people at the table.

      “That must be her bag. Excuse me, pardon me,” I said as I eased my way along the narrow passageway toward the end of the verandah, trying not to let my overstuffed carryall knock anything off the intimate little café tables. I couldn’t help but note that everyone seemed to be sipping chilled wine and gazing at their partners with something like ardour.

      Josey had already reached the end, eager to tell Harriet that we had her wallet, I suppose. I could feel a puce blush spreading

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