Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle by Mary Jane Maffini

Author:Mary Jane Maffini [Maffini, Mary Jane]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781459716421
Publisher: Dundurn
Published: 2014-05-02T07:00:00+00:00

Epigraph

Liberty, equality, privacy. You can keep fraternity.

-Fiona Silk

Dogging Your Footsteps

When walking your pooch

Make sure you take care

To scoop up the poop that is sure to be there

Wherever you choose to be strolling beware

For the ooze on their shoes could drive others to tear

Out your hair

-Benedict Kelly

One

I wasn’t expecting a man in my bed. Especially not one who brought his own bottle of Pol Roger and two champagne flutes and had the good taste to have a Chopin nocturne playing on the stereo. But there he was. Light from my bedside lamp washed over Benedict Kelly’s bare torso as he lounged against the headboard of my antique four-poster, his famous lips curved in a smile.

I sagged against the foot of the bed and squinted at him. No question, it was Benedict, all right. Naked as a jay.

Being more or less three sheets to the wind myself, I leaned closer to get a better look and hiccuped softly in surprise. The light warmed the pale blue sheets, glinted off the glass in Benedict’s hand and illuminated Tolstoy, my so-called watchdog, zonked out at the foot of the bed, snoring.

On my bedside table, a yellow rose lay next to a box of chocolate truffles. Looked like Benedict believed candy was dandy, even though liquor was quicker. That night, he wasn’t taking any chances. The rose must have been for insurance.

It somehow crossed my soggy mind that good champagne, roses, music and soft lighting were not really Benedict’s style. He’d prefer to seduce you with a shot glass of Jameson whiskey, take-out fries and a promise to get your poems published.

But I had to admit, Benedict had never looked better. Rumpled and Irish and wild, with his grin a little more crooked than usual.

Too bad he was dead.

No. That couldn’t be. I reached over and touched his face. He was too cold to be alive. I fumbled for a pulse. No pulse. I crumpled on the floor and passed out, maybe from the shock of that cold cheek, maybe from my night on the town, it’s hard to say. When I opened my eyes again, a rosy dawn streaked the sky. A hangover drilled in my head. Tolstoy continued to snore, a smile on his sleeping Samoyed face, dreaming of Frisbees, most likely. And Benedict still grinned from the bed. As dead as ever.

I hoisted myself up by the footboard and gave Tolstoy a little shake. He whimpered but didn’t wake up.

I slid back to the floor and asked myself the key questions. Who had drugged my dog, killed my old flame and left me to inform the St. Aubaine police about the dead poet in my bed?

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