The first time I saw Marc-André Paradis, I tried not to stare. I peered around the small aluminum pre-fab garage instead of gawking at the man inside it. Spécialisé en voitures européennes, the sign said. Two Mercedes, an old Beemer and a green Jaguar were parked by the side. Classy company for the Skylark.
I’d imagined Marc-André Paradis to be scrawny and covered with grease, chain-smoking Gauloises, with a stubby pencil behind his ear and a demented poetic light in his eye. I wasn’t expecting the man we found, and I sure wasn’t expecting the effect he had on me.
I tried to look casual. I twisted my head to examine an old 10W40 poster on the inside of the door. What colour were his eyes? I’d never seen eyes that colour before, but I remembered the shade from the paint chips Josey had presented when she’d wanted to change the colour in my living room. Peacock Blue. The Peacock Blue had sounded wonderful, like floating in a vast calm lake. Josey had favoured Midnight to add drama. We’d settled on French Vanilla. You could get that same calm water feeling by falling into those eyes. Not that I could let myself look into them.
I heard Josey mutter something to me.
Kostas slapped Marc-André Paradis on the back. “This lovely lady here is Miz Fiona Silk from St. Aubaine, and her charming companion is Miss Josey Thring, also from the same place.”
Josey radiated pleasure. It’s not often she gets called charming. I tried to manage “lovely” but failed, partly because I could feel myself flushing. I hate flushing. I always turn an extreme shade of puce. The official colour of false pretenses. I figured this time would be no different.
“Good morning.” Josey held out her hand to shake Marc André Paradis’. “Nice of you to see us.” From Josey’s glance, I got the message loud and clear to smarten up.
Why was I wearing my oldest denims and a faded turtleneck the one time in my life when my clothes might have made a difference? Where was periwinkle when you really needed it?
I reached out my own hand, trying not to make eye contact with the blazing blue eyes or even to dwell on his forearm, tan and well-muscled with a sexy touch of grease.
If he thought it strange that Santa brought him a freckled teenager, a panting Samoyed and a tongue-tied goof with dewlaps, he didn’t let on. My only hope to regain my equilibrium was if, when he finally spoke, his voice came out high-pitched or quivery or nasal.
I focused on the gravel. I imagined streams of pheromones, doing triple spins past the garage sign. You are foolish in the extreme, I chided myself. All you are supposed to do is find out whether this man held any murderous, yet playful, resentment toward Benedict.
“You see, Mr. Paradis,” Josey smiled brightly, “Miz Silk’s beat-up old car is practically dead, and she’s a writer, so she doesn’t have two cents to rub together. So we were hoping...”
“A writer of romances,” Kostas said, wiggling his eyebrows. “And, of course, a great friend of the late Benedict Kelly.” Everything but the nudge-nudge wink-wink.
I whipped up my head in time to see Marc-André Paradis rub his chin in speculation. “It was a sad thing about Benedict’s death, madame. And some controversy, I believe.” His voice flowed smoother than Kostas’s Jameson. My knees wobbled.
“You’re aware he was murdered?” Josey said.
I would have kicked her if she hadn’t been a bit too far away.
“A tarrible thing. Tarrible. Tarrible,” said Kostas. “Of course, poor aould Benedict always lived such a life.”
Marc-André Paradis ran his hands through his cropped silver hair. “Of course. We all knew about that.” He didn’t mention my bed, but I figured we all knew about that too.
A brief silence broke out. It was hard to ignore the revolting miasma of dusty, doggy, woolly sweat we brought with us.
One good thing: this Marc-André Paradis might have won the lottery in the looks department, but he was not the original personality kid. So I figured it wouldn’t take more than a couple of minutes to recover from the unfortunate and irrational effect he had on my knees and other selected areas.
I smirked at the prospect of my coming recovery before I noticed Josey watching me with a peculiar expression.
“Are you all right, Miz Silk?” she whispered.
“I’m fine. Fine. Fine. Fine.” I gave a shrill little laugh to illustrate my fineness.
She must have felt the need of a distraction. She pointed to the window. “That’s sure some view here.”
Marc-André nodded.
“You far from the Findlay Falls?” Her cowlicks stood on alert.
“The trail starts about two miles up the road, mademoiselle,” Marc-André said.
Josey liked that mademoiselle thing. “You been up the trail?”
“Oh yes, it is beautiful.”
“Would you say it’s an educational experience?”
“Certainly. Especially the next day.”
“Miz Silk and I are thinking about going up it.”
We were thinking of no such thing.
Kostas gulped. “Dear lady, dear lady, don’t even dream about it. That’s a long, hard climb.”
“Right,” I said. I hoped there’d be no more talk of the Falls.
Kostas said, “Benedict was a fine friend. We’ll miss him.”
I chose not to add anything to this, since Benedict had been and continued to be even after his death nothing but a crafty nuisance and an all round bother to his friends and former friends and to me in particular. Marc-André Paradis made a grunting sound that may have been meant to echo Kostas’s sentiments or even my own.
No one added anything to the conversation, and for a long minute all you could hear in the room was the faint sounds of traffic from Route 105. And, of course, my own breathing.
“They haven’t found who did it?” Marc-André asked.
“No.” I didn’t mention I probably topped the list of suspects, although I had been hoping to trade places with him.
“I see.” He leaned back against the wall.
We lapsed into silence again, until both Kostas and Josey started to twitch.
“Now then, I hope you’ll be around for Benedict’s scattering, which we three are in the midst of planning,” Kostas said.
“Scattering? You mean his...?”
“Certainly, my boy, certainly, that’s the modern way. No maggots and that sort of thing. The way he wanted it.” Kostas kept nodding his head to emphasize his own words.
“Maggots. Yuck,” Josey said.
My head reeled. “Benedict always said he wanted to have his ashes scattered over the water, the only place he ever felt truly happy,” Kostas said.
“Did he?” said Marc-André.
“Indeed. And this lovely lady will be managing the whole thing, since she was a very, very, very good friend of Benedict’s.”
Just when I thought my puce blush had subsided, it surged back over my face and neck at this point. I was afraid my ears would catch fire.
“Actually, I hadn’t seen him for seven or eight...”
No one paid attention.
“Tell me, madame, when is this scattering?”
“Sometime within the next few weeks. When I can get my car fixed and after that whenever we find a...a suitable place. On the water.”
“And how will everyone find out about the ceremony?”
“A simple scattering is all it’s supposed to be,” I said. With the exception of bodies in my bed, I probably hate ceremonies more than anything else.
“It should be on a Saturday so people can come,” Josey said.
I wasn’t sure we wanted to encourage people to attend. I imagined everyone who knew Benedict would want to be there. That could mean every second woman in West Quebec.
“Saturday, it is. The twenty-first.” Kostas slapped his plump thighs and bellowed. “And, I know just the spot. Benedict loved it. A bit out of the way, but worth it. I’ll do a map.”
“I think we need a program,” said Josey, “with music and poetry. Do you know any musicians, Mr. Paradis?”
“I’ll be in charge of the musicians, my girl,” Kostas said.
“And I will advise the poets,” Marc-André said.
By the time we left Marc-André Paradis’ garage, we were well on the way to launching the most spectacular scattering in the history of Western Quebec.
Marc-André stuck his head in the window of the Skylark as I turned the key. “Can you bring your car by tomorrow afternoon? About three?”
“Absolutely,” I breathed.
For the first time since I’d owned it, the Skylark surged forward energetically and bounded towards the 105. I’d been so overwhelmed I’d forgotten all about trying to flog those One-Act Play event tickets to Kostas and Marc-André. But tomorrow at three I’d get another chance. More importantly, I could use the opportunity to find out if the very dishy Marc André Paradis had been consumed with murderous rage over Benedict’s scooping the Flambeau from under his well-shaped nose. Of course, now that I’d met Marc-André, I wasn’t all that crazy about the idea of him as a killer.