The Au Pair

By Anna Dowdall

It’s not all fun and games for Ashley Smeeton, in her mid-twenties and trying to run a private investigation agency in Montreal despite a temporary cash flow problem. She’s as surprised as anyone when she agrees to take a summer au pair job in the scenic Laurentian Mountains. Montreal might be enduring a heat wave, but at Columbine Lodge, occupied by a few generations of immensely wealthy Sampsons, things are heating up as well. Between the mystery that surrounds four-year-old Meade and her complicated mother Layla, and the lingering mood of past suffering in the old lodge, Ashley quickly becomes intrigued. The uneasy atmosphere of her idyllic surroundings intensifies when people unexpectedly begin to die. With a capricious little girl in her charge, Ashley’s got her work cut out for her...but the urge to uncover the dark secrets of Columbine Lodge proves irresistible.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Oct 11, 2017
• ISBN: 9781509217373

Book preview

Inc.

Suddenly Nico gave her a sly look.

"Smeeton—if you need short term cash, you should take one of these jobs. You have experience—didn’t you look after Roy when you were a teenager?"

Roy? Her brother was six years younger than her. While she’d done her best to avoid babysitting, her mother had roped her in on a regular basis. With Roy, sure, I had to. But who the hell wants to earn five bucks an hour looking after someone else’s kids?

"Five bucks an hour? Where did you get that idea?"

It’s what my mother paid me.

He laughed pityingly, pulled out his smart phone. You can make a hell of lot more money than that. Let me just prove it to you.

Ashley poured them both more beer. Prove away.

Where would you like me to look? There’s Nanny World, Au Pairs Are Us, Canadian Nanny, The Au Pair Agency. That’s the one we used. It’s for sellers and buyers. I’ve bookmarked a bunch.

And you worry about me.

"Okay, I bookmarked this one, because it was crazy. It’s in the Laurentians, near Sainte Anne des Collines. They’re looking for a qualified au pair for the summer, until the end of August. You would live in, let’s see…two days off a week, your own suite with bathroom and kitchen. What else…swimming pool on the property, no household duties. Are you listening? One child, a girl, aged four."

Praise for Anna Dowdall

"After the Winter has a nicely complicated, sinister plot, a gothic setting, romantic entanglements and some ambiguous characters..." ~ Joan Barfoot, London Free Press, Canada, and Postmedia

The Au Pair

by

Anna Dowdall

The Ashley Smeeton Files

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

The Au Pair

COPYRIGHT © 2017 by Anna Dowdall

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: [e-mail]

Cover Art by Diana Carlile

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Mainstream Mystery Edition, 2017

Print ISBN 978-1-5092-1736-6

Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-1737-3

The Ashley Smeeton Files

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

To Donna

Chapter One

Ashley on the Lam

At five feet ten inches, private investigator Ashley Arabella Smeeton didn’t think she was made for gliding unseen through the shadows. Not that there were any shadows on Riverview Lane. Ashley herself was the only source of shade, an inky blob creeping along the glaring pavement. And there was no view or river either, unless you counted the railway tracks visible through the graffiti-adorned Plexiglas barrier, or the rippling heat mirages beyond.

Summer in Montreal was always fabulous until it actually came, in all its pitiless glory. And there wasn’t a hotter place than this narrow lane. It was sandwiched between tracks and the expressway to the south and the buckling brick walls to which she clung unwisely, since they redoubled the intensity of the sun. Ashley felt sweat trickle down her back. What she’d give for a Popsicle now.

But even this glass could be half full. As she approached the target, she was counting on the brutal heat to have emptied the area.

The little flat-roof two-story duplex on the corner lot sagged comatose in the afternoon heat. She slipped in the back way through the covered porch. The smell of dust, decomposing lino, and well-filled ant traps assailed her nose. The house itself, dark behind lowered blinds and drawn curtains, was slightly cooler, although that wouldn’t last. After locking the door, Ashley set the fans on medium. There was a little pile of mail under the drop slot, which she sorted while chugging directly from a lemonade pitcher that she grabbed from the fridge.

Every day for the last seven weeks, Ashley had looked for the official letter. And every day she’d endured disappointment. Today’s offerings were on a par. Reminders—she didn’t have to open them to know—that her phone and electricity bills were past due. A circular for a course on creative writing for vast profit. And a complimentary two-pack of condoms with a patented system of nodular ribbing—interesting, perhaps, although not your everyday free sample to be sure. But nothing from the Registrar of Private Investigator Licenses.

Ashley dropped the mail onto her desk. Unbuttoning her shirt, she headed upstairs to the bathroom. Madame Rossi, if she was home, might hear the shower through the walls that separated the back of the house from the front. But that was a risk she had to take.

A cool shower made Ashley feel somewhat better, and so did the congealed lump of cold mac and cheese left over from yesterday’s supper. But it broke her heart when she went onto her website and saw the requests for service that she would have to turn down. There were a number of these. Aside from the expected entreaties to find lost pets, a woman calling herself Eliane Crystalheart wanted help hunting down the thief who was stealing her online fan fiction and passing it off as her own. Ms. Crystalheart was willing to pay Ashley through a portion of any future royalties. Ashley’s heart beat faster when she saw a response from an insurance company to a cold query she’d made a while ago about opportunities to work on insurance fraud investigation. Insurance fraud investigation, with its big research component, was the brass ring of private eye work. Not always gripping, but what every budding investigator needed to build their resume.

As she forked her mac and cheese, she wrote a bogus little email to the insurance company telling them she was travelling for the summer but would be delighted to meet at your earliest convenience in the fall. Considering it was still June, this would strike an unavoidably odd note. To Eliane, who wouldn’t check for lies, she wrote that she was too busy with current cases, adding philosophically that intellectual property theft was always a risk with fan fiction. In this, Ashley wasn’t trying to wound gratuitously. She thought that Eliane, who probably loved The Satanic Yoga Pants (working title) like her own child, might take comfort in the term intellectual. Sometimes Ashley took lost pet work and sometimes she didn’t. Even when she didn’t, however, she sent the people a little general advice and the addresses of city shelters. She did this now. There was no magic to searching for lost animals, and it didn’t sit well with her to leave owners—in this case, of two cats named Sucette and Caramel—bereft and in the lurch.

She’d put a lot of work into her website. It was immensely frustrating that she now couldn’t take on the detective work it attracted. But until the government, who’d first told her back in November that she was fully licensed and good to go, and much later that there was some bureaucratic glitch and she needed to fill out more forms and wait, got its act together, Ashley couldn’t accept clients. Well, she could—but it would be unwise, so early in her career.

Thinking about the AWOL cats, she had a sudden yen for something sweet. The best her kitchen had to offer was lime jelly. Being a budding investigative professional was a little like being a kid again, Ashley reflected, as she carried the bowl to her desk. There had been a lot of macaroni dinner and gelatin dessert in her childhood.

The last of her emails sent and the bowl empty, she took a few meditative twirls in her vintage oak office chair. The chair, the old-fashioned desk with its green blotter, and a discreet bronze plaque announcing A.A. Smeeton, Licensed Private Investigator—this latter by the inner door inside the porch, where Madame Rossi was less likely to notice it, as they had never discussed signage on the property—had been purchases from the heart. Unsentimental though she was, Ashley loved these emblems of her chosen occupation. And they hadn’t come cheap. They mocked her now, in her licenseless limbo.

An incoming text pinged: Nico to remind her they were having dinner and drinks at the Brasserie du Coin that evening. Being treated by kind Nico to an excellent feed of bar food with mouth-numbingly cold beer was always something to look forward to. She looked at her watch, heaved a sigh. There were still hours to fill. She decided that she’d go to the air-conditioned reference library, to read up on her craft. There was always more to learn.

But Ashley continued to twirl. She felt unavoidably low. After another dispirited sigh, she shook herself impatiently. Time to get her ass in gear.

Her mother had once taken her and Roy to southern California in August. Why are we in the desert in August, Ashley had asked. Because it’s cheap off-season, her mother had said. They’d cowered in the air-conditioned hotel for five days, with brief sorties out of doors. Advancing into the scorching heat of Riverview Lane now reminded Ashley of the feeling she’d had in California, of being swarmed by an invisible force. She hurried along the alley the way she’d come. She’d parked a block away so as not to alert Madame Rossi.

Allô, allô, Mam’selle Smeeton!

The shrill cry took Ashley completely by surprise. Madame Rossi was scuttling around the side of the building toward Ashley like she meant business. Her landlady was small and, by Ashley’s standards, elderly. But she could certainly move when she wanted to.

Le loyer, Mam’selle, le loyer, on avait dit hier au plus tard! she was calling out, one hand brandishing a fly swatter as she bore down on Ashley. The fly swatter’s brisk motion filled Ashley with disagreeable impressions of batons and arrests.

She froze, then whipped out her smart phone. She shouted, I’m dealing with an emergency, Madame Rossi, this will have to wait! and legged it down the alley. She waved her arm dramatically as she ran, hoping this would convey the urgency of the call. Madame Rossi’s incensed cries pursued her, but Ashley, in her mid-twenties and a former member of her university’s cross country team, soon outdistanced her landlady. Not that Madame Rossi gave up easily. As she ran, Ashley continued to hear the sound, a hard slap with a sort of subliminal squelch, of her landlady’s pink Crocs on the pavement dying away in the distance. And even when Ashley could no longer see her pursuer she could still hear the Crocs, although now the sound was more like a faraway duck in distress, marring the peace of the summer afternoon.

****

Since she’d been a red hot nine-year-old, hell bent on reading every Nancy Drew out there, Ashley had known Nicolas Latendresse. He’d been a very young Sûreté du Québec detective whom she’d met during a lurid murder case in Waverley, the little town in Quebec’s Eastern Townships where she’d grown up. Ashley herself had discovered the body. A body, anyway—she’d always suspected the official murder count of one. Good times.

Clever Nicolas Latendresse, a beau brun from the Saguenay region, was never your typical ambitious cop on the rise. How else to explain how he’d stayed in touch with Ashley all these years? At first tolerant friend to the little Abenaki girl who could never mind her own business, then mentor, and most recently law enforcement colleague, with the inevitable adjustments that involved. Now thirty-nine and handsomer than ever, Nico had done well for himself. He was a detective lieutenant with the Major Crimes section of the Montreal Police Force. He’d have made commander by now, but for a certain tendency to state unvarnished truths. From Ashley’s perspective, all that meant was that Nico was still immersed in exciting field work, still solving cases. Not kissing executive butts, the worst kind.

She was far too much of a rugged individualist—read loner—to have ever seriously considered joining the police herself. But she always looked forward to Nico’s accounts of his cases, when he could share these with her. Even his mundane work fascinated her. Talking to Nico made her feel connected to that larger world of investigation, reminded her of how much she loved the business of poking her nose in where it didn’t belong.

Which was why she was a little baffled tonight, because all Nico seemed to want to talk about, dragging his fingers through his thick hair, was the challenge of finding child care.

Through their first beer and a platter of deep-fried zucchini, she’d told him about the insurance company’s interest in retaining her, a little brag that she salted honestly with an account of a few recent Eliane Crystalheart-type queries. Eventually, over sweet potato fries and more beer, and because she’d known Nico so long and didn’t feel the need to pretend, she confessed to being chased down the alleyway by the pink Crocs.

Smeeton, I worry about you, was his perfunctory response, as he regarded her drily. He could have come over all parental and said something like, get a job flipping burgers. Ashley was grateful that he hadn’t.

He reverted to his child care woes…

Do you listen to yourself? Ashley scoffed back. Anyway, it’s your fault you have kids—and twins on top of that.

I am twice as good, yes. Mad and I thought day care was the answer for a while, but it’s creating problems with our schedules. Nico’s wife, Madeleine, was also in the police service and had just been promoted. So we thought about a nanny. After we saw what they charged, we thought about an au pair, which seems to be code for a cheaper, younger, and less qualified nanny. But even au pairs aren’t that much cheaper. We want someone who lives out, and you have to pay a lot more for that.

Your little boys are a bit…wild, aren’t they?

Felix and Frederic were two. As Ashley recalled, having met them a couple of times, they defined the Terrible Twos.

So what? We’re telling candidates they’re angels! Although it feels like we’re the ones being interviewed. I tell you, it’s a buyer’s market.

It would be. Who the hell wants to look after kids all day?

Especially when they’re your own. They high fived each other, were thoughtful over swallows of beer. And it’s worse in summer. Did you know, nurseries sometimes close down for a month or two in the summer?

I didn’t know. She helped herself to a handful of fries. "But there was an editorial in last week’s Montreal Comet—about how if we had a national child care strategy we wouldn’t have all these reliability and affordability problems."

Shut up. Like you read newspapers. Suddenly Nico gave her a sly look. "Smeeton—if you need short term cash, you should take one of these jobs. You have experience—didn’t you look after Roy when you were a teenager?"

Roy? Her brother was six years younger than her. While she’d done her best to avoid babysitting, her mother had roped her in on a regular basis. With Roy, sure, I had to. But who the hell wants to earn five bucks an hour looking after someone else’s kids?

"Five bucks an hour? Where did you get that idea?"

It’s what my mother paid me.

He laughed pityingly, pulled out his smart phone. You can make a hell of lot more money than that. Let me just prove it to you.

Ashley poured them both more beer. Prove away.

Where would you like me to look? There’s Nanny World, Au Pairs Are Us, Canadian Nanny, The Au Pair Agency. That’s the one we used it’s for sellers and buyers. I’ve bookmarked a bunch.

And you worry about me.

"Okay, I bookmarked this one, because it was crazy. It’s in the Laurentians, near Sainte Anne des Collines. They’re looking for a qualified au pair for the summer, until the end of August. You would live in, let’s see…two days off a week, your own suite with bathroom and kitchen. What else…swimming pool on the property, no household duties. Are you listening? One child, a girl, aged four."

Sounds amazing. How am I qualified?

"Think, hostie! You’re a Bachelor of Social Work, you can say you’ve undertaken additional public safety training, you have advanced First Aid and CPR. Mixed martial arts experience—well maybe not mention that one. Weren’t you once a camp counsellor?"

"That was a horrible experience. How much?"

This is why I bookmarked it. Eight hundred bucks a week.

Is that high? Woah, that’s really not bad.

Damn right it’s not bad.

For the first time in the conversation, Ashley was paying attention. That’s a lot of money. And free food… Would you have to pay income tax on that?

What sort of question is that to ask a law enforcement professional?

Ashley smirked thoughtfully. Sounds like one of those gray zones to me. She pursed her well-shaped lips. There’s bound to be a catch.

You’ve been doing that thing with your lips since you were nine, you know. It’s probably in the middle of nowhere, that’s the catch.

"No, a worse catch."

What sort of catch?

How would I know?

Nico made a fulsomely clucking sound. Somebody’s chicken.

You sound like Madame Rossi’s Crocs.

The truth of Crocs hurts. He held out his smart phone. I dare you to call the number. What do you have to lose?

What, right now, from the bar?

It’s quiet in here tonight—they wouldn’t know. He leaned across. Madame Rossi could drop dead of a heart attack any time chasing you for unpaid rent, and then how would you feel?

Geez, Latendresse! But the exact same thought had been gnawing at Ashley’s conscience. She scowled. I have my own phone.

The voice at the other end was young, female, neutral. There was the introductory rigmarole. The speaker said her name was Layla. She gave a brief description of the job, explained that she had some type of big professional exam at the end of the summer and needed help with her kid. Meade—what sort of name was that?—was a good kid.

This Layla sounded as if she’d described the job to lots of people without luck, and Ashley could hear the pauses of a cigarette being lit, sucked on. The tone was world-weary, a little clipped—hard, even?

What sort of experience do you have?

Ashley launched into an impromptu spiel. I’m actually a private detective, but I’m starting out and I need some temporary work, just for the summer. She shrugged off Nico’s gesturing hands, his protesting grimace. "I’ve had an advanced level criminal record check, I have Red Cross and CPR training, and a BA in