Cornwall and Redfern Mysteries 2-Book Bundle (13 page)

Holding my helmet under one arm, Redfern said, “Have you been drinking alcohol, Cornwall?”

“No! 'Course, if I had the time, I would.” I observed the crack in the sidewalk under my feet, wondering how they got all the cracks the same width like that.

“Explain why you were trying to jam your helmet on backwards.”

“Seriously? So, that's why it didn't fit.”

He leaned closer and peered down into my face. I stepped back, trying to remember why I needed to avoid this man. Oh, yeah. He was a dishonest cop. He was bent. That's what the British called it. A bent cop. I liked that word. The British were so descriptive. I smiled.

“Let's go at this another way, Cornwall. Have you been smoking something? Anything?”

“No! I have never smoked something. Or anything, either.” I lifted my face to the sun, feeling its nurturing warmth in every cell of my body.

He leaned over me again. “What's that on your face?”

He reached out a hand and, before I could pull away, he wiped his finger across my upper lip. He looked at the finger for a second before holding it out to me. I jumped back.

“What's this, Cornwall? Chocolate?”

“No! Well, maybe. But I only ate one. Did Mrs. Brickle call you?”

“What did you eat? Tell me the truth. Was it a brownie?”

“Hah. If what I ate is a brownie, then may my lips fall off.” Funny thing, my lips did feel kind of heavy, and bigger than usual. I stuck my tongue out and swept it back and forth across my bottom lip. Then I did it to my upper lip. Yeah, my lips were big.

Redfern didn't say anything for, like, hours, although his mouth opened and closed a few times. I just waited patiently. Had to, since his car was parked in the middle of the street, inconsiderately blocking my Savage.

Finally, his lips parted. He had really nice lips for a bent cop. Too bad he was bent.

“Can you focus here, Cornwall?”

Somebody else was always telling me to focus. Who was it? Oh, yeah.

“Listen, Redfern, I gotta go. Dougal is waiting for me and I'm late.” Late for what? Something, though.

“Dougal can just wait a minute or two longer. Tell me what you ate.”

“Okay. It was the best, most delicious chocolate square I ever had. Oh, man, it was better than sex. I'd take another one of those over sex any day, even though I've been a virgin for more than two years.” I patted my chest.

“Good to know. Just how many did you eat, Cornwall?”

I held up one finger. Then, before my startled eyes, a second finger rose. And a third traitorous digit joined the team. “I had one.” I smiled.

Redfern's blue eyes raked me from hair to boots. He took off his hat and tossed it through the open window of his car. Good thing I didn't like bent blond cops. I giggled — that was a good description I just made up. I was almost British.

“What have you got in there, Cornwall?”

As Redfern's hand reached down toward my chest, I tried to lean away, but my back was against his cruiser.

“Whoa, back it up there, Skippy.” I slapped at his hand.

“I need what you have in your pocket, Cornwall.”

“You men are all alike. Only after one thing, and when you get it, poof, you move on to greener pastures, someone older and better connected.” I yanked my helmet from under his arm and tried to put it on.

Redfern took it back. “Cornwall, pay attention. I'm not after your virtue. I just need that brownie in your pocket, and for you to verify you got it from Fern Brickle.”

“Listen up. I told you it's not a brownie, and you can't have it. It's mine and I'm going to eat it as soon as I get to Dougal's. And he isn't getting any, either.”

Redfern stepped over to the Savage and turned the key that I had already placed in the ignition, back when I thought I was going to get out of there sometime today. While I stood in amazement, he rolled the Savage over to the alley that ran between Mrs. Brickle's house and her next door neighbour's. He parked the bike under a tree and hung the helmet on a handlebar. Rummaging in the saddlebag, he pulled out my jacket and purse and walked back to the curb.

“Get in, Cornwall. I'm driving you home.” He opened the passenger side of the cruiser and placed his hand on my head.

“No way.” I wrapped both arms around the window frame and hung on, kicking backward at his knees. “I'm making a citizen's arrest. You're going down for this, Redfern, and in case you didn't notice, people are looking out Mrs. Brickle's front window.”

“I noticed. I want them to see this. And if you kick me again, I'll arrest you for assaulting an officer. Or maybe for being under the influence of a controlled substance.”

Somehow, I found myself in the passenger seat, and Redfern was speeding away. He stopped on Evening Star Road and barked, “Put your seatbelt on.”

“No.” I folded my arms. How embarrassing was this? A woman walking her two-pound froufrou dog stared at us. I gave her the finger before recognizing her as a friend of my mother's.

While he was reaching across me for the belt, I noticed the back of his neck. It was smooth and tanned, not all wrinkly like some men. But bent! Bent cop.

“I don't want to go home. There's a bear in the woods behind my trailer. I want to go to Dougal's house.” And I didn't want to be in Hemp Hollow with this guy.

“Whatever. Where does he live?”

When I told him, Redfern made a dangerously tight U-turn in the street and roared back up Evening Star, then careened onto Pinetree before jamming on the brakes in front of Dougal's. Good thing I was wearing a seatbelt.

“Whee. That was fun.” Another giggle escaped.

“Glad you're enjoying yourself. That's what we cops are here for, to provide citizens with entertainment.”

He lunged at me again, but I was able to get out of the car with my jacket and purse before he made actual contact with my chest.

Sticking my head back inside the car window, I said, “Trying to force yourself on a citizen is not entertaining for the citizen. Why, I'm practically a virgin again, and trying to compromise a virgin cannot be within the code of honour for a police officer.”

Then I remembered that this particular police officer possessed no code of honour, and added, “You're still young. You have a chance to turn your life around, to turn back from the road to perdition. Do it now, before it's too late.” I gave him a compassionate smile and ran up the steps to the front door.

The look on his face was forever branded on the memory lobe of my brain. Right next to the lobe that controls the urge to shoot myself.

Dougal was in his study, bent over his keyboard.

“Hey, sweetie,” I called from the doorway, “ready for more pictures?”

He looked up at me briefly, then held out his hand for the camera. While he downloaded, I floated to the kitchen and opened the fridge. By the time Dougal joined me, I had pretty much polished off a roasted chicken. Only the wings and tail were left and, as Dougal stared wordlessly, I started gnawing on a wing.

“Oh, I'm sorry,” I said. “Did you want some of this chicken?” I held up the spare wing.

“That was my dinner. You ate the whole damn thing.”

“Don't you have any potato chips or chocolate bars, or any other junk food you can eat? I'll toast us a few cinnamon bagels, if you want.”

Dougal pulled out a chair beside me. His ears were turning flamingo pink.

I burped. “Oh, excuse me.” I burped again. “Well, if you don't want this wing, I'll just finish it off.”

“Are you drunk, Bliss? Is that what this is all about? You better let me have the key to your death machine.”

I tried to chortle at him, but I fear it came out as a giggle. Which, for some reason, reminded me of my recent conversation with Redfern.

“I don't have my motorcycle any more. Redfern took it away and drove me here. But, listen, there's some stuff …”

“What!” Dougal stood up so fast his chair crashed to the floor. “You led the cops to my door? And not just any cop, the Chief of Police! Are you trying to get me thrown in jail? What if he wanted to come in? Would you have taken his hand and led him into the solarium?”

“Someone hasn't had his smokie-wokie today. Anyhow, I didn't have any choice, and he didn't ask to come in. It wasn't a date, sweetie. Although, he did get a little fresh. I think he's hot for me.” I contemplated the chicken's tail, then picked up the rib cage and stripped it with my teeth.

“Hot for you? You are a whack job, Bliss. You said yourself he's on a crusade to end all cannabis use in this town. Why the hell would you think he's got the hots for you?”

“Well, sweetie, he kept trying to grab my boobs.” I put my hand over my chest and felt the bulge in the front pocket. “Oh, well, maybe not.”

I pulled out the packet and set it on the table. The contents were flattened and oozing through the wrap, but I threw the rib cage over my shoulder and picked up a fork from the table. Chicken and chocolate.
Mmm-mmm-mmm
. I unfolded the wrapping carefully.

Before I could stick my fork into the chocolate goo, Dougal's hand shot out and his fingers encased my wrist.

“Not so fast, Bliss. Tell me what it is, and where you got it.”

I explained as quickly as I could, eager to taste the chocolate. It seemed so long since the last yummy square in Fern Brickle's kitchen.

“So, you ate some of these desserts from Mrs. Brickle's kitchen, wrapped one up to take home, and Chief Redfern nabbed you outside her house and tried to take it from you. Does that about cover it?”

I nodded and plunged my fork into the melted dessert. Dougal ripped the fork from my hand and transferred its contents to his own mouth.

“No more for you,” he said, chocolate oozing out the corner of his mouth. “Let the expert determine if this is what I think it is.”

My eyes followed every crumb as Dougal lifted the fork to his mouth again and again. He let the chocolate melt on his tongue. God, I knew what that was like. At one point he got up, went to a cupboard, lifted down a box of cookies, and dropped it in front of me. Simon joined us, shuffling into the kitchen and looking terribly lonely on the floor. I lifted him onto the table and shared a cookie with him.

“Here you go, baby,” I said, stroking the red tail feathers. He wasn't such a bad bird.

Every time I fed him a tiny piece, Simon would flap his wings and shout, “Do it again, do it again!” Good old Melanie.

The plastic wrap was finally scraped clean by Dougal's fork. He sat back and sighed with contentment.

“Okay. Now we wait.”

“Wait for what?” I asked him, ramming home another cookie.

We listened to the ticking of the kitchen clock. At least I did. Dougal was in some sort of meditative trance and wouldn't answer any of my questions, not responding even when Simon fluttered onto his shoulder and pecked at his ear. Time passed.

Finally. “Oh yeah. This is good stuff. I guess the rumours are true.”

“Rumours of what? Of your death? And are they greatly exaggerated?” I laughed uproariously at myself.

“You're stoned, Bliss. If you ate three of these, you have to be higher than a kite. I'd say this is the Baker's handiwork.”

“I know not what you mean, you miscreant.”

“I've heard about a group of elderly Lockport residents, all with medical challenges, who grow their own weed and give another local citizen, known as the Baker, the raw product to cook up into brownies.”

“That was not a brownie,” I told him. “That was sheer heaven, admit it.”

“Okay, whatever it was, it was good, and it was loaded. And Chief Redfern knows, or he wouldn't have tried to take this one away from you.”

“Are you saying Redfern wasn't making a pass at me?”

“Sorry.”

“He's bent, you know.”

“Bent?” Dougal looked confused. I wished he'd try and keep up with me and the British.

“And there's a bear living behind my trailer. So I have to stay here tonight. Maybe forever.”

“No. I'm having company later tonight. You can walk over to Glory's and get this evening's shots, then take a taxi or something home after you deliver them here. I'll even pay for it.”

“That's very generous, sweetie, but Hemp Hollow, for reasons I can't remember at the moment, is a very dangerous place.”

“And, please, go back to calling me moron so I know the planets are spinning in their appointed co-ordinates.”

“As you wish, moron. I think your parrot just pooped on your shoulder. Maybe he shouldn't have eaten so many cookies.”

I skipped to Glory's house and took pictures of Sif, who was really strutting her stuff now. Her spathe was half-opened, the interior blood-red and inviting. While Pan looked through the shots, I touched my fingertips to the spathe. It was velvety and spongy, and I understood, on a primal level, why Thor's pollen would be welcomed by this jungle beauty.

Back in Dougal's solarium, I took a few minutes to visit with Thor. While Dougal's back was turned, I stroked Thor's spadix, whispering, “Not much longer now, Dark Prince, before you and your lady will be as one.” Finally, I understood how Dougal felt about Thor, the spiritual union of human and plant.

It was twilight when I left Dougal, telling him I was going to walk home. As if. I had another key to the Savage in my purse and it took only a few minutes to reach Fern Brickle's house. Her visitors had all departed, and a lone light blinked on as I passed the front of the house. My bike was still in the alley.

Soon, I was rolling along the trail to Hemp Hollow, through the dark woods, singing “Over the Rainbow” loudly to frighten away the bear. The clearing behind my trailer was devoid of wild smell or green eyes, so I picked up a stick and swung it in the air, yelling, “Fuck you, bear,” before scurrying around front.

An envelope was taped to my door. It was from Rae, telling me she was going to stay with her sister and brother-in-law in Owen Sound for a week or two. “Things are kind of crazy around here,” was how she put it. She didn't know the half of it.

I hadn't realized how much I depended on Rae for company until she was gone. Just knowing she was a few feet away had been a comfort. I didn't blame her for making herself scarce, but now I was truly alone.

My eye fell on the bottle of wine on the counter. Red wine was supposed to be cooled for twenty minutes before serving, I seemed to remember from dinner parties a thousand years ago. But then, I wasn't going to serve it. Good thing the bottle had a screw top, so easy to open.

There were no glasses in the trailer, only a couple of ceramic mugs, and red wine was never to be drunk from a mug, another wine rule. So I upended the bottle and took a swig. Not as good as chocolate, but not bad.

I extracted the two-day-old newspaper article from my purse and reread the piece on the Weasel and his
political aspirations. That's right. Tomorrow, I had to pay the property taxes on my swamp before it magically turned into a wetland. And there was something I needed
to look for that might help with my Weasel problem.

Taking the bottle with me, I went to the bathroom and inspected the two small boxes stacked in the shower stall. When I left my former home, I had thrown a few keepsakes like year books and albums into those boxes and hadn't touched them since. I was afraid to open them now in case I was wrong.

Taking another sip before setting the wine in the sink, I pulled the first box out. Unfolding the top, I found report cards from high school, transcripts from university, and a few programs of concerts Mike and I had attended during our engagement.

The second box was packed to the top, mostly with photographs. A couple of albums held casual snaps of my growing up years, of birthday parties and Christmases with friends or Blyth and my parents. Digging deeper, I found a dozen loose wedding pictures. They were taken by a professional photographer and had initially been secured in a large white album with a hundred others.

On that last day, I had whipped through the wedding album, pulling out pictures taken before the church ceremony. These didn't include Mike.

I looked at one photo where I sat in shadow looking out a window. It was posed, of course, but the expression of happiness and hope on my face was genuine. Only ten years ago, but I was so different now. A better person, or just stronger?

Was I wrong to spend so much time and effort on recovering material assets? Dougal and Glory seemed to think so, but then they both had financial security. And, quite frankly, neither of them worked a day of their lives for what they enjoyed. So, why the hell should I listen to them?

Only a few older photos remained in the box and there was no reason I would have kept the picture I was thinking of. The Weasel was in it.

Reaching up, I hauled the wine bottle out of the sink and tipped it up, letting the lukewarm liquid run down my throat. Okay, one moment of truth coming up.

I lifted up the half-dozen or so photos from the bottom of the box. Shuffling through them, I discarded all but one.

Here it was. And there I was, in all my nubile glory, laughing at the camera, holding up a glass of spectacularly cheap red wine, showing at least twenty-eight perfect white teeth. No wonder I took it with me. I would never look so good again.

Behind me, impossible to confuse with anyone else, even though it was at least eleven years ago, was the Weasel. And now I had him right where I wanted him. If paying the property taxes didn't convince him, this would.

Oh, yeah.