Cornwall and Redfern Mysteries 2-Book Bundle (15 page)

Manoeuvring the Savage through the field littered with vehicles was difficult enough without the possible humiliation of tipping the bike in front a dozen men to consider. Not for the first time, I wished I was six inches taller and fifty pounds heavier.

Redfern ambled through the field looking at the ground with his hands in his pockets. I stopped the bike beside the ambulance where Rae was hooked up to a blood pressure cuff. Two firemen and three emergency responders were standing so close to her, they were undoubtedly hogging her oxygen supply, and one comely youngster was actually holding her hand, pretending to take her pulse. It was a safe bet I wouldn't have earned as much attention if I'd been torn limb from limb by the coywolf. I winced, reminded that Fitzgerald Corwin had met that very fate.

I had to clear my throat a few times before Rae noticed me.

“Hi, Bliss. Are you going somewhere?”

“Things to do, places to be. Do you want to stay with me tonight? I thought we could be company for each other, especially if they haven't found the, well, you know.”

“Yes, I'd love that, Bliss. It's pretty scary in that trailer right now.”

Murmurs of empathy and support followed this statement. Oh, to be twenty-five again. And curvaceous.

“Right, then. I'll be back about nine o'clock and knock on your door.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Redfern coming my way. I remembered my bike was supposed to be parked in Mrs. Brickle's alley. My tires kicked up some stones when I took off, but I didn't look back to see if any hit him in the eye. Boy, wasn't I the wild child?

As I approached the exit to the concession road, I was forced to stop. A Harley Fat Boy blocked my way. Snake.

The abundant chrome on the low-slung bike shone like mirrors. I noticed the bike had showroom exhaust pipes, not the customized straight drag pipes that infuriated lovers of peace and quiet and earned the biker regular fines for noise infractions.

His bike might be immaculate. Snake was not. Tendrils of greasy black hair had escaped from his helmet and hid a large portion of his face, the rest covered by wrap-around shades. The helmet sported a death's-head embellishment and too many nicks and dents to count. Either Snake collected a lot of pebbles as he rode, or he got knocked off his bike a lot. Remembering the rough treatment I suffered at his hands the night Rae was attacked, I hoped the latter.

“Yo, little sister. What's going on over there?”

The gravelly voice was affable enough, but he wasn't charming me.

“A wolf killed a man in the bush behind Hemp Hollow. And ate him.”

If Snake was unnerved, he concealed it well.

“Who's the guy? Anyone we know?”

“Nobody I know. Fitzgerald Corwin. Do you know him?”

“Nope. Nice bike you have there, for a girl. Ever ride a Harley?”

I snorted. “A Harley? That's so yesterday.”

Snake appeared not to have heard the insult. He rolled his bike forward a few feet and I squeezed by him, missing his shiny chrome fender by inches.

I stopped at the mail kiosk near the main entrance to Secret Valley. A couple of flyers for pizza specials and upholstery cleaning sat atop one white legal-size envelope from the Town of Lockport. Throwing the flyers into the trash barrel, I ripped open the envelope.

The Cemetery Board no longer required my services. Would I please drop my key to the office washroom at the municipal offices at my earliest convenience?

Crumbling the letter, I threw it into the barrel. So be it. The Weasel wouldn't know what hit him.

The silver Beetle was still parked outside the Super 8 Motel. Again, Chesley was bobbing up and down between the seats. On impulse, I pulled the Savage into the parking lot and stopped beside the vehicle.

“How are you coming with the seats?” I asked Chesley, removing my helmet. He was bent over in the back seat and his bony butt seemed to be rocking in time with the heavy metal music blasting from the CD player.

Chesley's head shot up and he whirled around. In one hand he held a cleaning cloth, in the other a large bottle labelled “Odour Gone.” He reached over and turned down the music.

“Miss Cornwall. Bliss …” Chesley swallowed audibly and his prominent eyes blinked at me. A crimson flush dotted his cheekbones.

“Is that stuff working?” I asked. I could smell skunk from where I sat.

“It's coming. One more treatment should do it.”

“Great. Chesley, have you and your mother found a suitable property yet?”

“We've looked at a couple more with Miss Simms, but none of them are exactly what we're looking for. The property you showed us is the most promising so far, though.”

“Well, let me know. I'd be happy to show you around again, if you want a second look.”

“Wait, Bliss. Mum and I were wondering about another piece of land across the road. You can see it from the Barrister property. The one with a river flowing through to the lake. Miss Simms said you owned it.”

Now I noticed Chesley was wearing a red sweatshirt and green flannel pyjama bottoms. Who dressed this boy? I preferred him in black. Before I could ask why he wanted to know about my swamp, a sound not unlike a sonic boom echoed from a nearby unit of the motel.

“Chesleeeeee!”

A sharp pain pierced my left eye and my feet left the ground. The bike wobbled. It was touch and go, but I managed to get my toes on the asphalt again before the bike went over.

“There you are, young man.” Ivy stumped over to us, in flowing black shift and signature red lipstick. “Oh, Ms. Cornwall. You're here, too.”

“I just stopped by to see how Chesley was doing with the leather cleaner.”

Ivy didn't look thrilled to see me, but in real estate school they told us to get used to rejection. I was already there, and just smiled.

“What do you think about my son running over that skunk in the middle of town, Miss Cornwall? We saw it earlier in the day when we stopped to speak to Miss Simms. Disgraceful that such a horrible thing was allowed to rot there.”

“I'm sure Chesley did his best to avoid it, Mrs. Belcourt. Apparently, there was some sort of internal dispute about jurisdiction.”

“Disgraceful,” she said again. “We may sue.”

“Mum.” Chesley's eyes pleaded with me not to rat him out. Obviously, Ivy didn't know the whole tale.

“If you're serious about suing, Mrs. Belcourt, I would suggest you go out of town to retain counsel. Our lawyers in Lockport aren't so hot.”

“Hmmph.”

“Mum.”

“Well, Ms. Cornwall, Chesley has work to do here. I'm not setting foot in that vehicle until the smell is gone. We'll be touch in due time about the property we looked at.”

Dismissed, I turned the bike to leave, but not before catching Chesley's mouthed, “See you later.”

Something was up with Chesley, but I forgot him and tried to concentrate on Sif and Thor. Watching those two ugly plants for symptoms of impending ovulation or, conversely, signs of collapse, was getting old. Whatever they were going to do, I wish they would just do it, so I could collect the money and never have to see them or pot plants again, ever.

The whole damn town was growing pot, or eating it, or both. And the one person who was supposed to be putting a lid on it was up to his badge in the whole business.

Sif had shot up another foot during the night. The interior of the spathe glowed blood-red and displayed a ring of tiny cream-coloured flowers at the base. These were the male flowers, according to Dougal, and underneath would be another circle of pink female blossoms. I walked around the planter, snapping a dozen pictures of the inside of the spathe.

While waiting for Pan to edit them, I sniffed. Something. I glanced at the other plants, ripe buds hanging, but it wasn't the pot. I couldn't place it.

“Pan, do you smell something in here? Is there a dead mouse somewhere?”

He took a perfunctory sniff and handed back the camera. “No. Smells okay to me.”

I shrugged. Maybe it was just a memory of the coywolf in my brain. As we left the greenhouse, I said to him, “I need to talk to Glory for a minute.”

“I don't know, Bliss. She'll just be finishing up breakfast.”

“What, you mean two cups of black coffee? Never mind, I know the way.”

Glory was sitting in her breakfast room at the back of the house, flipping through a magazine. The floor to ceiling windows overlooked terraced flower beds, with the pine forest as a backdrop.

I pulled out a white wrought-iron chair opposite her and waited. She glanced up, froze, then a curl of her lip dared me to sit down. So I did.

“Glory, we need to discuss your pot.”

“What? My pot? That's got nothing to do with you, so butt out.”

“Yes, I probably should. But, for some reason, I don't want to see you spend your remaining youthful years behind bars.”

“Are you threatening me? How dare you.”

She crossed her legs at the knee and one foot began to waggle back and forth.

“The police are hot on the trail of anything resembling cannabis in this town. They're cracking down big time, and I don't know why you think you're so special you can't be charged. Just get rid of the pot, and buy it off the street like everyone else.”

“You have no idea what you're suggesting, Bliss. The commercial plants are full of pesticides and other horrible things. At least I know mine don't have toxic residue.”

“Well, here's an idea. Don't use it at all.”

The foot swung faster. I stood up.

“Have you told that worm about my pot?”

“I haven't told anybody. But, like I said, the police are all over this town searching the stuff out. What if the Baker snitches on you?” Perhaps I exaggerated, given the Chief of Police was involved and I wasn't sure of the identity of the Baker, but sometimes you need to hit those born to privilege with a mallet to get their attention.

The foot stopped. “What do you know about the Baker? Who told you?”

“Glory, I am everywhere. I hear things, and I know the police are ready to move in and make arrests. Get rid of the pot in your greenhouse.”

“I'll think about it.”

“I guess that's it, then. Now, I have to show Dougal the latest pictures of Sif. It looks to me like—”

“Dougal!”

Just the sound of his name threw Glory over the edge. Her eyes completed their transformation and were blood red. I looked away from her face, not 100 percent sure she couldn't turn me into a pillar of salt if I gazed directly into those eyes.

The high-heeled mule flew off her wildly swinging foot and came straight at me. I ducked and the slipper hit the sideboard, where it landed in a nest of sherry glasses.

The sound of expensive crystal shattering sounded more like an explosion than a tinkle, and Pan came on the run. We passed at the door of the breakfast room, where he gave me a quick accusing glance and rushed over to the Princess of Petulance who was winding up like an air raid siren. The second slipper whizzed through the doorway as I ran out of the room. It hit a mirror in the hallway, but I kept going.

If this was Glory on a steady diet of grass, I feared for my life, and Pan's, if she had to give the stuff up. This afternoon, when I came back for the day's second photo shoot, I would suggest Pan serve her an extra helping of marijuana alfredo. Just to use up the supply in her freezer. Once Thor and Sif were pollinated, and I had my money, Pan could cut her off.

Before driving away, I called Fern Brickle. I couldn't fit her in today and wanted to suggest Friday instead. There was no answer and I continued on to Dougal's.

“What part of twice a day don't you understand?” was his greeting.

I looked at my watch. “It's only a little past one o'clock. Here's the camera.”

“How's she looking?”

I assumed he wasn't referring to his ex-wife. “She's getting really tall, maybe eight feet.”

Dougal looked concerned. “Oh God, I hope they both have the energy to sustain that rate of growth without collapsing. It would be a tragedy if the blossoming failed now.”

“Well, look inside the spathe. Those male flowers are visible. What more has to happen?”

“The male flowers have to release their pollen. And that happens when the spathe is completely unfurled. By these pictures, that should happen within the next thirty-six hours. Now I'm beginning to think Thor is possibly ahead of Sif.”

“But thirty-six hours would bring us to late Friday night or early Saturday morning.”

“Titan Arums traditionally blossom around midnight, so, yes, what's your point?”

My point?
“You mean I have to run pollen back and forth in the middle of the night? You didn't tell me that.”

“What, do you turn into a witch and fly away on your broomstick at sundown? I always suspected as much.” He laughed. “I know you don't have a love life, so why do you care what time the Titans blossom?”

Another glance at my watch reassured me that I had time for a quick bite before visiting the municipal offices. But, as I turned to leave, a scent like the one in Glory's greenhouse wafted through the air. I lifted my nose and sniffed. Gone. There was nothing.

“What's wrong with you?”

I walked closer to the orchids. Putting my nose inside a lavender blossom, I breathed in. That wasn't it.

The pot crop, like Glory's, was fecund with ripened buds. But they weren't the source of the elusive scent.

“I smell something,” I finally admitted. “It happened at Glory's, too.”

“What? What kind of smell?” He clutched me by the collar and dragged me back to Thor. “Smell.”

“I don't know. It comes and goes.”

Dougal pushed my face to within an inch of Thor's mottled spadix.

“Now?”

“Oh, yeah, there it is. Barely. I think Thor needs deodorant, Dougal. Or else you have a sewer leak.”

Dougal jumped up and down and, since I was attached to his left hand by the scruff of my neck, I found myself bouncing right along with him.

Kissing me on both cheeks, he took my hands and swung me in a maniacal square dance, around and around Thor. My feet left the floor, and for a minute I was in danger of flying through the solarium windows and taking a few orchids and pot plants with me.

“Enough, Dougal. Put me down.”

He did, so abruptly that I skidded along the tiles toward the door. But I managed to stay on my feet and just kept going, heading toward the kitchen. Dancing always gives me an appetite.

“There's nothing in here.” Standing in front of the open fridge, I stared in amazement. “It's empty.”

“The Titans are going to blossom, Bliss, and very soon. There's no doubt now. I think this is a first in the botanical world. Two Titan Arums belonging to private collectors will blossom. And if they are successfully pollinated and bear fruit, who knows how many more Titans I can grow?”

“Great, Dougal. But why isn't there any food in the fridge?”

“Mrs. Boudreau hasn't been in for a couple of days. What's today, Thursday? She was here Tuesday. If she doesn't show up tomorrow, you'll have to buy me some groceries.”

“Where is she? She's supposed to come in every day.” I went into the pantry and surveyed the tidy shelves full of canned goods. I wanted fresh.

“Well, you've been taking food out of here lately like you were stocking a bunker. Get a frozen dinner out of the freezer and nuke it.”

Packaged macaroni and cheese from the freezer would have to do. While I ate, Dougal babbled on about how he was going to surgically cut into Thor to dab male pollen from Sif onto the female flowers. It sounded painfully clinical, and my mind wandered back to the scene outside Fern Brickle's house yesterday as I watched her visitors arrive. Mrs. Boudreau was definitely there. She even waved at me.

I interrupted Dougal's discourse on how and when to re-pot Titan corms, a subject even more boring than how to harvest the fruit. “Do you remember telling me about the group of people with disabilities who grow their own cannabis, then take it to the Baker to be baked into desserts?”

“Sure.”

“Then, you must know that Mrs. Boudreau is one of them.”

“I never said that.”

“She's in your house five days a week. She has to know about your plants in the solarium, so I'm assuming you two talk about harvesting your crop. I bet you've been giving these people botanical advice.”

“Bliss, you're ignorant about the subculture. Okay, Mrs. Boudreau knows about my pot, and once in a while I give her a few doobies. She suffers from severe anxiety and smoking helps her. But I didn't know she belonged to a dessert ring. And it's her business. So mind yours.”

“Dougal, listen up. The police …”

“No, you listen. I told you I'm not growing any more after this crop is harvested. It's almost ready now, but I don't have time to deal with it until I complete the cross-pollination. So, put a lid on it and get out. But come back before dinner time with another report. I'm having company tonight and don't want you underfoot.”

“And, that's another thing. Melanie—”

“Don't say her name again.”

“But you have to know how unprofessional a relationship is between a therapist and client.”

“Bliss, stop trying to control other people's lives. I'm not your child, so stop mothering me. Why don't you find a man, any man, and get pregnant. Then you can smother the poor kid with unwanted advice and leave me alone.”

“Fuck you, then.”

“No, fuck you. And get out.”

I was fuming. From here on, Dougal and Glory could smoke and eat cannabis until their ears fell off, or they were arrested, whichever came first.