Cornwall and Redfern Mysteries 2-Book Bundle (16 page)

I pushed my debit card and the notice of taxes across to the teenaged clerk behind the counter. She glanced at them, then said, “I'm so sorry. Would you wait one moment, please?” She turned back to her desk and picked up her phone. I tried to relax. I had time to kill before I could check on Sif again and report back to Dougal, then instruct the Thursday evening yoga class at the Golden Goddess. After that, both Rae and my part bottle of wine would be waiting for me in Hemp Hollow to keep the haunts away.

The size-zero teenager finally put the phone down and returned to the counter.

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Bains, but the debit card reader is malfunctioning.” She had trouble with the last word, and I wondered if she knew what it meant.

“You can call me Ms. Cornwall. And you are…?”

“Oh, hi. I'm Alyce. With a
Y
.”

“Hi, Alyce. If your debit card machine isn't working, then I'll give you a cheque.” I reached into my purse and pulled my chequebook out. “Do you have a pen?”

“Yes, but you'll have to come back tomorrow.”

“Okay, why? Don't you accept cheques?”

“Well, yes, but only if it's post-dated.”

“How about if I write tomorrow's date on the cheque?”

“That would only work if your taxes were due today.”

“Excuse me? You mean I can't give you a post-dated cheque today that's dated tomorrow? Alyce, that's a post-dated cheque.”

Alyce's eyes welled up.

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Bains, I mean, Mrs. Cornwall. You'll have to come back tomorrow.”

“How about if I go across to the bank and get the cash? Then you can stamp this notice as paid and I won't have to come back tomorrow.”

“We don't accept cash, Mrs. Cornwall.” The blue, mascara-rimmed eyes overflowed.

“Since when did cash become non-legal currency?”

“Pardon?”

“Can you get your supervisor, Alyce?”

“No. There's nobody here but me.”

“Never mind, Alyce. I'll come back tomorrow. If you can guarantee that my taxes will not be overdue.”

“Oh, certainly, Mrs. Cornwall. I'm sure tomorrow will be fine.”

“It's
Ms.
Cornwall, Alyce. I'll see you tomorrow.”

Not at all sure that tomorrow would be fine, I left Alyce in her Wonderland and sped down the hall to the mayor's office.

The Office of Mayor of Lockport was just a part-time job. Running Crooked Lawyers R Us with his wife from a sleek office in a professional building at the south end of town monopolized the rest of the Weasel's week.

On the off chance that he was putting in one of his mayoral hours, I knocked and turned the knob.

Mike looked up as I dropped into the visitor's chair and breathed out a dramatic sigh.

“Boy, wasn't that something in the woods this morning?”

“What do you want, Bliss?”

“Just my half of our assets.”

“We don't have anything left to discuss. I made you an offer and you turned it down. End of story.”

“
Au contraire, mon ennemi
. Let's discuss the wetland you are reportedly donating to the province. That wouldn't be my swamp, would it, Mike?”

“That has nothing to do with your settlement.”

“I'm so glad to hear it. I was afraid you thought you still owned that habitat for endangered spotted turtles.”

“Don't be ridiculous.” Beads of sweat popped out on Mike's tanned forehead.

“What happened? Did the paper leak the story a week or two early?”

He lifted himself halfway out of his chair, then subsided and pasted a look of practised detachment on his face. I hid my satisfaction.

“Did you think I would forfeit the land and you could swoop in and pick it up for taxes owing?”

He didn't respond. His air of indifference might be an effective strategy in a courtroom, but I was immune to the ploy.

“Andrea and I will publically refute any claims you make regarding mistreatment or illegalities. Your mental instability is public knowledge.”

“Andrea can kiss my ass. And so can you, Mike.”

“Point proven.”

“That I'm unstable? Maybe. But even if I end up in the psych ward, I promise that you will not be elected to any office other than this one.” My eyes swept the shabby room.

He sneered. “You're out of your league, Bliss. Andrea and I are on our way to Ottawa, and there's nothing you can do to stop us.”

I pulled the picture out of the inner pocket of my jacket.

“You might want to look at this before you make such a rash statement, Mike. Remember this? It was taken in our last year at university.”

He reached for it, but I pulled it back. Twenty-one-year-old Bliss, sexy as hell, sat on Mike Bains's lap. Mike was wearing a top hat and holding a cigarette to his lips. But, wait. The cigarette was misshapen, discoloured, impossible to mistake for anything than what it was.

“Remember that party at your frat house, Mike? You had a lot to drink and smoked a doobie. And here it is, captured for all time.”

“You smoked one too!”

“Actually, I didn't. Not that it matters, since I'm not running for public office.”

“Everybody was smoking. I shouldn't be penalized for doing what everyone else was doing.”

“I agree. And you can have this photo, with one wee string attached.”

Before I closed the door on his stricken face, I said, “For the price I wrote on that piece of paper at Timmy's, you can have the swamp and this picture. A bargain. Run it by Andrea.”

When I reached the street, I sat down on the curb beside my bike. My hands shook so hard I was afraid the key would fall from my fingers.

What if Mike offered me a settlement? I would have no idea if it was fair, and, knowing him, it wouldn't be. What figure did I write on the piece of paper at Timmy's? Some forethought would have been wise, Cornwall.

“There you are, Moonbeam.”

“Thea. Hi.”

The municipal offices and the police station shared a building. It was necessary to walk by the police nerve centre to reach the staircase to the second floor where the mayor and councillors met once a month to draft by-laws the townspeople ignored.

Thea had changed to her summer uniform of a short-sleeved light-blue shirt. Her gizmo-laden duty belt had to weigh twenty pounds, and from my vantage point I could see dangling handcuffs, baton, flashlight, a radio, and, of course, the holstered gun.

“What, no shorts, Thea? You must be really warm in those long pants.”

“No warmer than your jeans, Moonbeam. By the way, you're looking even more fractured than this morning in the field. Has something else happened?”

“I refuse to think about this morning. Anyway, things are coming together for me, Thea. A few more days and I should be solvent and able to decide what to do with the rest of my life.”

“Sincerely glad to hear it. But why are you sitting on the curb in full view of Chief Redfern's office window?”

I looked up at the first-floor windows, but with the sun reflecting off the glass the entire Lockport force could be watching and I wouldn't see them.

“Ah. So he sent you out here to move me along. Okay, I'll go. It won't do to have a vagrant littering the streets of Lockport.”

“Not at all, Moonbeam. I think the chief prefers you under his watchful eye rather than running around ingesting illegal substances or pitching epic fits. That's a direct quote, by the way, not necessarily my opinion.”

“I appreciate it.”

“He suggested we attach a tracking device to your ankle, and I'm not sure he was kidding.”

“Thanks for the heads up.”

“Okay, Moonbeam, now that my attempt at humour has so clearly relaxed you, I have something more serious to discuss.”

“Shit, you're not going to arrest me for Julian Barnfeather's murder, are you? I thought we were past that.”

“What? No.”

I stood up. “Okay, what is it?”

“That man you found in the woods today, name of Fitzgerald Corwin?”

“I remember.”

“Well, the coywolf didn't kill him.”

“It was eating him, Thea.”

“There's no denying that. But Mr. Corwin died from multiple blows from a sharp device like a hatchet or axe. You're not going to faint, are you?”

“Hardly. Why didn't Redfern tell me himself this morning in Hemp Hollow?”

“We didn't know until the coroner examined the body. You need to be aware that the killer has not been apprehended, and to take care. The chief suggests you stay with a friend or relative for the time being.”

“Can't do it, Thea. I hate to admit this, but there isn't a soul in Lockport who would give me a bed. Even my cousin, Dougal, is conducting a secret love affair and regularly throws me out of his house. It's my own fault — I've been so intent on making the Weasel pay up that I've neglected relationships, career, everything. But it's almost over now.”

She shook her head. “I don't like this, Moonbeam. There's something going on in Hemp Hollow, stuff I can't share with you, and you need to get out of there. You and that hooker friend of yours, what's her name, Rae Zabinski?”

“Zaborski.” I didn't ask how she knew about Rae.

“One more thing. Keep what I've just told you about Corwin to yourself until it's made public. The chief only wants you to know so you'll be careful.”

As Thea backed away, the Weasel walked past us to cross the street. He was pulling a black suit jacket over his white shirt. As our eyes met, it was all I could do not to shiver, but I held his gaze. A palpable wave of ruthlessness touched me.

Thea watched him for a minute, then shifted her belt, hand automatically resting on her holster.

“If I were you, Moonbeam, I wouldn't turn my back on your ex.”

“He can rot in hell. But not before writing me a nice big cheque.”

Thea shook her head again and bounded up the steps, the belt hugging her trim waist. I liked Thea and hoped she wasn't involved with Redfern and Snake.

The Quigleys were running some sort of drug depot. I preferred to think their business involved marijuana and not crystal meth. As far as I knew, pot wouldn't blow you sky high. And Snake was their … their what? Assistant? Enforcer? Delivery boy? Perhaps the Quigleys' business had expanded to the point where they needed a partner.

And I had no idea how Redfern fit into the picture. Maybe he simply looked the other way, for a price, and all his talk about cleaning up the gateway to the North was just a smokescreen. He was right about one thing, though. Hemp Hollow was no place for me and Rae.

Unfortunately, both of us were fresh out of options.

I crossed the road and headed for the Second Hand Rose Shop. Holly Duffett was just finishing up with a customer. As I approached her, I realized that the large-boned woman was not a customer, but was donating a stack of cardigans and wool skirts.

Holly greeted me with a “Hi, Bliss” and turned back to the middle-aged donor. “Thanks, Melanie, I'll keep these in back until September.”

The woman headed for the door, but gave me a swift, appraising look on her way past.

“Did you call her Melanie?” I asked Holly.

“Sure. Melanie Davies.”

“And, is she by any chance a therapist?”

“Well, yes she is. She's on the Board of Community Assistance, which oversees the management of this store.”

I was shocked that Dougal was having an affair with a woman at least fifteen years his senior. And, not to be rude, but she didn't look like the type a younger man would find attractive. Ergo, Dougal was stringing me along, and his paramour was somebody other than his therapist. I realized that Dougal had simply let me hang myself with the rope of conjecture. I had to hand it to him, he was almost as devious as his favourite cousin.

“Did you know today is Julian Barnfeather's funeral, Bliss? The service was at St. Luke's, but the burial should be taking place about now.”

On the street outside again, I looked down at myself. My jeans, pink tee-shirt, and motorcycle boots were fairly clean.

I'd go. I wanted to see who would be there for Julian's send-off.

The words of the 23th Psalm wafted toward me, and a dozen mourners stood around the open grave. Julian was being buried only yards away from Alistair Parks's flat stone where I had rested my back just five days ago.

I stood beside a cedar hedge and, for a moment, felt sad that I would never trim it again. A man wearing a black suit and a woman in a beige shift stood with their backs to me. She had her arm threaded through his and, once, she put her head on his shoulder, just for a second. He moved slightly, and as she straightened up I recognized The Weasels. Mike couldn't take the chance of being criticized for ignoring the funeral of a town employee.

Thea had been teasing me about Redfern watching from his window. He stood directly opposite me now, sunglasses in place. His chin lifted in my direction, and I knew he had spotted me.

From my vantage point, I had a good view of the other mourners. The large blond woman in a black pantsuit seated with her back to me was surely Julian's wife. Her shoulders heaved, and two younger women comforted her. I hoped she never found out what a pig her husband had been.

Fern Brickle and Joy MacPherson stood beside Bob in his wheelchair. I recognized Mrs. Boudreau and a couple of other people I had seen arriving at Fern's yesterday.

Then the truth hit me like a sledgehammer. Fuck.

Seeing them together in the cemetery, I realized Fern's dessert group were all Friends of the Settlers. The very Friends who spent every Saturday tending the graves of Lockport's homesteaders.

It hadn't occurred to me before, but the settlers' graves in the far corner of the cemetery should not have required weekly attention.

The area was enclosed by a tall wrought iron fence with a locked gate. And a thick line of pines hid the interior from view. A curious sightseer could only place an eye to the gate and catch a glimpse of ancient tombstones, words etched neatly with black paint to preserve history. The Cornwalls were one of Lockport's founding families, and their graves lay inside.

My mother once mentioned that, although the lock had been put on to keep out vandals, the area was open to the public every day. But those gates had never been opened during my employment at the cemetery.

It would be interesting to know how the Cemetery Board justified closing the Settlers' Plot to the public. Unless — and this was pure speculation — one or more of the dessert club were members of the Cemetery Board.

Which meant what?

Perhaps … Dessert Club
are
Friends of the Settlers
are
Cemetery Board. No problem keeping the public out of the Settlers' Plot.

Why go to all that trouble? Because they had to grow their freaking pot somewhere, didn't they? I would have thought the Settlers' Plot would be too shady to grow marijuana. But, as had been pointed out to me several times, I knew squat about marijuana.

I considered climbing over the fence and checking out my theory. Right here, right now. The Friends were gathered around Julian's casket, staring into the hole in the ground.

Too late. The mourners, including the Friends, were lining up to drop yellow roses onto the lid of the casket. Soon they might wander off to check on their crop.

Whoops.

Redfern strode purposefully in my direction, and one conversation per day with that bent cop was all I could handle.

I fled the scene.