Cornwall and Redfern Mysteries 2-Book Bundle (33 page)

It seemed like a good idea to change the subject, though. “Hey, did you guys hear about the skeleton in the old high school?”

Dougal straightened up and rolled down his pant legs. “It was all over
CTV News
last night. I'll be surprised if they don't find worse things when they tear the building down. Like asbestos.” He put on his boots.

“I heard it on the news this morning, too,” Rae said. “I wonder if a homeless person crawled in there for warmth, and just died. It's so sad.”

Redfern had made me promise not to speculate on the identity of the skeleton, and I didn't want to mention a second body in case Dwayne had pulled that one out of his ass.

Glory slammed her clipboard against the table. Her pen flew off into a corner, missing Simon's tail feathers by a hair. The parrot shot her a look of hatred, but wisely kept his beak shut.

“It's a terrible thing, but can we get back to business? We have another item to discuss. We're going to have a Christmas open house and sale, here at the greenhouse. On December 14.”

Dougal wasn't as drugged as he looked. “Not happening. That's two weeks from yesterday. We can't organize a show and sale in such a short time!” He struggled into his shirt.

Rae's round blue eyes widened even more. “But, Glory, we don't sell poinsettias or other seasonal plants.”

Glory waved Rae's objections aside, and totally ignored Dougal's. “If people want seasonal plants, they can buy them at the grocery store or local flower shops. We'll sell exotics, of course. Fortunately, we have a surplus at the moment. And I've already spoken to Ivy. She thinks it's a wonderful idea. So, we're doing it.”

Dougal's testosterone spiked, causing his mouth to malfunction. “Who put you in charge?”

Glory and Dougal were home-grown Lockportals. They hated each other growing up, much like now, but something extraordinary happened when they went to university to study plant science. They fell in love, or whatever that was. Personally, I believe all the pollinating — and field trips into the bush — screwed up their hormones. It lasted long enough for them to graduate, take a European holiday with classmate Chesley Belcourt, and get married.

Now, they were divorced and minority shareholders in the Belcourts' Bruce County greenhouse enterprise. That's
minority
shareholders. No reason for either of them to show up every day. Or any day.

Glory loomed over Dougal. “Ivy did, you useless worm. I'm in charge of this fundraiser.”

“Fundraiser? Didn't we just do that?” Dougal bounced his chair back a few feet and struggled to his feet. “Anyway, I'm too busy to get involved with anything you're in charge of.”

Dangling a preposition was a sure sign of fear, and Glory knew it. She lifted a high-heeled boot and shoved him in the chest. He fell back down again. “I guess you weren't listening. The food bank will be empty before the New Year. The admittance fee to the event will be a food item. And cash only for plant sales, no guarantees since most people will kill the plants before Valentine's Day. All proceeds to the food bank. Understand?”

We did.

Unfortunately, she wasn't done. “You will all wear an appropriate costume …”

“I'm not wearing that Cat costume again. It's too hot in here.” Dougal sat in his chair, crossed his arms, and looked defiant. But we all knew he was as beaten as the rest of us.

Rae's lip trembled. “And Glory, I can't wear the chipmunk costume either. I'll sweat to death.”

I figured it was now or never. “And I'm not dressing like an elf. Ever again.”

“Fine! You people are selfish to the core. I will leave choice of costume to your discretion. But remember, nothing frightening to children, like witches or zombies. And no stupid robots or superheroes. Got it? As the dumbass here has pointed out, we have less than two weeks to pull this together, and all of you will help. Take a copy of this list, and I don't want to hear any complaints about the work assignments. And no trading tasks either.”

I didn't care if it was barely noon, I was going to have a glass of wine, maybe two, any colour, when I got home.

Rae squirmed like people do when their phone vibrates in their pants. She got up and walked to the window before pulling it out.

Dougal and I reluctantly took a list from Glory. My job didn't look too bad. I could accomplish it in one
morning
. Dougal glowered at his ex-wife but didn't open his mouth again. He stuffed the paper in his pocket without glancing at it and started for the door.

I heard a sound from Rae, and turned toward the glass wall. She stared at me and tried to speak. Her legs gave out and she sank heavily to the floor.

I dropped down beside her. “What's wrong, Rae? What's happened?”

She clutched at me. “It's Sophie. She's dead!”

“Sophie who?” I knew a couple of Sophies.

“Sophie Quantz. She fell from the choir loft this morning or last night. Nobody knows for sure.”

Dougal postponed his dash to freedom. “She runs the Step Dancing Academy in town, right?”

“No, you're thinking of Sasha Gillhouse,” I said.

Glory addressed her ex-husband. “Idiot. She used to be Sophie Wingman. You went out with her in grade twelve, remember? She was only a kid in grade ten then. Now she's an Episcopal priest at St. Paul's.”

“Oh, that Sophie,” he said. “I barely remember her.”

“She was in my class,” I said. “After graduation, she went to a university out east, then to Divinity College. I haven't spoken to her since graduation …”

Graduation.
Well, shit.

I pulled my phone out of my purse.

Neil and Ed drove to
St. Paul's in separate vehicles in case Ed was called back to the hospital to deliver a baby. Two empty squad cars lined the curb in front of the church. Constable Cory Angetti wound perimeter tape through the bars of the wrought-iron fencing. As they headed inside, Ed observed, “Our last body was six months ago when that deranged woman axed her husband to death. Now, two bodies in two days. It's a record for me as coroner. How about you, Neil?”

“Only since I moved here, Ed. I'd see three or four dead bodies some days in Toronto. Mostly overdoses.”

Violence was seldom involved in those deaths. But dead was dead, and six years on a Toronto drug squad had hardened him, although highway crashes still knotted his stomach and put him off his food for a few days.

In the vestibule, Thea and Oliver pulled on their crime scene gear while Bernie ran police tape across the door leading into the nave. Bernie's partner, Margo Philmore, waited near four individuals sitting on a corner bench. Three were elderly females; the fourth, a male, mid-forties. His shaggy dark hair was shot through with grey. He moaned and rocked rapidly on the bench.

Neil turned to Bernie. “You were first responder? Who have we got?”

Bernie took his hands out of his pockets as he stepped forward. He spoke in a low voice. “Reverend Sophie Quantz, age 32, married, no children. Priest of this church. Bullet hole in the forehead. Lying across a couple of pews directly below the choir loft.”

He nodded his head at the foursome on the bench. “The ladies were the first into the church for morning services. One of them called us. The male is Kelly Quantz, the husband. He came in with the parishioners and saw the body. He's been incoherent since I got here.”

“Did any of them go near the body? The husband?”

“One of the ladies checked for a pulse but didn't move her. They said Quantz tried to go to her, but they managed to pull him away.”

Neil glanced over at the three elderly women, dressed in wool coats and knitted hats, pale but with stoic expressions. “Good thinking.”

“I tried for a pulse, too. None.”

“You've started the log sheet? Good.” Meticulous records had to be kept on every individual entering and leaving the crime scene.

While Ed suited up, Neil stood behind the tape and looked into the nave. The woman's body was sprawled over two pews, head hanging back but face up, arms and legs flung into unnatural positions. He counted the pews. She had fallen into the eleventh and twelfth. From this location, there was no visible blood, and the blonde hair fell forward, obscuring her face.

He moved aside to let Ed slide under the tape, followed by Thea and Oliver. His two SOCOs stayed back while Ed walked slowly to the body, watching where he put his feet down.

Neil turned away and pulled Margo aside. “Do you have all you need from the ladies?”

“I think so, Chief. They were a bit early, and chatted for a few minutes out on the steps. Mr. Quantz came around the back of the church from the direction of the manse and greeted them. The front doors here were locked, which was unusual before a Sunday service. They went around and came in a back door. They saw the body as soon as they stepped into the nave. One of them unlocked the front doors to let us in.”

The women were reluctant to leave Quantz, but he assured them that the new widower would be well looked after. They refused a ride in a cruiser, one of them asserting she was still fit to drive her own car home, thank you, young man. She reminded Neil of his Grandma Ida.

When the doors finally closed on the women, Neil turned to Quantz. The man seemed unaware or not to care that his supporters had deserted him. A steady keening sounded through the fingers spread across his face. His body shuddered.

Neil stood in front of him. “Mr. Quantz. I'm Chief Neil Redfern. Are you able to answer a few questions for me?”

Quantz turned his body away, toward the wall. “My Sophie. My Sophie.” He rocked back and forth.

“When did you see your wife last, Mr. Quantz?”

The only answer was a series of sobs that increased in intensity until the tiny vestibule echoed with his grief. He pushed Margo away when she put her hand on his shoulder in an effort to calm him.

Ed Reiner ducked under the tape and dropped his bag. Neil stood up and watched Thea and Oliver trot down the centre aisle and set to work.

“I've called the EMTs, Chief.” Margo stepped away from Quantz. “They're standing by.”

Ed peeled off his gloves and coveralls. He pulled Neil away from Quantz and kept his voice low. “Another one for autopsy. She has a bullet hole above the left eyebrow. No exit wound so the bullet is still in the skull. I'll take a quick look at the hospital before sending her to London, but I can't get the bullet for you. Liver temp suggests death occurred twelve to fifteen hours ago.”

Quantz moaned softly. He tried to get to his feet but fell back onto the bench and slammed the side of his head against the wall.

“So, last night between 9:00 p.m. and midnight?”

“Roughly. I'll try to confirm that before sending her away.” He turned his attention to Quantz. “Husband?”

Neil nodded and watched as Ed rummaged in his bag and pulled out a hypodermic needle and a vial of liquid. He expertly administered the shot before Quantz knew what was happening.

“What is that? I need to be able to talk to him.”

“It's a benzodiazepine, and you have five to twenty minutes before it takes effect. It won't put him to sleep, just relax him. I don't know if he'll be able to answer any questions.”

Neil instructed Bernie and Margo to restrain Kelly Quantz until he calmed down. The man continued to wail and thrash against the hands holding him. He was incapable of communicating where he lived or when he had last seen his wife.

Fifteen minutes later, Bernie and Margo were sweating and swearing under their breath as they continued to wrestle with Quantz to prevent him from banging his head against the wall. Ed speculated about giving him another dose, but if it came to that, it would be tomorrow before the man was fit to undergo questioning.

Finally, the fight went out of Quantz. His body went limp and his eyelids fluttered, then half closed.

“Mr. Quantz.” Neil spoke loudly. “Can you tell me when you saw your wife last?”

The flaccid lips parted. “Last night?”

“When did you miss her?”

“Didn't. I'm an artist. Sometimes work all night.”

“So, you worked all last night?”

“Yes. Came to church for the service. Found this.”
His eyes closed again, and this time they didn't reopen, although his eyeballs jumped frantically behind the lids.

Ed leaned over and took the man's pulse. “You should wait until the sedative wears off, Neil. I don't think you'll get much sense out of him now.”

Neil told his officers to take Kelly Quantz home and stay with him. If this was an act, it was a good one, but he wouldn't rule out a domestic killing at this point.

He turned back to the coroner. “Ed, is there anything else you can tell me about the wound?”

“No powder or stippling marks around the entrance, so it's a distance wound, from at least three feet away. A small-calibre bullet, a .22 or .32. That's a guess, though. I haven't seen a lot of bullet wounds.”

Ed's phone beeped, and when he checked the display, he said, “Here we go. Baby on the way. I'll be in touch, Neil.”

Alone in the vestibule, Neil contacted Lavinia. “Send a couple more units to St. Paul's Church on Balmoral Crescent. I need both sides of the street canvassed. I'll meet them here. Thanks, Lavinia.”

He paced the steps outside until the units showed up. “Hit each house, and if there's no response, make a note so you can go back. We need to know if anyone heard or saw anything near the church from six o'clock last night to six this morning.”

He left them to it and returned to the vestibule. At first, he couldn't see either Oliver or Thea. Then, Oliver's head bobbed up from between two pews close to the victim's head. When he saw Neil, he pointed up. Thea was working in the choir loft.

The church grew darker by the minute. Neil looked at his watch and saw it was already four-thirty. He stuck his head into the nave and located a row of light switches. He flipped them all and watched overhead chandeliers and wall sconces light up, bathing the nave in a soft glow that was helpful for now, but would be inadequate in another half-hour.

He paced again, bone-chilled and hungry, hating that he was stuck on this side of the perimeter. If only he could charge into the crime scene like the detectives did on cop shows.

Thea appeared behind the tape. “There's no sign of disturbance up there, Chief. The lectern is upright in the middle of the loft, and stacks of hymn books are piled neatly on one of the benches. I took plenty of shots of everything.” She stripped off her overalls and other gear. Her dark ponytail swung free and she shivered. “It's freaking frigid in here.”

“Did you find anything at all, Thea?”

She handed over an evidence bag. A small metal cylinder lay inside. Her eyes shone. “A shell casing. I found it under a bench.”

Neil held the bag up against the light. “It's too small for a .40 calibre. A casing from a .22 is thinner, so I'm thinking this could be a .32.” Seemed like Ed was right.

“Good job, Thea. What about fingerprints?”

“Hundreds, as you'd expect. But I found a set of handprints, with corresponding fingerprints, on the railing. Like someone had their back to the railing and gripped it. Interesting if they turn out to be Reverend Quantz's prints.”

Oliver joined them and packed his gear away. Evidence bags went into a separate case.

Neil closed his eyes and imagined a woman's body falling fifteen feet from the loft. It wasn't often he wished he had spent time in homicide.

The autopsy results could take weeks. The report might help, might not. The chances of the bullet showing up as a match in another homicide somewhere weren't great. And guns used to kill were rarely registered, no matter where the crime occurred. From the casing Thea found, they could determine the calibre of the bullet and a list of weapons that used that calibre. Reverend Quantz met someone in the choir loft last night. He had to scrutinize her life and determine who wanted her dead. Or who
needed
her dead.

“How many other exits from the church besides this one?” he asked Oliver.

Oliver jammed his numb hands back into his coat pockets. “There's one from the back room where the … priest, or whatever, gets dressed for the service. It's the door the three ladies and Mr. Quantz found unlocked this morning. So, Reverend Quantz may have come in that way last night. And possibly her assailant. There's another door from the walk-up basement. It's locked from the outside and barred from the inside. I think it used to be an old coal cellar, but doesn't look like anyone's been down there for years.”

Neil stepped aside. “You two get back to the station and start processing the evidence for transfer to the CFS in Toronto. I'm going to arrange for the church to be secured. We might have to take another run-through tomorrow.”

By the time two more officers arrived, it was fully dark. “These outer doors aren't locked and we don't have the key yet. Put some tape across and make sure no one goes in.”

His phone rang as he climbed into his vehicle: Cornwall. Maybe she wanted him to answer another robbery call. That was going to have to wait. Sunday or not, he had two deaths to investigate.

“Hi, Cornwall. I can't talk right now. An incident …”

“I know all about it. Reverend Sophie Quantz died in her church. Do you know who she is?”

“You mean other than the priest at St. Paul's?”

“Yeah, other than that. Her maiden name is Wingman.”

“I don't see…. Wait, wasn't she in your graduation class?”

“Congrats, you aren't as blond as you look, Redfern. Yesterday, you discover the body of someone who shall remain nameless for the moment, but could be a member of the last graduating class of the old Lockport High. Today, another grad dies. I believe in the occasional coincidence, but this looks more like cause and effect.”

Neil thought so, too. The trouble was, Cornwall had a talent for adding two and two, getting to four, but causing a lot of trouble on the way. “Keep this theory to yourself for now, okay? We can talk as soon as I take care of a few things. Where will you be?”

“At home, waiting for you, cutie. I'll even make you dinner. Bring the yearbook.”

She rang off and Neil drove to the station. His stomach lining gnawed itself and acid splashed into his throat. Cornwall's cooking was a hit-and-miss challenge. He preferred to barbecue a steak while she emptied a ready-made salad into a bowl. And if he read the signs correctly, she thought she would be helping him with the murder investigations.

He asked Lavinia to connect him with the Ontario Provincial Police headquarters in London.