Cornwall and Redfern Mysteries 2-Book Bundle (4 page)

The glasses came off again. I lowered my eyes and stared at the third button from the top of his shirt. Constable Vanderbloom stopped writing.

“Who are the Friends of the Settlers?”

“It's a volunteer group that looks after the pioneer graves in the northwest corner. That area was the original Lockport Cemetery. The rest has grown out from there. There's an iron fence and pine trees around the site.”

“How do we get in touch with these people?”

“There are two or three of them there every Saturday, all quite elderly. You can probably get the names from the Cemetery Board.”

I didn't divulge that one of the Friends was Fern Brickle, my Wednesday afternoon cleaning job. I didn't want the police to bother her. She was a nice lady and gave me a fifty-dollar bonus at Christmas.

“So, I'm getting the impression that Julian didn't die from a heart attack or stroke,” I ventured, once the notebook was stowed away and both pairs of sunglasses were back in position. The activity in the cemetery the night before made sense, now.

Chief Redfern's lip twitched briefly. “Until the autopsy results are in, we don't know what we're dealing with.”

“If the coroner indicates Mr. Barnfeather's death was not due to natural causes, we'll be back for another chat. Don't leave town,” said the constable, showing her white teeth in a smile.

“I'll be in touch.” Chief Redfern nodded at me.

As they scrambled up the embankment, I sank down on the step. Julian might have been murdered. Lost in thought, I paid little attention to the leather-clad shadow as it emerged from the trees again and slipped into the Quigley trailer.

If the cops did determine that Julian had been murdered, would I be their chief suspect? I tried to put things into perspective. I didn't kill Julian, so I should stop worrying. But memories of Guy Morin, Donald Marshall, David Milgaard, and Stephen Truscott kept intruding on my thoughts. Innocent people did go to prison.

Changing into my real estate agent outfit of white silk shirt, black pantsuit, and motorcycle boots, I rode to Tim Hortons on Main Street and ordered my Sunday favourites. Sitting at a table, I organized my coffee and whole wheat bagel.

I was taking my first bite into thick strawberry cream cheese when a man dropped into the seat opposite me. He placed his coffee mug and cruller on the table and smiled.

I didn't smile back.

“How are you doing, Bliss?” the Weasel asked, his smile still pasted in place. I barely registered the close-cropped dark hair and light brown eyes that, a lifetime ago, could quicken my pulse and send my heart soaring.

“Couldn't be better. And you?”

“Same. You're looking very well.” He lifted his mug to his lips, his eyes studying me over the rim.

I swung my tri-coloured hair.

“Sued any widows or orphans lately?”

“Come on, Bliss, when are you going to stop obsessing about the past and move on? You're young and could have a wonderful future.” His white teeth bit into the cruller.

“It could be wonderful if I had some money to get on with.”

“Let's not go over this again. Our relationship is over, and I have no obligation to continue to carry you financially.”

I looked at him through a red haze of rage. “You're an asshole, Mike. I supported you through law school, and yet it's okay for you to tell me to leave our house with three suitcases and two hundred dollars in my purse?”

“You took your jewellery, and I gave you the fifty-acre property.”

“Fifty acres of swamp, and we won't even discuss the cheap jewellery.”

He deftly changed the subject. “Let the past go, Bliss. I want to tell you something before it becomes public knowledge.”

“Don't tell me you and Andrea are having a baby?” The time had never been right for me to get pregnant, and if he told me he was about to become a father, I would stab him with the plastic knife in my hand.

He smirked. “Not yet, but we're hopeful.”

“Well, you better get on with it. Andrea is, what, forty? Forty-one?”

“She's only thirty-eight. Now listen. I will be running for federal office in the next election.”

I put the plastic knife down and scrutinized the smooth, satisfied face. “You're the Liberal candidate?”

“Yes.” He managed to look modest and proud at the same time.

“Bliss.” He leaned forward, cupping his hands around his coffee mug. “I was hoping to find you here this morning. I have a cheque for you, for five thousand dollars.” His eyes crinkled at the corners but remained watchful as he pushed a cheque across the table.

I inhaled a large piece of bagel and spent a few seconds coughing it back up. It gave me time to think. I didn't believe in the Tooth Fairy, nor did I expect to win a lottery. Therefore, I didn't believe in the Weasel's cheque.

“Five thousand dollars isn't near enough payoff for putting up with you for eight years.”

“Bliss, can't you forget your bitterness? You could use the money to relocate, perhaps to Toronto. You might even go back to school.”

“With five thousand dollars? You are a very strange man, Mike. I think I can make more money by staying right here in Lockport.”

He ran a well-manicured finger around the rim of his cup. “From what I hear, you are working several minimum-wage jobs. I think you can do better.”

“I think I can too.” I watched his eyes and stuffed a smaller piece of bagel into my mouth.

Mike shifted in his chair and gazed into his coffee. “I hear there was a death in the cemetery yesterday. Weren't you working there?”

“Yes. Apparently Julian Barnfeather was found dead last evening.”

“Have the police contacted you?”

“We had a chat.”

“I hope they don't think you had anything to do with his death.”

“Why would they?”

“No reason, except that you were apparently the last person to see him alive.”

“Except for whoever murdered him, assuming he was murdered.”

He looked me in the eye. “I wouldn't want to see you involved in a messy murder investigation.”

“I'll bet you wouldn't. It wouldn't be good for your public image. Your ex-wife's name in the paper in the same column as that of a murder victim.” My mind had been racing and crossed the finish line when I finally figured out why Mike was offering me a cheque to get out of town.

I stabbed my knife into the remains of his cruller, pretending it was his throat. He managed not to flinch.

“Don't you have to be a member of the provincial party first, before you can run federally?”

“Not at all. The party has convinced me that I have an excellent chance of becoming the next MP for this riding. Now, are you going to accept this cheque? If so, I have a waiver for you to sign.”

“No thanks. I think I'll hold out for more.”

“There won't be any more. This is all I'm going to offer, so take it or leave it.”

I tried to look pensive. “I wonder if one of the major newspapers, maybe the
Toronto Star
, will want to interview me.”

Mike snorted. “Why would they?”

“Because they like to print controversial articles, especially political ones. They might feel that an interview with the impoverished ex-wife of a Liberal candidate would increase their readership. Their photographer could take my picture leaning on a tombstone with my rake. I'd wear my denim overalls, the ones with the rip in the knee.”

I was just yanking the Weasel's balls, but by the look on his face, he wasn't enjoying it. A warm, fuzzy feeling washed over me. Maybe, just maybe, I was on to something. “You're crazy, Bliss. And nobody is going to take a nutcase seriously. You might as well take this cheque and sign the waiver.”

I had no doubt he would do well in politics, playing in the big boys' sandbox. Andrea's father was a Liberal backbencher from a neighbouring constituency and would know how to groom Mike for public display. The Weasel might even wind up becoming Canada's youngest prime minister someday and the thought made the fuzzy feeling disappear in a wink. With Mike at the helm, there would be no women and children first into the lifeboats. It was my civic duty to prevent such a catastrophe from happening

“Looks like you have a golden future ahead of you, Mike. But you'll be wide open to public scrutiny if you run. Female voters won't endorse a wife abuser and skinflint.”

Aware of curious glances from nearby tables, Mike lowered his voice. “What are you talking about? I never laid a hand on you, and I paid for all your clothes, country club fees, and anything else you needed.”

“True, but I didn't even have my own chequing account or a joint account with you. I had to beg every time I wanted money for something other than clothes or country club fees. And I think I can make a case for emotional and verbal abuse.”

“I promise you, Bliss, you will not stand in the way of my future.” His eyes were as cold as I had ever seen them, and I suppressed a shiver.

Taking my time, I opened my purse and took out a pen and small notepad. I wrote briefly on it, then stood up. “You think about our discussion, Mike. If you want this little piece of your past to go away, then here is what it will cost you.” I saw this scene in a movie once.

I handed him the slip of paper and walked off, leaving Mike to stare at the paper in his hand.

A cool breeze had sprung up while I was in the coffee shop. I pulled my leather jacket out of the saddlebag and zipped it up to my chin, trying not to think of the fashion faux pas I was committing. Driving past the town centre, where the skunk still reposed in fragrant death, I turned onto River Road and headed for my real estate appointment.

After my marriage broke up, I had had high hopes of making a decent living by selling real estate. I knew a lot of people and was sure my friends would support me by signing on as my clients. I should have saved the money I spent on the real estate course and the board exam.

Elaine Simms owned the only real estate business in Lockport and she finally confessed, after several client-free months, that the affluent citizens wanted their real estate needs met by Elaine herself, broker extraordinaire. The rest of her customer base was handled by her sister, Rachel. She saw my disappointment and tossed me the listing for the old Barrister house, a property that had been languishing on the market for years.

The property sat on a scraggy seven acres at the junction of River Road and County Road 10, south of Lockport. Once a grand estate, the Georgian-style house now appeared forlorn and neglected, with boarded-up windows and lawns overgrown with weeds. Inside, new plumbing and wiring were needed before the house could be deemed habitable. I had shown the property three times, but each prospective buyer had shied away before even entering the front door. I didn't expect this time to be any different.

Since I didn't have a vehicle to pick up the clients, Elaine had arranged for them to meet me at the house. A silver late-model Volkswagen convertible with red leather seats burrowed into the calf-high weeds. I fluffed up my hair and prepared to dazzle Ivy and Chesley Belcourt from St. Catharines.

Two black-clad figures rounded the corner of the house and moved toward me.

Ivy was tall and fleshy with short grey hair. Her high-necked dress hugged a formidable bosom, skimmed the rest of her body, and ended just above the top of heavy ankles that overflowed sturdy leather flats. A sleeveless vest reached mid-thigh and flapped in the brisk breeze, giving Ivy the air of a huge crow trying to lift off. She relied on a cane to help her manoeuvre the uneven ground and, as they came closer, I noticed the slash of bright red lipstick and the translucent blue eyes. I put her in her mid-sixties.

Chesley was much younger and, assuming he was Ivy's son, he took after his dad. He was a couple of inches shorter than Ivy, and bony. His wide, thick lips opened and closed like a beached bass and, in the absence of words, I surmised he was mouth-breathing. His large round eyes were an unusual shade, and one glance at them turned me off green grapes for life. Medium brown hair, straight and cut to chin level all around, was pushed back behind his ears. A belt and red suspenders secured his pants, and white Nikes peeped out from under the wide hems.

I approached them, trying not to trip on the rough ground, and we stopped a polite four feet apart.

I could see Ivy glance at my silk suit, but couldn't read her expression to tell if she approved of the classic style, or recognized my outfit for what it was — three years out of date on a slightly smaller body than it was meant for. At least it was black, their favourite colour.

“How do you do? Mr. and Mrs. Belcourt? I hope I haven't kept you waiting.”

“You must be Ms. Cornwall.” Chesley reached out with his thin hand and shook two of my fingers. “We're pleased to meet you, aren't we, Mum?”

“Yes, of course. Now, Ms. Cornwall, Chesley and I arrived somewhat early, so we took a walk around the grounds. We have the specifications supplied by Miss Simms, so we are aware of the property boundaries and don't wish to waste your time, or ours, on exploring any further out here.”

“Oh, I understand, Mrs. Belcourt. This property needs a lot of work and not everyone wants to take on a project like this. I'll just give you my card in case you want to look at something else in the area.” I stopped when I saw the raised eyebrows on Chesley, and Ivy's pursed lips.

The mother and son looked at each other, and then Chesley said, “We would like to see inside the house now. That is why we came, after all.”

“You did bring the key, did you not, Ms. Cornwall?” Ivy's hooded eyes dared me to admit I hadn't.

“Certainly. I have it right here.” I threw my shoulders back and led the way through the vegetation sprouting through cracks in the flagstone path.

I inserted the key into the lock box attached to the weathered oak door. This was the second time I had been inside the house. Elaine had shown me around before turning the listing over to me, and I was not hopeful the Belcourts would be any more impressed than I had been.

Entering the hall, I flicked on the lights. The gloom from the boarded-up windows could not be dispelled by electricity. I pulled three small flashlights out of my purse and handed two over to the mother and son.

“Here you go. I don't think there are any holes in the floor, but watch where you step just in case.” The place was as sinister as a horror movie set, and I had to shake off a feeling that I would round a corner and find a stack of corpses with an axe murderer standing proudly over his work. Heavy burgundy drapes hung in tatters over the sitting room windows, while the area rugs virtually moved with whatever insect life was living in them. Furniture squatted ominously in the murky shadows, and curls of dark, flocked paper rolled down the walls.

“Good place for a murder mystery dinner,” I said, just to break the ice. Neither Belcourt had uttered a sound since we entered the house, unless you counted Ivy's heavy breathing as she stumped along in my wake. I couldn't hear Chesley. He was a quiet mouth-breather.

“I assume this is the kitchen?” Ivy asked, as we opened a door off the main hall.

I flicked another switch and said, “Looks like. I don't suppose you want to see upstairs?”

“We certainly do,” came Chesley's precise tones from somewhere behind me.

“Okay, then.” I led them back into the hall and headed toward what I hoped was the front door. I was feeling my way, and hoping not to touch anything too gross … or dead. The air wrapped us in an odour of decay. There were probably dead rats in the walls.