Cornwall and Redfern Mysteries 2-Book Bundle (47 page)

He put his arm around my shoulders. “Who else attended these Saturday socials and taught their grandchildren about guns?”

“Well, the Weasel's grandfather. The Weasel never came, but his grandfather did.”

“I suppose you were too young to remember what specific guns each man had?”

On the screen, Jase and Jep were pulling another prank on poor Willie. Dragging my attention back to Redfern, I replied, “Other than my grandfather, no. I was nine, for heaven's sake.”

“When did you stop going with your grandfather to the clubhouse?”

“I only went for a year or so. I started f-bombing the other kids at school and pointing my trigger finger at them, so my parents wouldn't let me go anymore. Have you got anything to share with me?”

“Like my interviews with suspects? No.”

I sighed. “That's what I figured. It's all one way with you, Redfern. You take and take, but you give nothing back.”

“Are we still talking about the investigation? If the subject is more personal, I'd like a chance at rebuttal.”

“I'm not up for another fight. It's been a long day and I think my UGGs are ruined.”

He opened his mouth, then promptly closed it again. “That's that, then. Guess I'll be on my way. Back to my lonely cabin in the woods.” He removed his arm and stood up.

“Don't let the bears bite.”

I waited until I heard him drive away before switching off the TV and heater. I dragged a ten-foot ladder to the centre of the garage and propped it against the centre beam. I climbed to the second last step.

I reached over my head and searched around until my fingers touched a large black metal box. After Grandpa passed away, Dad set the box up here. I used to climb up and open it once in a while, just to feel close to my grandpa again. If it ever became my decision to make, I didn't know how I would dispose of them.

I climbed another step. The first gun I unwrapped was the Walther. I leaned over and put my nose close to it. I did the same to the other three — the Dreyse, the Sauer, and the Mauser. I picked up the Sauer and turned it in my hands, feeling the weight, remembering.

The guns weren't mine, so I should leave them where they were and forget about them for now. I wrapped the oil-stained cloth around the Sauer and put it back with the others.

My left foot rolled off the rung and I clutched at the beam to steady myself. My elbow dislodged an object resting about four feet from the gun box. It fell to the cement floor with a dull thud.

I clambered down the ladder and poked at the bundle with my toe. It was long, wrapped in a dirty blue towel, and secured with duct tape. It had missed my Savage's back fender by inches.

I found an old box cutter in the toolbox to cut through the duct tape, and unrolled the towel.

A dagger, about fifteen inches long, gleamed dully against the fabric. I brought it closer to my eyes and made out a tiny eagle and a string of worn letters and numbers, starting with a
W
. A groove ran along the flat edge of the wood handle. The handle was meant to slide into a rifle socket. I dropped it back onto the towel and leaned away.

It was a Second World War German bayonet. How the hell had Grandpa smuggled this back from Europe?

I sat on the cold cement floor for a few minutes, thinking. I tested the blade edges. Not sharp enough to cut on contact, and you'd have to poke someone pretty hard with the point to pierce the skin.

I wrapped the soiled towel around the bayonet, threw the cover over the bike, and switched off the garage lights.

In my bedroom, I shoved the bayonet under the bed. When I stood up, Rae was standing beside me, her arms filled with bottles of hair-dyeing chemicals.

My heart rate
had slowed to
trip trip trip
from
boom boom boom
. It was a good thing Redfern had shut the treadmill off or I might still be draped over it, dead, my heart stopped by an overdose of cold medication. One piece of good news, though. My sinuses were completely clear, although my respiration was rapid and shallow, as they say in the ER where I would be had I taken one more of those tablets.

Rain beat at the windows and the refrigerator hummed in the kitchen. Somewhere a faucet dripped, one drop every five seconds. Who could sleep with all that noise? I punched my pillow and squinted at the digital clock. Already 2:48 a.m. In another five hours, the alarm would beep.

Should I get up and make a cup of herbal tea? Or decaffeinated coffee? And some cheese puffs? I felt like shit if I didn't get eight hours. An idea blossomed. I could turn the alarm off, why the hell not? But first, I should turn off my phone so Dougal couldn't call and ask me why my ass wasn't at work. Screw him. Arm-twisting deadbeat customers could wait another day.

I rolled onto my side and reached for my cellphone, but froze when I heard a sound outside the window. I told myself it was a raccoon raiding my garbage can. The noise continued, followed by foot treads on the deck. Definitely too heavy for a coon.

Bear! The town bear was right outside my bedroom window. No point calling the police night dispatcher. He would recite the Ministry of Natural Resource's phone number and hang up. This wasn't good.

I slid off the bed and crept over to the window. I looked to the right and saw a shadow disappear around the corner toward the front of the house. I yanked my phone from the charger and raced down the hall, throwing open Rae's door. I jumped on her bed and shook her. “Rae! Get up. A bear is trying to get into the house. Wake up!”

“Go away, Bliss. Bears are in hibernation. Go back to sleep.” She turned over and pressed her pillow over her head.

I bounced up and down on my knees. “I'm telling you, a bear is casing the house, trying to find a way in. Get up. You might have to chase it away.”

Rae pulled on a robe and followed me into the living room, complaining with every step. I had left the drapes open, but the streetlights allowed very little illumination into the house. All was silent outside. Still, the hair on my arms stood up and my hyper-vigilant brain sensed human, not animal presence. Someone was lurking outside.…

I jumped away from the window. A framed print fell to the floor with a crash as I flattened myself against the narrow wall between the big picture window and the door. My phone fell and skittered off into the shadows. Rae clutched my arm and I shook her off. “Run back to your room and call 911. We have a two-legged intruder.”

Usually I lock my doors, but tonight — over-
medicated
and stupid — I hadn't. The sound of the knob turning almost stopped my heart. Fucking hell! I needed a weapon and there wasn't as much as a vase within reach. The door opened an inch and I threw my weight against it. As it slammed shut, I turned the lock.

I ran to the front window and looked around the drapes. A shape darker than the night stood on the flagstone walkway. Damn! I needed to turn on the outside lights. I pulled my head back and reached out to feel for the light switch beside the door. An explosion shattered the window, right where my head had been a second ago. Shards of glass shot across the hardwood floor. I collapsed and rolled into a ball, hands over my ears. I knew a gunshot when I heard one.

When no second blast came, I scampered on all fours across the living room, oblivious to the fragments of glass cutting into my hands, knees, and toes. In my bedroom, I ran into Rae's legs. I dove under my bed and dragged out Grandpa's bayonet. We locked ourselves in my ensuite and waited for the cops.

Ten minutes after Rae's call to report an intruder, two cruisers blocked both ends of the street while a third parked on the sidewalk in front of my house: pretty good response time for the middle of the night. Flashing lights allowed the nosy neighbours to watch one officer busily run yellow tape over and around trees and bushes.

Inside, Bernie and Dwayne hovered over Rae, ostensibly taking her statement, but in my opinion it was just a ruse to get close to the shapely young blonde. Rae had her bunny slippers on to protect her feet from the glass-strewn floor. She clutched her pink, fuzzy robe tightly to her throat.

Nobody took my statement or seemed to care that it was my head that almost got blown off. I dabbed at the cuts on my feet and knees and wrapped paper towels around my bleeding hands. Thea took pictures of the shot-out window, stopping to make an occasional entry in her notebook. She frowned in concentration and ignored me as diligently as the men.

“You guys should look on the front stoop for a shell casing,” I volunteered.

She gave me a cool, professional smile. “Thanks, we got this.”

“The perp touched the door handle on the outside. He probably wore gloves but you should dust for fingerprints just in case he didn't.”

“We did. Thanks, though.”

“Doesn't anybody want to hear what happened? Shouldn't somebody be making me a cup of tea or driving me to the ER to get the glass picked out of my skin?”

“The Chief wants to inter— question you himself. He'll be along any minute.”

“Really? Well, guess I'll go make some coffee or something. Or, I know, I'll just stab myself with a fork, how's that?” No one paid any attention to me as I went to my bedroom and pushed the bayonet farther under the bed. I didn't want to sidetrack Redfern with unrelated details.

I pulled the curtains completely closed and made my bed neatly. I dressed in loose track pants that were cheap to replace if I bled to death on them. The area around my eyes was almost back to normal and it took minimal makeup to create a face that looked like it had had eight hours sleep instead of nada. I rewrapped my hands in toilet paper. Somehow my fingertips had escaped shredding.

I plunked down on my bed to wait for the big chief. It didn't take a genius, or a cop, to figure out that someone wanted me dead. Had I struck a nerve with the person who killed Faith and Sophie? Redfern was going to deduce that I had poked the wrong alligator in my quest to unearth the truth. Although, he wouldn't put it that way.
Meddling
would be his verb of choice. I tried to quell the tremors that wracked my body.

It didn't seem fair that I had been shot at and still didn't have a frigging clue why, or who the bad guy was. And where the hell was my phone? I wanted to text my parents. This time I would tell them what a horrible time I was going through. Maybe they would invite me to visit them in their hippie haven on Vancouver Island. Man, I'd be on the next plane out of Pearson Airport in Toronto.

I wrapped myself in an afghan and tried to cry. A good restorative howl would do me good. But fuck it! I never was much for the waterworks. I reached for the TV remote. Maybe the Shopping Channel had something I needed.

I rocked back and forth in the middle of the bed, my fingers feverishly punching the buttons on the remote.

It seemed Neil
was asleep for mere minutes when the night dispatcher called. Cornwall's front window had been shot out. No injuries were reported, and the entire night shift had already been dispatched to the scene, along with the on-call SOCOs.

Neil immediately contacted off-duty staff and sent them to the Davidson, Leeds, Brickle, and Quantz residences. Tony took the Bainses and Neil reserved Earl Archman for himself.

Archman answered his door wearing a tent-like bathrobe, his thick brown hair hanging like wiry strips of rope. Winter boots stood on a rubber tray by the door and several coats hung on a hook. None showed signs of the rain that continued to fall unabated. Archman seemed appropriately disoriented, and when Neil told him why he was there, the man turned a disturbing shade of purple. Neil helped him to his recliner and located the asthma inhaler. With the man's permission, he ran upstairs and took a quick glance at the unmade bed and discarded clothing. The pant hems were dry.

In the living room, Archman's skin colour had faded to his normal greyish-white. Neil suggested he not open his door to anyone other than the police, keep his drapes closed, and call if he noticed anything suspicious.

As Neil was climbing back into his car, dispatch reported that no one was answering the door at the St. Paul's manse. Kelly Quantz was either passed out inside or not there at all. Neil ordered an Alert out on the man and asked for a warrant to be initiated to enter the residence.

On Cornwall's front lawn, a constable handed Neil a plastic evidence bag containing a shell casing. He reported they had found footprints around the back, side, and front of the house and were attempting to take casts, but the rain filled the depressions and blurred the edges. They would keep trying, but photographs might be all they could salvage. No prints on the front door handle.

Inside the house, the collection team was finishing up. A bullet had been dug out of the wall facing the front window. The intruder hadn't gained access to the house, so taking fingerprints was unnecessary.

To the east, the sky brightened almost imperceptibly. Neil dismissed everyone except Bernie. The sounds of clattering china came from the kitchen.

“Miss Zaborsky is making tea for Bliss,” Bernie explained.

“Stay in the house with them until you're relieved. I'll send someone from day shift as soon as possible. Now, where is Ms. Cornwall?”

Bernie pointed down the hall. “In her bedroom.”

“When the stores open, will you contact someone to replace the window? Thanks, Bernie.”

He had to stop himself from running down the hall. He threw the door open without knocking first. When he saw Cornwall rocking in the middle of her bed with a green knitted blanket wrapped around her body, he nearly lost it.

Neil shut the door and with two steps he dropped to the floor beside her and pulled her into his arms. She started to cry. Her body shook, and he held her tighter. She stopped crying and squeaked. He realized he was squeezing too tightly and eased off.

“Where were you?” Her voice rose, but at least the tears had stopped. “I needed you.”

“I'm sorry. I had to ensure our suspects were paid an official visit as soon as possible. Once I knew you weren't hurt, I made a call myself.”

“Apology accepted.” She forced a smile. “So, who did you see?”

Neil took a closer look at her hands and feet. Bloody lengths of toilet paper trailed from her fingers. “Are you in much pain? Why didn't you tell Thea?”

“She was busy with cop stuff. They're only scratches.”

Neil searched through her medicine cabinet in the ensuite. “Where's your first aid-stuff?”

“Under the sink.”

He had to rummage behind an assortment of
feminine
-hygiene products and hair rollers before he found the right container.
While he applied antibiotic ointment and Band-Aids to her cuts, he tried to sound offhand as he asked, “Where were you standing when the window was blown out?”

“Right in front of it. If I hadn't moved to turn on the outside lights, my brains would be splattered all over the room.” Her bottom lip trembled and she bit down on it. Tears pooled in her eyes again.

There was a soft rap on the door. Rae stood on the other side, a tray balanced in one arm. Neil took it from her and shoved the door closed with his foot. He poured tea into a cup and added some milk before holding the cup to her lips. He noticed her hair was different again. This time there were only a couple of colours in the mix.

She took a slurp of tea, choked, and spat it out over the front of his shirt. “Shit. Hot. Sorry.” Her little hand reached out to wipe the tea off his chest.

He gently covered her hand with his. “Don't get your Band-Aids wet.”

“You never told me which suspect you visited. Is it me? Am I being interrogated without counsel?” Her mouth turned up at the corners.

Thank God the shock was wearing off. He wrapped her a little tighter in the blanket and held the cooling tea to her lips again. “Careful. Just a sip. I sent teams to talk to Davidson, Leeds, Brickle, and Quantz. Tony is interviewing the Bainses.”

“I hope Tony gets out alive. So, by process of elimination, you must have gone to Earl Archman's house. By yourself?”

An expression he had seen before flitted across her face. What was it? “Why not by myself? I'm a big boy.” Guilt. That was it. She had been up to something. Wasn't it just yesterday that he told her to stay out of the investigation? Did she …?

“You talked to Earl Archman, didn't you?”

“I told you last night that I spoke to a potential new client.”

Neil closed his eyes, trying to calm himself. No way in
hell
would Cornwall ever stay out of police business if she decided she had something to contribute. Either he had to accept her relentless interference, or one of them had to leave town.

He opened his eyes to find her watching him with a calculated expression on her face. “Well, got something to say, Cornwall?”

“I guess. But tell me this first. Did Thea dig a .32 calibre slug out of my wall?”

“We found a bullet, but we don't know what it is yet. We also found a casing outside your living room window, a small one.”

She inspected her fingernails, painted a dark blue, but chipped and ragged now. “Earl may have divulged that he has some Second World War pistols, from his great-uncle, I think he said.”

“Why didn't you tell me this immediately?” This should be good. Her stories always were.

“Well, he asked me not to. I didn't like to break a confidence.”

“Really, Cornwall? I understand you've been through an ordeal, but I expected a better excuse from you. This one is hardly up to your standard.”

Her eyes sparked fire and she threw back the blanket revealing an orange sweatshirt with the words “No, I'm Not Deaf, I'm Ignoring You” stamped across the front. Inexplicably, she had managed to put makeup on. Her lips glistened with pink gloss. Hopping off the bed, she put her wrists on her hips and leaned toward him. “I guess you've used up your weekly quota of sympathy. Let me know when you get another delivery and I'll be sure to invite you over.”

“Don't take that tone with me, Cornwall. You screwed up again and you know it. You should have told me right away about Archman's guns. What if he shot me? How would you feel about betraying a confidence then?”

Shit, now he'd done it. She threw herself back on the bed. Her body shuddered as she buried her face in a pillow. He didn't know whether to administer an official reprimand or take her into his arms again.

Before he could reach for her, she whirled around, leaped up, and threw her arms around his neck. “I'm so, so sorry, Redfern. I could have sent you into a fatal trap. I'm pretty sure all your suspects have souvenir pistols or hunting guns, but I should have told you about Earl's guns anyway.”

Neil pulled her in closer and pressed her head against his chest. This was the first time she had ever apologized to him. She could have been killed tonight. And that would have destroyed him. He couldn't take another loss in his life.

When she raised her head and looked at him, he bent and placed his lips on hers. His phone emitted its text ring. He took it out of his pocket. It was Bernie from the living room:

Need to speak.

Neil wiped Cornwall's lip gloss off his mouth before leaving the room. She followed him.

Bernie gestured him into a corner, away from Cornwall. “Dispatch got a call from one of the Dogtown Davidsons. He was driving on a side road bordering Ghost Swamp. Saw something on the shoulder. Thought it might be roadkill, but it wasn't.”

As was often the case, Neil wanted to throttle Bernie. “What was it?”

“Body …” He paused. “Of a man.”

If Bernie asked “Guess whose body it is?” Neil wouldn't be able to control himself.

Bernie skipped that step. “It's Kelly Quantz. Shot through the head.”