Cornwall and Redfern Mysteries 2-Book Bundle (5 page)

I wasn't keen on taking Ivy upstairs. Considering her bulk, if she didn't put a foot through the treads, she was apt to take a tumble, and I knew whose fault that would turn out to be.

Step by careful step, we ascended what must have once been a beautiful staircase, but was now reduced to a rotting death trap. I turned on all the lights I could find as the three of us stood in a long hallway leading to four empty bedrooms.

Stepping into the bathroom, I said with the total lack of sarcasm I learned in realtor's school, “As you can see, the bathroom needs some updating.”

“That's an understatement. The plumbing is archaic and the electrical service is a fire waiting to happen, I'm sure,” Ivy noted, her lips thinning as she looked around the dismal room.

No shit, Ivy.

“Well, you can take that into consideration if you want to make an offer,” I told her. They would have to be total idiots to even consider buying the dump.

We made our way slowly down the stairs, me in the lead to break the fall of my prospective client, again by the book. Soon we were blinking at one another in the sunlight, like a trio of bears after a long winter's nap. They handed back the flashlights.

“I believe this property is close to Lake Huron, Miss Cornwall?” Ivy thwacked at some nearby weeds with her cane and uncovered part of a small stone fountain, now filled with wild daisies.

“Bird River bisects the northwest corner of the property, as I'm sure you noticed, then crosses the road. It runs into the lake about a quarter-mile away.”

“Well, thank you, Ms. Cornwall. We'll be in touch,” said Chesley, flicking a strand of stray hair behind his ears.

Yeah, right. I gave them each a card and watched as Chesley helped his mother into the driver's side of the convertible. The tires kicked up a cloud of gravel and leaves as Ivy floored the gas pedal, and the Bug disappeared down the county road toward town.

After locking up, I drove along River Road toward the bridge over Bird River. It was time to check on my swamp.

If someone told me she was acquiring a fifty-acre waterfront property as a divorce settlement, I would tell her to have the property appraised before signing off rights to any other assets. Not that the Weasel gave me a choice. Apparently, I was the last person in town to know he wanted a divorce, and before my head stopped spinning I was standing on the front porch with my BlackBerry, several suitcases, a couple of cardboard boxes, and the keys to a ten-year-old Nissan. Oh, and the deed to fifty acres on Bird River. Look up
dumb
in the dictionary and you'll find my picture.

My parents were already camped on Vancouver Island, having rented their house out to a retired couple from Hamilton who loved small-town life and weren't leaving anytime soon. So I couldn't stay there, and Dougal was knee-deep in his own marital woes. Not that it would have been a good idea to live with Dougal anyway. One of us would have ended up buried under the lilacs in the backyard.

While I was standing there on my doorstep, I realized that there wasn't one person in Lockport I could go to for shelter. Each of my friends was half of a couple, and the couples were now Mike's friends. So I slept in my car on the marshy banks of Bird River.

During the next week, I showered at the Y, found myself a job four days a week at the library, a Saturday seasonal job at the cemetery, and persuaded Garnet Maybe, owner of the Golden Goddess Spa, to hire me to teach yoga classes on Tuesday and Thursday nights. The two cleaning jobs on Wednesdays came later.

I drove my clunker to Owen Sound and pawned my engagement and wedding rings, plus a few other pieces, then returned to Lockport's used car dealership, where I sold the Nissan and bought the Savage. I had money left over to pay the first and last month's rent on the trailer in Hemp Hollow. Only then did I call my older sister, Blyth, to tell her what had happened.

Blyth was horrified and insisted I move in with her. I refused for two reasons. First, Blyth's husband, Matt, was working on his psychology doctorate, and they had two small toddlers in day care, so they could ill afford another mouth to feed or another body to bed down in their small semi-detached house in the Rexdale area of Toronto. Secondly, I was out for blood — Mike's blood — and I couldn't get it from Toronto.

So began my campaign of revenge. Both Dougal and Blyth pointed out to me that I was hurting no one but myself. Chances of recovering any assets dimmed with each passing month I stayed in Lockport. I made sure I put a certain amount aside every week and had never once dipped into it. I didn't care that I nearly froze in the winter or would have starved if not for Dougal's leftovers. Revenge was the motivation that spurred me to get up in the mornings.

Elaine and Rachel Simms had both come out to the Bird River property and given me their expert opinions on the value. It was clear why Mike had off-loaded this waterfront property onto me in lieu of money. It was a swamp and no developer would ever attempt to build on it. Sure, this habitat housed cranes, ducks, geese, and other water fowl, but birds don't buy lots or build condos.

I walked back to the road, swung my leg over my Savage, and kicked it to life. As I eased out onto the road, I promised myself that somehow, some way, I was going to pay the bastard back for this little paper trick. He would roast in hell before I was through with him, and he could kiss his political career goodbye.

I decided to go to Dougal's, maybe find a little something in his fridge to eat before we bearded the red-haired dragon in her lair. I passed the Super 8 Motel on the highway into town and noted the silver Volkswagen parked in front of one of the units. So the Belcourts were staying over. Maybe that was a good sign for me, but I refused to get my hopes up. They were probably talking to Elaine on the phone this minute and arranging to see more suitable properties.

The main street was quiet as I drove through town. It was just me and the dead skunk, until I saw Chief Redfern standing on the sidewalk in front of the police station. He waved at me with one of those cop gestures that tolerates no refusal. Still holding my breath against the road-kill stench, I pulled over to the curb.

Before he could open his mouth, I said, nearly gagging over the words, “Can't you get Public Works to pick up that skunk?”

“There appears to be a political issue involved. It should be resolved by tomorrow.”

“I think I'm going to barf.” If I expected sympathy, there was none forthcoming from this public servant. The indescribable odour clung to the lining of my throat, and it was touch and go for a minute.

“Try and control yourself. I want to talk to you about Julian Barnfeather. Do you want to talk here, or in my office?”

In answer, I ran past him and up the steps, my hand over my mouth and nose. The vestibule of the police station was deserted and nondescript, and I let him take my arm and lead me through into a private office with his name and title stamped on the door.

Collapsing into a straight-backed chair, I took off my helmet, shook out my hair, and unzipped my jacket. As I sucked oxygen into my lungs, I felt my stomach relax, but I could still taste and smell the decay. Just to be safe, I located the waste basket and figured I could hit it if required.

Noting his attention on my pantsuit and silk shirt, I said, “Among my other accomplishments, I am a realtor. I just finished showing a house.”

“It's your grave-tending profession I want to discuss.” Chief Redfern sat on the front of his desk so his legs were mere inches from my knees. An intimidating stance learned at advanced detecting courses, no doubt.

“Go ahead,” I told him, wishing I had a drink of water. Saliva collected in my mouth, and I quickly swallowed.

“We got the autopsy report back. Would you like to hear what it says?” Without waiting for my answer, he picked up a file from behind him, opened it, and glanced over the words, turning a page every few seconds. Another interrogation technique — force the suspect to wait and wonder what evidence has been amassed to throw her in the big house for ten years. Oh wait, that sentence was reserved for serial killers in this country. One murder would get me about eighteen months.

“Are you with me, Ms. Cornwall?” He had left his perch in front of me and was now sitting at his chair, with the desk between us. I relaxed slightly, but was still on guard.

“What I'm going to tell you will be public knowledge by tomorrow. Mr. Barnfeather died from severe trauma to the head.”

I looked at Chief Redfern with suspicion. “If somebody hit him over the head, don't look at me. I didn't do it.”

A chilly smile flitted across his lips. “Mr. Barnfeather's mortal wound was near the back of the head, close to the top. You're too short to have hit him there unless you were standing on a step stool. And his chair was against the wall, facing the door, so unless you squeezed behind him, you didn't do it that way either.”

I shuddered. I actually did have to squeeze past Julian, but I wasn't tightening my own noose. “Not likely. So you're saying the person that hit him had to be tall and standing behind him?”

“I'm saying nothing of the kind, Ms. Cornwall. You're the one suggesting the victim was hit with something, by somebody.”

“What? You said Julian died from a blow to the head.”

“The coroner is quite sure that Mr. Barnfeather fell and hit his head.”

Was this guy playing games with me? Did he have nothing better to do on a Sunday afternoon than torment innocent citizens? I got up and headed for the door. “So it wasn't murder at all. Thanks for the entertainment. You have quite a way with a story, but if you'll excuse me, I have things to do.”

“Sit down, Ms. Cornwall. I'm not finished.”

I plodded back to the chair and sat. My stomach was flipping, and I couldn't tell if the smell had permeated the building or was stuck to the mucous membranes of my nose.

“Mr. Barnfeather died from a fall, but not in the maintenance shed. Forensics came back negative on all surfaces in the shed. He died elsewhere and was transported to the shed afterward.”

“I don't remember seeing Julian actually doing any work in the cemetery. Maybe he tripped on his way to the washroom and fell against a headstone.”

“We've looked at the headstones in the immediate area, but they're clean. But we can't check them all. There must be thousands. In any case, we can't be sure what he fell against. It could have been a rock.”

“Okay, without six or seven accomplices, do you really think I could carry Julian's body to the shed, even a few feet? Or drag him? He must weigh four hundred pounds.”

“Why do you persist in making this all about you, Ms. Cornwall? I haven't accused you of anything, but I'm beginning to suspect you have a guilty conscience.”

“Bull!” Now I was getting angry. “Your constable implied I might be a suspect, and now you're questioning me and tying me all up in knots. If you don't think I did anything to Julian, then why am I here?”

Redfern stood up and came around his desk to stand in front of me again. My stomach burbled.

“Mr. Barnfeather didn't have to work on Saturdays, yet he was there every day you were working. I wonder why that was, Ms. Cornwall?”

“How should I know? It certainly couldn't have been for the few minutes at the beginning and end of the day when he could harass me. He sometimes walked around the cemetery, but he never came near me when I was working. He was probably afraid I'd whack him with my hoe if he tried anything in plain view.”

Whoops, I shouldn't have said that, but Chief Redfern ignored my comment. Instead, he dangled a small plastic bag in front of my eyes. His own eyes were hard.

“Do you think it possible Mr. Barnfeather harassed you to keep you away from the shed during the day? By your own admission, you never went near the shed after collecting your tools until it was time to return them at quitting time. Until yesterday, that is, when you left your tools outside for Mr. Barnfeather to put away.”

“Yesterday, I had other business to attend to. And I simply couldn't face Julian again. You seem to be suggesting Julian didn't act like a pervert because of my overwhelming cuteness, but for some more sinister reason.”

He swung the plastic bag gently, moving it closer to my face. I felt my eyes cross.

“We found this in Julian Barnfeather's hair. Very close to the wound. Do you know what this is, Ms. Cornwall?”

I leaned away from the bag to bring it into focus. It contained a small green-brown object, flattened. I looked up. “I don't know. A piece of fabric? Maybe a leaf?”

“A leaf indeed. Any idea what plant this leaf came from?”

I shook my head, but a horrible glimmer of an idea was beginning to take shape in my brain. Please, no, not again. Surely not.

“This, Ms. Cornwall, is marijuana. Any idea where it may have come from?”

I dove for the waste basket, and just made it. Mostly.

The interview was over. Chief Redfern jerked his thumb at the door, and I made a run for it, leaving him to clean off his pants and shoes. You'd think an experienced homicide cop from Toronto would know better than to stand so close to someone struggling to keep her breakfast down.

I retched non-productively while starting my bike and driving away from the skunk as quickly as possible. I detoured off Main Street onto Morningside Drive and stopped in front of my parents' ranch-style house.

Even though the tenants, Joy and Bob MacPherson, emailed my parents routinely with news of their garden and the condition of the toilets, I had promised I would drop in from time to time and check on things. Then I'd text them on my BlackBerry, “All's well here.” They would reply, “Thnx, hp yr wl,” which was their idea of the hip way to correspond.

They had left town before the Weasel blindsided me, and I had sworn Blyth to absolute silence about my financial predicament. My father had retired early from his manager's position with the Royal Bank of Canada, defiantly bought a gigantic fifth wheel in the face of rising gas prices, and headed for the West Coast. My mother, a homemaker and proud of it, was delighted at the prospect of living unencumbered by eight-foot snow drifts in winter and dried-out lawns in summer.

I hoped they were now strolling along a pebbled beach, listening to dolphins chatter in the distance, maybe drinking a margarita. I wouldn't put it past them to be sharing a joint with real hippies. Apparently the authorities were more relaxed on the West Coast about the weed thing. Still, I couldn't help wishing they would come home so I could move in with them.

Hearing voices around back, I found Joy and Bob enjoying a couple of Bud Lights on the deck. They were a pleasant couple in their sixties, lean and wrinkled from the sun. With matching white hair, they looked like a pair of dandelions gone to seed. Bob was confined to a wheelchair, the result of a three-car pileup on the 401 two years previously. He was forced to retire from his toxicology professorship at the University of Guelph, and the couple had moved to Lockport where they had spent many summers sailing on nearby Lake Huron. Joy rose quickly from her wicker chair and came forward to greet me, with Bob rolling slowly down the ramp to the bricked patio area below the deck.

They insisted on showing me around the garden, and I got a bit of a fright when I spotted some tall ferns enjoying the shade beside the shed wall. I sidled up to them for a better look and satisfied myself the plants were innocent. I had to get hold of myself. I was seeing the demon weed everywhere.

After my brief visit, Joy and Bob accompanied me to the curb and waved me off. Passing the deck again, I glimpsed a couple of burning cigarettes in an ashtray on the small table and managed a good sniff. Bob saw my glance and said, “We only smoke outside. Your parents were quite adamant that they rent to non-smokers.”

I kept my face neutral, but the smoke was definitely illegal — I was becoming quite the expert on that.

Dougal was in his solarium spritzing his orchids. Some had dozens of white or pastel flowers on tall stalks; others were only a few inches high and not yet flowering. He had rearranged his marijuana plants, scattering them artfully among the tables of orchids.

“If anyone looks in the windows, they'll see your grass. I'm surprised that hasn't happened already.”

He shrugged dismissively. “The gate is locked and no one can get in without coming through the house — and the hydro meter is on the side.”

“Someone could climb over the back fence from the cornfield,” I persisted.

He snorted. “Who's going to wade through a mile-long cornfield to climb over my fence?”

“Dougal, with this number of plants you could be charged with possession for the purpose of trafficking.” It was amazing what I remembered from typing Mike's criminology papers at university.

“Noted.”

I walked closer to the Titan Arum. “Hey, this thing has grown a foot since I saw it yesterday.”

The spadix was markedly taller, and a pink hue was showing through the cream-speckled green of the frilly spathe encircling its base. Looked at a section at a time, the thing had a bizarre kind of beauty.

“Aren't you worried it will grow up through the glass ceiling and break it?”

“If you look up, dear Bliss, you'll see the container is positioned directly beneath the section of the roof that I can open with this switch here. But it won't grow that tall. You worry about everything. Are you sure you aren't obsessive-compulsive?”

It was my turn to snort at him. “That's pretty funny coming from an agoraphobic.”

“Obviously, mental disorders run in the family. Think about it, you're obsessed with getting back at Mike and seem willing to starve yourself to attain some form of justice that isn't going to happen.”

“Yes, it will. I'm working on a new plan.”

Simon shuffled out of his cage and cocked his head in my direction. “Baby, baby.” He opened and closed his curved beak enticingly.

“He wants you to give him one of those jujubes. He likes the black ones.”

“Not happening,” I replied and reached out to touch the ribbed exterior of the spathe. But before my fingers made contact, Dougal squeezed my hand.

“Don't touch it! Any stress at all could make the whole structure collapse. Do you know how much energy it takes for this Titan to grow tall enough to bloom?”

“Actually, no,” I said, wiggling my fingers. “We're due at Glory's soon. Is there anything to eat in the fridge?”

“I think there's a Thai stir-fry. Mrs. Boudreau made it earlier in the week, and I took it out of the freezer this afternoon. As usual, there's enough for an army. Help yourself, but leave some for me.”

I took my army-sized appetite to the kitchen, where I ate precisely half the stir-fry and drank a bottle of water. Dougal declared he was too nervous about the upcoming meeting with his ex-wife to eat a bite, but he kept me company at the table and nattered about harvesting his pot crop. I tried not to listen, figuring the less I knew, the less I could testify about, but the odd fact crept in about processing the buds and hanging the plants upside down to dry, and yada yada.

“So, how are Sandy and Randy?” he asked while I was cleaning my plate for the dishwasher. My parents' names are Sandra and Randall, but Dougal seemed to think it was funny to use rhyming nicknames for his aunt and uncle.

“Fine. I've been thinking seriously about taking the money I've saved and buying myself an airline ticket to visit them. Maybe stay for a year or so.” Nothing was farther from my mind, but I wanted to see Dougal's reaction to losing his slave.

“Oh. Good idea. I've been telling you to move on and forget about Mike. I'm sure Randy and Sandy will be glad to have you.”

I felt mean when I saw Dougal's fingers shaking. He lit up one of his joints, and I felt even worse.

“I was just kidding. You know I'm not going anywhere, at least until I force Mike to his knees, and that might take a while.”

He smiled faintly and blew smoke in my face. I got up from the table, coughing.

“Let's get ready,” I said to him. “Get your jacket and Simon and we'll saddle up.”

Naturally, it wasn't that simple. I had to hold Dougal's joint while he struggled into his jacket and tried to force Simon inside. Simon had never been inside a jacket before, and wasn't going there now without a fuss. Dougal told him he would have a nice ride and a wonderful adventure. For a bird that hadn't been outdoors in years, this was not a tempting offer.

“Bad boy, bad boy,” he screeched in Melanie's voice, making me wonder anew exactly what kind of relationship Dougal shared with his therapist.

“Help! Don't hurt me,” the poor bird cried, this time sounding like Dougal. I forced the images of whips and black leather restraints out of my brain.

Finally, the parrot was inserted head first into the jacket. The fabric bulged and strained against the metal zipper. Dougal already wore a pained expression, likely due to the bird poop Simon was depositing inside his cotton cage.

I handed Dougal his joint and smelled my hand. Nasty. God help us if we got pulled over by the police. It was my understanding that police officers were trained to smell pot. Or maybe they just learned to recognize the smell from experience. With my exaggerated olfactory aptitude, I should hire myself out as a pot-finder. The police would save money — I ate less than a sniffer-
dog and didn't need an annual rabies shot.

Things got dicey when I put my spare helmet on Dougal. He realized this was it, he was really going out there, and panicked. I pried his fingers away from the knob and pulled him by the arm to the curb, where I had to lift his leg over the seat. He sat stiffly upright, eyes glued shut, clutching my shoulders so hard I knew there would be bruises in the morning.

“Hold onto the bars beside your seat,” I instructed him. “You can't hang on to me or you'll pull us both over.” We wouldn't be going fast or far, but still, it would hurt plenty if we hit the pavement.

I had to get off and position Dougal's hands in place. Then I started up and we were off, off to negotiate a pollen-swapping contract between a wronged woman and a worm (according to Glory), or a man-eating barracuda and a wronged husband (Dougal's view).

My opinion? They were both nuts and somebody better pay me a thousand dollars after this was over or I'd hurt them both.