Cornwall and Redfern Mysteries 2-Book Bundle (53 page)

Dougal carried a black bowler.
He set it on his head and said, “I'm Charlie Chaplin!”

“You don't have enough room between the end of your nose and your upper lip for a square moustache. You look like Hitler trying to pass as Charlie Chaplin to escape the Red Army. Better do something before Glory and the customers see you.”

He looked at himself in the mirror. “Fuck it. It's good enough. Nobody will show up in this storm, anyway. I just hope the greenhouse doesn't blow down.”

We stood silently and listened to the howling of the west wind as it swept off Lake Huron, picking up moisture and turning it to snow. If the greenhouse survived its first winter, it would stand for a few more. With any luck, the ominous moaning overhead came from the pines surrounding the parking lot, and not the steel structure buckling. Or the glass cracking.

I shoved Dougal toward the door. “Tell Chico to set up in the corner opposite the refreshment table. I'll be out as soon as Rae paints my face.”

Muttering “This should be good,” he straightened his hat and left. Rae set to work with her paints. We jumped at a single high-pitched shriek. Glory must have caught sight of Adolf Chaplin.

Twenty minutes later, it was my turn to face the Gilded Gorgon. In the atrium, Chico stood behind his tripod and aimed practice shots at the six-foot Bambi standing in the corner. The plastic abomination was surrounded by a dozen red-and-green plaster elves cavorting in a woodland scene. The woodland consisted of a set of three plastic pre-lit palm trees with painted coconuts hanging from the foliage.
Tr
è
s
tacky. I had outdone myself and created the perfect Christmas hell.

I had my cell ready, and when Chico looked up from his camera and spotted me, I took a shot of his face.

“Holy moly, Bliss. You're going to scare the crap out of the kids.”

Without warning, Glory came up behind me and spun me around. “What is this? Start talking. No, go change immediately!”

I reached down and tore a few small holes in my glittery tights.

It was the perfect, finishing touch to the rest of my costume: black satin skirt with uneven hem, a separate, sleeveless bustier that didn't quite meet the waistline of the skirt, and fingerless gloves that reached my elbows. My fingernails and toenails were matte black, and Rae had painted a reptile crawling up my throat — I had wanted a dragon, but she didn't know how to draw one. The lizard's claws reached up over the edge of my face and Rae had used the cleft in my chin to place the creature's red forked tongue. Heavy black eyeliner, dark red lipstick, and a few hideous creatures leering from behind my ears completed the look. Instead of jewellery, which would have sent the outfit over the top, I had hung the bayonet through the loop of a plain black leather belt. My hair was gelled and sprayed into a wild halo around my face. Black glitter drifted to the floor when I moved my head and I reminded myself not to inhale it. The best part? A set of black tattered wings moved when I pulled a black cord on the bustier.

“I'm the Black Christmas Angel,” I announced.

“You look more like the Angel of Doom! Get your clothes back on. People will be here any minute!” Glory's eyes were tinged with pink, coordinating nicely with her blush-coloured silk palazzo pants and matching tunic. With three-inch gold pumps, she towered half a foot over me, and I was wearing four-inch black leather gladiator sandals.

“Where's your costume?” I asked, moving to stand behind Chico. He took one look at Glory's eyes and wrapped his arms protectively around his photography gear. Silly boy, he knew nothing of her powers or he would have abandoned his expensive equipment and run into the storm.

“I don't have to wear a costume. I'm running this benefit and am dressed accordingly.”

“In case you haven't looked outside lately, there's a blizzard bearing down on us. It may be our annual storm of the century. Nobody's going to show up.” I was standing up to her pretty well. The costume must be giving me extra courage. I waggled my wings at her.

The outside door opened and Fang walked in, followed by a gaggle of children, at least a dozen. More folk streamed in. From the beards and plaid coats the men wore, they had to hail from Dogtown. The women were smartly turned out and everyone over four feet tall carried a grocery bag of food for the needy.

Glory turned her attention from my costume to the growing puddles on the floor. What did she think was going to happen when people tracked in snow? If she was half as smart as she claimed to be, she would have taken out an insurance policy in case someone slipped and broke a leg.

Before she could chastise Fang and his family, the door opened again to admit more snow-covered guests. Within minutes, the room began to fill up. Some of them wore snowmobile gear, dropping their outerwear and helmets in a pile near the door. That brought back some memories. The Weasel had a Yamaha Viper, and I had my own Arctic Cat Crossfire. We often went on day-long excursions with other members of the country club. It had been one of the few activities with him that I enjoyed back then. Well, that and target shooting.

Glory transformed herself into the perfect hostess, greeting each person by name, showing them where to deposit their food contributions, directing them to the plant tables. Dougal — his moustache now thinned out — presided over the colourful blooms, pointing out the best specimens to weather the trip across the parking lot to their cars. After that, they weren't his responsibility. They would all be dead by New Year's anyway.

Chico stared fixedly up at the disco ball, revolving and glittering above his head. I poked him in the arm to focus his attention. “Get ready, Chico.”

“For what? You just told me to bring a camera and tripod.”

I captured Rae and pulled her into the huddle. “Pictures of the kiddies with Bambi here, taken by a professional photographer, are five dollars each. I'll get a container for the money. Rae, use Glory's clipboard.” I flipped to an empty page. “Write down email information and particulars about each kid. Chico will take the list home, download the pictures, then email the photos. Simple. Any questions?”

The plan worked well, with one tiny ripple. As Chico ran back and forth, moving Bambi to the right spot, taking some practice shots, a little girl ran up to him. Even before she whined, “Daddy, daddy!” I knew she was Chico's daughter. The black curly hair and glasses were a dead giveaway and weren't the problem. Unfortunately, she had inherited her mother's red-faced scowl and Yoda ears. I'm not joking; this was the ugliest kid I'd ever seen.

Tyger stood behind her daughter and looked pointedly at my chest. “Did you get implants, Bliss? I don't remember those.” Two older kids rubbed their snotty noses on the sleeves of their sweaters.

I adjusted my girls. “It's all in the presentation, Tyger.” The bustier had thrown my barely Bs into va-voom Cs.

“Daddy, take my picture,” the sprite shrilled, pulling on his shirt. “Now!” After puberty, she'd give Glory a run for the Shrew of the Year title.

“Okay, Esmeralda, just hop up there beside Bambi and smile.”

“Not Bambi,” Esmeralda said, twisting her lips into an epic pout. “Her!” She pointed at me. “The witch with the wings.”

“Hey, I'm the Black Christmas Angel!”

“Please, Bliss.” Chico pleaded. His glance darted to Tyger, and a line of sweat broke out on his brow. Man, he was even more whipped than in high school.

“Oh, all right.” I stood in front of the largest fake palm tree, with Esmeralda leaning against me. When she smiled, she didn't look so bad, except for the ears, but those can be fixed nowadays.

I'm pretty sure Esmeralda never paid her five bucks, but before I had a chance to mention it, the other two Leeds kids — twin boys as it happened — wanted a photo with the witch, too.

That was the beginning of a trend. Every kid in the room between the ages of three and fourteen lined up behind Rae for a chance to get their picture taken with the scary black angel. Or witch, whatever. Money is money. I fluttered my wings at each of them before Chico took the shot, and they screamed in joyful terror. The noise was giving me a headache.

Between each customer, I noticed Chico would glance up at the disco ball and open his mouth to say something. Another kid diverted his attention every time.

Most of the dads lined up, too, and the bucket overflowed. I wasn't worried about ending up on YouTube or Facebook. No one would recognize my paint-covered face or believe these were my boobs. Poor Bambi went completely unnoticed.

Old Bert Thiesson caused me a moment's discomfort when his hand wandered too far down my back and I had to jab him in the ribs. He was definitely frisky for someone a hundred and ten. I was glad to see Mr. Archman made it. He hobbled in, arm still in a cast. He gave Chico the snake eye but consented to a photo, sighing dramatically and throwing ten bucks in the bucket. He definitely looked thinner.

“This will be your
before
picture, Mr. A. Next year, after you've lost the hundred pounds, we'll take an
after
picture!”

He shook his head. “Maybe you can enlarge this one and prop it beside my casket. But promise me you won't deliver my eulogy, Miss Cornwall? It might be difficult, but I'd roll in my grave.”

“Oh, Mr. A — can I call you Earl? — none of that talk, now. I'm going to come over and visit you again. I need some advice on storing, um, Second World War
souvenirs
, if you get my meaning.”

He gave me a signature eye roll and stumped quickly away without warning me not to call him Earl. I was serious. I had to remove Grandpa's weapons from my garage before somebody in my family was charged. Maybe me and Earl could store our guns together.

Fang brought his four kids over and introduced them as Edsel, Chevy, Nash, and Hudson.

“Are you naming the next one Studebaker?” I asked him.

“We're thinking maybe Packard.”

They all had Fang's sharp, dark eyes and straight, white teeth, which showed up nicely in the picture. One was a little girl about five, and it crossed my mind that Faith could have looked very much like her when she was this age. Fang threw five dollars in the pail. I should have told Rae it was five bucks
per kid
.

Even Fern Brickle stopped by to chat and admire my outfit. She contributed twenty dollars and gamely put her arm around my waist for a photo. We were making money hand over fist. Glory cast me a baleful glare once in a while, but stayed away. Too bad. I so wanted a picture of the two of us together. It might go viral. The Ice Queen and the Black Angel. A new Christmas classic.

The Weasels arrived by snowmobile, smiling and waving like they were starring in a Viagra commercial. Andrea would be driving my Crossfire. Neither wanted a photo with the busty black angel, apparently. They avoided eye contact with me, and I saw panic in their faces as the crowd continued to swell and push them ever closer to the forest tableau. Andrea had on her Jimmy Choos, and I just barely held back a snort of derision. Who wears Jimmy Choos on a snowmobile? I said to Chico, “If the Weasel gets within shutter range, get a shot of us.” That might give me more blackmail material should I again need it someday.

“Listen, Bliss,” Chico called back. “I remembered what happened to the Polaroid shots from grad night.” He raised his eyes to the disco ball.

“What?” I looked up. The spotlights caught the silvery facets of the ball as it gently revolved above our heads.

“I got a ladder and used my jackknife to slice it open near the top. I slid about a dozen pictures in, one by one. A kind of time capsule. Then Mr. Archman made me get down.”

“Do you think they're still viewable?” From what I remembered of Polaroid pictures, they faded after a time, faces first and the brighter colours last.

“Not likely. Alternating cold and heat wouldn't do them any good. But we should look. Maybe we'll see something that might help the police figure out … you know.”

“Come over tomorrow, okay, and we'll cut the ball open.” The memento I had worked so hard to acquire would be destroyed, but what if Faith's yellow dress showed up? And somebody else was in a picture with her? It was a long shot, but we had to look.

Before he could acquiesce, Dwayne Rundell cut through the crowd and stood in front of me, hands on belt. He had his official face on, meaning he just looked dumber than usual.

“What now, Dwayne? I haven't driven my car in a week, so whatever your problem is, it can't be related to anything I've done.”

“You can't walk around with that dagger hanging off your belt.”

I had completely forgotten the bayonet. I put my hand over the hilt … handle. “What are you talking about?” I refrained from adding
idiot
, so I can't be blamed for what followed.

“It's a prohibited weapon. Hand it over.” He was attracting an audience of ear-flapping, nosy eavesdroppers.

“It is
not
a prohibited weapon! It's part of my costume. You need to look up the regulations on prohibited weapons because, clearly, you're an idiot.” Heat surged through my body and moisture collected in my cleavage. This was harassment. I didn't care what Neil called it.

Dwayne reached over and pulled the bayonet out of my belt. He raised it over his head, out of my reach. If he thought I was going to jump for it, he was wrong. I tried to breathe, but nothing happened. Sweat trickled down my back, under my wings. I drew my foot back and prepared to kneecap him.

Neil was suddenly there between us. My sandal connected with his shin. He grunted and closed his hand over my bicep. He nudged Dwayne ahead of him. “Both of you. In the hall. Now!”

In the hallway, he pulled us along until we were out of sight and earshot of the crowd in the atrium. He stopped in front of one of the plant rooms.