Cornwall and Redfern Mysteries 2-Book Bundle (8 page)

I was late for work Monday morning and deeply pissed when I got there. The rose-tinged tendrils of friggin' dawn had already touched the treetops before I gave up any hope of sleep and crept out to use Rae's hose at the back of her trailer to rinse off the Savage. The early light was bright enough to confirm I had missed plenty of gory skunk bits with the twig. That done, with some gagging involved, I went back into my trailer and dropped the ruined silk trousers into a garbage bag along with the matching top. The leather jacket I draped over a bush behind my trailer until I could figure out how to remove the smell.

Since Secret Valley's shower facilities weren't open until ten o'clock, I shoved my bedding into another garbage bag, gathered an old denim jacket and some clothes for work, and headed over to Dougal's. Letting myself in with the key he had given me when I first became his drudge, I discovered Dougal snoring on his living room couch, still wearing the jacket from the night before. Simon appeared to have escaped, and I saw small puddles leading away in the direction of the solarium. I left the puddles; not my problem. The house reeked of skunk.

I threw my bedding and yesterday's underwear in the washer with plenty of bleach. In the guest bathroom, I ran into a problem with the road rash. The night before, I had been too scared over Rae's drama to think about my leg, but now I found that the fabric of the sweat pants was stuck to my skin. I had to get in the shower with the pants on and soak them off. I almost screamed when the hot water hit the injured skin. Once the pants were off, I remained under the pulsating water for at least twenty minutes, shampooing and rubbing a floral-scented body wash over every inch of non-injured skin.

I found a hand mirror and had a look at my right leg. The abrasion stretched from hip to just above the knee and oozed a clear liquid. The dress pants I had brought to change into would simply stick to the fluid, and I would wind up having to soak them off again later. If I kept that up, I would never heal.

Taking a day off was not possible. If I didn't work, I didn't get paid. Wrapped in a large towel, I passed Dougal, still dead to the world, and crept into the walk-in closet in his bedroom. Somewhere in that mess of shirts, pants, and piles of jockey shorts, I hoped to find — aha!

The elusive Melanie had left behind a few garments on her visits to counsel the afflicted Dougal (and that relationship had to be wrong on all sorts of levels). Sorting through a blouse, a pair of jeans, and various tee-shirts, I found a flowered skirt with an elastic waist. It was probably calf-length on Melanie, but skimmed my ankles and flowed loosely around my thighs. With any luck, I wouldn't have to peel the skirt off later.

So, I rode to work wearing a skirt and ankle-length leather boots, with a ripped denim jacket to complete the ensemble. Granny Clampett was coming to town on a motorcycle.

I wasn't a pretty sight, judging by the heads that turned as I drove into town. I had to drive with one hand and use the other to hold my skirt down. By the time I reached the back of the library, where I parked the Savage, I had decided to stop at the Liquor Store after work, buy a bottle of cheap red wine, then go home and drink the whole thing at one go. Maybe then I would be able to sleep.

Clomping into the employees' bathroom, I removed the jacket and changed the boots for sandals. I applied lipstick and brushed my helmet hairdo into a ponytail. There, much better. Throw a bonnet on me and I could pass for an Amish ho.

Allison Seymour, the librarian, was off on two weeks' vacation, leaving me in charge of our summer student, Bailey Russi. Thankfully, Allison had given Bailey her key, so my late arrival inconvenienced neither Bailey nor readers eager to nab the latest Mary Jane Maffini or Louise Penny novel. If Bailey squealed on me to Allison, well, frankly, I didn't give a shit.

Dropping onto the chair behind my desk, I gestured at Bailey to continue applying bar codes to new books. She overflowed with teenage angst most days, and I just wasn't in the mood for it. I hiked the right side of the skirt up to my waist so the fabric wouldn't stick to the road rash and turned on the computer. First, I logged on to my bank account and checked my balance. Since my only expenses were rent, gas for the Savage, and a modicum of food if I couldn't get enough from Dougal's fridge, there were no surprises. I just needed regular reassurance that the balance was growing, if at the pace of an icicle melting in January.

Then I Googled “marijuana.” After looking at a multitude of sites and dozens of pictures, I was pretty sure the ferns growing against the tool shed in my parents' backyard were really ferns. And the plant in Glory's foyer was bamboo. I looked up every few minutes to make sure Bailey didn't sneak up on me and catch a full screen view of the pot. That's how I spotted Chief Redfern before he reached me.

I logged out of the Internet and feigned interest in a catalogue of new publications, letting him stand for a few seconds before looking up and smiling at him.

“Ms. Cornwall.”

“Hey, Redfern,” I replied. “Nice morning.”

“Is there someplace we can talk?” He looked at Bailey, who was openly gawking at the Chief of Police in his carefully pressed uniform, blond spikes gleaming. As I said, he was no ugly duckling. “In private?”

“Sure.” I carefully pulled down the skirt before pushing my chair back and leading the way to the staff room. I sat down in a chrome chair and pushed out another one with my foot. “Have a seat. Can I get you some coffee?”

“No thanks.” He looked me up and down, either admiring my outfit or sizing me up for a prison jumpsuit. “You look, uh …” He was again at a loss for words.

“Like a hillbilly?” I suggested.

“I was going to say nice.”

“Sure.”

His eyes lingered on my fingers as I pulled the skirt away from my leg. “Road rash?”

I looked at him, surprised. “A little.”

“I've seen more than my share of motorcycle accidents, and I have a Honda Goldwing. It's the 2005 Anniversary Edition. Red.”

“Nice. I haven't seen you riding around on it. I'd have noticed that bike.”

“Well, I haven't had much leisure time since I moved to Lockport.”

“Yeah, I imagine that the crime rate here in Lockport must keep you up nights.”

He looked at me, hard. “I think, Ms. Cornwall, you might be surprised at what goes on in a small town, one that is three hours from Toronto, two and a half from Hamilton, four from the border.”

“Well, now you have a murder to solve. But that doesn't happen very often,” I replied, feeling I should defend my home town.

“Nobody says Julian Barnfeather was murdered.”

“You did. You said that Julian Barnfeather didn't die in the maintenance shed. That he was put there afterward. What else could it be? If it's not murder, why are you trying to pin it on me?”

He watched me as though trying to make up his mind about something. Maybe whether to arrest me, or just threaten me some more.

“Cornwall, do you recall the marijuana leaf found in Barnfeather's hair? It didn't jump in there by itself. You may be the best possible lead we have to his death.”

I said indignantly, “Why don't you question the staff that digs the graves, or the people in the office? They're all regular employees, like Julian. I'm just a seasonal worker.”

“The fact remains, Cornwall, you were the only one there on Saturday when Julian Barnfeather met his untimely end.”

To my everlasting shame, I burst into tears. I'm not generally a crier, but the violence of Rae's attack, followed by a night without sleep, had shaken my emotions loose. During the past two years, I had ignored the hunger, the cold in winter, and the veiled contempt from former friends. Yes, it was my chosen path, but it wasn't fun.

Now, not only was I terrified for Rae's safety, I was furious with Dougal for risking his health and freedom by growing marijuana.

And now I was suspected of murder. The tears flowed faster than I could wipe them away with my forearm, and I was making a disgusting hiccupping noise. Redfern reached over and snatched a box of tissues off the counter, practically throwing it into my lap.

“Come on now, Cornwall, there's no need to carry on like that. I'm simply saying that, since you were at the cemetery the day Barnfeather died, you may have noticed something that could help us. That's all I'm trying to get from you.”

I blew my nose and threw the tissue in the wastebasket.

Through clogged nostrils, I said to Redfern, “I already told you I left Julian in the shed about eight in the morning and never saw him again. I never went near the shed all day. What more do you want from me?”

“I want you to explain to me how a marijuana leaf wound up in Julian Barnfeather's hair.”

I was sick of marijuana. I didn't grow it, I didn't use it, I didn't endorse its use for any reason and, seriously, I didn't give a shit what other people did unless it impacted my life.

I stood up. I pointed my finger at Redfern. “Do I look like a pot head? Look at me?” I even pulled up my skirt to show him the road rash. “Do I look like somebody who deals in drugs? Do you think I'd be living in a crappy trailer with no toilet or shower, or cleaning other people's houses, or teaching bitchy women how to do the Downward Dog if I had a steady income from drug sales? Do I?” The last words were pretty close to a screech.

Redfern stood up as well, leaning down so his nose was inches from mine. “I don't know what your problem is this morning, Cornwall, but I haven't accused you of drug dealing. Obviously, you have some issues to resolve. I haven't the time now, but you and I
will
talk again.”

He turned and strode to the door. I was right behind him and, when he stopped abruptly, saying, “One more thing, Cornwall,” my lips met the middle of his back, leaving a perfect pink lipstick imprint on his shirt.

“You might want to put some antibacterial salve on that abrasion before infection sets in. Oh, and cute will only get you so far.” Then he was gone, and I kicked the metal waste basket against the wall. Bastard!

I was beyond the point of exhaustion and in no state to meet and greet the public. I took the trolley of returned books and spent a couple of hours restocking the shelves, assigning Bailey to deal with library patrons. At noon, I left her in charge and went down the street to DeLong's PharmaSave where I bought antibacterial spray.

The Second Hand Rose Shop was next door to the drugstore and, on impulse, I went in, hoping to find a replacement for my silk suit.

The store manager, Holly Duffett, smiled as the bell over the door jingled. She was a volunteer, one of Lockport's wealthy, and more civic-minded than most. A striking woman in her mid-thirties, Holly was a little taller than I, only a smidge heavier, and had straight blond hair expensively cut. She smelled pleasantly of a natural, clean scent that seemed familiar.

“Bliss! I haven't seen you in ages. You look great.” Her smile faltered there at the end, but I didn't hold it against her. She glanced up and down my body, looked confused, then turned her hazel eyes back to my face.

“Hi, Holly. Do you have any double sheet sets?” I was pretty sure my worn sheets would not survive the bleach bath in Dougal's washing machine. I was running short on undies too, but second-hand underwear was a destination I hadn't quite reached.

“Sure, lots. Over here.” After selecting a pair of faded pink sheets and a yellow pillowcase, all for three dollars, I browsed through the racks of women's clothing, trying to find an outfit that would take me through any future showings of the Barrister house. I managed to find a cobalt blue pantsuit in my size and set it beside the sheets on the counter. The outfit was a synthetic blend that resembled silk and, bonus, I could rinse it out at home and it would dry overnight.

“Bliss, I know you have one already, but this jacket came in a few days ago. It's your size, I think. It's twelve dollars.” Holly was holding up a black leather jacket. I tried it on and, while the sleeves almost reached my fingertips, length was a plus in a motorcycle jacket. The lapels and cuffs were loaded with silver studs. I was fond of bling.

The jacket joined the sheets and polyester-wear on the counter. While I was adding up the total, Holly called from the back of the store, “Bliss, we got a big donation of canned goods this morning. Everything is fifty cents, if you need to stock up on anything.”

I almost drooled looking at the shelves of baked beans, pasta in tomato sauce, soups, stews, and vegetables. I collected an armful and deposited them with the other items at the cash register.

“Let's see. I can give you everything for twenty dollars, Bliss.” Holly packed my bargains into two plastic bags and rang up the sale. As I turned to leave, I found myself toe to toe with a tall woman carrying a pile of towels in one arm and several pastel garments in the other. She sucked in some air and closed her eyes. She had to be hoping she would open them to find herself somewhere else. She was face to face with her worst nightmare.

You can't practise the lawyer trade and remain thin-skinned. Andrea, the new Mrs. Bains, showed her mettle by hardening her eyes and softening her thin lips into a professional smile.

I waited for her to speak, wondering why she hadn't had those lips enhanced with collagen. Fine lines webbed the skin around her light blue eyes and grey streaked her red-brown hair. The fifties bob hairdo could use a little updating, too. I noticed she was wearing pumps of conspicuous quality, Chanel in fact. I think the Weasel had been telling a fib about his trophy wife's age — she would never see forty again. If she expected to grace the arm of a federal Member of Parliament, she better get herself a makeover.

I had never felt bitchier.

That reminded me of my mission: getting my fair share of the marital estate and, if possible, keeping Mike Bains out of politics. It wouldn't be easy to discredit him, and I knew from years of living with a lawyer not to say anything even covertly litigious. After my dark night of the soul, I knew that justice would not come my way in a court of law. Let's face it, I didn't have a chance of saving enough money to take Mike to court before he won an election and became virtually untouchable. My blackmail plan needed to grow some fangs, and soon.

I looked around the small store. Good, an audience.

“Hi, Andrea. Say, those look like my towels.”

“Oh, these? Yes, well, we've redecorated and these don't fit in with the new colour scheme.” Andrea started to put them on the counter. Then she stopped and looked at me. “Would you like them back? They're a little thin now, but you could still get some use out of them.”

The bitch had balls.

“Sure, thanks.” I took the pile of pale blue towels from her. “I can always use some extra towels around the old trailer.”

She shifted and placed the clothing on the counter. “Well, nice to see you again, Bliss.”

“What have you got there?” I asked her. “Can I see them? Maybe there's something I could use.” I sorted through the pile of neutral outfits. “Oh, this is nice.” I held up a pale pink pullover with beige trim. I held the matching pants up to my waist and let them pool onto the floor. “Darn, way too big.” I pawed through the pile, saying, “too big” or “too long” at each item. “It's a shame we aren't the same size; I could use some new outfits and your clothes are really good quality.”

By now you could hear a hair fall to the bare wood floor in that place.

“What are you doing, Bliss?” Andrea whispered.

“What do you mean?” I asked, not lowering my voice. “I just thought that, since you were my lawyer when Mike and I divorced, you might still be interested in my welfare. For instance, if you need to buy a new tea kettle, I wouldn't mind having the old one. Or an iron. Actually, the ones you're using now probably used to be mine so, I'm just saying, if you get new ones, I'd be happy to drop by and pick up the discards. It would save you bringing them here. I can't carry anything too big on my motorcycle, but small appliances and blankets would be great. You wouldn't believe how cold that trailer gets in the winter.” I smiled bravely up at her.

She was too smart to take the bait. She was thinking fast, but before she could move or speak, I upped the ante.

“Listen, Andrea. When you were my legal aid lawyer, I thought we were becoming friends. Sure, I was a little surprised when I found out later you and Mike were, well, better friends — even before he told me he wanted a divorce — but I know you gave me the best legal counsel possible. I don't believe for a minute there was any conflict of interest on your part.” I let my voice break a little. “It wasn't your fault I wound up with nothing but fifty acres of swamp south of town. And, I'm serious, if you have anything you don't need any more, give me a call and I might be able to take if off your hands. Here, I'll give you my cell number.”

Andrea turned and walked out the door, her head held high.

I gazed after her, forlornly waving a piece of paper in the air, the receipt Holly had just given me. When the door closed, I pulled some change out of my purse and handed two loonies to Holly. “Here, this is for the towels. Is it enough?”

Holly pushed my hand away. She said, “Are you kidding, Bliss? I should give you your twenty dollars back, just for the entertainment.”

“Thanks, Holly. I hope, if anybody asks, you can truthfully say I never made any threats or accused Andrea of being unprofessional.”

“I remember every word, Bliss, and you have nothing to worry about. Have you heard that Mike is going to run in the next election? He's really reaching for the stars, isn't he? If he wins, he'll be one of the youngest Members of Parliament in history.”

“Oh, he'll win.” I rammed the towels into the bag on top of the canned goods. “With Andrea's father grooming him, he's a shoo-in. Next stop, 24 Sussex Drive.”

“He'd sell our oil rights to the States … or our water. I hope somebody stops him.”

“Maybe somebody will.” I wrestled the bags toward the door and waved at Holly with one free finger.

As I reached the alley between the library and the video store next door, Andrea stepped out of the shadows and blocked my way.

Surprised, I let go of the bags and they slipped to the ground. Darn, I hated dented cans, but perhaps it was just as well my hands were free. Andrea had six inches and at least fifty pounds on me, and by the flush high up on her cheeks, she was pissed. I looked around. No witnesses.

Arms crossed over her chest, Andrea leaned toward me. “Mike told me how you threatened him, trying to extort money. That could be construed as blackmail, and you could wind up with legal problems. Take my advice, as your former lawyer. Stay out of our way, or you'll think a juggernaut ran over you.”

Adrenaline flowed, making my heart race and my body ready to do battle. I tried to damp it down to keep the oxygen in my brain. This fight required wits, not muscle.

“I don't know what you mean, Andrea. As Mike probably told you, I gave him a figure I thought was a fair share of the estate we accumulated during our marriage. I'd be more than happy to give back the fifty acres in exchange.”

“You signed off all rights to any other properties at the time of the divorce. We owe you nothing.”

“Well, at the time I thought my lawyer was looking after my interests. I didn't realize she was sleeping with my husband. Did you know I registered a complaint with the Law Society of Upper Canada?”

Andrea snorted. “Of course I know. They contacted me. How did that go for you?”

“Not so well. They sent me a nice letter saying they would look into the matter, then a couple of months later another letter arrived dismissing the complaint, but telling me I had the option of suing you. Anyhow, there will always be a record of the complaint, with your name on it. It would be such a shame if that came out during Mike's campaign.”

“Do you really think we'd let that happen? We could make you look like a total nutcase.”

“Don't be ridiculous, Andrea. The ex-wife of the Liberal candidate is living in a trailer, working several minimum-wage jobs, buying food and clothes from the second-hand store.” I nudged the bags with my toe. “Why, I could supply pictures of me in my overalls, raking up the cemetery, or cleaning houses. Goodness me, whatever would the voters think? Let alone the party officials. They might consider Mike a risk they don't want to take. I told Mike all this, but he's a stubborn guy.”

“Mike offered you money, but you refused to take it. How does that look?”

“You mean yesterday's offer at Tim Hortons? I don't believe there were any witnesses to that offer. The amount on the cheque was an insult, and expecting me to sign a waiver means you underestimate me. You can tell Mike to shove both the cheque and the waiver so far up his ass he'll need surgery to retrieve them. I believe I forgot to suggest that to him.”

“Mike and I are deeply committed to one another. We have a brilliant future, and we won't let you spoil things for us. This is your last warning.”

I held up my hands. “Hey, I'm not planning to interfere with your future. I just want what's fair, and you know what that is. Think about it, and I'm sure you and your true love will do the right thing.”

I bent down and picked up my shopping, relieved when Andrea didn't swing her brown Louis Vuitton bag down on my head.

“Andrea, don't get your hopes up about becoming the wife of the prime minister of this nation. Once Mike gets to the first rung and feels he can do without your father's connections, he'll dump you without a backward glance. He'll marry some pretty little blonde who will give him a couple of cute little blond children to grace his Christmas card photo. Don't kid yourself; Mike is only thirty-two and you're, what, forty? You may be in love, but to him you're only a means to an end.”

I took five minutes to unpack the bags and resettle the items in the saddlebags of the Savage after watching Andrea march away. After that, I felt calm enough to finish off the afternoon scanning out books for patrons. Dougal called twice to make sure I was going to measure Glory's Titan and report my findings before I went home.

The Liquor Store was my first stop after work. Bypassing the Vintages section where I shopped during my marriage, I checked out the Ontario reds and chose a Niagara merlot that cost twelve-ninety-five. A slight splurge, but well-deserved. Next, I bought a copy of the
Lockport Sentinel
.

Now, I had wine to drink and something to read while eating the canned beans. Or maybe I'd have the stew, or even the Chef Boyardee. With a can opener and a microwave, any option was possible.

The wind had picked up during the day so the short drive to Glory's was even less pleasurable than the morning's run. The skirt ballooned and flapped, but at least my road rash got a good airing.

Pan answered my ring, but instead of inviting me in, he stepped out and closed the door quietly. He looked at my outfit, started to say something, then shook his head slightly.

“We'll go to the greenhouse this way. You don't want to risk running into Miss Glory today. She's in a very bad mood.”

“How can you tell? Any special problem or just the usual princess syndrome?”

We had left the ladder in place beside the Titan Arum the night before and Pan climbed to the top with the tape measure. I held the end of the tape to the dirt.

He called down a number to me and I wrote it down. The spadix had shot up several more inches overnight.

Pan said, “Glory's still in a rage about Dougal. She must seriously want this pollination to work. It's hard to understand why. This is the ugliest thing I've ever seen. Who'd want more of them?”

“It's not pretty,” I agreed, “but apparently it's rare, and pollination is difficult, so maybe the seeds are valuable. Or, since neither Glory nor Dougal need money, maybe they hope to publish in the Botanical Geographic.”

Pan snickered. “More like Botanical Playgirl. It looks like a big­—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”

We decided not to try and measure the circumference of the spathe, lest we cause the structural collapse Dougal was so concerned about. Neither of us wanted to be responsible for that.

I took pictures, with Pan again censoring them. I stole a glance at the pot plants while he arrowed through the shots. Glory's marijuana was thriving, seeming to match the Titan Arum in growth ratio. Maybe they were companion plants like onions and marigolds.

Before I left, I glanced into the spathe, feeling as wicked as a maiden peeking up a piper's kilt. “Hey,” I called to Pan. “Look at this. I think there are flowers forming down there.”

He took a polite glance. “Yeah, great, we're moving right along. Here's your camera.”

I aimed the camera into the spathe and took a few more shots, hoping Dougal would be able to figure out if anything was happening that might speed up the pollination process. The sooner I was done with this pot palace, the better.

When I arrived at Dougal's, he jerked the camera from my fingers and demanded to know the height of the spadix. He thumbed through the pictures and, in my opinion, got unreasonably excited about the last shots I had taken of the spathe's interior.

“This proves it,” he said, heading off down the hall toward his solarium. He put his hands on either side of the concrete planter and stuck his head into the spathe.

“Yes, Glory's Titan will blossom before mine, possibly only a few hours, certainly not more than a day. Perfect.”

“Perfect,” I repeated, with my back to his marijuana plants.

Reminded I was there, Dougal rounded on me. “You didn't touch Glory's Titan, did you?”

“Of course not. We didn't even measure the spathe.”

“Now listen, Bliss. Tomorrow, don't measure the spadix either. I don't need any more measurements, I just need confirmation there are no signs of collapse, so take lots of close-ups.”

“I got it, but …”

He looked directly at me for the first time. “What the hell kind of outfit are you wearing? You look like you should be ploughing the fields hitched to a horse. You're really letting yourself go, Bliss. I hope you don't tell anyone we're related.”

“Everyone knows we're related, moron. And I'm the one they feel sorry for.”

I led the way to his kitchen and began telling him about my day, including the face-off with Andrea. All he heard was I borrowed a skirt from his closet.

“That was you in my bathroom? I should have known. There were wet bath towels and sweat pants on the floor. And what gives you the right to waltz into my closet and help yourself?”

“Who did you think was in your bathroom, you idiot? I needed something to wear and figured Melanie might have left something I could borrow.”

“What makes you think it's Melanie's skirt? You're jumping to conclusions, Bliss, and I'd thank you to stop making accusations about my therapist.”