Текст книги "Shroud of Roses"

Автор книги: Gloria Ferris

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

CHAPTER

twenty-nine

Throbbing temples woke me on Friday morning. I couldn’t breathe through my nose even though the swelling in my face had all but disappeared and the bruises had faded to yellow. I didn’t have time for a cold, damn it.

Breathing in the humid air at the greenhouse didn’t appeal to me, so I ran the payroll for Bliss This House from my laptop on my kitchen table and did some rescheduling. Marjorie needed Wednesday off to take her son, Storm, to the orthodontist. No problem there. One of the subs could help Cora at Mrs. Brickle’s. Done with a phone call and a click.

Next, Rae needed the same day off so she could write her registered massage therapy final exam in Kitchener. Since she put in eight hours at Glory’s on Wednesdays, I needed to find someone to fill in for her who could work a full day. And I had to pick her replacement carefully. It had taken Glory months to get used to Rae after I moved from slave labour to management of my own cleaning company. I don’t know which she regretted more – losing my cleaning skills or being forced to pay decent wages. Now I was going to ask her to change cleaners again. I’d better wear my motorcycle helmet when I broke the news to her. Or, better yet, do it by phone.

I called the greenhouse to speak with the Madam. Rae answered and put me through to Dougal before I could stop her. He screamed at me to get my lazy ass in to work and start on the long list of delinquent accounts. When pressed, he admitted only two names graced the current naughty list. Then he reminded me to get on the promotional tour bus for Glory’s food benefit since any dereliction on my part would reflect badly on him. And no, Glory hadn’t come in either. He was in sole charge of the greenhouse and how was he supposed to get the first draft of his third novel started if he had to run the place? He had a life, too, and was leaving town to join Holly in Toronto the minute the food benefit was over. Oh, and I better get started on putting the decorations up because the Canadian Tire bags were littering the break room …

I hung up; not that he’d notice for another five minutes. I sneezed three times, signalling the start of the runny stage of a head cold. Just in case it was the flu, I figured I should get my work done before I collapsed and perhaps died of complications from pneumonia. Then a lot of people would be sorry. Before I left the house, I sent an email to my staff with the revised schedule and took a cold tablet to dry up the snot tsunami.

The pill hadn’t kicked in by the time I got to the Lockport Sentinel office on Commercial Crescent, just south of the Wing Nut. It took considerable pleading, and several bouts of uncontrollable sneezing, before the editor agreed to place a four-by-six ad for the food drive benefit in the next issue of the weekly newspaper. I thanked him but he turned his back and pulled out a container of anti-bacterial wipes. Next stop, the printers.

Zeus Printing occupied the ground floor of a mid-rise modern building (hereabouts that meant a three-storey structure built in the eighties) conveniently located next door to the newspaper office. Since the pill had started to work by this time and I couldn’t sneeze on the owner, I had to go from pleading to full-out begging to get posters printed gratis. So humiliating.

Eventually, the tightwad loosened his death grip on his cash register. We settled on a dozen twelve-by-fourteen posters in exchange for his business name on a sponsor’s sign above the food donation bin. He would provide the sign. I agreed, hoping the sign would fit through the door.

I remembered promising Chico a couple of thank-you signs and figured I could make them up myself using bristol board and permanent markers. Then I’d duct-tape one to a tree outside the greenhouse, and the other to the door of the men’s room.

The floor above the printers’ housed the legal office of Bains and Bains. How cute was that? I had an idea. Glory had demanded I stay away from the Weasels for Redfern’s sake. Redfern demanded I stay away from them – why? I couldn’t remember, but how about if I just smoothed the waters and, at the same time, picked the Weasel’s brain about grad night? Surely, nobody could complain about that.

I took the elevator and exited into a sparse reception area. So far, so good. The receptionist was AWOL, either in the bathroom or on maternity leave. The comfy chairs in the waiting area were also empty. I strolled down a short hall and stopped outside a partially open door. The Weasel’s voice soothed a client with promises of a hefty settlement before the court date. Since there was no second voice, the Weasel was phone-billing, a practice I remembered well. When Mike first set up his office, I did the reception work, sent out the monthly billings, and handled disgruntled clients. Perfect training for my current jobs.

I pushed the door open and walked in. Ignoring the surprise and anger on Mike’s attractive features, I plopped into his visitor’s chair with a sigh of relief. Those cold tablets sure knocked you on your ass.

Mike concluded his call and started right in. “What the hell do you want?”

I unbuttoned my coat and slid my arms out like I intended to stay a while. “I want to apologize for upsetting you the other night at the Wing Nut. I hope you didn’t think I was accusing you of murdering Faith and Sophie.”

“That’s what it sounded like to me. And I don’t believe you came here to apologize. I’m quite sure you don’t know how to do that.”

“I had a lot of practice when we were married, remember? Everything was my fault. Even when I was right, I was wrong, so I spent a lot of time apologizing.” Not in the door two minutes, and I was off track.

I stopped and tried to breathe deeply, but broke into a coughing fit. By the time I recovered my breath, I had also recovered some focus. “Anyway, I thought if we put our heads together, we might come up with something helpful about grad night.”

“Helpful to whom? You? The police? I’ve talked to the OPP investigator and I’m not talking to you.”

“Don’t you care what happened to Faith and Sophie? They were our friends.”

“Faith was a long time ago, and I haven’t talked to Sophie since that night, either. We don’t attend St. Paul’s Church.”

Little snippets of memories sometimes pop up when you least expect them. “I know you went out with Sophie. But didn’t you date Faith as well? Toward the end of the school year?” That had been an unlikely pairing. Shy, introspective Faith Davidson. Ambitious, controlling Mike Bains. “Did you see her over the summer?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but no. I spent the summer as a counsellor at Silver Birch Camp the other side of Mount Forest. And I didn’t date her.”

“Okay. You must have talked to her at grad night in October, though.”

“So what if I did? I talked to a lot of people that night. I told the OPP sergeant all this and I’m not repeating it to you.”

“Okay. I’m guessing you didn’t see Faith head to the locker room or notice her leaving at midnight with the rest of us?”

His mouth pursed into a tight oval. “I think you should get out before I call your boyfriend and insist he charge you with obstruction.”

“How about you …” I burst into a sneezing fit, and when I was done Andrea stood in the doorway.

“What’s going on? Why is she here?” Her designer business suit and Louis Vuitton shoes matched perfectly. Brown and more brown. Andrea was about thirty-seven, five years older than Mike, and, while not unattractive in a horsey sort of way, she could use a few fashion tips. Maybe a new hairdo, some makeup, a personality transplant …

“Don’t worry about it, Andrea. She’s playing at being a detective. Guess her boyfriend is out of his depth investigating murders. She’s just leaving.”

I blew my nose and threw the tissue into the wastebasket beside the desk. Both Weasels watched me with disgust. “Actually, I’m glad you’re both here. What’s this I hear about you threatening to terminate Chief Redfern’s contract because of his relationship with me?” What was I saying? I had to be allergic to the active ingredient in cold tablets.

Andrea looked down at me like I was an earwig begging to be squashed. “That’s not your concern, Bliss. The Police Services Board will proceed as it sees fit …”

The Weasel interrupted. “Redfern’s contract is up in six months. We will revisit the issue then. Whether we renew the contract or not depends on many factors. Only one concerns his relationship with you, and whether he can control you. We won’t allow you to continue blundering around in police matters, as you’re doing right now.”

Control me? “You know he’s a damned good chief. I bet you were one of his biggest fans until we started dating.” Dating? Was that what we were doing? God, my head was spinning.

Andrea crossed her arms and took a step closer. “You should be committed to a secure facility. Are you accusing my husband of caring whom you sleep with?”

“Sounds crazy when you put it like that,” I admitted. “So, why do you really want to get rid of him?” I looked from one to the other. “Whatever the reason, you better knock it off.”

“Or what?” Mike sneered. “Are you threatening to blackmail me again?”

“Me? Blackmail you? What a silly accusation.”

“You promised you didn’t keep a copy of that picture!” He stood up and leaned over the desk. Now I had both of them looming over me. “Did you lie about that?”

“Are you talking about the picture of you smoking a joint in university? Well, I kind of did lie about that. I have several copies. See, you promised to be faithful until death, and Andrea promised to represent my best interests during our divorce proceedings. Face it. We’re a pack of liars. We should form a club – the Lockport Liars.”

“I won’t be blackmailed again by you.” Mike spoke softly and distinctly.

“Did I say anything about blackmail? You need to get a grip.”

“Why are you really here?” Andrea’s voice matched the Weasel’s in chilling quietude.

“I came to ask Mike if he remembered anything about grad night. I thought together we might come up with something to help with the investigation. That’s all.”

“Get out.” Andrea stood aside as I got to my feet.

I stopped in the doorway and looked back. “Congratulations on winning the Liberal nomination for this riding, Mike. Guess you’re getting ready for the federal election whenever the present government implodes through its own corruption and greed.”

“We’re ready now,” Andrea said. “There’s nothing you can do to stop us.”

“I wouldn’t dream of interfering. In the meantime, don’t underestimate me. And don’t mess with Redfern.”

CHAPTER

thirty

Lunchtime at Timmy’s is a free-for-all. First, you have to fight your way to the counter, then you’ve got to balance a tray while you shove through the crowd to grab a seat before Grandma or Uncle Barney body-checks you into the potted plants.

Against all odds, I snagged a window table, chicken soup and roll in hand. Sniffling and sneezing has its advantages because the tables near me remained clear while I ate. I couldn’t taste or smell the soup, but assumed it was delicious. That gave me an idea. Man, I was full of ideas today.

I ordered another chicken soup lunch and a couple of coffees – to go – and borrowed an old-fashioned phonebook from the kind, matronly lady at the counter. She used the doughnut tongs to push the items across the counter to me. I looked up Earl Archman’s address and picked up my order. By the look on the counter lady’s face, she was going to drop the phonebook straight into the trash. People are so nervous around a few germs these days.

Before getting out of my vehicle in front of Mr. Archman’s bungalow on Balmoral Crescent, I studied my face in the visor mirror. Yikes. My cover-up had failed and the yellow skin around my eyes made me look like I had Hep A, or even B. My nose and upper lip had reddened from all the blowing. I needed to stay away from Redfern for a few days. If I wanted to force him to his knees and elicit apologies for his asshole behaviour, he shouldn’t see me like this.

My face was good enough for my former math teacher, though.

I noticed that Mr. Archman’s backyard butted up to the rear of the St. Paul’s manse. The stone tower of St. Paul’s Church loomed over the rooftop of the house. Creepy. While Sophie was being killed, Mr. Archman – and his neighbours, to be fair – were within a couple of hundred metres. It would have been possible for him to shinny over the fence to do the deed – if he didn’t weigh three hundred pounds.

I realized I was leaning toward Mr. Archman being the killer. That would simplify things a lot. I had second thoughts about confronting him alone, in his home. On the plus side, I could outrun him. So, as long as I didn’t stand within striking distance, he couldn’t club me or strangle me. I brought my own coffee so he couldn’t slip me poison. As long as he didn’t pull out a gun, things should work out in my favour.

I rang the doorbell while admiring the giant Grinch on the rocking chair. Now, that was my idea of the Christmas spirit. The doorbell worked because I heard it when I pressed my ear against the curtained glass in the door. He should be home. The town grapevine reported he was taking sick leave for the rest of the school year. I pushed the button twice more before the door flew open.

“Oh, for God’s sake! What the hell are you doing at my door, Miss Cornwall? Can’t a sick man get any peace? What do you want?”

A lot of women seem to like that three-days-growth-of-beard look. I find it a total turn-off and told Redfern early on in our relationship that stubble was grounds for immediate dismissal. He took that to heart because I’ve never felt the slightest bristling during our close encounters.

I digress wildly, but my point is that stubble was especially unattractive on Mr. Archman. Between that and his soiled grey sweat suit, the man was, frankly, a mess. I felt much better about my own appearance.

“Hi, Mr. Archman.” I smiled brightly, cracking the chapped skin around my lips. “I brought you some lunch.”

“I’m on a diet. Go away.” The door began to close. I thought of shoving my foot in like they do in the movies, but given the difference between his weight and mine, that may have been a bad idea.

“Oh, come on now. You could use a little chicken soup, couldn’t you? And some coffee? It’s from Timmy’s.”

He hesitated, and that was all the advantage I needed. I pushed on the door and managed to squeeze in the crack before he slammed it shut behind me. I skipped a few metres down the hallway, mindful of the striking distance I vowed to avoid.

On the right was the living room. I set the cardboard tray on the coffee table but stayed on my feet. He glared at me, and I pretended great interest in the room, which was, honestly, a disaster.

When his wife left, she must have taken most of the furniture, forcing Mr. Archman to scavenge from the landfill or from curbside during the municipality’s annual discarded furniture and appliance pickup day. Our entry into the room caused a few dust bunnies to hop off the furniture and join the rest of the gang on the floor. And, bugger … the magazines and books scattered around all featured guns and archery.

I wrenched my attention back to the murdering SOB, while he collapsed into an armchair that faced a flat-screen TV. Remember Martin’s duct-taped armchair on Frasier? This one would have benefited from a couple of rolls. I rummaged through my tote bag before remembering I’d left my supply at the greenhouse.

“Why must you torment me, Miss Cornwall? Can’t you see I want to be alone, to die without witnesses and be found months from now, mummified or otherwise ready for burial?” He rested his plaster-encased right arm in his lap.

I contemplated him in astonishment and, forgetting to stay well away, I crept to within a few feet of his chair. “Good one, Mr. Archman. But I don’t think the police are going to let you go softly into that good night, not quite yet. Not while the killer of Faith and Sophie is at large.”

I glanced out the dining room window. I didn’t see a gate in the wooden fence separating the backyard from the manse. Plus, it was at least eight feet high. So, if Mr. Archman killed Sophie, he must have walked around the crescent to the other side.

“You’ll feel better with some hot soup inside you. Here, I’ll leave the bowl in the tray and open your coffee. Do you take milk and sugar?”

He finally gave in. While he ate, I chatted about nothing in particular, ignoring his eye rolls.

At one point, he interrupted: “I see you didn’t bring a can of paint for my bathroom. I’m partial to yellow, but I wouldn’t mind looking at a few colour chips. And I’ll pay for the paint.”

Okay, no more kid gloves. “I don’t paint. I have my own cleaning business. How about we put our heads together about the grad party in the gym, Mr. A? See if we can’t come up with something to help the police. You tell me what you remember, and I’ll compare it to my recollection. More and more details are coming back to me every day.”

“Nice try, Miss Cornwall. You were in no condition to remember anything, and I’ve already told your boyfriend everything I recall. And it seems to me we had a discussion at the hospital when I was in too much pain to toss you out.” A noodle hung from the hairs on his chin, but I wasn’t going near it.

“How about you call me Bliss? And can I call you Earl?”

“No. As I told your boyfriend, I regret inadvertently leaving Faith’s body in the locker room, even though I had no way of knowing it was there, and I regret mistaking some other young woman for Faith at the bus stop later that night. What’s done is done. Now, if you don’t mind….”

I erupted in a violent, wet sneezing fit. While I mopped up, Mr. A heaved himself out of his chair and tottered out of the room. In case he came back with a gun, I looked around for my purse and prepared to flee, but I wasn’t fast enough.

Aerosol can held high, he sprayed around the room. My nose was too congested to smell it. “Stop it! That’s toxic.” Hell, it could be roach spray.

“Calm down, Miss Cornwall. It’s only Lysol. I’m hoping it will kill the virulent germs you’re spreading around my home.”

“Yeah, you need more than that. No offence, Mr. A., but this place needs a good cleaning. Are you perhaps a hoarder?” I drew a happy face in the dust covering his coffee table.

He looked around. “What do you mean? It’s a little messy, maybe …”

“Sit down and relax. I have a proposal for you.” Geez, that didn’t come out exactly like I intended. “I mean, I have a proposition.” Shit, I should just spit it out.

He sat, but kept his trigger finger on the nozzle of the can.

I took out a brochure and a price list from my purse. “You may have heard of my cleaning company, Bliss This House? No? What I propose is that I send in a team for a full day to give this whole house a good going over. Here, this is my price.”

When I saw his mouth open to protest, I said, “No, wait, since you and I go way back” – gag me – “I’ll knock 20 percent off the price. Then, a team of two will come in every other week for four hours to do the routine cleaning. Laundry and windows are extra.”

His chin sank onto his chest and he peered through the layers of flesh surrounding his eyes. “I may have fallen into bad housekeeping habits lately. But I’m not a healthy man. I may well die before long, so I don’t think …”

“Okay, Earl, what’s all this shit about dying? You need to lose a few pounds – okay, maybe a couple hundred pounds – and you have sleep apnea, undoubtedly a little high blood pressure, but you’re not that old. You have time to get your body back into a less lethal condition.”

He lifted his head. “Thank God you never went into the healing arts. Your bedside manner stinks. Now that I think of it, you were never even a hall monitor, were you?”

“I volunteered, but they wouldn’t have me.”

“Thank God,” he said again. He was getting on my nerves.

I sneezed and was rewarded with another spritz from the Lysol can. I grabbed a World War Two weapons’ magazine and fanned the air. “Do you by any chance belong to a gun club? You seem to be fascinated with deadly weapons, and you have, like, a hundred Lock and Load magazines sitting around.”

“As a matter of fact, my great-uncle left me an extensive collection of souvenir pistols from the war. He taught me to shoot when I was a boy, and I did join the gun club later. I have a target pistol, legally registered. But you don’t need to tell your boyfriend about the souvenirs. City cops don’t understand our ways.”

“Tell me about it.” Did everyone refer to Redfern as my “boyfriend?” If we split up, would he henceforth be referred to as my “ex-boyfriend?”

“You were just leaving, Miss Cornwall.”

“In a minute. Tell me what you’re dying of.

He sighed. “If it will get rid of you. I need to lose a hundred pounds. My blood pressure is off the charts.” From the cluttered table by his chair, he picked up a pill bottle and shook it. “I have to go to a sleep clinic and get fitted for one of those horrendous masks for sleeping. As far as I know, my valves are running clear, but I need to be checked by a heart specialist to make sure.” He sighed again.

“Only a hundred pounds? That’s not bad. Once you lose the weight, the other problems will resolve themselves. Do you want to know what I think?” By his expression, he didn’t, but I told him anyway, “I believe you’re suffering from depression. Maybe you should see a doctor, other than Dr. Who’s-it at the hospital. He’s a gynecologist, you know.”

“And a very capable ER doctor. I have an appointment with my own doctor tomorrow. He’ll set me up with all the pertinent specialists.”

“Fine. I can send a team in next Friday. Is that good for you?” Damned if I was leaving here without information about grad night and without new business.

“If I say yes, will you leave?”

“Of course, you just have to ask.” I stood up and zipped my coat. “If you think of anything regarding the graduation party, will you let me know? Here’s my business card. Or, you can contact my boyfriend instead, if you’d rather.”

“Goodbye, Miss Cornwall.”

He shuffled to the door behind me. I wanted to invite him to Glory’s charity benefit, thinking it might cheer him up. But when I sneezed – only once this time – he slammed the door shut.

I trudged to my car, wiping my nose and searching my pockets for the blister pack of cold pills. I still hoped Mr. Archman was the killer, but not as much as before.