Текст книги "Shroud of Roses"

Автор книги: Gloria Ferris

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

CHAPTER

thirty-one

The station had one interview room, barely enough space for a perp and his lawyer and two cops. Neil took a seat and waited while Thea, Dwayne, and Bernie pulled their chairs into alignment with the whiteboard. Tony picked up a marker and drew a line down the centre of the board.

“Okay, boys and girls. We’ve hit a brick wall regarding Faith Davidson’s death. Looks like homicide, smells like homicide, most likely is homicide. She was sixteen weeks pregnant when she died, and we don’t know who the father was yet. He may have been very unhappy over hearing about the pregnancy, and that, my kiddies, would be a motive. Are we looking for a male perpetrator? Looks like it, but he may have had a female accomplice.” He pointed at the list of seven names on the left side of the board. “In my humble opinion, we could strike off Miss Bliss Moonbeam Cornwall’s name. But the chief here insists she’s a contender, so her name stays.”

Bernie sniggered while Dwayne snorted. Thea rolled her eyes and jabbed Dwayne in the arm with her elbow. Neil stirred in his chair and quelled his staff with a look.

“So,” Tony continued, throwing the marker in the air and catching it, “let’s focus on Reverend Sophie Quantz. I don’t think we can discount her husband. Kelly Quantz has been drunk since his wife’s death and I’d bet he’s been best friends with the booze before that. He could have followed his wife into the church and shot her. So far, we haven’t found a motive.”

“Do you think he could have killed Faith Davidson, too?” Thea asked.

“Don’t know. He could have. He was on the scene,” Tony responded. He turned and wrote PAL? at the top of the board over the first column. “Do any of our suspects have a Possession and Acquisition Licence?”

Thea opened the folder on her lap. “First of all, the casing we found in St. Paul’s choir loft is a .32 ACP. Next, I checked with the RCMP, and six people on that list have a PAL for a target pistol and ammo. Also an Authorization to Transport for each of them.”

Neil stood up and squared his taut shoulder muscles. “All six belong to a gun club of some sort. Any .32s, Thea?”

“No, Chief. All own Rugers, mostly Mark I’s. They all use .22 calibre ammo.”

“Even Fern Brickle?” Neil was surprised she owned a target pistol, given her advanced arthritis.

Thea consulted her file again. “Her PAL is about to expire. The RCMP has sent out her ninety-day reminder.”

Tony tapped the end of his marker on the board, leaving a grouping of little black dots. “I don’t know about the rest of you coppers, but I’m dying to know who doesn’t have a PAL.”

Thea smiled. “I didn’t say the seventh person doesn’t have a PAL. Fang Davidson has a licence for two long guns, both older shotguns, neither take .32s.”

Tony placed a tick mark against each name under the PAL column. Beside the word PAL, he wrote No .32s. “So all our suspects have experience with handguns. Except Fang, but I’m assuming he’d be able to hit the broad side of a barn if you placed a pistol in his hand. We can’t rule any of them out.” He threw an evil smirk at Neil.

Bernie cleared his throat. “There’s one thing we should remember.” At Neil’s nod of encouragement, he continued. “There may be hundreds of Second World War souvenir guns tucked away in attics and garages. Most of them unregistered.”

The idea of all those unlicensed weapons made the skin on the back of Neil’s neck tighten. “Local gun owners have had ample opportunity to come forward and register their arms.” Shit, he sounded like he had a stick up his ass.

“I’m just saying, Chief, if you could compare the RCMP Firearm Centre’s list of licences against actual guns, you’d come up way short on licences. And some of the souvenir handguns use .32 ammo. Just a thought.” Bernie folded his arms and closed his eyes, indicating the end to his contribution.

Neil dropped into his chair and stretched out his legs. “This just keeps getting better and better. We’d have a hell of a time getting warrants to search random premises for unregistered handguns. Looks like we’ll have to come at this another way. What else have you got, Tony?”

Tony wrote ALIBIS above the second column. “Nobody has an alibi for early Sunday morning. Spouses and significant others don’t count.” He avoided looking at Neil, and drew an X under each name.

He studied the names for a minute. “I’m inclined to drop the two females from the suspect list. Fern Brickle can’t hold a gun, let alone shoot one and hit her target. And Bliss Cornwall? Can’t even pretend to come up with a motive for her.” He stroked off Bliss’s and Fern Brickle’s names. “That leaves us with the five men: Archman, Bains, Leeds, Davidson, and Quantz.”

One thing Neil knew for certain: If Cornwall was inclined to shoot someone, her ex-husband wouldn’t still be top side of the turf. But he found it strange that she never mentioned owning a target pistol.

He dismissed the constables and closed the door behind them. “You made a good point, bud.”

“Which one was that? All my points are good.” Tony laughed, and his hand went automatically to his shirt pocket, feeling for the long-absent cigarettes. “Does Lavinia have any doughnuts out there?”

“No. And I mean about Kelly Quantz. Maybe we’re wrong about the motive for Sophie’s death. If Kelly killed her, the timing could just be coincidence.”

“Yeah, I was sort of kidding. Why would he kill her? The life insurance policy issued by the diocese will barely pay for her burial plot and headstone. And without her, Kelly is out on the street. By the looks of him, he won’t be too good at surviving in the real world.”

Neil stuck his head into the squad room and called Thea back. “Find out if Kelly Quantz is the beneficiary of any life insurance policy other than through the Episcopal Church. Check deeper into Sophie’s assets and investments. And look into Kelly’s personal relationships: girlfriend, boyfriend, enemies.”

Tony pulled on his heavy coat. “Nothing more to be done today, bro. I’m taking Glory out to dinner, if I can find a nice place in this backwater town of yours. You need to get your ass over to Miss Bliss’s and beg forgiveness for whatever stupid things you’ve done recently. Pick one and go with it. Maybe she’ll forget all the others.”

Neil stopped him before he reached the door. “Since you mentioned Glory…. Headquarters isn’t going to let you stay on here indefinitely. If we don’t make progress soon, they’ll pull you. I don’t like repeating myself, but have you given any thought to how your leaving will affect Glory?”

Tony placed his hat rakishly off-centre and nodded. “What happens, happens. Maybe I’m just a quick roll in the hay for Ms. Yates. She’s out of my league, in case you haven’t noticed. We’re having fun, one day at a time. You go clear up your own issues with your pretty little rebel before preaching to me.” With a final, deep chuckle, Tony shut the door behind him.

CHAPTER

thirty-two

I went straight home from Earl’s and took two more daytime cold pills. I stripped down, took a long, hot shower, and pulled on a sports bra and yoga shorts. I wrapped myself in a fleece robe and fuzzy slippers. With my hair skinned back in a ponytail and the yellow skin around my eyes glowing like the noonday sun, I looked like … well, like nothing you’d want to date.

Rae came into the kitchen while I was foraging in the fridge. The shelves were bare except for a pre-packaged salad, which didn’t appeal to me. I needed some comfort food. Somebody better go grocery shopping, and soon.

Discouraged, I slammed the door closed.

Rae said, “Bliss, there’s a stir-fry in the pan on the stove. I’ll heat it up for you.” She scooped a man-sized portion into a bowl, nuked it, and set it before me with cutlery, while balancing a ten-pound anatomy textbook in her left hand.

“Bliss. I’ve been thinking about your hair …”

I held up one hand in a “stop” motion and talked around a mouthful of rice. “No more colours, Rae. I want my natural colour back. When I look in the mirror, which I’m avoiding these days, I don’t even recognize myself.” I sniffed wetly.

Rae stepped back a few feet. “That’s just what I was going to suggest. I think we should strip out every colour, return it to a warm, light brown, and add a few lighter highlights. It will look awesome.” Rae is the only person I know who can say “awesome” without sounding like an eleven-year-old Justin Bieber groupie.

“That’s the way it was before you added every colour of the rainbow. People are giving me strange looks.” I scrubbed at my nose with a tissue.

“That would be due to your yellow eyes and red nose. So we’ll tackle your hair later tonight?”

“It’s a date. And thanks for the food. I’m going to the garage for a while.”

“What for? It’s cold and dirty in there.”

“I have to think. And I need to visit with my motorcycle to remind myself that spring is only four or five months away.”

I scored a bag of cheese puffs from the pantry, which cheered me up no end. A bottle of orange juice was the perfect accompanying beverage. It’s a known fact that orange foods are packed with vitamins.

With these items under my arm, I snatched up a pair of old runners and entered the garage. I turned the space heater to its highest setting and, while waiting for the place to warm up, pulled the cover off my Suzuki Savage. I ran my hands over the polished front fender and threw my leg over the seat. I wrapped my fingers around the handlebars for a moment and closed my eyes, imagining a soft wind blowing against my face, wheels flying over the pavement …

Sighing, I got off the bike and, with a clean rag, rubbed a few smudges from the gleaming metal. I whispered, “Only a few more months, then we’re free again.”

Redfern’s big-boy Gold Wing was parked near the Savage. It was so like him – solid, reliable, and built for endurance. I snorted at my flight of fancy and gave the Gold Wing a pat through the vinyl cover.

My dad’s massive first-generation treadmill took up an entire corner of the garage. It faced a dated twenty-one-inch TV with the dusty remote sitting on top. To my surprise, the TV lit up without hesitation. Saggy couch, heater, TV, treadmill. This was Dad’s retreat when Blyth had one of her hormonal teenage fits and chased me out of her room with manicure scissors. True story; she did it all the time.

I stepped onto the treadmill and pushed the start button. It creaked and jerked and emitted a smell like burning dust. Great, my nose was working again.

As the machine started, I poked at the up arrow and took off running.

The orange juice was almost gone, and most of the cheese puffs, when I heard the door from the kitchen open. Redfern plunked himself down on the couch. He could move quickly and quietly for a guy his size. He didn’t mention my appearance, which boded well for his short-term survival.

He looked around and sniffed. “I smell hot electrical wiring. How long since that treadmill’s been used?”

“Don’t know. First time for me.” I pressed the up arrow again and trotted faster. At least the snot production was slowing down. “How did you know I was in here?”

“Rae told me. She said you looked quite nostalgic and planned to eat a whole bag of cheese puffs.”

I held up the bag and offered him the last one. He declined. “So, you actually talked to Rae. Wow.”

“She warmed up her chicken stir-fry for me.”

“Wow,” I said again. “If you’re looking for a girlfriend who cooks, cleans, and is skilled in the mechanics of sex, you could do worse.”

“Funny. Other than the cooking, you do okay. Can we talk about something else?”

I thought about that for a minute. I took the last swig of juice. And the final cheese puff. “I got nothing else. What’s on your mind?”

“You never told me you could shoot.”

“You never asked. I haven’t told you I can do back flips around the yard and hold a headstand for thirty minutes either.”

“Now, that I can believe. Where’s your target pistol now?”

I looked at him and turned my speed up another notch even though I was already panting. I pulled my sports bra out, then let it snap back against my dripping skin. “I didn’t take it with me when I left the spousal home. The Weasel can’t sell it without my signature, so unless he tossed it, he must still have it. Hey, isn’t it illegal to store a gun for someone else?”

Redfern took out his notebook and wrote something in it. Good, maybe he could charge the Weasel for a gun violation. That would be fun for me.

“How long have you been on that treadmill?” He reached over and pressed the down arrow a bunch of times.

I looked at my watch. “About forty-five minutes. I feel like I could run forever, which is funny because I have this horrible, drippy head cold.”

My pack of cold tablets had fallen out of the pocket of my robe. He picked it up and read the tiny print on the side of the box. “How many of these have you taken?”

“Two. Well, maybe six if you count the ones I took this morning and afternoon. I think I’ve finally dried up, though.”

He waved the package in front of my nose. “These expired four years ago.”

“That explains why I had to take so many. Hey, quit turning my speed down. I’m sweating the cold out of my system.” Bloody hell. I was walking so slowly a turtle could have passed me.

He pressed stop and yanked me off the treadmill. “Put your robe on while I get you some water.” He stuck my cold tablets in his pocket.

When he returned, he handed the water over at arm’s length. I sprawled on the couch and waited while he turned over an empty plastic box and sat down three feet away near his Gold Wing.

“Do you know anyone who owns a pistol that chambers .32s?”

My heart was hammering in my ears, and my legs twitched like I was on amphetamines. “So, Sophie Quantz was shot with a .32? A .32 ACP?”

“Keep that to yourself, okay?”

“Of course. You know how discreet I am. Well, now, if you’re looking for a gun that uses .32 ammo, you have your work cut out for you. Bruce County has thousands.”

“I heard hundreds, but go on. Tell me about your personal experience with guns.”

“I know zilch about modern guns. I used to go with my grandpa every Saturday to the target range at the clubhouse. He and his cronies brought the guns they liberated from the enemy during the war. They’d sit and clean them and hand them around for the other guys to admire. They told whoppers about how they acquired a particular weapon. They fed us kids chocolate bars and pop. It was great. That’s how I know so much about old guns.”

“What kinds, exactly?”

“Specifically, semi-automatic pistols that use .32 calibre cartridges. Well, the most common was the Mauser HSc. I remember four or five of them. My grandpa also had a Dreyse and a Sauer 38H. I really liked that little Sauer. Grandpa taught me to shoot with it.”

“Those are all prohibited weapons.”

“My goodness, who knew? But I’m not done. There were Lugers, a couple of Walthers, even an Astra. I think they took 9x19-millimetre Parabellum rounds, though.” Actually, I knew they took 9x19s, but nobody likes a smarty-pants. I picked up the remote and turned up the volume.

Redfern pulled the remote out of my hand and stared at the screen. “What the hell are you watching?”

“It’s a Duck Dynasty marathon. See, these rednecks in Louisiana struck it rich with a duck call their father invented. His name is Phil and he’s married to Miss Kay …”

Redfern hit the off button. “Can you concentrate for a minute?” He had moved off his box and onto the old couch beside me. Either my knowledge of guns had impressed him, or my looks were improving.

“I thought I was.”

“I’m trying to get my head around the fact that prohibited weapons may be scattered all over the county.”

“There’s no may be about it. You have no idea, and best you don’t go poking around in attics or basements.”

“Or garages.” Redfern made a point of scanning his surroundings. Blue plastic tote boxes were stacked against one wall, piled three high, none labelled. A man’s dream of a toolbox on wheels held a tantalizing selection of drawers that might open to reveal a screwdriver collection. Or guns. Cardboard file boxes held documents – or perhaps guns. A tall tarp-covered case in the back corner might harbour a cherished hockey stick collection – or four or five long guns, never registered or licensed.

“Where is your grandfather’s gun collection now?”

I deliberately kept my eyes front. “Who knows? Am I still on your suspect list?”

“Tony tried removing you, but officially you’re still on the list because you’re one of the few grad students left in town. I don’t think you killed anybody. Yet.”

“You’re too kind.” I truly could not understand the man’s logic. I shouldn’t even try. My fingers inched toward the remote.

He moved it out of my reach. “Who else attended these clubhouse meetings?”

“Uh, I’m not sure I remember.” Fucked if I was going to rat anyone out. To give my hands something to do, I picked up a bottle of gun oil and opened it. I breathed in the tangy aroma.

Immediately, the smell transported me back more than twenty years to the clubhouse. I was nine again, sitting at the table with the old men while they gossiped and cleaned their guns. Grandpa sometimes let me hold one, but he had to help me. They weren’t very heavy, unloaded, but cumbersome for little fingers. Grandpa told me repeatedly never to point a gun, even one I was sure wasn’t loaded, at anyone.

Redfern nudged me. “Come on, Cornwall. I could use your help on this. Chances are good that the gun that killed Sophie Quantz was at that clubhouse. If we find her killer, we may solve Faith’s murder, too.”

I put the cap back on the gun oil. He was right. I had been hiding from the fact that someone I knew, and knew all my life, was a murderer.

“Did you just ask for my help, Redfern?”

“Are you going to make me pay for that scene in my office this afternoon?”

“What do you think? But first we find the killer.”

He flinched at the “we,” but nodded. “So, where is this clubhouse?”

“Back then, Lockport didn’t have an official Canadian Legion branch, so the vets took over an old shed south of town and set up some tables, an old refrigerator, and an outhouse. That outhouse was scary. There were spiders as big as your head in there. The boys were lucky. They could just duck behind a tree.”

“Right, Cornwall, boys have it made. We can pee on the ground or in a bottle if required. Is the building still there?”

“It is. It’s now the Bruce County Regional Prohibited Weapon and Target Shooting Club. I hear they even installed an indoor toilet.”

“You made up that name.”

“Maybe, but it’s something like that. The country club has a range, too. That’s where I shot when I was married to the Weasel. My point is, a lot of people enjoy target shooting as a hobby around here. But I’m guessing you already know all this. You can’t have been Chief of Police for three years without learning a thing or two about our culture.”

He just smiled. “Right. Who were the other kids you played with at the clubhouse?”

I opened the gun oil and took another sniff. I felt like a traitor. “I remember Chico was there, so his grandfather must have been one of the old guys.” I named a few other kids who were now long gone from Lockport, coming home to visit family once in a while.

“What about Fang’s grandfather?”

“He wasn’t one of the group. But seriously, Redfern, I’m sure Dogtown has an entire driving shed full of shotguns and hunting rifles. Hunting is a religion to them and, from what I’ve heard, they eat stuff they kill.” That reminded me. I snatched the remote and turned it back on, but kept the volume off. I wanted to see if the Robertsons were eating squirrel for dinner. Or frogs, Jase’s favourite food. “If you’re going to Dogtown with a search warrant, better take your squad with you. If they don’t shoot you, they’ll keep you for breeding stock. I hear they’re looking for tall blondes.”

Redfern didn’t look worried. He stood up and dropped his police-issue coat. It was warming up nicely in the garage. I wiggled out of my robe.

He ran his eyes up my sweaty togs. “Sexy. What did you do today?”

I shrugged. “The usual. Then I spoke to a potential new customer.” That should cover me if he found out I visited Earl Archman. Should I risk telling Redfern that Earl inherited his great-uncle’s Second World War weapons stash? Maybe, but I decided to wait. Should I confess to visiting with the Weasels again? Possibly, but not right away. I had to watch my mouth. For some reason, I was curiously chatty today.

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.