Текст книги "Shroud of Roses"

Автор книги: Gloria Ferris

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

CHAPTER

eighteen

“You have to talk to Tony. He doesn’t know what he’s getting into.” I scooped more chicken casserole onto my plate. Thinking Redfern looked somewhat peaked at the greenhouse, I cooked him dinner. And made a salad from ingredients I found in the fridge. It was almost magical, the way food periodically showed up in there. But really I was thankful Rae dragged groceries in from time to time.

Redfern shovelled in the food like he hadn’t eaten all day, poor guy. “I thought you couldn’t cook.”

“I never said that. I just prefer not to.” I pushed the salad bowl his way. “Load up. You probably need more fibre.”

He pushed it back. “My fibre is fine. Don’t worry about Tony. He can take care of himself. It’s Glory I’m concerned about.”

“Glory. Are you kidding me? She’ll suck Tony dry and discard the shell.”

He smiled, leaned back, and pushed his empty plate away. “Good dinner. I appreciate your efforts.”

I put our plates in the sink and covered the leftovers. “Don’t get used to it. Go to the living room and put your feet up. I’ll be right there. Coffee? Beer?”

He got up, but narrowed his eyes. “What’s up with you?”

I stood on tiptoes and gave him a quick kiss on his way past me. Honestly, I wasn’t sure what was up with me.

Once the kitchen was tidied, I prepared a tray laden with our coffees and two servings of cheesecake. Redfern accepted my offering quickly, like I had a boa constrictor wound around my neck. Shoot it or run, his expression seemed to be debating.

I noticed the black notebook and pen in his hand. “Are we going to talk about the case?”

“Yes, we are. I’ve made three columns here. First column consists of names of people I intend to interview. Second column is for tick marks after the interviews. Guess what the third column is for.”

“I have no idea, officer.” I did, but wasn’t a fan of lists, so decided not to participate in this line of questioning where I was being set up to be the big loser. And I think he was lying about the columns. No way could you get three on that ratty little notebook.

“The third column has Bliss Cornwall as a heading. Which of these people have you already interrogated? Let’s see. Fang, Earl Archman, Charles Leeds, Mike Bains. Anyone else?”

“For your information, Chief, Fang was too drunk and despondent last night at the Wing Nut to make any sense, and today he just complained – a lot – about the few simple tasks I asked him to perform. I meant to ask about grad night, but you and Tony came bursting in before I had a chance.”

“Earl Archman—”

“… went on at great length about how the Class of 2000 was the worst he had the misfortune to teach. Your friend, the gynecologist, interrupted us before I could get any useful details from him.”

Redfern looked up from his columns. “You need to get over this phobia about gynecologists. What do you propose to do when you get pregnant?”

“Uh, not get pregnant. Anyway, I’ve nothing against female gynecologists. But a man poking around a woman’s nether parts for money is just wrong. I suspect his motives.”

Redfern touched my knee. “You’re very entertaining, Cornwall, but can we discuss Charles Leeds now? You hung out with him for most of yesterday. Don’t tell me you didn’t discuss the graduation party.”

“Do I detect a pinch of jealousy?”

He snorted in a most unflattering way. “Hardly. He has three kids, remember. Talk.”

“I didn’t have that much time to get into anything with him. I went to Canadian Tire hoping to score some decorations for Glory’s charity open house. I managed to obtain a few. Chico helped me out to the parking lot. We fell. Mr. Archman cracked his arm on the pavement when he slipped. And then the ambulance came. There you have it.”

“You and Chico didn’t discuss the deaths or grad night?”

“Not really. While we waited in the checkout line, I showed him the yearbook pictures. He had snapped most of them himself. We did take a short waltz down memory lane, but only about photography. I was bored to tears.”

“You spent time in the emergency room. What did you talk about there?”

“Mostly, he was on the phone, instructing his minions to cover the parking lot with Ice Melt. Then his wife called and reamed him out for twenty minutes about Chucky Junior’s hockey schedule and telling him why he should get it changed so she doesn’t have to get up at 3:00 a.m. every Saturday morning. After he hung up, he explained why it wasn’t his fault the parking lot was a death trap and he hoped Mr. Archman wouldn’t sue him. Uh, let me see.” I wracked my brain. “That’s about it. He whined a lot. You came in with your henchman, Bernie, and this time I was rather happy to see you. That is, until you so rudely refused me a ride back to my car.”

He put the notebook on the coffee table and pulled me onto his lap. “I’m sorry about that. I’m such a bastard. What about Mike Bains?”

Nuts, I had hoped he wouldn’t bring that up. “I guess the discussion I had with Andrea about designer boots isn’t relevant. No? Didn’t think so. Okay, well. You may be interested to know the Weasel doesn’t have an alibi for Saturday night or early Sunday morning when Sophie Quantz was killed.”

“Say that again.”

I prepared to comply but didn’t get very far. Redfern went critical mass on me. I fell off his lap and onto the couch where I stayed until he ran out of steam. There was no point trying to establish a give-and-take partnership with him.

“You need to butt out of this investigation, Cornwall. Starting now!”

“All right!” I had a thought. “Where’s Tony? You didn’t say. Didn’t he want to come for dinner?”

Redfern’s complexion slowly returned to normal colour. “He said he needed an early night but wanted me to thank you for the invitation.”

We looked at each other. “That doesn’t sound like Tony, does it?” I picked up my cell.

Pan didn’t answer until the third ring. “Hi, Pan. So, what were you doing at the greenhouse today?” I moved back over to sit on the arm of Redfern’s chair. His arm curled around my waist. “Really? You’re kidding.”

I let Pan complain about the Bloody Baroness before giving Redfern the scoop. “Glory doesn’t think Pan has enough to do at the house, so she’s teaching him how to be productive at the greenhouse. Today he had a lesson in detecting mould.”

It was time to interrupt Pan’s whine-fest. “Yeah, that really sucks. I know how busy you are at home. Where is she now? … Really? When is she coming back?”

Redfern moved his head against mine and tried to hear Pan’s words. Did I have a speaker button on this phone? I should look into that.

Pan returned to the subject of his servitude to an ungrateful mistress. I cut him off and put the phone down. “Did you hear that?”

“No. Did he say something about Tony?”

“Not directly. Glory left a few hours ago with an overnight bag. Since they’re both MIA, what are chances they aren’t together?”

Redfern stood up and began to pace.

I thought back over the past couple of years, since Glory’s divorce from Dougal. That relationship seemed to have turned her off men for good, which made total sense, but I still figured Tony’s soul hung in the balance.

I asked, “So, does Tony have a history of sudden attraction to She Devils?”

“He does. But keep that to yourself. Speaking of attractions, why don’t you get your white thong and come back to the cabin with me?”

“How about you stay here tonight instead? I’m not going to your shack in the woods to freeze my ass off.”

“You won’t freeze anything. Guaranteed.”

“Nope. Here’s the deal. White thong here. Cabin, alone.”

“Where’s Rae?”

“I wondered when you’d remember Rae. Well, truthfully, she’s in her room. She took her dinner in there to study, and so we could be alone. She thinks you don’t like her.”

“I like her just fine.” He lowered his voice. “But she used to be a hooker.”

Dramatically, I lowered by voice even more. “So let it go. She isn’t one now. She was never charged, so you aren’t compromising your integrity by being friendly.”

“I can’t sleep over in the same house. What if she goes back to the life? My career could be screwed.”

“That’s crazy. I’m not spending another night at the cabin. That’s just the way it is.”

“I’ll put the pictures away. I know it upsets you.”

“After, what, almost four years, you keep a picture of your deceased wife beside your bed. You can’t honestly wonder why I don’t want to spend the night there.”

“Debbie will always be part of my life. That doesn’t reflect on my feelings for you.”

“It would have been better had you said Debbie will always be a part of your past. I’m giving you all the space you need, Redfern, but I can’t be your solace while you continue to mourn indefinitely.”

“Mourning is subjective. You can’t put a time limit on it.”

“Okay, got it. When you’re here, I feel you’re really with me, that’s all I’m trying to say. At your cabin, you have pictures everywhere. You brought her with you from Toronto. It’s your place and hers. I’m just a visitor. If you can’t see that, then….” I ran out of words. I couldn’t explain how I felt, and this wasn’t the first discussion we’d had about Debbie. If she was an ex, I could deal with it, but it was hard to compete with a ghost.

His face took on a stubborn expression. “If you lived alone, there wouldn’t be a problem.”

“Back at you.”

He grabbed his coat from the hook. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

The door closed very quietly, and a minute later I heard his vehicle start up and drive away. It broke my heart, thinking of him heading back to his cold cabin. But it was his choice. I ate my cheesecake. Then I ate his.

I went to bed with an icepack over my eyes, although it was too late. Dr. Doom’s prediction had come true. There wasn’t enough makeup in the world to cover the purple-black smudges around both my eyes.

CHAPTER

nineteen

Cornwall was right about one thing. The cabin was glacial. Neil kept his coat on while he performed his nightly rituals.

The cabin was heated by a propane gas fireplace and several strategically-placed electric heaters. The fireplace shut off automatically after a few hours, and he couldn’t leave the heaters running while he was out. He came home, and woke up, to a chilly house. But only in the spring, winter, and fall. Summer was pleasant except for the blackflies, mosquitoes, and skunks that raised their families under the back steps.

He plugged in the heaters and reset the fireplace, remembering he hadn’t ordered propane and the tank had to be nearing empty. He fell into an old armchair pulled close to the fireplace and rested his boots on the hearth.

He was frustrated at the length of time it was taking for the lab to confirm that the bones belonged to Faith Davidson. The Davidson family didn’t believe in routine x-rays. Since Faith, along with most of the clan, had been blessed with near-perfect teeth, there were no x-rays to help with ID. They would have to wait until DNA from the skeleton’s teeth matched samples taken from Mr. and Mrs. Davidson to confirm identity. The shape of the teeth, strands of long, dark hair, and the timing of Faith’s disappearance increased the odds that the remains were hers. Even the two tiny cones that once held celebration bouquets, and the decayed rose petals from the locker, pointed to Faith.

He had no choice but to proceed as though the girl was Faith Davidson. By his reaction at the scene, even Fang was certain he had found his twin sister when he opened the door of the locker.

So, if Faith never got on the bus to Toronto that night, who was the girl at the bus stop? Did she even exist? Earl Archman was the only witness to come forward at the time of Faith’s disappearance to state he saw a young girl in a white dress at the bus stop the night of the grad party. The bus driver could neither corroborate nor contradict the statement. He had to interview Earl Archman tomorrow.

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled his notebook out. One of the two female chaperones had passed away. He made a note to interview the other one tomorrow. It was too much of a coincidence that Sophie Quantz was killed less than twenty-four hours after the skeletal remains were discovered. There had to be a connection between the graduation party and both deaths. He would assign Thea the task of tracking down every other member of that graduating class.

He forced himself to his feet, put his notebook away, and walked into his cramped bedroom, carrying one of the electric space heaters. He plugged in the heater, undressed quickly, and slid between the cold sheets. They felt damp as well as icy. He tried to picture Bliss wearing her white thong, but he was too chilled to sustain even that image. He reached out and pulled the heater closer to the bed. One of these nights, the cabin was going to burn to the ground, and him with it. He couldn’t blame Cornwall for avoiding this place.

He should find a warmer, more convenient place to live. Perhaps buy a house. But that would mean making a commitment to remain here.

Before turning off the lamp, he glanced, as always, at Debbie’s picture. He made a point of putting the picture away before Bliss arrived. Except for that one time. She hadn’t said anything, but she hadn’t been back since.

When he first looked around for a place to rent, he was hesitant when the realtor brought him here. But it was the closest place he could find that was within quick response distance. Gradually he grew accustomed to the night noises and enjoyed the absence of sirens, gunshots, and the voices of people in pain or distress, although some of those voices were in his head forever.

The station received several calls a week from hysterical homeowners who spotted bears – or maybe just the same one – lurking around their properties. The kicker was, the police couldn’t do a thing about it. You couldn’t shoot a bear just because it was foraging for food. So, each complainant was told the same thing: phone the Ministry of Natural Resources, number provided, and they will explain how to discourage bears from hanging about.

Neil had seen one a couple of months ago, lumbering around the side of the cabin as he drove up one evening. Thank God Bliss hadn’t been with him. After that, he had started bringing his gun home with him instead of locking it up in the station like he insisted his officers do when they completed their shifts.

His mind refused to turn off and let him sleep. Far better to be pressed against Cornwall in her warm bed than shivering alone here. Maybe he should buy some flannel sheets. And flannel pyjamas. Just like his grandfather. No, strike that mental image. Maybe he should just move out and find a place with heat. Or, should he go back to Toronto?

An hour later, his eyes were still wide open. Debbie crept into his thoughts again. She was always home from work before him. Dinner was in the oven unless they decided to go to one of the little ethnic restaurants that peppered their downtown neighbourhood. She’d tell him about her day as administrative assistant to one of the city councillors. And he would give her an uncensored version of what happened during his shift. She listened and massaged the tension out of his shoulders, but didn’t tell him what he should do.

Unbidden, that last night replayed itself in his mind. Holding Debbie’s hand in the ambulance as it raced through the rain-slick streets toward Toronto General. Refusing to acknowledge that she and their unborn baby were already gone.

There was nothing he could have done, the doctors said after the autopsy. There was no way anyone could have known about her congenital heart defect. The pregnancy may have overtaxed her heart, but it could have happened anytime. Time bomb.

The next few months were a blur. When the fog lifted, he felt he had to get away from her family, his family and friends and, most of all, the memories. When he saw the Ontario Association of Chiefs of Police vacancy for Lockport, he applied. He had never heard of the place. Now, he visited family when he felt like it, but no one came hunting for him, especially from November to April when whiteouts could close the highway at any time. City people weren’t up for it.

He ignored the scrabbling sounds outside his window, trusting it was a raccoon and not the town bear, which should be hibernating by now. His eyes closed.

CHAPTER

twenty

Dougal didn’t look up as I passed him on the way to my tiny cubicle. He was immersed in another world – of murder and of conservatories full of lush, dripping flora. His first book, Death in the Conservatory, told the tale of a dashing gentleman in mid-1800s Toronto who discovers the body of a woman under a palm tree in the glasshouse of his luxurious city home. Of course this gentleman doesn’t want his wife to find out the body used to be his mistress. I read the book and, holy geez, marble limbs and lustful loins abounded throughout each chapter. Since the mistress was from Montreal, Dougal threw in a handful of French phrases, like tout nu and frisson. But that, it appears, was exactly the attraction for readers and why Dougal’s publisher wanted a sequel tout de suite. Now, the sequel, Death in the Convent, was almost ready for his editor, and he was being more of a jerk than usual, like the whole world should recognize his genius.

I introduced myself as Jenny Jolie to the first deadbeat customer and was totally reasonable with him. The gentleman from an area code I’d never heard of screamed in fractured English that he wasn’t going to pay the $800 he owed Belcourt Nurseries for the forty Calathea makoyana plants he admitted receiving in good condition. I tactfully pointed out that their demise was because he planted them in full sun and neglected to mist them. The instructions were included with the plants in English, and if he couldn’t read English, that also was his own fault. Next time he should buy the plants from Brazil where they originate if he wasn’t happy with our product. Just cough up the money.

He responded with a high-decibel “Fluck you.”

We had already established he didn’t have a good grasp of the English language, so I yelled back, “Fluck you, too, buddy.”

I wrote WHFO, which was my ranking code for When Hell Freezes Over, next to his name and prepared to call the second number on the list.

“Will you keep it down in here?” Dougal stuck his head in the doorway. “The racket is causing plants all over the greenhouse to wither and die.” He frowned at me. “You really need to work on your customer relations interactions. We’ll be hearing from the Minister of Foreign Affairs before day’s end after that diatribe.”

“I doubt it, but I’m pretty sure you can kiss that eight hundred dollars goodbye.”

He scowled even harder and stepped into my cubicle. “It’s your job to collect money from overdue customer accounts, not insult them and call it a day.”

“Get lost. Of every ten calls I make, I close nine of them. You’re lucky to have me and should give me a raise.”

“And you should be locked up during daylight hours. But that’s unlikely to happen either.”

His dark hair and facial stubble were the same length and, frankly, it was not a good look. “I hope you’re going to shave before Holly comes home. She prefers her men clean-shaven, as do I.”

“You don’t have anything in common with Hol, so don’t give yourself airs. Just quit screaming at customers.”

I motioned for him to come closer. “Do you think Glory went out with Tony last night?”

“Don’t know and don’t care.”

“You should have seen the pheromones flying between Glory and Tony yesterday when they met. Actually, a really torrid affair could benefit all of us if it puts Satan’s Chosen One in a better mood.”

He planted his butt on the corner of my desk. “I don’t think that will make any difference. Her personality was the same when we were married.”

Before I could make the obvious comment that perhaps Dougal hadn’t been up to the job in the lovemaking department, my cell rang.

“It’s Pan,” I said. I listened to him until he ran down. “No, she’s here. Yeah, that’s really interesting. I’m sure your job is safe. Keep me informed, will you?”

“What’s got his apron in a twist?” Dougal asked.

“You won’t believe this. Glory didn’t go home last night.” I leaned forward and lowered my voice. “At all. But her car is outside now, so she must have come straight to the greenhouse this morning from wherever she spent the night.”

He got up. “I’m all for anything that keeps her away from here as much as possible. Just don’t count on a big personality change.”

“I think Redfern is a little worried about her. Funny …”

“What I want to know is, do you call him Redfern when you’re doing him? Seems kind of formal for the occasion.”

“Mind your own business. Stick around and help me with my next call. It’s to Dorval, Quebec. He owes six hundred and fifty dollars and will insist on speaking French …”

“You don’t speak French.”

“Exactly.” I picked up the phone. “So, this should be fun. I’ll put him on speaker, if you show me how to do it, and you can learn some new French swear words to use in your books.”

He declined to participate and went back to his own make-believe world. I called the Quebec number, switching my name to Angie Aniston. It turned out that the customer spoke perfect English, apologized for the omission, and promised to put the cheque in the mail. Right. Like I hadn’t heard that before. I put PP next to his name – Promises, Promises.

The other two customers sounded just as sincerely sorry for their negligence and would rectify their oversights immediately. I didn’t believe a word either of them said. I assigned them MBIDI – Maybe But I Doubt It.

There was no fun to be had at the greenhouse this morning so I called one of my own clients, Fern Brickle. Glory and Mrs. Brickle had been my original cleaning customers during the dark years I spent on poverty row, and both remained customers of Bliss This House.

Mrs. Brickle invited me to come right over for tea. I put on my taupe down-filled jacket and dropped my phone into my tote bag.

In deference to the driving sleet that showed no signs of letting up before spring, I had worn my black UGGs and was just stepping into them at the door when I heard my name screeched from one of the plant rooms. Before I had time to run for the parking lot, Glory steamed up to me and jabbed a clawed forefinger at my face.

“You! I want to talk to you.” If she had spent the night in a tangled mess of sheets with Tony, lack of sleep didn’t show on her face. Her hair tumbled as artfully as usual over her shoulders, and her makeup was flawless. She didn’t even have bags under her eyes. On closer inspection I was concerned to see the whites of her eyes were tinged with pink. I stared at the wall.

“Here I am. What’s up?”

“Please look at me when I’m speaking to you.”

Please? I dared a glance at her face and realized she was unusually calm and her voice somewhat less than piercing. Maybe sex was working for her after all.

“Okay. If this is about the decorations for the food bank benefit, I have everything covered. And I’ll have it all set up in time. Don’t worry about it.”

“This isn’t about the decorations. Although, you’re going to have to take over the advertising for the event. Dougal says he has a deadline and can’t spare the time to visit the newspaper office and printer. But right now I want to discuss your meddling into police investigations in this town.”

“What meddling? Moi?”

“You do remember I’m on the Police Services Board, don’t you.”

“Um, sure.” Who cared?

Glory looked at me like I should know what she was talking about. When I didn’t answer – I had lost track of the question – she blew a stray wisp of hair away from her face.

“Don’t you know anything about how this town runs? The board is comprised of myself, Bert Thiesson, Mayor Mike Bains, and Andrea Bains, who is the deputy mayor.”

“Isn’t Mr. Thiesson a hundred years old? And my condolences for having to interact with the Weasels on a board. Can’t you resign?”

“Shut up and listen. Bert is eighty-four and, while very capable for his age, easily swayed. That means that, typically, it’s me against the other three board members. So, if it comes to a vote about not renewing the chief of police’s contract, guess what will happen?”

“What! They can’t do that. Redfern is the best police chief this town has ever had. They can’t fire him.”

“You don’t have to convince me that he’s competent. But believe me, the Weas … the Bainses … will find a way to get rid of him. I heard what happened at the Wing Nut on Monday night.”

“What? Redfern’s job is in jeopardy because I pulled the Weasels’ tails? I do that every chance I get.”

“You pretty much accused him of murdering Faith Davidson and Sophie Quantz!”

“I certainly did not. I merely asked him if he had an alibi for the night Sophie died. And I was joking.”

“Your humour leaves a lot of people cold. Especially Mike and Andrea. As long as you’re dating Neil Redfern, you have to stay out of his investigations. You’re making things very difficult for him.”

“I was present at the old high school the night Faith died. How can I stay out of it?”

“You better find a way, or you’ll be moving to Toronto with Neil. If he still wants you – and I wouldn’t count on that.”

“All right, I got it already.”

“I hope so. We have an in camera board meeting tonight. I want to be able to assure the other members that there will be no outside interference from anybody for the duration of the investigations. Can I do that? That means you will desist discussing the case with other potential witnesses.”

“Yes.” Although, how the hell was I supposed to determine who was a potential witness? That Caribbean vacation looked better and better. With or without Redfern.

“Good. Maybe Mike and Andrea will back off. I’ll do my best.” She raised her finger and waved it back and forth in front of my face. “If minding your own business means you have more time on your hands, you can …”

I moved closer and peered up into her face.

“What are you looking at?”

“There’s a really long hair sticking out between your nose and upper lip. Hold still. I think I can grab it with my fingers.”

I reached up. She clapped her hand over her mouth and backed away. Panic filled her eyes, and she turned and ran for the washroom.

Dougal’s disembodied voice called out, “Nice going, Bliss. Now she thinks she had a hair sprouting from her face while she was out with the new boyfriend last night. It’ll be a hard hat zone around here for the next week.”

“I couldn’t help myself. Sometimes, it’s just too easy. Enjoy the rest of your day, sweetie.”

“And you enjoy doing all my advertising work for her stupid charity benefit. You might want to get started on that. It takes time to design and print flyers. Then you have to post them all over town. Oh, and don’t forget the newspaper ads …”

“I hate you.” I slammed the door on his delighted sniggers.

The temperature had dropped, and a thick coating of ice covered my windshield. I turned on the heater to defrost mode. I couldn’t find the scraper and had to chip at the ice with the roll of duct tape left over from the glitter ball liberation. Luckily the washer fluid still contained anti-freeze, since I couldn’t recall switching over to regular last summer.

Between blasting the screen with heat from the inside, soaking the outside with anti-freeze, and turning the wipers to hyper drive, the ice melted in the middle of the windshield, giving me plenty of visibility.

The county plows hadn’t made it through the side roads yet, and at least a foot of crusty snow overlaid Concession 10. I felt it scrape my undercarriage the few hundred yards to the highway. At the corner, I backed up and gunned it, back end fishtailing until my tires gripped the sand generously scattered on the highway by the Ministry of Transportation plows.

I passed the Wing Nut and noticed a police cruiser waiting to pull out. So what, this time I wasn’t speeding at all. The cop car narrowed the gap between us to an unsafe distance. Waaa-waaa-waaa. Lights flashed on and off.

What the hell now? I sighed and pulled to the shoulder.

The squad car stopped behind mine. When Constable Dopey got out, I wanted to bash my head against the steering wheel.