“We didn’t know until the coroner examined the body. You need to be aware that the killer has not been apprehended, and to take care. The chief suggests you stay with a friend or relative for the time being.”
“Can’t do it, Thea. I hate to admit this, but there isn’t a soul in Lockport who would give me a bed. Even my cousin, Dougal, is conducting a secret love affair and regularly throws me out of his house. It’s my own fault — I’ve been so intent on making the Weasel pay up that I’ve neglected relationships, career, everything. But it’s almost over now.”
She shook her head. “I don’t like this, Moonbeam. There’s something going on in Hemp Hollow, stuff I can’t share with you, and you need to get out of there. You and that hooker friend of yours, what’s her name, Rae Zabinski?”
“Zaborski.” I didn’t ask how she knew about Rae.
“One more thing. Keep what I’ve just told you about Corwin to yourself until it’s made public. The chief only wants you to know so you’ll be careful.”
As Thea backed away, the Weasel walked past us to cross the street. He was pulling a black suit jacket over his white shirt. As our eyes met, it was all I could do not to shiver, but I held his gaze. A palpable wave of ruthlessness touched me.
Thea watched him for a minute, then shifted her belt, hand automatically resting on her holster.
“If I were you, Moonbeam, I wouldn’t turn my back on your ex.”
“He can rot in hell. But not before writing me a nice big cheque.”
Thea shook her head again and bounded up the steps, the belt hugging her trim waist. I liked Thea and hoped she wasn’t involved with Redfern and Snake.
The Quigleys were running some sort of drug depot. I preferred to think their business involved marijuana and not crystal meth. As far as I knew, pot wouldn’t blow you sky high. And Snake was their … their what? Assistant? Enforcer? Delivery boy? Perhaps the Quigleys’ business had expanded to the point where they needed a partner.
And I had no idea how Redfern fit into the picture. Maybe he simply looked the other way, for a price, and all his talk about cleaning up the gateway to the North was just a smokescreen. He was right about one thing, though. Hemp Hollow was no place for me and Rae.
Unfortunately, both of us were fresh out of options.
I crossed the road and headed for the Second Hand Rose Shop. Holly Duffett was just finishing up with a customer. As I approached her, I realized that the large-boned woman was not a customer, but was donating a stack of cardigans and wool skirts.
Holly greeted me with a “Hi, Bliss” and turned back to the middle-aged donor. “Thanks, Melanie, I’ll keep these in back until September.”
The woman headed for the door, but gave me a swift, appraising look on her way past.
“Did you call her Melanie?” I asked Holly.
“Sure. Melanie Davies.”
“And, is she by any chance a therapist?”
“Well, yes she is. She’s on the Board of Community Assistance, which oversees the management of this store.”
I was shocked that Dougal was having an affair with a woman at least fifteen years his senior. And, not to be rude, but she didn’t look like the type a younger man would find attractive. Ergo, Dougal was stringing me along, and his paramour was somebody other than his therapist. I realized that Dougal had simply let me hang myself with the rope of conjecture. I had to hand it to him, he was almost as devious as his favourite cousin.
“Did you know today is Julian Barnfeather’s funeral, Bliss? The service was at St. Luke’s, but the burial should be taking place about now.”
On the street outside again, I looked down at myself. My jeans, pink tee-shirt, and motorcycle boots were fairly clean.
I’d go. I wanted to see who would be there for Julian’s send-off.
Chapter
TWENTY-SEVEN
The words of the 23th Psalm wafted toward me, and a dozen mourners stood around the open grave. Julian was being buried only yards away from Alistair Parks’s flat stone where I had rested my back just five days ago.
I stood beside a cedar hedge and, for a moment, felt sad that I would never trim it again. A man wearing a black suit and a woman in a beige shift stood with their backs to me. She had her arm threaded through his and, once, she put her head on his shoulder, just for a second. He moved slightly, and as she straightened up I recognized The Weasels. Mike couldn’t take the chance of being criticized for ignoring the funeral of a town employee.
Thea had been teasing me about Redfern watching from his window. He stood directly opposite me now, sunglasses in place. His chin lifted in my direction, and I knew he had spotted me.
From my vantage point, I had a good view of the other mourners. The large blond woman in a black pantsuit seated with her back to me was surely Julian’s wife. Her shoulders heaved, and two younger women comforted her. I hoped she never found out what a pig her husband had been.
Fern Brickle and Joy MacPherson stood beside Bob in his wheelchair. I recognized Mrs. Boudreau and a couple of other people I had seen arriving at Fern’s yesterday.
Then the truth hit me like a sledgehammer. Fuck.
Seeing them together in the cemetery, I realized Fern’s dessert group were all Friends of the Settlers. The very Friends who spent every Saturday tending the graves of Lockport’s homesteaders.
It hadn’t occurred to me before, but the settlers’ graves in the far corner of the cemetery should not have required weekly attention.
The area was enclosed by a tall wrought iron fence with a locked gate. And a thick line of pines hid the interior from view. A curious sightseer could only place an eye to the gate and catch a glimpse of ancient tombstones, words etched neatly with black paint to preserve history. The Cornwalls were one of Lockport’s founding families, and their graves lay inside.
My mother once mentioned that, although the lock had been put on to keep out vandals, the area was open to the public every day. But those gates had never been opened during my employment at the cemetery.
It would be interesting to know how the Cemetery Board justified closing the Settlers’ Plot to the public. Unless — and this was pure speculation — one or more of the dessert club were members of the Cemetery Board.
Which meant what?
Perhaps … Dessert Club are Friends of the Settlers are Cemetery Board. No problem keeping the public out of the Settlers’ Plot.
Why go to all that trouble? Because they had to grow their freaking pot somewhere, didn’t they? I would have thought the Settlers’ Plot would be too shady to grow marijuana. But, as had been pointed out to me several times, I knew squat about marijuana.
I considered climbing over the fence and checking out my theory. Right here, right now. The Friends were gathered around Julian’s casket, staring into the hole in the ground.
Too late. The mourners, including the Friends, were lining up to drop yellow roses onto the lid of the casket. Soon they might wander off to check on their crop.
Whoops.
Redfern strode purposefully in my direction, and one conversation per day with that bent cop was all I could handle.
I fled the scene.
Chapter
TWENTY-EIGHT
“Miss Glory wants a word with you, Bliss.”
“I’ll pass, thanks, Pan.”
It was my second Titan run of the day, a bit early, but it’s amazing how many hours there are in a day when you don’t have a real job.
Sif seemed to be more or less the same height as this morning, but her spathe had further opened and her inner lining of deep red velvet cupped thousands of miniature cream flowers at the base. The odour in the greenhouse was stronger than even a few hours earlier, and brought to mind a fresh load of manure spread on a newly ploughed field. Pan noticed the smell this time and threw me sidelong glances until I told him that it wasn’t me, for God’s sake.
The pot crop was high and verdant, obviously ready for harvesting. I was thankful that, soon, I
would never have to set foot in Glory’s greenhouse again. I needed the money now more than ever, but I hoped she would tell me she no longer required my services to clean her house. The woman either ingested too much pot, or not enough.
“She was really insistent,” Pan wheedled.
After a moment’s thought, I decided to comply. Until I transported Sif’s pollen to Thor, and Thor’s back to Sif — or the other way around — it would be in my best interest to stay on Glory’s good side. Well, that was a stretch. Glory had only a bad side, and a worse side.
“Lead me to Her Weedness then, but shouldn’t I get a last meal?”
“You’re quite amusing at times, Bliss.”
It looked like my amusement factor wasn’t getting me any food. It was just as well. I’d had my quota of special ingredient for the week, and it apparently featured in every dish prepared in Glory’s kitchen.
Glory sat on her terrace, in a wicker armchair pulled up to a round table. She was dressed in white shorts and a sleeveless tee-shirt, and I was happy to see she wore tennis shoes. At least she wouldn’t be hurling high-heeled slippers at my head, but I kept my eye on the tennis racquet propped nearby.
A bottle of white wine in an ice bucket sat on the table. Two long-stemmed glasses waited nearby. I looked around for a bowl of chips or beer nuts. Nada.
“Sit down, Bliss.”
“Here?”
“Of course.”
I pulled out the chair opposite her and sat on its edge. I shot Pan a glance, but he looked as perplexed as I felt.
“I hope you like Riesling?” She waved Pan away with one hand and he left the terrace with unflattering speed. There would be no help from that houseboy if I needed rescue.
Glory expertly poured wine into the glasses and handed one to me. I took it but didn’t sip.
“You’ve been on my mind all day, Bliss.” She tossed her tangle of fiery hair back and aimed her sea-blue eyes at my own regulation brown ones.
“Oh?”
“Yes. I realize you were only showing concern for me, and I reacted badly. You may be poor, and not too smart in the marital department, but you’re sincere. I promise you that the crop of marijuana in my greenhouse is my last. The next time it’s my turn, I’m going to tell my friends I won’t do it. I’m quite high-strung, and I need my special food to relax, but I’m sure I can find another source.”
“I’m glad to hear it, Glory.” I wouldn’t bet the family silver on that promise.
“To make up for being so cross with you, I’m going to tell you something. Something I haven’t told another living soul. Except my therapist.”
I took a healthy gulp of wine and stayed on the edge of the chair. I had a premonition Glory was going to tell me she slaughtered her previous house cleaner and buried the body in the forest behind her house. Or she had a crazy old grandmother stored in the attic. Or, more probable, she was sleeping with Pan and was pregnant with his triplets.
“I’m going to tell you why I threw Dougal out of my house, and why I would cheerfully castrate him given a clear shot and a sharp knife.”
All right! I drained the glass, then poured myself a wee drop more.
“My therapist wants me to tell someone I trust, to share the pain. It’s been eating at me for three years and he says that if I share it with a friend, the burden will be lightened. But I can’t trust my friends not to laugh or spread gossip, so I’m going to tell you.”
“Does Dougal know why you threw him out?”
“Of course he does! It happened on my birthday, my thirtieth. You probably remember how you felt when you hit thirty. Unattractive, over the hill, incipient wrinkles, the whole bit?”
I nodded, although the memory I had of that landmark birthday was spending it in my parked car at the Bird River swamp. And, until now, I hadn’t given significant thought to wrinkles. I fingered the skin at the corner of my eyes.
“Well, Dougal and I had dinner at the Club that night. He had been excited all evening, and I suspected he had something special for me.”
Glory’s fingers were wrapped around her wine glass, but she was too engrossed in her story to drink. I poured another smidge into my glass.
“I thought maybe it was a diamond heart pendant I had been hinting about, or a pair of emerald drop earrings. Instead, he pulled an envelope out of his pocket and gave it to me, with his typical stupid grin. Well, then I figured the envelope held tickets for a trip. We hadn’t been to Florence since our graduation year and … Guess what it was?”
Hell, I had no idea. I just shrugged and poured another nip.
“It was a gift certificate. My loving husband gave me.… Guess.”
“Don’t know, Glory.”
“Breast implants. The worm had bought me breast implants. All I had to do was phone the surgeon’s office and book the appointment. He was so pleased with himself.”
Now Glory drained her glass and reached for the bottle. It was empty. It couldn’t have been a standard-
sized bottle, probably one of those small bottles from France, or Bulgaria.
Glory snapped her fingers and Pan magically appeared with another chilled offering wrapped in a cloth napkin, resting along his arm like he was some goddamn mâitre d’ at the Château Laurier. He refilled her glass halfway and was going to place it in the ice bucket, but I held my empty glass out. He glanced at his mistress and, at her regal nod, poured me a couple of inches.
She waited until Pan disappeared again. He probably was hiding around the corner of the terrace, ears flapping like sails in the sunset. If he had any decency, he’d have brought out some chips with the second bottle of wine. I could feel the alcohol hitting my empty stomach and my near-empty brain. But this stuff was so much smoother than the red I drank the night before. I reached into the ice bucket again.
“Do these look like they need to be augmented? Tell me the truth, Bliss, do they?” Glory had her hands over her girls and was shaking them up and down. “Don’t these look perfect to you?”
“Of course, they’re perfect, Glory. If they were any bigger or firmer, they’d be just trashy. I can’t believe Dougal would try and buy you bigger ones. Isn’t that just like a man, only thinking of himself? He needs a brain transplant.”
“I know!” Glory reached over the table and filled both glasses to the brim. Oh, my kingdom for a sandwich.
“You know, Glory? That is the most insulting thing a husband can do. It’s like he doesn’t think you’re good enough the way you are. I don’t blame you for throwing his selfish ass out. No kidding, that was purely evil, what he did.”
“I know!” She snapped her fingers, twice, and Pan ran up with a third bottle, this time some kind of Chardonnay. I much preferred Riesling.
“I’m really sorry, Glory. But I’m glad you didn’t give in and have the surgery. A lesser woman would have gone through with it, just to please her selfish husband. Bastards.”
“I know. But you don’t mess with perfection, Bliss. Now, if the worm suggested you get implants, that would be different. No offence, Bliss, but you could use a little help in that department. Although, maybe if you put on a few pounds, your va-voom factor would increase exponentially. I don’t remember you looking so flat before.”
What? I cupped my hands over my va-vooms and gave them a jiggle. Those puppies were as firm as apples but, I couldn’t deny it, about the same size. It would probably be rude to ask Glory what she did with the gift certificate.
“There’s something I must chastise you for, though.” Glory waggled a finger in front of my face. “You didn’t tell me you are no longer working at the library. I had to hear it from the grapevine.”
I looked at the grapevine that had come out of hiding and was hovering nearby. He just shrugged and tucked a string of gelled hair behind his ear.
“Anyway, Bliss, I have a proposition for you.”
“Yeth?” My tongue was numb and my lips were thick, or the other way around.
“Since you have so much f
ree time now, I want you to come over three mornings a week to clean — Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.”
It was hard to contain my joy. “I already lined up two custer … customers for Friday.”
“I’ll pay you more.”
“No way!”
“Yes way.”
She named an hourly rate that was twice what she paid me now.
“Pan isn’t much good at cleaning, and I need somebody reliable. That’s you. I’ve entrusted you with my deepest secret, so you can’t say no.”
“I can’t come tomorrow. Dougal says the Titans will blom … blom-som soon, and I have to be ready to run po … mmen back and forth.” Okay, you try pronouncing those consonants on a snootful of wine.
“Monday then. Be here.”
It was rude to leave unfinished wine behind, but now my toes were numb. Pan helped me through the front gate to the curb.
“You shouldn’t drive, Bliss.”
“Aren’t going to, my little buddy. I will roll my bike along the sidewalk to Dougal’s house.”
“I hope you realize you just agreed to work for the Fiery One three mornings a week?” He hung the strap of Dougal’s camera around my neck.
“I am too dizzy to argue that point at the … mo … mom … min-ute. I will reconshider in the morning. And she knows you heard about the fake boobs. So we should never speak again. Of it. Ever.”
“Don’t worry about me.” He mimed sharpening a knife and stabbing his own heart.
I nodded, solemnly as befit the occasion. “Exactly. Now we know the secret, and our souls belong to the Duchess of Devilweed.”
Chapter
TWENTY-NINE
“Would you scan this pic-ture for me and file it someplace safe?” I asked Dougal once he detached the camera from my neck and sat down at his computer to download the latest shots of Sif. I planted my legs wide apart to keep from swaying.
He glanced at the photograph in my hand, then leaned across the desk for a closer look.
“This is Mike with a reefer in his mouth. Where did you get it? I thought you burned all his pictures. And who’s the hot babe on his lap?”
Corpse Flower: A Cornwall and Redfern Mystery Page 17