Cornwall and Redfern Mysteries 2-Book Bundle (35 page)

I decided to sleep in
and hit Canadian Tire when the store opened at ten. Glory's non-negotiable list put me in charge of decorations for the food bank fundraiser and I was going to get everything done in one stop.

Monday morning's sky was more grey and desolate than Sunday's and, while the snow had tapered off during the night, the frenzied wind still blew off the lake. The parking lot of our national icon to tacky Christmas crap, as well as everything else a Canadian needs the rest of the year, was almost deserted. I planted my feet gingerly in six inches of fresh snow.

I took one step and windmilled desperately before falling to my knees. Under the snow lurked a layer of ice. I skated to the entrance and tumbled through the automatic doors.

By the time I found Chico in the paint section re-
filing
colour chips, I had formulated the perfect plan to separate him from some of his better-quality seasonal home decor. I explained my mission to my old high school buddy.

Chico placed the customer service desk between us and pushed back his black ringlets. His hair was even longer than in high school. He pursed his lips and aimed his pale grey eyes at the twelve-inch fake tree in front of him. He plugged it in, and tiny coloured lights blinked on, reflecting off the lenses of his black-rimmed glasses.

“I don't know, Bliss. We still have three weeks until Christmas. After our year-end inventory, I can give you some leftover merchandise, but right now, I don't know …”

“It's not like I'm asking you to contribute decorations for my own house. This is for the food bank. Think of all the little hungry children. Think of their excitement when they see the lights and decorations at the greenhouse. Imagine the huge sign at the entrance that acknowledges the Leeds family for their generous donation.”

He pulled the collar of his trademark red golf shirt away from his neck and remained mulishly unconvinced. “Well, maybe a string or two of twinkle lights.”

“Do you have a chair I can sit on, Chico? I fell in your icy parking lot and feel a bit dizzy. I'm sure I'll be fine, though.” I smiled and let my lower lip tremble, just a little.

After that, Chico couldn't fill up a cart fast enough.

“Try to keep up,” I called over my shoulder as I wheeled the cart through the aisles. I tossed in not only indoor and outdoor twinkle lights galore, but reindeer, snowmen, elves, and every damnable Disney creature from Micky to Ariel, the red-headed mermaid with the improbable mammaries.

When one cart was full, I left it for Chico to push and nabbed a second one away from a shopper whose back was turned. Bonus. The cart already contained a few tasteful decorative items. I halted in front of the artificial Christmas tree display and contemplated a ten-foot monstrosity. Behind me, Chico made a soft mewling noise. I reached for a box, then hesitated. Glory hadn't mentioned a tree. I suspected she'd make us sacrifice a real fir. I pulled my hand back and heard a shuddery sigh from my helper. The hell with it. I reached for a pre-lit twelve-footer and laid the box over my cart. Behind me, the whimpers turned into bleats.

There. Done. Two shopping carts heaped to the tipping point with the best of Christmas cheer. I promised Chico a second sign of gratitude set up inside the greenhouse and scored a seventy-two-piece place setting of “Seasons Repast” china. What the Bitch of Christmas Present would do with that was anybody's guess, but I looked forward to the look on her face when she saw it.

Chico insisted we had to go through the checkout where he would put in some mysterious code and void the sale. Standing in line, I unzipped my parka and fanned my face with a box of tinsel. In my book, power shopping was right up there with jogging in the fitness department. And about as fascinating.

Chico sweated, too, but I'd guess not from exertion. It was more likely he was wondering if he should write this off as a charitable donation, or if it would be more advantageous to use it as an entertainment expense. If I remembered correctly, he was not great at numbers, so hopefully he had a good accountant.

The checkout lady didn't seem to care that she was checking her boss through. She scrutinized each item as I handed it to her, turning it over as though she had never seen the like before, then turned it again until the bar code could be ever so slowly scanned. I added a couple of rolls of duct tape from the rack. Duct tape always comes in handy when sticking things to walls, or trees. My phone chirped nonstop in my purse. It was bound to be Dougal wanting to know why I wasn't at the greenhouse yelling at deadbeat customers.

Chico leaned on his cart and panted like he had done all the work. “Say, Bliss, I guess you heard about the body they found in our old school. Who do you think it is?”

I stopped fanning. My fellow decorating committee member from high school could have some memories rattling around in his brain that might help me figure out this puzzle. Or might help Redfern, I should say.

I reached into my tote bag and extracted a yearbook. I opened it to the pictures of the now-infamous grad party and shoved it in front of Chico's eyes. “You took all these pictures, right?”

He took the yearbook and smiled appreciatively. “I haven't looked at my copy in ages. Hard to believe it was fifteen years ago, right, Bliss?”

“It seems like a lifetime ago to me. Especially since I can't recall anything after the ceremony. What about you?”

“I took a lot of pictures that night. Don't you remember? I had my regular Nikon, and a Polaroid. Fang and I …”

The cash register bleeped and the cashier shrieked. She held up a box of gold balls. “Oh, my God! The register doesn't recognize the bar code.” In an instant she had gone from laconic to dangerously anxious.

Behind us, the line had grown to five customers, each with a heaping shopping cart. In Lockport, that's a riot in the making. The customers muttered and glowered.

Chico tossed the offending ornaments over my head onto the pile of goods already scanned. “Never mind,” he told the cashier. “Keep going. I'll call in someone to open another register.”

Since our scanning lady was about to go ballistic, and while Chico was calling on the intercom for Rick to present himself at Register Four, I scooped up my remaining items and deposited them on top of the carts waiting on the far side of the war zone. My eyes met the clerk's, and we nodded. Screw the year-end inventory.

A bright red parka hung by the door and Chico put it on before helping me out with his donations. Halfway to my car, my feet lost traction. I clung to the side of the shopping cart, but Chico fell against me. The weight of his body took us both down, me on the bottom.

“Get off me!” When I raised myself to my knees, I left a red stain behind on the ground. “Ow, my nose. It better not be broken.”

“Oh, my God, look at you! I'm so sorry, Bliss.” Chico squawked in abject contrition as we crawled toward my Matrix, dragging the carts along by their axles. “Although, if you wore boots with sensible soles instead of three-inch heels, you might not fall so often.”

“What's your excuse?” I shot back. “Your sensible soles almost killed me.”

It was a long crawl, long enough for me to formulate another clever plan. I pulled myself up and opened the hatchback. Chico had to use one hand to empty the carts while clinging to the back of my vehicle with the other. I stood by and held a wad of tissues to my nose.

“Tell me, Bliss, what else can I do for you?”

He should be trying to remember his lawyer's name.

“Two things, Chico. First, you can clear this parking lot of snow, then get your employees to crack open a tub of Ice Melt. You're losing customers.” I pointed to a man twenty metres away who was flopping around on his back like a beached tuna.

He started toward the fallen customer. I stuffed the tissues into my pocket and clutched the front of his coat. He tried to pull away and my grip tightened. A few droplets of blood fell from my nose onto the red nylon of his jacket and disappeared. “Secondly, mark December 14 on your calendar. I'll send you an email with the details, and I'll expect confirmation.”

“Sure, you got it, Bliss. But you do remember I'm married, don't you? I have three kids.” He pulled free and speed-crawled over to the man who was beating his heels and flapping one arm, trying for enough leverage to get his fat head off the ground. Something was wrong with his other arm.

It might be fun watching Chico try to buy off this guy. I crawled after him, leaving a blood trail on the ice.

Chico tried to roll the man over, and good luck with that. The guy had to weigh three hundred pounds.

“What are you doing?” I pulled Chico away. “You need to call an ambulance. You could injure his spine.”

“Oh, for God's sake.” The victim had a commanding voice for someone in his condition, and it seemed familiar. “Charles Leeds. And Bliss Cornwall. Good God.”

I looked at the beefy face, the triple chin, and eyes enfolded in layers of flesh. “Mr. Archman?” Since I had last seen him, the man had eaten himself into obesity.

He gave me that steely glare that used to make me regret whatever I had done to land in detention.

“Chico. You've injured Mr. Archman!”

“Take it easy, Miss Cornwall, you're dripping blood all over me. I believe my left arm may be broken. Perhaps you
should
call an ambulance, Mr. Leeds.”

“I don't know what
I'm supposed to do now without my Sophie.” Kelly Quantz was slumped in an easy chair, arms hanging, a burning cigarette dangling from one hand. He seemed unable to pull his attention from the ceiling to look at Neil. “Without her, there's nothing left for me.”

Tears coursed down his face and he made no attempt to wipe them away. His eyes were swollen and red and he had clearly not shaved or showered that morning. A group of women — parishioners, undoubtedly— buzzed around in the kitchen, looking into the living room and casting worried glances at the widower.

While he waited for Quantz to compose himself, Neil scanned the room. The rectory resembled a movie set of an old-fashioned parlour. Worn, but clean and comfortable furniture, subdued area rugs dotting the hardwood floors, a few tasseled lamps — everything he'd expect in the home of an elderly priest. But Sophie Quantz was thirty-two, the same age as Bliss. The only incongruent elements sat on the small side table at Quantz's elbow. A smeared glass with an inch of amber liquid, a near-empty bottle of Canadian Club, and an ashtray overflowing with the debris of numerous cigarettes. These items seemed at odds with the carefully placed furniture and an antique mantel clock over the wood-burning fireplace. This morning, the fireplace was cold and cheerless.

A haze of tobacco smoke hung in the air, causing Neil's eyes to smart. He was tempted to open a window and let some fresh winter air in, but he didn't want to interrupt the flow of Quantz's words.

An inch-long ash fell from Quantz's cigarette. Neil planted his boot on it, smearing the ash into a black smudge on the rug.

He glanced at his watch and touched Quantz's arm to get his attention. “Can you tell me when you last saw your wife?” Quantz had told him yesterday in the church but he had been barely coherent at the time. He wasn't much better now.

The widower looked up at Neil blearily. If there had been a window of rationality between the drugs Ed Reiner gave him yesterday, and this morning's bottle of whisky, Neil had missed it.

“I saw her yesterday,” Quantz said, and erupted in another flood of tears. His chest heaved and for a second Neil thought the man might vomit. He moved out of the way and removed the cigarette from Quantz's hand. He had been puked on plenty, and had learned to heed the signs. A collective murmur of dismay rose from the kitchen.

He had dispatched Bernie to keep the visitors in the kitchen, but the unflappable officer was losing the battle. Half a dozen women pressed against him in the doorway, and his outstretched arms wouldn't be effective for long. Neil stood with his back to the kitchen, shielding Quantz from their view. He addressed the man again.

“Mr. Quantz. I know this is difficult for you, but we need your help to determine what happened to your wife.”

“Somebody killed her and she fell off the fuckin' choir loft, that's what happened. Now she's dead and I don't know how I can live without her.” He threw himself back in the chair and sobbed.

“What time on Saturday did you last see her, sir?” Neil was damned if he'd leave without some answers.

Quantz hiccupped and reached for his glass. Neil itched to take it away and tell the man that liquor wouldn't help, but he wasn't the morality police, damn it.

“After dinner. I went to my studio to do some work. I'm a graphic artist. I must have worked until two, three in the morning. Then I crashed on the cot in there. I woke up late and had to rush to shower and change for the service. Sophie had already left for the church. That's what I thought, anyway. When I got to the church — I always go in the front entrance with everybody else, but it was locked, so me and the ladies had to go in the back. That's when we found … we found …”

He bent over in another paroxysm of grief. Neil didn't have much time. The throng of worried parishioners was going to break past Bernie any second.

“What time did you go to your studio after dinner, Mr. Quantz?”

“Don't know. Maybe seven o'clock or seven-thirty.” He threw back the liquid in his glass and poured the remainder from the bottle. He drank half of that down, and his body began to shudder.

Neil took the glass from his fingers. “I'm very sorry for your loss, sir. Try to get some rest now.”

In the kitchen, he asked the ladies, “Does Mr. Quantz have any family in town?”

A middle-aged woman in a navy exercise suit answered. “He only has a mother, Chief Redfern. She's in the nursing home in Blackshore. Poor Kelly is quite alone now.” Assenting murmurs surrounded him, almost drowning out the sorrowful sobs from the living room.

“I'm going to call Victim Services,” he said. “Someone needs to check on Mr. Quantz and help him through this.”

“We'll make sure Kelly is looked after.” The navy-clad woman looked around at the others for support. Everyone nodded.

“Mr. Quantz is lucky to have such good friends. However, in situations of sudden death, it's routine to ask a crisis intervention expert to look in on the victim's family.” If Kelly Quantz decided to swallow a bottle of pills with his whisky, he didn't want anyone pointing a finger at his department. He stood back as the women stampeded around him to minister to Quantz.

He let Bernie get behind the wheel of the 4 X 4. “Where to, Chief?”

“Hang on a minute.” Neil called the high school to ask if Earl Archman was available.

He listened to the principal's secretary, then thanked her and rang off. “We're going to the hospital, Bernie. Earl Archman slipped on some ice and is in the emergency room.”

He wasn't having much luck with interviews this morning. Kelly Quantz was drunk and seemingly grief-stricken. It remained to be seen if Earl Archman would be able to talk, let alone recall an event from so long ago.

“Do you think Reverend Quantz fell over the railing by herself after she was shot, Chief?”

“Seems that way. The autopsy will determine any pressure bruising from fingers, but I don't think anyone would bother to drop her over when she was obviously dead from the bullet to the forehead.”

Bernie turned into the hospital's freshly ploughed and sanded parking lot. They parked, then stepped out of the car, a cold wind from the west, off the lake, blowing loose snow and sand into their faces.

Neil glanced up at the building. His wedding anniversary was coming up. He and Debbie had been married on December 23, thinking it romantic. She had teased him he would have a hard time forgetting a date so close to Christmas. He shook off the black memories that engulfed him. Hospitals always generated a feeling of depression in him.

Bernie stomped through the automatic emergency doors ahead of him. “Whoa.” He grabbed Neil's arm and pointed.

Neil had spotted them already. Bliss sat on an orange plastic couch and held a bloody wad of tissues to her nose. A man wearing a red parka leaned over her, his arm draped across her shoulders. A mane of dark curly hair hid his face from view, but he seemed familiar.

Neil strode over to the pair. “Cornwall! What happened to you?”

The curly-haired man yanked his arm away. Glasses encircled his alarmed, round eyes. Bliss pulled the tissues away from her face. Her nose was puffy and small scratches criss-crossed her upper lip and cheeks.

“Hey, Chief. Hi, Bernie! Nice of you boys to check on me, but I just took a tumble in the parking lot at Canadian Tire. Somehow, my face got mashed into the ice. The ambulance swept me up along with another victim of Chico's safety violation. The doctor twisted my nose and said it wasn't broken. Then he threw a box of tissues at me. Apparently, I was bleeding on the floor. I'm supposed to stay here until it stops.” She sounded like she had a bad cold.

Bernie blinked and opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again after catching Neil's warning glance. Bliss was slightly battered, but essentially fine. She was wearing high-heeled boots, but Neil knew better than to comment on their impracticality. Instead, he turned his attention to the guilty-looking man. “And you are?”

Bliss answered for him. “This is Chico Leeds. We went to school together. He owns Canadian Tire now.”

Charles Leeds: another face from the yearbook.

“I'm married.” Chico's face reddened and he shifted as far from Bliss as he could get without actually moving to another couch.

“And you have three kids. Nobody cares, Chico.” Bliss caught a drop of blood escaping from her right nostril. “Listen, Chief. The other victim is none other than Mr. Archman, our old high school math teacher. Since you're already here, this would be a perfect time to interview him about the graduation dance. I think his arm is broken, but he doesn't appear to have a concussion.”

Neil's mouth opened and closed again without any words coming out. Bernie snickered under his breath and Neil whipped his head around. “Go and ask about Mr. Archman's status, Bernie.”

Bernie sauntered off, still chuckling. Bliss watched him leave, then mouthed the word
sorry
. She had trouble with boundaries, and they needed to have a talk. Another one. The entire force considered him whipped, and they weren't exactly wrong.

“So, how did the interview with Sophie's husband go?” Bliss looked at him as though she really thought he was going to discuss an interview with her in front of Chico Leeds.

Before he replied, Bernie returned with the news that Earl Archman was in a treatment room having a cast applied to his broken arm. “They should be done with him soon. Do you want to wait around, Chief?”

“No. We'll catch him tomorrow. Either he'll be home resting or back at the high school. Let's go.” He would find Fang Davidson and interview him this afternoon.

They were almost out the door when he heard Bliss's congested voice.

“Hey, guys.” She stood up, dragging Chico by the hand. “Can you give us a ride back to Canadian Tire?”