Cornwall and Redfern Mysteries 2-Book Bundle (40 page)

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.

I rolled down my window.
“Hi, Dwayne. What is it this time?” I made sure to say his name fast so he couldn't cry to Thea that I called him
Duh
-
wayne
or
Dwa
-
aayne
again.

“Licence and registration, please.”

“What now? I wasn't speeding. And why were you having lunch at the Wing Nut so late?”

He pulled his summons book out. “Maybe you weren't speeding this time, but your hatchback window is covered with ice, obscuring your vision. Your windshield isn't so great, either. And none of your business when I have lunch.”

The last sheet of ice slid down my windshield. “My windshield is fine, and as for the back, that's what side mirrors are for. Right?”

“Your backup lights are obscured by snow. That's a summons for you.”

“Let me see that.” The door hit him in the stomach when I got out.

“Wait. I didn't tell you to get out…. Return to your vehicle immediately.”

I marched to the back of my Matrix and brushed the snow off my tail lights. For good measure, I cleaned my licence plate. “There. Are you happy now?”

“There's a thick coating of ice on the lights. You have to scrape that off.”

“I don't have a scraper at the moment.”

He flicked over a page in his book. “In that case, I'm sorry, but this time I can't let you off with a warning. Ice on your tail lights is a driving hazard.”

“No problem. Give me a moment.” I hiked up my jacket and set my butt against the first tail light. I squirmed against it and began to move in a rotating, grinding motion.

Dwayne looked around. “Stop that.” He took a step back.

“Is the camera on your dashboard rolling, Dwayne?” I threw my arms in the air, bumping and grinding, tossing my head back and forth, eyes closed. “Oh, baby. I'm almost there. Getting hotter, hotter. Smoking hot. The ice is melting.” Vehicles roared past, honking appreciatively. None of them moved over to the far lane as the law required when passing a parked police vehicle. Dwayne didn't seem to notice those transgressions.

He cast a wild glance back at his cruiser and moved in front of me. “Okay, stop. If you stop, I won't write you up.”

I threw my whole body into it, shoulders rotating, hips gyrating. “Can't stop. Almost there. Then I have to defrost the other one. I don't think you're supposed to block out the camera.” An eighteen-wheeler roared toward us. The horn blared and I gave the driver a thumbs-up.

“Stop. Please!”

I stopped. The denim clung damply to my rear end.

“Boy, you are a piece of work, Bliss. Get lost.”

He turned on his heel and stamped away. The back of his uniform was again covered in salt and sand from passing traffic. So was the side of my car, but it was worth it. I pouted and waved at the dashcam, then threw it a kiss. When I pulled away, I made sure to use my indicator light.

Mrs. Brickle had been one of the chaperones at grad night. Glory
and
Redfern might have a couple of wee fits when they learned I visited Mrs. Brickle. But she was a client, so to hell with them.

Mrs. Brickle lived on Sandpiper Street, about a block and a half from my parent's place. She was a childless widow in her eighties, although she looked much younger. And I hadn't thought of this before, but she had to have been retired when she chaperoned the grad dance. Odd. I'd ask her about that later. And maybe she would remember something useful. Again, to hell with Redfern. And Glory.

Two of my cleaning staff, Cora Wayne and Marjorie Hamdock, were just finishing up when I arrived. We stood chatting in the hallway while the two women put on their coats.

“Oh, Bliss?” Marjorie paused in the open doorway. “Can I take next Wednesday off? I need to take Storm to London for his orthodontist appointment. The braces are finally coming off.”

“Sure.” I typed a note into my phone. “I'll get someone to cover for you.”
Who paid for orthodontic work for their pet?
“Uh, so how
is
your cat these days?”

“Derek? He's fine, for his age. Fifteen now, and fat as a coon. Thanks, Bliss.”

Confused, I followed them outside. If I had kids someday, I was naming them John and Sarah. And if I ever got a cat, I'd call it Fluffy. “Can I speak to you for a minute, Cora?”

Cora waved to Marjorie to go ahead. “Sure, what's up, Bliss? I can clean Mrs. Brickle's place by myself next Wednesday if you want. It will just take a few hours longer.”

“No, it isn't that. I'll get someone to help you. Do you still make costumes?”

“Sure. What do you need?”

I gave her a sketch I had drawn up and explained what fabric I wanted. Ten minutes later, I was seated opposite Mrs. Brickle in her living room. I placed a magazine under me so I wouldn't leave a wet butt mark on her sofa.

The house smelled faintly of vinegar and lemon. We used whatever products the client stocked. Mrs. Brickle preferred vinegar and water for most cleaning jobs, and a natural lemon-based spray for her furniture.

“Have some Earl Grey. Sugar? Now, tell me, what brings you here this afternoon?”

I smiled at her. “Can't I just visit my favourite customer?”

“I wish you would visit more often. But you have that determined look about you that means you have something on your mind.”

A colourful scarf was wound around Mrs. Brickle's short white hair. Her fringed peacock-coloured tunic and wide-legged navy pants recalled the magical sixties. Maybe the sixties fashions were back in style and I was missing it: I was no fashionista. Well, except for boots. I loved boots.

“Bliss?”

“Oh, sorry, Mrs. B. I love your outfit. I couldn't put myself together like that on my best day.”

“You always look nice. You're a lovely, smart young woman who has overcome s
o
me difficult obstacles in her life.”

“I'm going to come back once a week for an infusion of self-esteem, Mrs. B. You could bottle and sell it!”

“Your visits are better than a tonic, Bliss. Have a cookie and tell me what's on your mind.”

“Don't mind if I do.” I bit into one of her homemade shortbreads.
Mm-mmm
, heavenly. “I'm sure you've heard about Faith and Sophie.”

“Of course. The girls were talking about it.” The “girls” were Cora and Marjorie. “Even though no one has come right out and said that the body found in the old high school is Faith, I don't think there's any doubt. And with Sophie being murdered right after she was found, the two deaths must be related.”

“Exactly my thinking. They were both at the grad dance. And so were you and I.”

“That's true. The school had difficulty obtaining chaperones. I had already been retired for several years, but they asked me if I wouldn't mind attending this one last event. I suppose the police are focussing on anyone who attended the graduation party who still lives in Lockport.”

“There aren't that many, Mrs. B.”

“No? Have another cookie.”

I reached into my bag and pulled the yearbooks out. “There were thirteen graduates, one DJ, and three chaperones. Really, any of us could have killed Faith Davidson.” I opened the yearbook to the graduate photos and pointed. “Five settled in the area — me, Mike Bains, Chico Leeds, Sophie Wingman, and Fang Davidson. We suspect Faith Davidson died that night and Sophie four nights ago. That leaves four — me, Mike, Chico, and Fang.” I looked at Mrs. B. She nodded and ran her knobby, arthritic fingers over the young faces on the page.

I continued. “Of the three chaperones, two are still here — you and Mr. Archman.” I didn't want to point out that the third was dead. “And the DJ, Kelly Quantz.”

She summarized for me. “Seven suspects altogether. If you discount the two of us, we're left with Mike Bains, Chico Leeds, Fang Davidson, Kelly Quantz, and Earl Archman.”

We locked eyes.

Mrs. B adjusted her headscarf with unsteady hands. “Of course, one person may have killed Faith, and another is responsible for Sophie's death.”

When I protested, Mrs. B shook her head. “I know, Bliss. I don't believe that either. How could both deaths not be related?”

“The discovery of Faith's bones could have been the trigger that led to Sophie's murder, Mrs. B. She must have known something.”

“Have this last cookie, dear. If the old high school had been torn down years ago like it should have been, Faith's body would have been discovered then. I wonder if timing has anything to do with the second death.”

“And I wonder if the police have the same list of suspects.”

“Maybe you can liaise with your young man and make sure he's on the right track.”

A spray of shortbread crumbs flew from my mouth and landed on Mrs. Brickle's newly-polished coffee table. I brushed them into my hand and glanced up at her. “My young man doesn't want my help. He demands I stay as far away from his investigation as possible.”

“But you have a lot of information to share. You were there since the beginning, and you know all the suspects.”

“Yeah, well, let's face it, Mrs. B. Like everyone else at the grad party except the chaperones, I was wasted. Tequila. Awful stuff. I can't stand even the smell of it now. Actually, I wouldn't have blamed the chaperones for taking a nip or two, just to get through the festivities. It must have been brutal for you.”

Mrs. Brickle sat back. Maybe she hadn't realized the students were drunk that night, and I had shocked her.

Not a chance. She laughed. “Bliss, I have a vivid recollection of you crouching under the refreshment table. One of the other grads would hand you a glass of punch or a pop can and you topped it up from a bottle — tequila, it seems. We discussed keeping you all in the gymnasium until collected by your parents, but Earl Archman said he was unlocking the doors at midnight and he didn't give a — well, never mind his exact words. Earl did take a few sips from his flask throughout the evening, as I recall. And you must remember Emily Czerneski. She was just a little bird of a woman, in her last year of teaching. She wouldn't have been much help in a scuffle. She passed only a few years ago, the dear soul. Anyway, Earl opened the doors to the parking lot and the three of us stood well back while you all stampeded out.”

Her eyes took on a mistiness as she recalled the images from the past. “I never saw many of those students again.”

“Mrs. B. Do you remember Faith leaving with the rest of the crowd? If so, she must have come back later.”

Mrs. Brickle refocussed and looked at me. “I can't say I remember her movements specifically. There was just a rush of bodies through the doorway.”

“Did anyone check the bathrooms closest to the gym? We had to go through the locker rooms to get to them.”

She sipped her cooling tea. “If I'm not mistaken, Earl went to the doors of both locker rooms and called out. It's unlikely he would have gone into the girls' locker room.”

“What happened next?”

“We waited while Kelly Quantz finished packing up his audio equipment. Then we turned off the lights in the gymnasium and Earl locked the doors behind us. No, wait!” She set her cup back in its saucer with a rattle. “He was going to lock the doors, but we remembered the decorating committee members were coming back in the morning to clean up and make sure the decorations were dropped off at the new school. That means …”

“We know that didn't happen.” No point mentioning I was part of the decorating committee. I thought about choices; choices and consequences. If I had gone back into the school the next morning before the workmen boarded it up, would I have needed to use the washroom? Almost certainly. My stomach had been touch and go for days after that night. If I saw blood on the floor of the locker room, what would I have done? Certainly not opened all the lockers, not unless a trail of blood led to one in particular …

“Bliss. Are you feeling all right? Have some more tea, dear.”

“No, I'm fine, Mrs. B. So, we don't know if Faith was killed and her body stuffed in the locker during the course of the evening or if she — and someone else— came back later.”

“I'm sorry I can't remember more details.” She shook her head. “I'll keep trying to recall more.”

Death had not been invited to graduation. But it had been there all the same, hiding in a corner, waiting for Faith.