Cornwall and Redfern Mysteries 2-Book Bundle (45 page)

Lunchtime at Timmy's
is a free-for-all. First, you have to fight your way to the counter, then you've got to balance a tray while you shove through the crowd to grab a seat before Grandma or Uncle Barney body-checks you into the potted plants.

Against all odds, I snagged a window table, chicken soup and roll in hand. Sniffling and sneezing has its advantages because the tables near me remained clear while I ate. I couldn't taste or smell the soup, but assumed it was delicious. That gave me an idea. Man, I was full of ideas today.

I ordered another chicken soup lunch and a couple of coffees — to go — and borrowed an old-fashioned phonebook from the kind, matronly lady at the counter. She used the doughnut tongs to push the items across the counter to me. I looked up Earl Archman's address and picked up my order. By the look on the counter lady's face, she was going to drop the phonebook straight into the trash. People are so nervous around a few germs these days.

Before getting out of my vehicle in front of Mr. Archman's bungalow on Balmoral Crescent, I studied my face in the visor mirror. Yikes. My cover-up had failed and the yellow skin around my eyes made me look like I had Hep A, or even B. My nose and upper lip had reddened from all the blowing. I needed to stay away from Redfern for a few days. If I wanted to force him to his knees and elicit apologies for his asshole behaviour, he shouldn't see me like this.

My face was good enough for my former math teacher, though.

I noticed that Mr. Archman's backyard butted up to the rear of the St. Paul's manse. The stone tower of St. Paul's Church loomed over the rooftop of the house.
Creepy.
While Sophie was being killed, Mr. Archman — and his neighbours, to be fair — were within a couple of hundred metres. It would have been possible for him to shinny over the fence to do the deed — if he didn't weigh three hundred pounds.

I realized I was leaning toward Mr. Archman being the killer. That would simplify things a lot. I had second thoughts about confronting him alone, in his home. On the plus side, I could outrun him. So, as long as I didn't stand within striking distance, he couldn't club me or strangle me. I brought my own coffee so he couldn't slip me poison. As long as he didn't pull out a gun, things should work out in my favour.

I rang the doorbell while admiring the giant Grinch on the rocking chair. Now, that was my idea of the Christmas spirit. The doorbell worked because I heard it when I pressed my ear against the curtained glass in the door. He should be home. The town grapevine reported he was taking sick leave for the rest of the school year. I pushed the button twice more before the door flew open.

“Oh, for God's sake! What the hell are you doing at my door, Miss Cornwall? Can't a sick man get any peace? What do you want?”

A lot of women seem to like that three-days-growth-of-beard look. I find it a total turn-off and told Redfern early on in our relationship that stubble was grounds for immediate dismissal. He took that to heart because I've never felt the slightest bristling during our close encounters.

I digress wildly, but my point is that stubble was especially unattractive on Mr. Archman. Between that and his soiled grey sweat suit, the man was, frankly, a mess. I felt much better about my own appearance.

“Hi, Mr. Archman.” I smiled brightly, cracking the chapped skin around my lips. “I brought you some lunch.”

“I'm on a diet. Go away.” The door began to close. I thought of shoving my foot in like they do in the movies, but given the difference between his weight and mine, that may have been a bad idea.

“Oh, come on now. You could use a little chicken soup, couldn't you? And some coffee? It's from Timmy's.”

He hesitated, and that was all the advantage I needed. I pushed on the door and managed to squeeze in the crack before he slammed it shut behind me. I skipped a few metres down the hallway, mindful of the striking distance I vowed to avoid.

On the right was the living room. I set the cardboard tray on the coffee table but stayed on my feet. He glared at me, and I pretended great interest in the room, which was, honestly, a disaster.

When his wife left, she must have taken most of the furniture, forcing Mr. Archman to scavenge from the landfill or from curbside during the municipality's annual discarded furniture and appliance pickup day. Our entry into the room caused a few dust bunnies to hop off the furniture and join the rest of the gang on the floor. And, bugger … the magazines and books scattered around all featured guns and archery.

I wrenched my attention back to the murdering SOB, while he collapsed into an armchair that faced a flat-screen TV. Remember Martin's duct-taped armchair on
Frasier
? This one would have benefited from a couple of rolls. I rummaged through my tote bag before remembering I'd left my supply at the greenhouse.

“Why must you torment me, Miss Cornwall? Can't you see I want to be alone, to die without witnesses and be found months from now, mummified or otherwise ready for burial?” He rested his plaster-encased right arm in his lap.

I contemplated him in astonishment and, forgetting to stay well away, I crept to within a few feet of his chair. “Good one, Mr. Archman. But I don't think the police are going to let you go softly into that good night, not quite yet. Not while the killer of Faith and Sophie is at large.”

I glanced out the dining room window. I didn't see a gate in the wooden fence separating the backyard from the manse. Plus, it was at least eight feet high. So, if Mr. Archman killed Sophie, he must have walked around the crescent to the other side.

“You'll feel better with some hot soup inside you. Here, I'll leave the bowl in the tray and open your coffee. Do you take milk and sugar?”

He finally gave in. While he ate, I chatted about nothing in particular, ignoring his eye rolls.

At one point, he interrupted: “I see you didn't bring a can of paint for my bathroom. I'm partial to yellow, but I wouldn't mind looking at a few colour chips. And I'll pay for the paint.”

Okay, no more kid gloves. “I don't paint. I have my own cleaning business. How about we put our heads together about the grad party in the gym, Mr. A? See if we can't come up with something to help the police. You tell me what you remember, and I'll compare it to my recollection. More and more details are coming back to me every day.”

“Nice try, Miss Cornwall. You were in no condition to remember anything, and I've already told your boyfriend everything I recall. And it seems to me we had a discussion at the hospital when I was in too much pain to toss you out.” A noodle hung from the hairs on his chin, but I wasn't going near it.

“How about you call me Bliss? And can I call you Earl?”

“No. As I told your boyfriend, I regret inadvertently leaving Faith's body in the locker room, even though I had no way of knowing it was there, and I regret mistaking some other young woman for Faith at the bus stop later that night. What's done is done. Now, if you don't mind….”

I erupted in a violent, wet sneezing fit. While I mopped up, Mr. A heaved himself out of his chair and tottered out of the room. In case he came back with a gun, I looked around for my purse and prepared to flee, but I wasn't fast enough.

Aerosol can held high, he sprayed around the room. My nose was too congested to smell it. “Stop it! That's toxic.” Hell, it could be roach spray.

“Calm down, Miss Cornwall. It's only Lysol. I'm hoping it will kill the virulent germs you're spreading around my home.”

“Yeah, you need more than that. No offence, Mr. A., but this place needs a good cleaning. Are you perhaps a hoarder?” I drew a happy face in the dust covering his coffee table.

He looked around. “What do you mean? It's a little messy, maybe …”

“Sit down and relax. I have a proposal for you.” Geez, that didn't come out exactly like I intended. “I mean, I have a proposition.” Shit, I should just spit it out.

He sat, but kept his trigger finger on the nozzle of the can.

I took out a brochure and a price list from my purse. “You may have heard of my cleaning company, Bliss This House? No? What I propose is that I send in a team for a full day to give this whole house a good going over. Here, this is my price.”

When I saw his mouth open to protest, I said, “No, wait, since you and I go way back” —
gag me
— “I'll knock 20 percent off the price. Then, a team of two will come in every other week for four hours to do the routine cleaning. Laundry and windows are extra.”

His chin sank onto his chest and he peered through the layers of flesh surrounding his eyes. “I may have fallen into bad housekeeping habits lately. But I'm not a healthy man. I may well die before long, so I don't think …”

“Okay, Earl, what's all this shit about dying? You need to lose a few pounds — okay, maybe a couple hundred pounds — and you have sleep apnea, undoubtedly a little high blood pressure, but you're not that old. You have time to get your body back into a less lethal condition.”

He lifted his head. “Thank God you never went into the healing arts. Your bedside manner stinks. Now that I think of it, you were never even a hall monitor, were you?”

“I volunteered, but they wouldn't have me.”

“Thank God,” he said again. He was getting on my nerves.

I sneezed and was rewarded with another spritz from the Lysol can. I grabbed a World War Two weapons' magazine and fanned the air. “Do you by any chance belong to a gun club? You seem to be fascinated with deadly weapons, and you have, like, a hundred
Lock and Load
magazines sitting around.”

“As a matter of fact, my great-uncle left me an extensive collection of souvenir pistols from the war. He taught me to shoot when I was a boy, and I did join the gun club later. I have a target pistol, legally registered. But you don't need to tell your boyfriend about the souvenirs. City cops don't understand our ways.”

“Tell me about it.” Did everyone refer to Redfern as my “boyfriend?” If we split up, would he henceforth be referred to as my “ex-boyfriend?”

“You were just leaving, Miss Cornwall.”

“In a minute. Tell me what you're dying of.

He sighed. “If it will get rid of you. I need to lose a hundred pounds. My blood pressure is off the charts.” From the cluttered table by his chair, he picked up a pill bottle and shook it. “I have to go to a sleep clinic and get fitted for one of those horrendous masks for sleeping. As far as I know, my valves are running clear, but I need to be checked by a heart specialist to make sure.” He sighed again.

“Only a hundred pounds? That's not bad. Once you lose the weight, the other problems will resolve themselves. Do you want to know what I think?” By his expression, he didn't, but I told him anyway, “I believe you're suffering from depression. Maybe you should see a doctor, other than Dr. Who's-it at the hospital. He's a gynecologist, you know.”

“And a very capable ER doctor. I have an appointment with my own doctor tomorrow. He'll set me up with all the pertinent specialists.”

“Fine. I can send a team in next Friday. Is that good for you?” Damned if I was leaving here without information about grad night
and
without new business.

“If I say yes, will you leave?”

“Of course, you just have to ask.” I stood up and zipped my coat. “If you think of anything regarding the graduation party, will you let me know? Here's my business card. Or, you can contact my
boyfriend
instead, if you'd rather.”

“Goodbye, Miss Cornwall.”

He shuffled to the door behind me. I wanted to invite him to Glory's charity benefit, thinking it might cheer him up. But when I sneezed — only once this time — he slammed the door shut.

I trudged to my car, wiping my nose and searching my pockets for the blister pack of cold pills. I still hoped Mr. Archman was the killer, but not as much as before.

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.