Cornwall and Redfern Mysteries 2-Book Bundle (57 page)

The bones of Faith
and her child were laid to rest in a private glade that could only be reached by taking a well-trodden path through a dense hardwood forest. Early May sunshine streamed through the budding trees, and carpets of tiny violets spread between the graves.

There was no church service, and I was the only outsider invited to the interment. At least fifty people, including dozens of children, surrounded the open grave. One by one, a relative stepped forward and read a poem, or shared a story of Faith's childhood. Lester opened a tattered bible and recited Psalm 23, the old version. A modest tombstone rested against a nearby birch tree, ready to set into a cement base once the soil on the grave had settled. Faith's name and dates of birth and death were etched into the stone. And underneath: “Forever 17.” In tiny letters near the bottom, the words “and babe” were inscribed.

I pulled my sunglasses from my head and covered my eyes with them. If I had been a better friend to Faith, maybe she would have shared her secret with me, and this day would not end with her in the ground. I know I wouldn't have married the man who impregnated her, then killed her and left her body to rot in an abandoned building. Choices, right?

The heartfelt eulogies ended. Before leaving the family to say their final goodbyes, I reached down and set a bouquet of yellow roses on the coffin. Yellow had been Faith's favourite colour. I looked the meaning up online, and the gift of yellow roses meant friendship and caring.
Goodbye, Faith. I hope you landed in a safe and happy place.

I took my time on the path, enjoying the bird sounds and smells of early spring. Hey, I didn't hate all nature, just the parts that bite, sting, or growl. Trees were very cool, water was great, even rocks had a certain beauty as long as you didn't turn one over. And I loved flowers, even the kinds that grew in a greenhouse.

A lot had happened since Andrea Bains was arrested before Christmas. Her trial was set for September, and I tried not to worry about testifying. As long as I didn't call the defence attorney a dickhead or refer to his client as “Mrs. Weasel,” I should get through it without being thrown into the big house myself.

Andrea's thumbprint was on the Mauser used to kill Kelly Quantz. They had her on that one, and for the attempted murder of me and Dwayne. The gun she used in the greenhouse was indeed a Sauer, the model I learned to shoot as a child. I no longer thought of it as a cute firearm. As we suspected, when it came to her husband, Andrea clammed up and wouldn't incrimi-nate him.

“Michael” dearest hadn't been charged and was still free. I recounted to Redfern and the Crown, maybe even the RCMP and CSIS, what Andrea told me in the greenhouse — Mike caused Faith's death. But Andrea said I was lying, and apparently the defence could drag up my past and paint me as the deserted, bitter first wife with an axe to grind. The Weasel might yet be charged, but chances aren't good he'll be convicted — of anything. I don't kid myself. Justice is not only blind; it's often deaf and dumb as well.

The Weasel was asked not to leave town, but as time passes and he isn't charged, the restriction will almost certainly be lifted. The Davidsons won't like that. It's possible Fang or Lester might take a run at the Weasel in their pickup truck some dark night. It's what I'd do.

One rather amusing note: Glory gathered the town councillors and staged a political coup the day she returned from her dirty weekend in Toronto with Tony. The councillors stripped the Weasel of his mayoral powers, and Glory installed herself as interim mayor. The municipal elections will take place in October and she's everyone's favourite to permanently seize the sceptre of power. On second thought, having the Glorious One as mayor might not turn out to be at all funny.

The scorching hot romance between Tony and Glory shows no sign of fizzling out. Tony spends all his free time at Glory's luxurious mansion, and he's trying to get a transfer to a nearby OPP detachment. Stay tuned to see how long their inferno of lust will endure with so much togetherness.

And Redfern and me? Well, he never left. The lease on his cabin expired and, without fuss or fanfare, he moved the rest of his stuff into my parents' house. As far as I know, he has yet to find Grandpa's weapons hoard in the garage. I need to do something about that soon.

He talks about buying a house together. That might happen. I want something modern, with a waterfront view. And if Rae doesn't come with us, Redfern will have to learn to cook.

The sun touched my face as I walked out of the burial ground. I felt lucky to be alive. Even though it was Friday, Dogtown's gates were closed in deference to Faith's burial. I climbed over and started across the road to my bike, parked in front of Redfern's red Gold Wing. He kicked his tires and rubbed a smudge off the chrome fender. He looked plenty sexy in a black leather jacket, dangling his red helmet by the strap. This would be our first ride of the season, and I looked forward to blowing the sludge out of the carburetor and feeling the wind whip some colour into my cheeks. A week on the Mayan Riviera in February hadn't completely eliminated the memories of the night in the greenhouse when I wasn't sure I was going to survive.

Redfern looked up as the heels of my new Balenciaga ankle boots hit the pavement. I couldn't see his eyes through his shades, but the corners of his mouth quirked up.

“How did it go, Cornwall?”

“Sad, but okay.” I turned the key and adjusted my sunglasses. Then I plunked on my helmet and set the bike to a fast idle.

“I packed us a picnic lunch to cheer you up. Roast beef sandwiches from the deli, sweet cider, cheese puffs. All your favourites.” He threw his leg over the seat.

“No wine?”

He laughed at the very notion. “Maybe later. When we get hungry, we'll find a secluded spot in the forest where we won't be disturbed. Who knows how the afternoon will end?” He revved his engine at me.

I flipped the kickstand up and eased the Savage onto the pavement. Settling into the leather seat, I turned the throttle and called over my shoulder, “You'll have to catch me first, copper.”

To my beta readers:
Many thanks to Alyssa Ferris, Donna Houghton, and Lara Inneo. Without your valuable input and suggestions,
Shroud of Roses
wouldn't be the awesome story it turned into.

To Donna Warner, travelling buddy and frontline editor, thanks for meeting every deadline with me and spurring me on when I flagged. Every author needs a friend like you.

To Russ Ferris, my go-to guy for information on weapons. Thank you for researching Second World War firearms for me. I may need your help with the next book, too.

To Cheryl Courville, thank you, my friend, for helping me with Bliss's motorcycle. Quite a coincidence that you rode a red Suzuki Savage back in the day.

To Allison Hirst, my ever-organized editor at Dundurn. Thank you once again for polishing
Shroud of Roses
into a worthy sequel to
Corpse Flower
. Fortunately, we appear to have the same sense of humour.

A special thanks to Toby H. Rose, M.D., FRCPC, deputy chief forensic pathologist at the Ontario Forensic Pathology Service in Toronto. Dr. Rose generously ensured that my description of the first body was forensically probable. Then again, what real-life solver of mysteries — and reader of fictional ones — could resist the lure of an old skeleton? It need hardly be mentioned that any errors are mine alone.

And finally, much gratitude goes to Police Chief Dan Rivett of the Saugeen Shores Police Services, who patiently answered my many, many questions about small-town policing, procedure, firearms, crime scenes, and a whole lot more. The tour of the police offices was an eye-opener and I'll make sure that the Lockport Police Services steps up to match the modern efficiency of Saugeen Shores. Again, any mistakes are on me — I'll just try not to be a repeat offender.

Copyright © Gloria Ferris, 2015

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purpose of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.

All characters in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Canada Council for the Arts
and the
Ontario Arts Council
for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the
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Canada Book Fund
and
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, and the
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through the
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and the
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.

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