Cornwall and Redfern Mysteries 2-Book Bundle (50 page)

The rest of the week
wasn't nearly as much fun. The days fell into a deadly routine: Redfern dropped me and Rae at the greenhouse in the mornings, and Dougal drove us home at five o'clock. I'd love to know what Redfern said to make my self-centred cousin stick to me like a burrito fart at a poker game. Dougal even dragged himself away from his laptop long enough to pick up the flyers at the fundraiser and plaster them around town.

A junior constable waited with us at my house until Redfern got in, usually after 9:00 p.m. I was getting used to having him around nights, and I don't think he missed his cabin. He swung by there every day to pick something up, things like his iron. Yeah, I'm serious. The guy has his own iron.

Every time my mind strayed to the murders, and my close encounter with the Grim Reaper, I steered it deliberately away. All the possibilities — Fang, Chico, the Weasel, Mr. Archman — seemed preposterous. I was beginning to think we had it all wrong. Somebody else's name should be on the list. Whose, I hadn't a clue, but maybe my subconscious would work it out.

Sophie's funeral took place on Friday. Her family didn't feel it necessary to wait until Kelly's body was released for burial, so husband and wife could be interred together. That made me wonder if anyone would even claim Kelly's body. Sad, but maybe the Episcopal Church would step up and pay the funeral costs.

Rae wanted me to go with her to the service at St. Paul's, but I pleaded a mild form of theophobia and, while she looked that up on her laptop, phoned a skiving customer in Fukushima. The man wanted to pay his overdue bill in yen, but I didn't have a monetary conversion chart and had no idea what he was talking about. By the time I straightened him out and he agreed to pay in Canadian dollars, Rae had driven away in her ancient Echo.

During my formative years, my family didn't belong to any religious denomination and my parents were fond of dragging me and my sister, Blyth, to a different church every Sunday to broaden our worldview perspective. Or, so my dad said. As a result of this early church-hopping, I had only a passing acquaintance with religious ritual. If I went to Sophie's funeral at St. Paul's, I wouldn't know whether to genuflect or slap a yarmulke on my head. Even worse, some of those places passed a contribution bucket along the pews and I never knew if toonies and loonies were acceptable, or if they expected bills. To seal the deal on my non-appearance at Sophie's funeral, I would have needed a police escort, and they were all busy.

By Friday, though, I was ready to chew my own leg off to escape captivity. The decorations for Saturday were in place, including a couple of spotlights kindly donated by Chico. It only took two phone calls and a barrage of emails before he relented. Fang brought them over and installed them with no more than a token complaint or two, although his flawless white teeth gnashed audibly. He stayed and helped me string hundreds of white lights near the apex of the ceiling. Then he draped tinsel over the cords. It was gorgeous. Too bad Fang had to come back after New Year's and take it all down again. I kept forgetting I wasn't supposed to stand near windows.

I couldn't leave the greenhouse to visit my Bliss This House clients, and this reminded me that I had promised Earl Archman I'd bring a cleaning crew over on Friday. No way would he let the crew in without me there to ease the way. It occurred to me that he might not let me in, ever, but new clients weren't easy to come by, so I meant to try.

I planted myself beside Dougal's desk and waited politely for him to notice me. It took a while.

“Fuck off.”

I needed to humour him. “What's the setting of your new book?
Death in the
Convent
, is it?”

He looked at me briefly. “Surprise. The setting is a convent. In Old Quebec.”

“You've never even been to New Quebec.”

“Holly and I are spending Christmas at the Château Frontenac. I'm leaving to join her in Toronto right after this stupid fundraiser is over tomorrow. We leave for Quebec City on Monday. We have a whole week to explore, and I can come back and add details to the manuscript. Then, it's back to work on the outline of my third, as yet unnamed, novel. Anything else you want to know?”

“Well, I hope you two have a wonderful time. Um, the thing is, I need a favour.”

“No. Fuck off.”

“Come on, Dougal. I just need you to drive me into town to pick up my costume for tomorrow. A half-hour, tops. I'll buy you a takeout lunch from any fast food place you want.” That should do it. He thrived on junk food.

“Anyplace? Come back in an hour. Wait, I can't. I'm not supposed to let you out.”

“Redfern meant I wasn't to go out
alone
. You'll be with me, so it's fine.”

I spent the hour arranging for Cora Wayne and two other off-duty cleaners to meet me at Earl Archman's. All three were pleased to be offered an extra shift so close to Christmas. I reminded myself to pick up small gifts to go with the bonuses I planned to give my staff.

Dougal smelled okay in the close proximity of his vehicle. He remained unbathed and unshaven only on the weekends, and only when Holly was out of town. He bitched the whole way in, though. Under normal circumstances, I would be worried he'd leave me stranded by the side of the highway. But Redfern must have really put the frighteners on because when I directed him to Earl's house, he simply told me to be quick and pulled out a French-English phrase book.

Cora and the other two were already on the sidewalk. I paid Cora and placed the costume gently on the back seat of Dougal's vehicle. He set his book down and reached for the ignition, and I said, “Just a minute, okay? I'll be right back.”

I explained to my staff that we had a difficult client on our hands. He might be a hoarder. Definitely, he was cranky, and he had Olympic-level sarcasm skills. They should stand well back until I deemed it was safe for them to enter.

Mr. Archman opened the door on the third ring. I was ready this time and hurled myself through the opening before he could slam it shut. He looked from me to the three women waiting on his porch. “What's this, Miss Cornwall? Another intervention?”

“Call me Bliss. Can I call you Earl? Remember, it's cleaning day. My staff is here to help you get organized, tidy up, and … and… get clean!”

“I suppose there's no point in asking you to leave and never come back?” The poor man looked so defeated, I felt sorry for him. Glancing at my staff, I could see they felt the same way. He would be in good hands.

“No point whatsoever. Step aside, Earl, and let the professionals get at it. We've brought our own supplies.” I took a closer look at him. “I believe you're thinner already, Earl. Good for you! But surely those aren't the same track pants you had on the last time I was here? How's your arm coming along?”

“Can it, Miss Cornwall. Stop calling me Earl. Do what you have to do and get out.”

“If only I had a loonie for every time I heard that, and usually the
f
-verb is involved.” I ushered the ladies in. Dougal beeped his horn, and I gave him a wave before closing the door on the relentless snow and the annoying moron at the curb.

I stood in the hall with Earl — Mr. Archman — and looked around to make sure the others were out of earshot. “Listen, I'm sorry if I got you into trouble with the police. I know you told me about your Second World War guns in confidence. But when I heard that … my boyfriend came to your house after Kelly Quantz was killed, I just blurted it out. I hope they didn't ransack your house looking for weapons.” I glanced into the living room, which did, indeed, look like a platoon of ransackers had swept through, scattering paper, upturning cushions, and finishing with an extra-thick coating of dust.

“They haven't been by so far, and I don't care if they do come. You don't think I'm stupid enough to keep guns here in the house, do you? Especially unregistered firearms.”

“Well, good. I hear you. We can carry on, then?” A
beep beep
sounded from outside.

“Do I have a choice, Miss Cornwall? I suppose I have no say in this matter. These ladies will poke through my belongings at will. I have no dignity or privacy left.”

“Give it a rest, Mr. A. They will only organize what's out in the open. Your drawers are sacrosanct, haha. Park your pride for the afternoon, and you'll have a whole new perspective on life.”

“I perused the advertising material you left me last time, Miss Cornwall, and I saw nothing about parking or perspectives. Still, I will retire to the basement and await my transformation. Send me your bill, but it better be the sum we agreed upon.”

“Remember to drink lots of water,” I called over my shoulder as he edged me onto the porch and slammed the door.

Dougal was enraged. Apparently the phrase book lacked engaging characterization, and the plot needed fine-tuning. Even after I bought him a Triple-Bypass Burger with a side order of poutine, he whined all the way back to the greenhouse. I glanced into the back seat at my costume.

I was going to knock them dead in that outfit.

“Got some bad news
for you, bud.” Tony threw himself into the visitor's chair. Melting snow from his boots formed a growing pool on the floor.

“If you tell me you're dumping Glory, I'll have to shoot you.”

“Nah. The babe and I are tighter than ever. You should be more concerned about me ending up with a broken heart than her. She's got money, and class. Can't see her settling for a working dude like me. Low pay, long hours.” He sighed and stared out the window at the grey sky.

“What's the bad news, then?” Neil had a good idea, but hoped he was wrong.

“HQ is pulling me. I've been here, what, two weeks? They figure if we haven't found the dirtbag by now, it ain't gonna happen. I have to report this afternoon to London base, and spend the next few days finalizing my report. You should get a copy in a week or so.”

“This is Friday. Do they want you to work the weekend?”

“Nope. I'm off the clock. Glory and I are meeting up in Toronto after this charity bash tomorrow at the greenhouse. We'll spend the rest of the weekend at some fancy hotel she booked.” Tony looked gloomier than ever at the thought. “Good thing, I guess. She wouldn't be happy at my place.”

He was right. Glory had been born into privilege. She wouldn't want to spend the night at a cramped city bedsit where sirens wailed by night and horns blared endlessly by day. Neil had seen Tony's London apartment.

“Sorry to lose you. I'll tell Cornwall you said goodbye.”

Tony's rough laugh erupted. “I was hoping before I left, you and Miss Bliss would be on first name terms. Never saw an odder couple.”

“It's her way of keeping me at a distance. When she's ready, she'll let me know.”

Tony laughed longer and louder. “Most people use first names before doing the horizontal hula. Maybe you need to resolve the Debbie thing before Bliss starts calling you
Chief
Redfern and kicks you out of bed.”

“That could happen. I'm working on my issues.”

“Just a suggestion, bud, but maybe work faster? Have you told Bliss you love her?”

Neil's ears burned. “What's wrong with you, Tony? When did you get so touchy-feely? Have you been through sensitivity training or something? Not that you didn't need it, but I think they overdid it.”

“Just saying. Nothing wrong with the L-word. I'm fond of the little lady, and if you weren't my friend, and if I weren't attached at the moment, I'd take a run at her myself.”

“She's attached at the moment, too, so fuck off.”

Tony shrugged. “Just don't wait too long, that's all I'm saying.”

What was up with all this personal shit? What happened to the deep undercover copper who had to be dragged back, kicking and complaining bitterly, from the biker subculture? It was almost like he had been reprogrammed and his button reset to “ordinary.”

“Look, Tony, I appreciate your help. Too bad we didn't get the perp, but I'll keep at it.” He regarded the whiteboard. “I hate that fucking thing.”

Tony stood up and flipped it around. “What are you sayin', man? I wish I had one of my own. Look here. It self-erases if I turn this knob!”

“Don't erase it yet. With Quantz dead, we're down to four male names if we accept that Faith Davidson's pregnancy was responsible for her death. Then, we further surmise that Sophie Quantz's death occurred because she was present and threatened to expose Faith's killer. Kelly Quantz died because he tried to blackmail the killer. And why was Cornwall targeted? We don't know the answer to that. All this shit is conjecture at this point.”

He walked over to the whiteboard, picked up a marker, and stroked through the names Fang Davidson and Chico Leeds. “I can't see Fang being responsible either for his sister's pregnancy, or her death. As far as I know, Dogtown residents do not engage in rampant incest or inbreeding. They're just a group of people who want to live in the country and enjoy family life without nosy neighbours. I have no sense that Fang is a deviant. And Chico can't even stand up to Cornwall. I can't find one person who links him to Faith back in high school.”

“That's just your gut talking,” Tony said. “Not saying you're wrong, but if you ain't, we're left with Earl Archman and Mike Bains. Fang could have lost his temper and offed his sister because she brought disgrace on the family. And nobody can stand up to Miss Bliss. Well, you come close. Maybe that's why she puts up with you.”

When Neil was sure Tony was finished talking, he said, “Even if we get a DNA match from the fetal bones, we can't prove the sperm donor killed Faith. I've felt all along we have to focus on Sophie, and now Kelly.”

Tony dropped into his chair again. “We have been. The Mauser's a bust unless we get a match on that partial. It could be anybody's. Nobody's got an alibi. I hate leaving you with this mess, Neil, but I'll stay in touch and let you know if I come up with any ideas. In any case, I'll come back in the summer and we'll take a trip on our bikes. As long as you get rid of that sissy Gold Wing and get yourself a man's ride.”

Neil ignored his jab. “What if we add a new name to our suspect list?”

“Who you got in mind?”

Neil wrote the name on the board. From it, he drew two lines to Sophie's and Kelly Quantz's names. Then, without hesitation, he drew a line from one of the original suspects to Faith Davidson. “It would explain the attack on Cornwall, as well.”

Tony went silent. He tilted his head against the back of his chair and closed his eyes.

Neil watched his friend. Was he on the right track, finally?

Tony's eyes snapped open and in their dark depths Neil recognized a flicker of hope and a reflection of his own frustration.

With one swift motion, Tony jumped to his feet and pounded Neil on the back. “I should turn in my badge and take a job as a security guard. You're just as bad, pal. Why the fucking hell didn't we see this before?”