Читать книгу Shroud of Roses - Gloria Ferris - Страница 11

I was well into my second drink when Redfern finally showed up.

“Close the door, will you? You’re letting all the heat out.” I sucked up the cherry at the bottom of my glass and stabbed a mandarin orange slice with the point of my wee umbrella.

“Why are you wearing a bathing suit and eating a fruit salad from a margarita glass?” He hung his outer layer of clothing on a hook by the door and loosened his tie. “Christ, it’s hot in here.”

“This is a special, vitamin-packed margarita. I cranked the heat to twenty-five, so you better divest yourself of some more clothes. Just a suggestion, I’m not trying to be bossy.” I tied the strings of my sheer black cover-up into a neat bow and padded into the kitchen to turn the broiler on.

When I returned, Redfern was fiddling with the thermostat.

“Hey, leave that alone, copper. Nachos will be ready in a couple of minutes. Sit down and I’ll pour you a drink.”

He eyed the pitcher of margaritas like it had committed an indictable offence and he was preparing to whip out the handcuffs. “I’d rather have a beer.”

“Go get one, then. And check the nachos aren’t burning while you’re there. I’m going to be pretty wasted if I have to drink this whole pitcher by myself.”

He came back with a tray loaded with nachos, salsa, sour cream, and a frosty bottle of Molson Canadian. His hair was standing up in sweaty spikes and he shed another layer of clothes down to his underwear, but not before closing the drapes and locking the front door. Like anybody who wanted in wouldn’t go around to the kitchen door, or come through the garage.

“Where’s Rae?” He sank down beside me and picked up a napkin.

“In her bedroom. She’ll be out in a minute.” I laughed at his expression. “Kidding. She’s in Owen Sound again, staying overnight with one of her sisters.”

“You didn’t answer my first question. Why are we pretending it’s July and listening to steel band music? Which is quite loud, by the way.”

“That’s two questions. But I have one answer. I’m trying to forget about the first storm of the winter, with at least four months to go until spring. I’m feeling quite depressed.”

“Maybe we can take an island vacation in January or February. Would that help?”

A dollop of sour cream dripped onto my bare knee. I leaned over and lapped it up. “Don’t toy with me, Redfern.”

His gaze followed my tongue back to my mouth. “We’ll do it if you want, but right now I have a crime or two to solve.”

I ignored the napkins he handed me and licked the salsa off my forearm. The ice was melting in the pitcher and I topped up my glass, adding more fruit and a fresh umbrella. “So. Sophie Wingman. Murder?”

“Perhaps.”

I snorted. “Sure. Pull the other one, Redfern.”

“If you were on the job, I might tell you that, at this time, murder is probable.”

“I may not be on the job, but I bet I know more about this town and its citizens than your exclusive little club.”

“I don’t doubt that, Cornwall.”

“What are your reservations, then, about giving me more details?”

“I can’t allow a civilian to influence the investigation.”

I picked up a maraschino cherry by its stem and twirled it in front of my eyes. It was so round and red and perfect. I placed it on my tongue and slid it into my mouth. Mmmmm. “I don’t aspire to be a cop, or even a police rat. But I do have a vested interest in solving the murder of a classmate. Make that two classmates.” I spat the stem towards my paper plate, but missed.

When he began his obligatory protests, I waved my hand in front of his face. “Yeah, yeah, I know. A teenage girl felt a heart attack coming on and crawled into her gym locker to die alone. She didn’t want to bother anyone. Makes perfect sense. And another girl becomes a priest, only to be murdered in her church the day after the first girl’s body is discovered.”

He tipped the last of the bottle’s contents down his throat. “I’m only too happy to hear what you know about your two classmates. But what you tell me has to stay between us.”

“Whatever. So, it’s settled. I’ll give you all the deep background you need, and you keep me in the loop.”

“Sure, Cornwall. You go first. But I’m going to turn off the music and lower the heat.”

“You can be a real downer. I can hardly wait to get you alone on an island. You’ll probably bring your own water-purifying kit.”

While Redfern carried the remains of our meal to the kitchen, I emptied more fruit into my glass and opened two yearbooks to the pertinent pages. I organized my thoughts between bites.

“What are we looking at, Cornwall?”

With my shoulder touching his bare chest, it should have been a cozy prelude to a delightful interaction, but tonight was all about business. I nudged the first volume. “This one here is the book you borrowed, from the year I graduated. The other is from the following year. Most of us bought it because it had two full pages of photos of us on the official grad night that occurred the next October.”

Redfern pulled it out of my fingers. “Take me through each one. Who’s in it, what they were doing.”

His phone rang. I sat back and watched him search frantically through the pile of clothes — shirt, pants, jacket — where was that darn phone? By the time he located it in his coat, it had stopped ringing. The sweat ran off his body in rivulets and I opened the front door and fanned it back and forth to let some of the snowstorm in.

The cold air froze the blood in my veins, so while Redfern redialed, I went to my bedroom and changed into a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt.

When I came out, Redfern was pulling his clothes on with one hand while holding his phone in the other and conducting an official-sounding conversation. Who says men can’t multi-task?

“Okay. Why didn’t we have a report in our files? Really? When? I wonder why Davidson didn’t mention this to us. Read it to me. Okay, call me back.”

I scooped more fruit from the pitcher into my glass and watched Redfern button his shirt.

Redfern in full uniform can be an intimidating sight — for some people. His hard stare made even innocent folk quake in their shoes. “What’s up with you, Redfern? Got a hot tip?”

“Tell me everything you remember about your graduation night. Begin with your arrival at the high school.”

“Oh, well. There are a few gaps in my memory. Keep in mind, it was a long time ago.”

He sat down in the easy chair across from me until our knees were almost, but not quite, touching. “High school graduation is a highlight in everyone’s life. You must remember something.”

“We had all moved on, whether to university, college, jobs, whatever. The ceremony was just for our parents’ benefit. They wanted to see their kids dress up in robes and stupid hats and get handed a rolled-up piece of paper that didn’t matter because we all knew we had graduated the previous June.”

“Point taken. The ceremony didn’t matter to you kids. Any of the grads missing?”

“We were all there, except Lionel Petty, who went to the University of Victoria and refused to fly back, then or ever. His mother accepted his diploma.” I pointed at Lionel’s picture. He looked nerdy, but he was stubborn. It was impossible to talk him into hiding a paper bag containing a wasp’s nest in the boys’ locker room to get even for their sexist behaviour over the past four years …

“Forget Lionel then. Everyone else there?”

“Each and every little captive one of us.”

“So the ceremony is over. You have a party in the gym?”

Vague wisps of memory were all I had from that night, most of them from before the party began. “After the ceremony, the parents left, taking the rented gowns and caps and diplomas. The few significant others weren’t allowed to stay …”

“Why not?”

I shrugged. “Maybe the chaperones didn’t want anyone making out in the dark corners. Then, the decorating committee — including my reluctant self — hoisted the disco ball to the rafters, set up tables and refreshments. We flipped the lights off, turned on the floodlights, and the DJ started playing tunes. And there it was. One magical evening.” After that, the rest of the night was pretty much a blur.

Redfern didn’t glance away from my face. “Go on.”

“To tell you the truth, I believe someone may have brought a bottle of tequila, or two, and when the authority figures weren’t looking, some of us may have poured a drop or two into our pop cans. You have to remember, Redfern, we didn’t want to be there, our high school teachers were still trying to boss us around, and they wouldn’t let us leave until we had a party to celebrate our graduation. By the time they unlocked the door — and that had to be against the fire code — we were pretty much blasted. Even the nerds were bored into imbibing.”

“You paint a vivid picture, Cornwall. So, that’s all you remember?”

“Pretty much. I do recollect the body jam in the door to the parking lot when they finally released us. Must have been midnight or so. But you can’t go by me.”

“Obviously. What next?”

“I woke up rolled in a rug in the back of Fang Davidson’s pickup. In Dogtown.”

“Really? Did Fang roll you up to keep you warm?”

“I think I did it myself, to prevent liberties being taken with my person. It’s a trick I learned from my dad, and that night wasn’t the first time I took advantage of his wisdom.”

“I feel a strange compulsion to hear the end of this story.”

“Well, that’s about it. I unrolled myself and wandered away to find Fang. His father told me he was passed out in his bedroom and drove me home himself. My parents were still sleeping. I crawled into bed. And I’ve never been able to drink tequila since. End of story.”

“You just made a quart of margaritas.”

“I used white rum. And Grand Marnier. It doesn’t taste as good as it sounds.”

He shook his head like a dog that stuck its head too far into the water dish. “And that’s all you remember? You can’t recall where anybody else was, or where you were for that matter?”

“Sorry, Redfern.” My glass was empty of fruit and I reached for the pitcher, but Redfern picked it up and headed for the kitchen. “Don’t throw out the fruit! It’s expensive.”

He returned with his notebook and pen in hand. Things were about to get serious. I stifled a snort at his cop face. He was so cute.

“Besides your fellow classmates, who was at the dance? Caterers, chaperones?”

“No caterers. Our moms supplied the sandwiches and desserts. Mr. Archman was there, and a couple of lady teachers whose names escape me at the moment. Mr. Archman is principal now. The others might be retired, or dead. Oh, and Kelly Quantz was the DJ.”

Redfern looked up from his scribbling. “Kelly Quantz? Sophie Wingman Quantz’s husband?”

“Kelly always DJed the school dances. He was a graphic artist, designing covers for books, mostly horror and fantasy. But, that doesn’t pay well, so he moonlighted as a DJ at the school dances — and weddings. I think he still does.”

“So, he would have known Sophie when you were in high school?”

“Everyone knew Sophie.” Oops, I shouldn’t have started down that road. Speaking ill of the dead isn’t classy.

Redfern must have caught an inflection in my voice. “What does that mean?”

“Well, before Sophie became a priest, she was … um … not so priestly.”

“Who was she not priestly with? Anyone in particular?”

“Pretty much everyone in particular. She nearly went through the entire senior class by spring break. There were even rumours she was involved with an older man.”

His phone rang again. He did a lot of listening and a bit of grunting; so sexy. “Thanks, Bernie. If you find anything else, call me.”

“What’s the big news, Redfern? Does it have to do with this case?”

He pushed the yearbook with the grad photos closer to me. “First, tell me which boys were involved with Sophie.”