Читать книгу Shroud of Roses - Gloria Ferris - Страница 5

My feet were freakin’ freezing, and the parade wasn’t half over. I wore long johns under my elf costume and wool socks on my feet. But the soles on my curly-toed shoes were so thin and smooth that I felt every wad of gum littering the parade route. And I was losing traction as the snow accumulated on the pavement. Everyone loves snow on Christmas Parade day. Everyone except this elf.

I had no scarf because “elves don’t wear scarves,” according to the parade führer and my ex-cousin-in-law Glory Yates. I donned red earmuffs but Glory took them away and handed me pointed, thin felt ears which hooked on over my own. As a result, my ears were as numb as my toes.

Glory had ordered me to walk along the parade route on the left side, smile at the children, and hand them candy canes. I tried that for a while, but it was more fun to toss the candy into the crowds of sugar-high kids and let them fight over it.

Glory trotted up ahead like a thoroughbred filly in a white designer ski suit and fur-lined boots. Her red hair exploded from under a green toque with a white bobble. She looked very Christmassy. And warm.

My cousin, Dougal Seabrook, worked the right side of the street. He was dressed like The Cat in the Hat and pushed a grocery cart to collect non-perishables for the food bank. He had complained bitterly about the costume, but I would have traded in a minute. At least his costume covered most of his body and nobody could recognize him.

I shuffled over to him, trying to stifle the ringing of the bells on the tips of my shoes. “Why is Glory wearing a headset? Who’s she talking to?”

Dougal snatched a can of tomatoes from a tot with a copiously running nose. The kid stuck out his tongue at Dougal, who shoved some candy at him and backed away. I heard him mutter, “Hope your teeth rot out, you snot-faced little shithead.”

To me he said, “Who knows? She’s probably hooked up to CSIS, identifying home-grown terrorists for them. Oh, hell, here she comes. Try to look like a home-grown patriot.”

Glory cantered up. Clipboard under her elbow, she managed to clap her hands together. “No fraternizing! And don’t forget the staff meeting at the greenhouse tomorrow morning.”

I marched in place and felt a painful tingling in my toes. “Why do we need a post-parade debriefing on Sunday? Can’t we do it another time, and another place?” Like in the summer, around her pool, with lime coolers to deaden the pain of listening to her voice.

She reached over and straightened one of my frozen ears. It was a miracle it didn’t snap off. “The parade is only one item on the agenda. If you see Rae, remind her as well. Now, you two, get back to your posts. Dougal, shoulders back! You’re supposed to be a role model. And, Bliss, I noticed you aren’t interacting with the crowd. Move, both of you, and whip this crowd into the Christmas spirit!”

She caught sight of a group of junior baton twirlers on the brink of a collective meltdown, and darted off. Once she was out of earshot, Dougal called after his ex-wife, “Fuck you.”

“Yeah, and the gas-guzzling Corvette you rode in on,” I added. Our voices may not have been the whispers we were trying for, since Glory turned around and started back. Fire burned in her sea-blue eyes.

I abandoned Dougal and ran up the street past the Salvation Army marching band to the head of the parade. On the way, I passed my friend, Rae, dressed as a chipmunk. Which one? Who cared? I didn’t stop to give her Glory’s message about the meeting. I eased in between the police Blazer 4 X 4 and the lead convertible, and threw a handful of candy canes at some hooting teens.

Well, geez, I couldn’t stay there either. The mayor and his wife, Mike and Andrea Bains, rode in the back seat of the convertible like a couple of royal poobahs. Mike, a.k.a. the Weasel, was my ex-husband, and Mrs. Weasel had been my lawyer during the divorce proceedings. It took me two years of living at poverty level before I persuaded them to hand over my fair share of the matrimonial assets. I had to use a smidge of blackmail and the resulting transaction hadn’t been profitable for them. A cold war still raged.

Taking aim at the top of Andrea’s faux fur hat, I winged a candy cane. Whoa, perfect shot. The hat flew into the street. His Honour the Asshole said something to his wife and they both looked around. I gave them a big elfin grin, then turned my head and smiled at all the people crazy enough to stand around on the main street on a snowy December Saturday with the temperature hovering around -12°C.

A Shriner on a miniature golf cart reached down and scooped up Andrea’s hat. He presented it to her with a flourish and puttered away. Where did he come from? Lockport didn’t even have an Ancient Order of Mythical Masons Temple.

A short siren wail sounded from behind me. I dropped back and tried the passenger door of the 4 X 4. It was locked. I rapped on the window and kept rapping until it lowered a half inch. “Open the door, Dwayne. I need to warm up.”

“I saw what you did, Bliss. I could charge you with assault, and I would if you weren’t the Chief’s girlfriend.”

“Well, I am, so deal with it. Unlock the door.”

“No. I got orders to keep unofficial personnel out of the vehicle, especially Bliss Moonbeam Cornwall. Keep marching, elf.”

“I’m in no mood for negotiations, Dwayne. I’ll jump on and ride this thing like a hood ornament. If I’m not mistaken, the photographer from the Sentinel is standing just up ahead.”

Snick. The door unlocked. I pulled myself in and cranked the heat up. The toe bells jingled merrily as I put my feet over the vents. Helping myself to a cookie from the open package lying on the console, I said to Dwayne, “Thanks, I appreciate this.”

The Cat in the Hat trotted alongside. His cart was overflowing and, still, people thrust groceries at him. He motioned me to get out and help. I sent him an air kiss and took another cookie.

“You aren’t supposed to be in here. Get out.” Dwayne moved the cookies to his lap where I sure wasn’t following them, so I nibbled at my second to make it last. The radio emitted a string of static and Dwayne pushed a button to silence it.

“No, I’m sitting out the rest of this parade right here. You can let me off at my house.”

“You look hilarious in that costume, Bliss.”

“Yet, here you are, a big bad cop driving four kilometres per hour, tooting your little siren once in a while to excite the tots.”

“The Chief promised I don’t have to do this next year. Can you say the same?”

He had me there. No doubt, Glory was already planning how to torture me in next year’s parade. She was big on the local food bank, which was only fair, since she had never gone hungry a day in her life — not that I’ve ever seen her actually eat. She liked to remind me that I had relied on the food bank during my darkest, post-separation days when I worked five jobs to keep a trailer roof over my head. The elf costume was going to be a December must-have for the rest of my life. Unless somebody kills her first.

My cell rang. I took off my elf hat and scrunched down so Glory wouldn’t spot me. It was my sister. Blyth lives in Rexdale and is blessed with two toddler sons and a husband in pursuit of a doctorate in psychology. She’s a full-time librarian at the University of Toronto and gaggingly efficient at everything.

“Bliss? Hi. What’s that racket I’m hearing?”

“I’m marching in a parade. I’m the head elf, in charge of all the other elves.” Beside me, Dwayne snorted, and I cupped my hand over the phone.

“Oh. Good for you. I just called to ask if you’d heard from the parents lately. It’s been a while and I’m a bit concerned.” From the noises in the background, she should worry more about her kids fluffing George, the gerbil, in the dryer.

Dougal’s stovepipe hat galloped past, pursued by Glory’s white bobble. I slid onto the floor. “A couple of weeks ago, I texted Dad. The eavestrough along the front of the house is loose. He replied to get it fixed and use the maintenance fund he set up at the bank to pay for it.”

“A couple of weeks ago? Okay, that makes me feel better. I haven’t heard from them in at least two months. I wish they’d call once in a while.”

“Yeah, or even visit. That would be nice.” Our parents left three years ago to tour the West Coast in an RV and we haven’t seen them since. Blyth was pregnant with her first child when they left, so they have never even seen him, or his brother born a year later.

The radio hiccupped again, and a female voice clearly stated, “Officer Rundell, pick up the damn radio.”

I said to Blyth, “Got to go. Important parade stuff to do.”

Dwayne fumbled the hand-piece, dropping it twice before finally speaking into it. “Sorry, Lavinia. Go ahead.”

I turned my head politely before snickering. How this idiot got through Police College was a mystery.

When Lavinia finished with him, sweat ran down Dwayne’s face and his lips trembled. I felt sorry for him and turned down the heat.

He rolled his eyes from side to side. “I have to get out of this parade.”

“Now you’re talking. Hit the siren and we’ll nudge our way through the mob blocking the next exit.”

“You can’t come. I have a hot shot. Get out, Bliss.”

Hot shot is police-speak for “get your ass over here PDQ.”

“I’ll wait in the car for you. Just leave the cookies.”

“Please! This is serious.”

“Oh, all right. Geez!” I tossed a handful of candy canes at him, then hopped out and watched him swing the 4 X 4 around the convertible and punch the siren. He leaned out the window and shouted at the crowd to get clear. Children screamed and covered their ears. Some elderly folk stumbled trying to jump out of his way. Finally, he had open pavement in front of him and the vehicle roared off.

Holy mama! The hot shot better be calling Dwayne to a murder scene or Redfern would be fielding public complaints by the shitload.