Читать книгу Cornwall and Redfern Mysteries 2-Book Bundle - Gloria Ferris - Страница 12

The interview was over. Chief Redfern jerked his thumb at the door, and I made a run for it, leaving him to clean off his pants and shoes. You’d think an experienced homicide cop from Toronto would know better than to stand so close to someone struggling to keep her breakfast down.

I retched non-productively while starting my bike and driving away from the skunk as quickly as possible. I detoured off Main Street onto Morningside Drive and stopped in front of my parents’ ranch-style house.

Even though the tenants, Joy and Bob MacPherson, emailed my parents routinely with news of their garden and the condition of the toilets, I had promised I would drop in from time to time and check on things. Then I’d text them on my BlackBerry, “All’s well here.” They would reply, “Thnx, hp yr wl,” which was their idea of the hip way to correspond.

They had left town before the Weasel blindsided me, and I had sworn Blyth to absolute silence about my financial predicament. My father had retired early from his manager’s position with the Royal Bank of Canada, defiantly bought a gigantic fifth wheel in the face of rising gas prices, and headed for the West Coast. My mother, a homemaker and proud of it, was delighted at the prospect of living unencumbered by eight-foot snow drifts in winter and dried-out lawns in summer.

I hoped they were now strolling along a pebbled beach, listening to dolphins chatter in the distance, maybe drinking a margarita. I wouldn’t put it past them to be sharing a joint with real hippies. Apparently the authorities were more relaxed on the West Coast about the weed thing. Still, I couldn’t help wishing they would come home so I could move in with them.

Hearing voices around back, I found Joy and Bob enjoying a couple of Bud Lights on the deck. They were a pleasant couple in their sixties, lean and wrinkled from the sun. With matching white hair, they looked like a pair of dandelions gone to seed. Bob was confined to a wheelchair, the result of a three-car pileup on the 401 two years previously. He was forced to retire from his toxicology professorship at the University of Guelph, and the couple had moved to Lockport where they had spent many summers sailing on nearby Lake Huron. Joy rose quickly from her wicker chair and came forward to greet me, with Bob rolling slowly down the ramp to the bricked patio area below the deck.

They insisted on showing me around the garden, and I got a bit of a fright when I spotted some tall ferns enjoying the shade beside the shed wall. I sidled up to them for a better look and satisfied myself the plants were innocent. I had to get hold of myself. I was seeing the demon weed everywhere.

After my brief visit, Joy and Bob accompanied me to the curb and waved me off. Passing the deck again, I glimpsed a couple of burning cigarettes in an ashtray on the small table and managed a good sniff. Bob saw my glance and said, “We only smoke outside. Your parents were quite adamant that they rent to non-smokers.”

I kept my face neutral, but the smoke was definitely illegal — I was becoming quite the expert on that.

Dougal was in his solarium spritzing his orchids. Some had dozens of white or pastel flowers on tall stalks; others were only a few inches high and not yet flowering. He had rearranged his marijuana plants, scattering them artfully among the tables of orchids.

“If anyone looks in the windows, they’ll see your grass. I’m surprised that hasn’t happened already.”

He shrugged dismissively. “The gate is locked and no one can get in without coming through the house — and the hydro meter is on the side.”

“Someone could climb over the back fence from the cornfield,” I persisted.

He snorted. “Who’s going to wade through a mile-long cornfield to climb over my fence?”

“Dougal, with this number of plants you could be charged with possession for the purpose of trafficking.” It was amazing what I remembered from typing Mike’s criminology papers at university.

“Noted.”

I walked closer to the Titan Arum. “Hey, this thing has grown a foot since I saw it yesterday.”

The spadix was markedly taller, and a pink hue was showing through the cream-speckled green of the frilly spathe encircling its base. Looked at a section at a time, the thing had a bizarre kind of beauty.

“Aren’t you worried it will grow up through the glass ceiling and break it?”

“If you look up, dear Bliss, you’ll see the container is positioned directly beneath the section of the roof that I can open with this switch here. But it won’t grow that tall. You worry about everything. Are you sure you aren’t obsessive-compulsive?”

It was my turn to snort at him. “That’s pretty funny coming from an agoraphobic.”

“Obviously, mental disorders run in the family. Think about it, you’re obsessed with getting back at Mike and seem willing to starve yourself to attain some form of justice that isn’t going to happen.”

“Yes, it will. I’m working on a new plan.”

Simon shuffled out of his cage and cocked his head in my direction. “Baby, baby.” He opened and closed his curved beak enticingly.

“He wants you to give him one of those jujubes. He likes the black ones.”

“Not happening,” I replied and reached out to touch the ribbed exterior of the spathe. But before my fingers made contact, Dougal squeezed my hand.

“Don’t touch it! Any stress at all could make the whole structure collapse. Do you know how much energy it takes for this Titan to grow tall enough to bloom?”

“Actually, no,” I said, wiggling my fingers. “We’re due at Glory’s soon. Is there anything to eat in the fridge?”

“I think there’s a Thai stir-fry. Mrs. Boudreau made it earlier in the week, and I took it out of the freezer this afternoon. As usual, there’s enough for an army. Help yourself, but leave some for me.”

I took my army-sized appetite to the kitchen, where I ate precisely half the stir-fry and drank a bottle of water. Dougal declared he was too nervous about the upcoming meeting with his ex-wife to eat a bite, but he kept me company at the table and nattered about harvesting his pot crop. I tried not to listen, figuring the less I knew, the less I could testify about, but the odd fact crept in about processing the buds and hanging the plants upside down to dry, and yada yada.

“So, how are Sandy and Randy?” he asked while I was cleaning my plate for the dishwasher. My parents’ names are Sandra and Randall, but Dougal seemed to think it was funny to use rhyming nicknames for his aunt and uncle.

“Fine. I’ve been thinking seriously about taking the money I’ve saved and buying myself an airline ticket to visit them. Maybe stay for a year or so.” Nothing was farther from my mind, but I wanted to see Dougal’s reaction to losing his slave.

“Oh. Good idea. I’ve been telling you to move on and forget about Mike. I’m sure Randy and Sandy will be glad to have you.”

I felt mean when I saw Dougal’s fingers shaking. He lit up one of his joints, and I felt even worse.

“I was just kidding. You know I’m not going anywhere, at least until I force Mike to his knees, and that might take a while.”

He smiled faintly and blew smoke in my face. I got up from the table, coughing.

“Let’s get ready,” I said to him. “Get your jacket and Simon and we’ll saddle up.”

Naturally, it wasn’t that simple. I had to hold Dougal’s joint while he struggled into his jacket and tried to force Simon inside. Simon had never been inside a jacket before, and wasn’t going there now without a fuss. Dougal told him he would have a nice ride and a wonderful adventure. For a bird that hadn’t been outdoors in years, this was not a tempting offer.

“Bad boy, bad boy,” he screeched in Melanie’s voice, making me wonder anew exactly what kind of relationship Dougal shared with his therapist.

“Help! Don’t hurt me,” the poor bird cried, this time sounding like Dougal. I forced the images of whips and black leather restraints out of my brain.

Finally, the parrot was inserted head first into the jacket. The fabric bulged and strained against the metal zipper. Dougal already wore a pained expression, likely due to the bird poop Simon was depositing inside his cotton cage.

I handed Dougal his joint and smelled my hand. Nasty. God help us if we got pulled over by the police. It was my understanding that police officers were trained to smell pot. Or maybe they just learned to recognize the smell from experience. With my exaggerated olfactory aptitude, I should hire myself out as a pot-finder. The police would save money — I ate less than a sniffer-

dog and didn’t need an annual rabies shot.

Things got dicey when I put my spare helmet on Dougal. He realized this was it, he was really going out there, and panicked. I pried his fingers away from the knob and pulled him by the arm to the curb, where I had to lift his leg over the seat. He sat stiffly upright, eyes glued shut, clutching my shoulders so hard I knew there would be bruises in the morning.

“Hold onto the bars beside your seat,” I instructed him. “You can’t hang on to me or you’ll pull us both over.” We wouldn’t be going fast or far, but still, it would hurt plenty if we hit the pavement.

I had to get off and position Dougal’s hands in place. Then I started up and we were off, off to negotiate a pollen-swapping contract between a wronged woman and a worm (according to Glory), or a man-eating barracuda and a wronged husband (Dougal’s view).

My opinion? They were both nuts and somebody better pay me a thousand dollars after this was over or I’d hurt them both.