Читать книгу Cornwall and Redfern Mysteries 2-Book Bundle - Gloria Ferris - Страница 15

I was late for work Monday morning and deeply pissed when I got there. The rose-tinged tendrils of friggin’ dawn had already touched the treetops before I gave up any hope of sleep and crept out to use Rae’s hose at the back of her trailer to rinse off the Savage. The early light was bright enough to confirm I had missed plenty of gory skunk bits with the twig. That done, with some gagging involved, I went back into my trailer and dropped the ruined silk trousers into a garbage bag along with the matching top. The leather jacket I draped over a bush behind my trailer until I could figure out how to remove the smell.

Since Secret Valley’s shower facilities weren’t open until ten o’clock, I shoved my bedding into another garbage bag, gathered an old denim jacket and some clothes for work, and headed over to Dougal’s. Letting myself in with the key he had given me when I first became his drudge, I discovered Dougal snoring on his living room couch, still wearing the jacket from the night before. Simon appeared to have escaped, and I saw small puddles leading away in the direction of the solarium. I left the puddles; not my problem. The house reeked of skunk.

I threw my bedding and yesterday’s underwear in the washer with plenty of bleach. In the guest bathroom, I ran into a problem with the road rash. The night before, I had been too scared over Rae’s drama to think about my leg, but now I found that the fabric of the sweat pants was stuck to my skin. I had to get in the shower with the pants on and soak them off. I almost screamed when the hot water hit the injured skin. Once the pants were off, I remained under the pulsating water for at least twenty minutes, shampooing and rubbing a floral-scented body wash over every inch of non-injured skin.

I found a hand mirror and had a look at my right leg. The abrasion stretched from hip to just above the knee and oozed a clear liquid. The dress pants I had brought to change into would simply stick to the fluid, and I would wind up having to soak them off again later. If I kept that up, I would never heal.

Taking a day off was not possible. If I didn’t work, I didn’t get paid. Wrapped in a large towel, I passed Dougal, still dead to the world, and crept into the walk-in closet in his bedroom. Somewhere in that mess of shirts, pants, and piles of jockey shorts, I hoped to find — aha!

The elusive Melanie had left behind a few garments on her visits to counsel the afflicted Dougal (and that relationship had to be wrong on all sorts of levels). Sorting through a blouse, a pair of jeans, and various tee-shirts, I found a flowered skirt with an elastic waist. It was probably calf-length on Melanie, but skimmed my ankles and flowed loosely around my thighs. With any luck, I wouldn’t have to peel the skirt off later.

So, I rode to work wearing a skirt and ankle-length leather boots, with a ripped denim jacket to complete the ensemble. Granny Clampett was coming to town on a motorcycle.

I wasn’t a pretty sight, judging by the heads that turned as I drove into town. I had to drive with one hand and use the other to hold my skirt down. By the time I reached the back of the library, where I parked the Savage, I had decided to stop at the Liquor Store after work, buy a bottle of cheap red wine, then go home and drink the whole thing at one go. Maybe then I would be able to sleep.

Clomping into the employees’ bathroom, I removed the jacket and changed the boots for sandals. I applied lipstick and brushed my helmet hairdo into a ponytail. There, much better. Throw a bonnet on me and I could pass for an Amish ho.

Allison Seymour, the librarian, was off on two weeks’ vacation, leaving me in charge of our summer student, Bailey Russi. Thankfully, Allison had given Bailey her key, so my late arrival inconvenienced neither Bailey nor readers eager to nab the latest Mary Jane Maffini or Louise Penny novel. If Bailey squealed on me to Allison, well, frankly, I didn’t give a shit.

Dropping onto the chair behind my desk, I gestured at Bailey to continue applying bar codes to new books. She overflowed with teenage angst most days, and I just wasn’t in the mood for it. I hiked the right side of the skirt up to my waist so the fabric wouldn’t stick to the road rash and turned on the computer. First, I logged on to my bank account and checked my balance. Since my only expenses were rent, gas for the Savage, and a modicum of food if I couldn’t get enough from Dougal’s fridge, there were no surprises. I just needed regular reassurance that the balance was growing, if at the pace of an icicle melting in January.

Then I Googled “marijuana.” After looking at a multitude of sites and dozens of pictures, I was pretty sure the ferns growing against the tool shed in my parents’ backyard were really ferns. And the plant in Glory’s foyer was bamboo. I looked up every few minutes to make sure Bailey didn’t sneak up on me and catch a full screen view of the pot. That’s how I spotted Chief Redfern before he reached me.

I logged out of the Internet and feigned interest in a catalogue of new publications, letting him stand for a few seconds before looking up and smiling at him.

“Ms. Cornwall.”

“Hey, Redfern,” I replied. “Nice morning.”

“Is there someplace we can talk?” He looked at Bailey, who was openly gawking at the Chief of Police in his carefully pressed uniform, blond spikes gleaming. As I said, he was no ugly duckling. “In private?”

“Sure.” I carefully pulled down the skirt before pushing my chair back and leading the way to the staff room. I sat down in a chrome chair and pushed out another one with my foot. “Have a seat. Can I get you some coffee?”

“No thanks.” He looked me up and down, either admiring my outfit or sizing me up for a prison jumpsuit. “You look, uh …” He was again at a loss for words.

“Like a hillbilly?” I suggested.

“I was going to say nice.”

“Sure.”

His eyes lingered on my fingers as I pulled the skirt away from my leg. “Road rash?”

I looked at him, surprised. “A little.”

“I’ve seen more than my share of motorcycle accidents, and I have a Honda Goldwing. It’s the 2005 Anniversary Edition. Red.”

“Nice. I haven’t seen you riding around on it. I’d have noticed that bike.”

“Well, I haven’t had much leisure time since I moved to Lockport.”

“Yeah, I imagine that the crime rate here in Lockport must keep you up nights.”

He looked at me, hard. “I think, Ms. Cornwall, you might be surprised at what goes on in a small town, one that is three hours from Toronto, two and a half from Hamilton, four from the border.”

“Well, now you have a murder to solve. But that doesn’t happen very often,” I replied, feeling I should defend my home town.

“Nobody says Julian Barnfeather was murdered.”

“You did. You said that Julian Barnfeather didn’t die in the maintenance shed. That he was put there afterward. What else could it be? If it’s not murder, why are you trying to pin it on me?”

He watched me as though trying to make up his mind about something. Maybe whether to arrest me, or just threaten me some more.

“Cornwall, do you recall the marijuana leaf found in Barnfeather’s hair? It didn’t jump in there by itself. You may be the best possible lead we have to his death.”

I said indignantly, “Why don’t you question the staff that digs the graves, or the people in the office? They’re all regular employees, like Julian. I’m just a seasonal worker.”

“The fact remains, Cornwall, you were the only one there on Saturday when Julian Barnfeather met his untimely end.”

To my everlasting shame, I burst into tears. I’m not generally a crier, but the violence of Rae’s attack, followed by a night without sleep, had shaken my emotions loose. During the past two years, I had ignored the hunger, the cold in winter, and the veiled contempt from former friends. Yes, it was my chosen path, but it wasn’t fun.

Now, not only was I terrified for Rae’s safety, I was furious with Dougal for risking his health and freedom by growing marijuana.

And now I was suspected of murder. The tears flowed faster than I could wipe them away with my forearm, and I was making a disgusting hiccupping noise. Redfern reached over and snatched a box of tissues off the counter, practically throwing it into my lap.

“Come on now, Cornwall, there’s no need to carry on like that. I’m simply saying that, since you were at the cemetery the day Barnfeather died, you may have noticed something that could help us. That’s all I’m trying to get from you.”

I blew my nose and threw the tissue in the wastebasket.

Through clogged nostrils, I said to Redfern, “I already told you I left Julian in the shed about eight in the morning and never saw him again. I never went near the shed all day. What more do you want from me?”

“I want you to explain to me how a marijuana leaf wound up in Julian Barnfeather’s hair.”

I was sick of marijuana. I didn’t grow it, I didn’t use it, I didn’t endorse its use for any reason and, seriously, I didn’t give a shit what other people did unless it impacted my life.

I stood up. I pointed my finger at Redfern. “Do I look like a pot head? Look at me?” I even pulled up my skirt to show him the road rash. “Do I look like somebody who deals in drugs? Do you think I’d be living in a crappy trailer with no toilet or shower, or cleaning other people’s houses, or teaching bitchy women how to do the Downward Dog if I had a steady income from drug sales? Do I?” The last words were pretty close to a screech.

Redfern stood up as well, leaning down so his nose was inches from mine. “I don’t know what your problem is this morning, Cornwall, but I haven’t accused you of drug dealing. Obviously, you have some issues to resolve. I haven’t the time now, but you and I will talk again.”

He turned and strode to the door. I was right behind him and, when he stopped abruptly, saying, “One more thing, Cornwall,” my lips met the middle of his back, leaving a perfect pink lipstick imprint on his shirt.

“You might want to put some antibacterial salve on that abrasion before infection sets in. Oh, and cute will only get you so far.” Then he was gone, and I kicked the metal waste basket against the wall. Bastard!

I was beyond the point of exhaustion and in no state to meet and greet the public. I took the trolley of returned books and spent a couple of hours restocking the shelves, assigning Bailey to deal with library patrons. At noon, I left her in charge and went down the street to DeLong’s PharmaSave where I bought antibacterial spray.

The Second Hand Rose Shop was next door to the drugstore and, on impulse, I went in, hoping to find a replacement for my silk suit.

The store manager, Holly Duffett, smiled as the bell over the door jingled. She was a volunteer, one of Lockport’s wealthy, and more civic-minded than most. A striking woman in her mid-thirties, Holly was a little taller than I, only a smidge heavier, and had straight blond hair expensively cut. She smelled pleasantly of a natural, clean scent that seemed familiar.

“Bliss! I haven’t seen you in ages. You look great.” Her smile faltered there at the end, but I didn’t hold it against her. She glanced up and down my body, looked confused, then turned her hazel eyes back to my face.

“Hi, Holly. Do you have any double sheet sets?” I was pretty sure my worn sheets would not survive the bleach bath in Dougal’s washing machine. I was running short on undies too, but second-hand underwear was a destination I hadn’t quite reached.

“Sure, lots. Over here.” After selecting a pair of faded pink sheets and a yellow pillowcase, all for three dollars, I browsed through the racks of women’s clothing, trying to find an outfit that would take me through any future showings of the Barrister house. I managed to find a cobalt blue pantsuit in my size and set it beside the sheets on the counter. The outfit was a synthetic blend that resembled silk and, bonus, I could rinse it out at home and it would dry overnight.

“Bliss, I know you have one already, but this jacket came in a few days ago. It’s your size, I think. It’s twelve dollars.” Holly was holding up a black leather jacket. I tried it on and, while the sleeves almost reached my fingertips, length was a plus in a motorcycle jacket. The lapels and cuffs were loaded with silver studs. I was fond of bling.

The jacket joined the sheets and polyester-wear on the counter. While I was adding up the total, Holly called from the back of the store, “Bliss, we got a big donation of canned goods this morning. Everything is fifty cents, if you need to stock up on anything.”

I almost drooled looking at the shelves of baked beans, pasta in tomato sauce, soups, stews, and vegetables. I collected an armful and deposited them with the other items at the cash register.

“Let’s see. I can give you everything for twenty dollars, Bliss.” Holly packed my bargains into two plastic bags and rang up the sale. As I turned to leave, I found myself toe to toe with a tall woman carrying a pile of towels in one arm and several pastel garments in the other. She sucked in some air and closed her eyes. She had to be hoping she would open them to find herself somewhere else. She was face to face with her worst nightmare.