We stood well out of range of Glory’s fingernails while she thrashed around and, when she finally slowed down and showed signs of fatigue, we helped her to a sitting position on the floor.
“It’s simple, Glory. Dougal wants to propagate his plant, and he’s paying me to arrange it, and I need the money. You have the only other Titan Arum in the same stage of development that we know about, so we have to use it. Nobody else needs to know about the marijuana.”
There was no point in being discreet around Pan, since he probably tended the crop. A goddess doesn’t carry watering cans or snip off dried leaves. And rolling her own joints? Forget it.
With one red eye peering through the curtain of hair and her full lips thinned almost to extinction, Glory finally agreed. But only if Dougal met with her face to face, on her turf. And, yes, she knew but didn’t care that he had agoraphobia. That was his problem. He should just get over it. Take it or leave it.
I took it. Now I had to convince Dougal that he could go out into that wide, never-ending world and not die from the experience.
I coaxed, “Look, Dougal, we’ll do it like this. Your car is in the garage, right? So we’ll get into it there, and you can lie on the back seat with your face covered. When we reach Glory’s, you keep your eyes closed while I lead you into the house. That way, you’ll never even see you’re outside.”
His fingers beat a desperate tempo on his chest. “Only one thing wrong with that. I sold my car, and my new Land Cruiser won’t be delivered till the end of the month.”
“So, we’ll walk. It’s less than two blocks. You keep your eyes closed, and we’ll be there in five minutes. You can stand that, can’t you?”
“No, I can’t. I’ve barely been out in the backyard. I can’t walk all that way by tomorrow night.”
The money was slipping through my fingers. “What if you smoke, you know … before we set out?” I was already a blackmailer, so moonlighting as a drug pusher seemed an attainable career goal.
“I’d have to smoke steady from now right through until tomorrow night to get mellow enough for that. Then I’d be too stoned to talk, let alone think. And you need your wits about you to negotiate with that succubus.”
“There’s only one thing left. We’ll go over on my motorcycle. Wait, let me finish.” But he whimpered and wandered away in the direction of his solarium. I followed and found him draped over his concrete pot. I swear he was talking to Thor.
I looked inside and said, “Hey, Glory’s spathe is starting to turn pink on the inside, too.”
In the few hours I had been gone, Thor appeared to have shot up several inches.
Dougal straightened. “It is? Are you sure?”
I nodded. “Her spadix might be a little taller, but not much.” I was tossing off those horticultural terms like nobody’s business.
He licked his lips. I knew he tasted the victory of pollinating such a rare plant, a victory that was just out of reach because of a chemical imbalance in his brain.
“How long would it take to get there on your motorcycle?”
“Start to finish? About sixty seconds. And I have a spare helmet.”
“Okay, then, I’ll try.” He reached out toward the unfurling spathe, but stopped short of touching it. “For my Thor, I’ll try.”
I had to bite the inside of my lip. “I’m sure Thor is grateful. Your country would be grateful if it knew of your courage.”
“Shut up and go home.”
“Just one more thing. I almost forgot.”
He looked at me, his eyes narrowed. “What?”
“Glory wants you to bring Simon with you. For some reason, she seems to miss that bird.”
“Simon! Are you sure? What’s she up to? African greys only bond with one person, and that’s me.” He went over to the cage and peered in at the sleeping parrot.
Simon opened one dark eye and said in Dougal’s voice, “Gimme some weed.”
“Are you letting that bird smoke marijuana? Because I think that’s even more illegal than smoking it yourself.”
“Of course not. He’s a parrot. He used to just repeat what he heard, but now that he’s older, he can make up his own sentences, using words he’s learned.”
“Right. Anyway, Glory wants to see him, so he’s coming with us.”
“How will we get him there? He can’t ride on my shoulder. He’ll be traumatized, or else he’ll fall off and be killed.”
“We’ll stuff him in the saddlebag.”
Both Dougal and Simon squawked so loudly at that idea, I had to think of another way. “I know. You can put him inside your jacket. How scared can he get in less than a minute?” He might poop himself silly, but that was Dougal’s problem.
“If I fall off, he’ll be squashed.”
“If that happens, a squashed parrot will be the least of your troubles.”
“Seeing Glory again will probably finish him off anyway,” Dougal grumbled, but I pretended not to hear.
I checked Dougal’s fridge one more time for leftovers and acquired a lamb stew meant for his next day’s lunch and a carton of milk past expiry date. Stashing these treasures next to the lasagna, I zipped on my black leather jacket and buckled my helmet.
As I came alongside the cemetery on my way home, I noticed three police cars with their lights whirling and several figures milling around in the shadows. I slowed for a better look. Whatever was happening would be all over town by morning, and when I stopped at Tim Hortons before my house showing, I would hear the news. I hoped no gravestones had been desecrated by vandals.
I cruised slowly through Lockport’s downtown core, and noticed the dead skunk was still lying in the middle of the road in front of the police station.
It was getting smellier and more bloated each time I passed. I smiled at the probability that complaints had been forwarded to the Town Offices from Public Works. Since the Weasel was also the mayor, any such complaints would wind up on his desk. For a moment, I fantasized about scooping up the skunk myself and depositing it on the Weasel’s front step. But no, that was beneath me, if barely.
The Secret Valley Trailer Park occupied a natural dip in the landscape with the Niagara Escarpment looming on the horizon. Mostly retired or single, the residents appreciated not having the upkeep or expense of a big lot in town. The small yards were well-kept and, in summer and fall, flowers bloomed profusely on every windowsill. Front doors competed for the freshest paint and driveways glistened with sealed asphalt. Secret Valley’s residents were proud of their humble homes.
I didn’t live there.
If you drove through the narrow, winding main street of Secret Valley, the pavement ended abruptly. And, just to emphasize that this was the end of the rainbow, a chain hung between three white wooden posts. Beyond these posts, the ground dropped sharply. At the bottom, my trailer squatted with two others, like toadstools in a goblin’s circle.
Officially, it was part of Secret Valley, but unofficially it was known as Hemp Hollow.
The trailers in Hemp Hollow were real trailers and didn’t pretend otherwise. The wheels sunk into the ground and the hitches were propped on stacks of bricks, ready to fall at the slightest shove. All three trailers shared a dirt courtyard where even weeds refused to grow.
My trailer rental was three hundred dollars a month. I hadn’t been able to find anything cheaper, not even a room in somebody’s basement. From November to April, when the weather made riding a motorcycle impossible, it was a long walk into town and I hoped that, before I had to spend a second winter in the dump, I could find a place in town that was affordable. I was terrified that the rusty gas furnace would malfunction and emit deadly carbon monoxide, so I moved a small electric heater from room to room in cold weather to prevent death by hypothermia. Even so, last winter my bedding froze to the thin aluminum wall more than once.
I rode north past the front gates of Secret Valley and, more by memory than sight, found the dirt trail leading to a dense stand of trees shielding the
perimeter of Hemp Hollow.
Food and flashlight in hand, I walked cautiously through the trees to the clearing behind my trailer and listened closely. Except for a few hooting owls and grass-rustling rodents, the night was silent. Then, a faint, earthy odour I had noticed several times lately after nightfall wafted into my nostrils. I whirled around and saw a pair of green, unblinking eyes staring back at me. A bear?
Not wanting that question answered, I turned and ran, aiming the flashlight beam ahead. A garbage can blocked my path, and I’m pretty sure I leapt over it, because the lid flew off, pinging off my trailer and, no doubt, bringing the bear on the run. I knew garbage drew bears like some women are drawn to Chanel No. 5 perfume.
Judging by their darkened windows, both my neighbours had turned in. No help there. I located the keyhole with shaky fingers, my bag of food still intact under one arm. As soon as I rushed inside, I turned on the light and shut and locked the door behind me. While trying to catch my breath, I listened for nails scratching on the outside of the door and peered through a crack in the faded gingham curtains. No eyes, no scratching, no roars in the night. My heart thumped rapidly as I stored my food in a tiny fridge under the sink.
I had running cold water, but no toilet hookup. There was a common bathhouse in the trees behind the middle trailer, and we were expected to take turns cleaning it. After my first look at the place, I never went back. Instead, I used Dougal’s bathroom to shower when I could, and if that wasn’t possible, I waited for darkness, then made my way up the hill to Secret Valley’s recreation building where there were clean showers and toilets.
I was starving again, but before I settled down to eat some of Dougal’s leftovers, I communicated with my bladder to determine if it could hold out until morning. It couldn’t.
Toiletries in hand, I opened the door. I looked both ways for slavering beasts, then raced up the hill to the rec hall where, after relieving myself, I took a shower and washed my hair. Returning to the safety of my trailer, I was barely able to stay awake long enough to lock my door before falling into bed. My empty stomach gave way to exhaustion, and I found sweet unconsciousness on the lumpy mattress.
It seemed I had only been asleep for seconds when there was a loud thumping on my door. My eyes shot open to find the sun was shining through my bedroom window. It was morning in Hemp Hollow, and my regular Sabbath visitor better be bearing the gift of strong coffee.
Chapter
FIVE
I threw an old fleece jacket over my pyjamas and opened the door. My neighbour, Rae Zaborski, usually dropped in on Sunday morning with two cups of coffee. I looked at the old windup clock on the counter and wasn’t surprised to see it register seven o’clock. Rae liked to get her visiting done before she left for church at ten-thirty.
“Come in, Rae,” I said, “and close the door. It’s chilly out there.”
“Well, my dear, the temperature dipped a bit last night. Here, this will warm you up.” She handed me a large blue mug.
“I hope this is strong.”
“Extra strong Columbian for both of us.”
She settled herself on my patched bench and pulled her yellow chenille bathrobe more tightly around her toned curves. Sunday was Rae’s day of rest, and it was sacrosanct. The bathrobe stayed put until she put on her church-going clothes for an hour, then it returned for the duration of the day.
“I had a really good week,” she began. “Fourteen clients.”
“Geez, Rae, that’s more than two a day. How can you stand it, and where do they all come from?”
“Two a day is usually my limit, but I have my regular customers like Ewan Quigley and some of his friends, and I don’t like to turn any of them down. A couple of the guys were willing to pay extra if I fit them in, so I thought, what the heck, it’s all money in the bank, right?”
“I guess.” Ewan Quigley? Eesh. I guess if you closed your eyes, you could pretend you were doing George Clooney.
Rae was a hooker, and quite a successful one. She charged a hundred dollars a pop, so made at least twelve hundred dollars a week, tax-free. Rae also taught water aerobics to seniors at the high school three afternoons a week for minimum wage. Since her income from this legitimate job was so limited, like mine, she never paid a lick of income tax. But she filed religiously each year to keep Revenue Canada happy — and ignorant of her more lucrative career.
Rae was only twenty-five, but she had been investing her money since she was eighteen. She took endless aesthetics courses and figured that by age thirty she would have enough money to open her own spa. She already had a name picked out: Pamper U.
“Today we’re doing your hair, remember?” She indicated the plastic shopping bag hanging off one arm.
“I forgot. I don’t think I have time today, Rae. I have a real estate client at one o’clock. Nothing will come of it, as usual, but Elaine Simms made the appointment with people from out of town, so I have to meet them at the Barrister house.”
“We’ll be done in less than two hours. Come on, quit stalling. I’ve been dying to get my hands on your hair for ages.”
“Rae, I don’t think …”
“Come on, Bliss. Don’t be such a chicken. I do my own hair and, look, it’s fine.” She shook her multi-shaded blond mane. It did look good, but I didn’t really want to look like the cheerleader Rae once was.
“Look,” she coaxed, “I have a base colour that’s the same as your own. Then I have two accent colours to highlight with, copper and caramel. It will be subtle, but look gorgeous. And I’ll trim your hair just a bit. That way you can still pull it back in a ponytail when you’re working.”
My hair badly needed a cut, and cheap shampoos and no conditioners had faded my light brown colour to a shade not unlike the lichen on a pile of north-
facing rocks.
“Okay, let’s do it.”
Two hours later, Rae had gone back to her own trailer to dress before church and I was contemplating myself in the chipped mirror in my tiny, non-functioning bathroom. I had to admit my hair looked good. I swung it back and forth and applied lipstick and eyeliner. The mascara and the light green eyeshadow had dried out long ago.
Grabbing a mystery paperback I’d started months ago, I made myself comfortable on the front step and let the sun warm my face and bare arms. Beside me, the shiny purple paint on Rae’s trailer shot shards of light into my eyes. I changed position, and this left me facing the Quigley residence.
Ewan and Sarah Quigley’s trailer was, like mine, still the original beige it left the showroom in thirty or forty years ago. Two webbed lawn chairs that had seen better years sat out front beside a pile of empty beer cartons. The stringy, sixtyish Sarah was fond of sitting in one of the chairs in her leathery birthday suit, but thankfully she was absent today. Several times, I waved at her and called out a friendly greeting, but she stared silently across the compound until I turned away in embarrassment. Now I pretended not to notice her tanning her wrinkled hide.
I kept an eye on my watch. I wanted my weekly treat at Tim Hortons before the house showing, and for a moment I let myself fantasize about closing the sale. The Barrister house was listed at one hundred and sixty thousand, so if the buyer offered a hundred and forty-five, say, and the commission was six percent, which I would have to split with Elaine, I would get …
Visions of enough money to find an out-of-town lawyer brave enough to take on the Weasel danced in my head. When I heard voices behind me, I turned in alarm, thinking that some of Ewan’s disreputable friends might be drunk and ready for love. Not that I could easily be mistaken for Rae.
Instead, I looked up into two sets of mirrored sunglasses, one worn by a female cop and the other by … definitely not a female.
Damn. Somebody ratted on Rae and the cops were here to arrest her for prostitution. I glanced at Rae’s purple trailer. Some days you could see the trailer rocking, but since it was Sunday, all was still. I was determined to know nothing and say nothing about Rae’s activities.
“Are you Bliss Cornwall?” asked the taller of the two. I noticed that his uniform was a good fit, tailored exactly to his body measurements. His hands rested on his belt, close to his gun.
“Yes?”
He took off his hat, revealing short, spiky blond hair. “Well, you are or you aren’t Bliss Cornwall. Which is it?”
“Yes, I am Bliss Moonbeam Cornwall. Can I help you?”
“Moonbeam? Interesting middle name you have.” The female cop snickered. She had a slim figure and was close to my age. Dark hair was pinned back under her cap.
“My parents were wannabe flower children. They were too late for the sixties, so they tried to compensate by naming their daughters Bliss Moonbeam and Blyth Starlight. I believe it has strengthened our characters.” Celebrate your own uniqueness. That was another of my rules.
She had the nerve to laugh out loud. “So did your parents embrace any other trends from the sixties, like free love or pot smoking?”
Oh. My. God. They knew about Dougal’s marijuana! Maybe Glory’s too! I tried to swallow the panic caught in my throat.
“Hard to say, I never dared ask. They retired to Vancouver Island where I believe they are camping in a forest in their fifth wheel, or maybe chained to a giant redwood so the socialist developers won’t chop it down and build a row of condos.” I managed an uneasy smile.
“Please, can we get down to business,” admonished the male cop. “Ms. Cornwall, I am Chief Neil Redfern and this is Constable Thea Vanderbloom.”
He flashed an identification card. I remembered seeing his picture in our weekly newspaper several times. Since Chief Redfern was relatively young and not ugly, although I wasn’t attracted to fair-haired men, he made good media copy. He had left his job as a Toronto detective to take up the post as Lockport’s Chief of Police about two years ago.
“Now we all know who we are, why are we here? I lead a blameless life, I assure you. Frankly, I’m too busy to even jaywalk.” Shit, it was jail for Dougal and Glory, and I would be forced to appear as chief witness for the Crown.
Corpse Flower: A Cornwall and Redfern Mystery Page 3
