Constable Vanderbloom pulled a small black notebook and a pen from her breast pocket. She looked down at me and waited expectantly. I was nervous, and desperately tried to think of a way to avoid answering direct questions about two affluent Lockport homes where grass was cultivated and served.
Chief Redfern said, “Do you know Julian Barnfeather?”
That threw me. What the hell. Was the creep accusing me of something?
“Is this a trick question? Because I might want a lawyer, but then again, all the lawyers I know are crooks, so I guess I’ll do without.”
He tried again. “According to the Cemetery Commission, you work at the Good Shepherd Cemetery on Saturdays from April until October. Is this true?”
“November. Yes?” One word answers were best.
He took off his sunglasses and rubbed his forehead. In an effort to hide the fact that I forgot the question after one glance at his deep blue eyes — they were navy, really — I quickly turned away and scanned the treetops for eagles or buzzards. In the split second those eyes were locked on mine, I was sure all my recent indiscretions had been revealed. Like socializing with pot growers and hookers, and thinking about dropping a dead skunk on my ex-husband’s doorstep.
“Yes you work at the cemetery? You don’t seem to be too sure about anything this morning, Ms. Cornwall.”
“Look, I’m not used to being interrogated before I’ve had my second cup of coffee.” Not so smart, Cornwall, I told myself. When cornered by the law, it’s not wise to reveal sarcasm is your first language.
“You call this an interrogation, Ms. Cornwall? These
are very simple questions. Now, do you work at the cemetery on Saturdays and were you working yesterday? Yes or no will do.”
“Yes. And, yes.”
“Good. Did you see Julian Barnfeather during the course of the day?”
“I saw him in the morning, as usual, and that’s it.”
“So, you didn’t see him again before you left the cemetery at the end of the day?”
“No, I did not. I left my tools outside the maintenance shed.”
“Was there a reason for doing so?”
“He’s a dickhead and I wanted to avoid him. I figured he would put the tools inside before he went home. He’s always there when I leave at five o’clock — he locks the gates. My cousin called and wanted me to come right over so I left at five on the dot. I don’t know what time Julian left.”
“So you didn’t see him yesterday before you left. You only saw him first thing in the morning. What time would that be?”
“Eight a.m.”
“Did you have a conversation with him?”
“What’s this all about? Is it illegal to call that fat doofus a perverted mistake of nature? Because if he’s complaining about me, I have grounds to charge him with harassment.” I drew myself up to my full sixty-two inches.
A condescending sigh escaped Chief Redfern’s lips. The svelte Constable Vanderbloom just kept scribbling in her ratty black notebook.
Then I remembered the flashing lights and activity in the cemetery as I passed it last night.
“Did Julian Barnfeather have a heart attack or something?”
“You don’t sound too broken up about the possibility of something happening to Julian Barnfeather, Ms. Cornwall,” Constable Vanderbloom observed.
“Look, if Julian is sick or hurt, well, I’m a little sorry, but he won’t be receiving a get well card from me.”
“A sympathy card to his wife would be more appropriate,” said the constable.
“Go on! Are you telling me he had a wife? And he’s dead?” Then a sudden thought struck me. “What happened to him?”
Chief Redfern replied, “The autopsy report hasn’t come back yet. His wife called us when he didn’t show up for dinner last night. We sent an officer to the cemetery.”
“Because,” I said, like he hadn’t spoken, “he could have been lying there dying while I was working. Maybe if I had put my tools away like I should have, I would have found him in time to call an ambulance.” I shuddered at the thought of anyone, even Julian, lying in the shed, waiting for help that didn’t come. Nobody deserves to die alone.
Suddenly, strong hands gripped my neck and pushed my head so far between my knees that my forehead touched the dirt. The hands held me down and all I could do was flail my arms and yell, “Stop. I haven’t done anything. You’re hurting me.”
“Careful or she’ll be screaming police brutality,” said Constable Vanderbloom.
I was picked up immediately and held hanging a foot off the ground. I kicked him in the knee.
“Goddamn it!” He dropped me, but I managed to land on my feet. “What did you do that for? I thought you were going to faint.”
“I never faint.” My heart was beating wildly, and I hoped I wouldn’t make a liar out of myself as my vision started fading to black at the edges.
“Then, if you’re up to it, I have a few more questions.”
“Go ahead.” My head still felt like it might fly off into the clouds, but I wasn’t going to admit to it.
“Could you see the shed from where you were working?”
I took a deep breath and my vision cleared. “No. The shed is in the middle of the cemetery surrounded by tall shrubs. I was working closest to the fence and Main Street.”
“So you didn’t see Mr. Barnfeather at all after eight in the morning? What about lunch and calls of nature?”
“I have a key to the bathroom behind the office building at the entrance to the cemetery. You can’t see the maintenance shed from there. And I didn’t stop for lunch yesterday.”
“Did you see anything out of the ordinary?”
Neither cop noticed Ewan Quigley step out of his trailer behind them, take one look, then back quickly inside and close his door. And, between Rae’s trailer and the Quigleys’, a figure in dusty black leather and multiple chains draped across his chest melted back into the trees.
“No, and I didn’t budge from my corner except for one trip to the bathroom. I have excellent bladder control.”
Chief Redfern’s lips compressed. “Can you describe the people you remember seeing?”
I wasn’t going to be much help. I tried to avoid anyone I knew while I was working. It was just too awkward.
“Not really,” I said slowly. “The cemetery is a popular place for walking but I didn’t recognize anyone. You might ask the Friends of the Settlers, since there are always a few of them in the cemetery, although they probably don’t see many folk wandering by their corner.”
The glasses came off again. I lowered my eyes and stared at the third button from the top of his shirt. Constable Vanderbloom stopped writing.
“Who are the Friends of the Settlers?”
“It’s a volunteer group that looks after the pioneer graves in the northwest corner. That area was the original Lockport Cemetery. The rest has grown out from there. There’s an iron fence and pine trees around the site.”
“How do we get in touch with these people?”
“There are two or three of them there every Saturday, all quite elderly. You can probably get the names from the Cemetery Board.”
I didn’t divulge that one of the Friends was Fern Brickle, my Wednesday afternoon cleaning job. I didn’t want the police to bother her. She was a nice lady and gave me a fifty-dollar bonus at Christmas.
“So, I’m getting the impression that Julian didn’t die from a heart attack or stroke,” I ventured, once the notebook was stowed away and both pairs of sunglasses were back in position. The activity in the cemetery the night before made sense, now.
Chief Redfern’s lip twitched briefly. “Until the autopsy results are in, we don’t know what we’re dealing with.”
“If the coroner indicates Mr. Barnfeather’s death was not due to natural causes, we’ll be back for another chat. Don’t leave town,” said the constable, showing her white teeth in a smile.
“I’ll be in touch.” Chief
Redfern nodded at me.
As they scrambled up the embankment, I sank down on the step. Julian might have been murdered. Lost in thought, I paid little attention to the leather-clad shadow as it emerged from the trees again and slipped into the Quigley trailer.
Chapter
SIX
If the cops did determine that Julian had been murdered, would I be their chief suspect? I tried to put things into perspective. I didn’t kill Julian, so I should stop worrying. But memories of Guy Morin, Donald Marshall, David Milgaard, and Stephen Truscott kept intruding on my thoughts. Innocent people did go to prison.
Changing into my real estate agent outfit of white silk shirt, black pantsuit, and motorcycle boots, I rode to Tim Hortons on Main Street and ordered my Sunday favourites. Sitting at a table, I organized my coffee and whole wheat bagel.
I was taking my first bite into thick strawberry cream cheese when a man dropped into the seat opposite me. He placed his coffee mug and cruller on the table and smiled.
I didn’t smile back.
“How are you doing, Bliss?” the Weasel asked, his smile still pasted in place. I barely registered the close-cropped dark hair and light brown eyes that, a lifetime ago, could quicken my pulse and send my heart soaring.
“Couldn’t be better. And you?”
“Same. You’re looking very well.” He lifted his mug to his lips, his eyes studying me over the rim.
I swung my tri-coloured hair.
“Sued any widows or orphans lately?”
“Come on, Bliss, when are you going to stop obsessing about the past and move on? You’re young and could have a wonderful future.” His white teeth bit into the cruller.
“It could be wonderful if I had some money to get on with.”
“Let’s not go over this again. Our relationship is over, and I have no obligation to continue to carry you financially.”
I looked at him through a red haze of rage. “You’re an asshole, Mike. I supported you through law school, and yet it’s okay for you to tell me to leave our house with three suitcases and two hundred dollars in my purse?”
“You took your jewellery, and I gave you the fifty-acre property.”
“Fifty acres of swamp, and we won’t even discuss the cheap jewellery.”
He deftly changed the subject. “Let the past go, Bliss. I want to tell you something before it becomes public knowledge.”
“Don’t tell me you and Andrea are having a baby?” The time had never been right for me to get pregnant, and if he told me he was about to become a father, I would stab him with the plastic knife in my hand.
He smirked. “Not yet, but we’re hopeful.”
“Well, you better get on with it. Andrea is, what, forty? Forty-one?”
“She’s only thirty-eight. Now listen. I will be running for federal office in the next election.”
I put the plastic knife down and scrutinized the smooth, satisfied face. “You’re the Liberal candidate?”
“Yes.” He managed to look modest and proud at the same time.
“Bliss.” He leaned forward, cupping his hands around his coffee mug. “I was hoping to find you here this morning. I have a cheque for you, for five thousand dollars.” His eyes crinkled at the corners but remained watchful as he pushed a cheque across the table.
I inhaled a large piece of bagel and spent a few seconds coughing it back up. It gave me time to think. I didn’t believe in the Tooth Fairy, nor did I expect to win a lottery. Therefore, I didn’t believe in the Weasel’s cheque.
“Five thousand dollars isn’t near enough payoff for putting up with you for eight years.”
“Bliss, can’t you forget your bitterness? You could use the money to relocate, perhaps to Toronto. You might even go back to school.”
“With five thousand dollars? You are a very strange man, Mike. I think I can make more money by staying right here in Lockport.”
He ran a well-manicured finger around the rim of his cup. “From what I hear, you are working several minimum-wage jobs. I think you can do better.”
“I think I can too.” I watched his eyes and stuffed a smaller piece of bagel into my mouth.
Mike shifted in his chair and gazed into his coffee. “I hear there was a death in the cemetery yesterday. Weren’t you working there?”
“Yes. Apparently Julian Barnfeather was found dead last evening.”
“Have the police contacted you?”
“We had a chat.”
“I hope they don’t think you had anything to do with his death.”
“Why would they?”
“No reason, except that you were apparently the last person to see him alive.”
“Except for whoever murdered him, assuming he was murdered.”
He looked me in the eye. “I wouldn’t want to see you involved in a messy murder investigation.”
“I’ll bet you wouldn’t. It wouldn’t be good for your public image. Your ex-wife’s name in the paper in the same column as that of a murder victim.” My mind had been racing and crossed the finish line when I finally figured out why Mike was offering me a cheque to get out of town.
I stabbed my knife into the remains of his cruller, pretending it was his throat. He managed not to flinch.
“Don’t you have to be a member of the provincial party first, before you can run federally?”
“Not at all. The party has convinced me that I have an excellent chance of becoming the next MP for this riding. Now, are you going to accept this cheque? If so, I have a waiver for you to sign.”
“No thanks. I think I’ll hold out for more.”
“There won’t be any more. This is all I’m going to offer, so take it or leave it.”
I tried to look pensive. “I wonder if one of the major newspapers, maybe the Toronto Star, will want to interview me.”
Mike snorted. “Why would they?”
“Because they like to print controversial articles, especially political ones. They might feel that an interview with the impoverished ex-wife of a Liberal candidate would increase their readership. Their photographer could take my picture leaning on a tombstone with my rake. I’d wear my denim overalls, the ones with the rip in the knee.”
I was just yanking the Weasel’s balls, but by the look on his face, he wasn’t enjoying it. A warm, fuzzy feeling washed over me. Maybe, just maybe, I was on to something. “You’re crazy, Bliss. And nobody is going to take a nutcase seriously. You might as well take this cheque and sign the waiver.”
I had no doubt he would do well in politics, playing in the big boys’ sandbox. Andrea’s father was a Liberal backbencher from a neighbouring constituency and would know how to groom Mike for public display. The Weasel might even wind up becoming Canada’s youngest prime minister someday and the thought made the fuzzy feeling disappear in a wink. With Mike at the helm, there would be no women and children first into the lifeboats. It was my civic duty to prevent such a catastrophe from happening
“Looks like you have a golden future ahead of you, Mike. But you’ll be wide open to public scrutiny if you run. Female voters won’t endorse a wife abuser and skinflint.”
Aware of curious glances from nearby tables, Mike lowered his voice. “What are you talking about? I never laid a hand on you, and I paid for all your clothes, country club fees, and anything else you needed.”
“True, but I didn’t even have my own chequing account or a joint account with you. I had to beg every time I wanted money for something other than clothes or country club fees. And I think I can make a case for emotional and verbal abuse.”
“I promise you, Bliss, you will not stand in the way of my future.” His eyes were as cold as I had ever seen them, and I suppressed a shiver.
Taking my time, I opened my purse and took out a pen and small notepad. I wrote briefly on it, then stood up. “You think about our discussion, Mike. If you want this little piece of your past to go away, then here is what it will cost you.” I saw this scene in a movie once.
&
nbsp; I handed him the slip of paper and walked off, leaving Mike to stare at the paper in his hand.
A cool breeze had sprung up while I was in the coffee shop. I pulled my leather jacket out of the saddlebag and zipped it up to my chin, trying not to think of the fashion faux pas I was committing. Driving past the town centre, where the skunk still reposed in fragrant death, I turned onto River Road and headed for my real estate appointment.
After my marriage broke up, I had had high hopes of making a decent living by selling real estate. I knew a lot of people and was sure my friends would support me by signing on as my clients. I should have saved the money I spent on the real estate course and the board exam.
Elaine Simms owned the only real estate business in Lockport and she finally confessed, after several client-free months, that the affluent citizens wanted their real estate needs met by Elaine herself, broker extraordinaire. The rest of her customer base was handled by her sister, Rachel. She saw my disappointment and tossed me the listing for the old Barrister house, a property that had been languishing on the market for years.
The property sat on a scraggy seven acres at the junction of River Road and County Road 10, south of Lockport. Once a grand estate, the Georgian-style house now appeared forlorn and neglected, with boarded-up windows and lawns overgrown with weeds. Inside, new plumbing and wiring were needed before the house could be deemed habitable. I had shown the property three times, but each prospective buyer had shied away before even entering the front door. I didn’t expect this time to be any different.
Since I didn’t have a vehicle to pick up the clients, Elaine had arranged for them to meet me at the house. A silver late-model Volkswagen convertible with red leather seats burrowed into the calf-high weeds. I fluffed up my hair and prepared to dazzle Ivy and Chesley Belcourt from St. Catharines.
Two black-clad figures rounded the corner of the house and moved toward me.
Ivy was tall and fleshy with short grey hair. Her high-necked dress hugged a formidable bosom, skimmed the rest of her body, and ended just above the top of heavy ankles that overflowed sturdy leather flats. A sleeveless vest reached mid-thigh and flapped in the brisk breeze, giving Ivy the air of a huge crow trying to lift off. She relied on a cane to help her manoeuvre the uneven ground and, as they came closer, I noticed the slash of bright red lipstick and the translucent blue eyes. I put her in her mid-sixties.
Corpse Flower: A Cornwall and Redfern Mystery Page 4
