Corpse Flower: A Cornwall and Redfern Mystery

by Gloria Ferris

  Chesley was much younger and, assuming he was Ivy’s son, he took after his dad. He was a couple of inches shorter than Ivy, and bony. His wide, thick lips opened and closed like a beached bass and, in the absence of words, I surmised he was mouth-breathing. His large round eyes were an unusual shade, and one glance at them turned me off green grapes for life. Medium brown hair, straight and cut to chin level all around, was pushed back behind his ears. A belt and red suspenders secured his pants, and white Nikes peeped out from under the wide hems.

  I approached them, trying not to trip on the rough ground, and we stopped a polite four feet apart.

  I could see Ivy glance at my silk suit, but couldn’t read her expression to tell if she approved of the classic style, or recognized my outfit for what it was — three years out of date on a slightly smaller body than it was meant for. At least it was black, their favourite colour.

  “How do you do? Mr. and Mrs. Belcourt? I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”

  “You must be Ms. Cornwall.” Chesley reached out with his thin hand and shook two of my fingers. “We’re pleased to meet you, aren’t we, Mum?”

  “Yes, of course. Now, Ms. Cornwall, Chesley and I arrived somewhat early, so we took a walk around the grounds. We have the specifications supplied by Miss Simms, so we are aware of the property boundaries and don’t wish to waste your time, or ours, on exploring any further out here.”

  “Oh, I understand, Mrs. Belcourt. This property needs a lot of work and not everyone wants to take on a project like this. I’ll just give you my card in case you want to look at something else in the area.” I stopped when I saw the raised eyebrows on Chesley, and Ivy’s pursed lips.

  The mother and son looked at each other, and then Chesley said, “We would like to see inside the house now. That is why we came, after all.”

  “You did bring the key, did you not, Ms. Cornwall?” Ivy’s hooded eyes dared me to admit I hadn’t.

  “Certainly. I have it right here.” I threw my shoulders back and led the way through the vegetation sprouting through cracks in the flagstone path.

  I inserted the key into the lock box attached to the weathered oak door. This was the second time I had been inside the house. Elaine had shown me around before turning the listing over to me, and I was not hopeful the Belcourts would be any more impressed than I had been.

  Entering the hall, I flicked on the lights. The gloom from the boarded-up windows could not be dispelled by electricity. I pulled three small flashlights out of my purse and handed two over to the mother and son.

  “Here you go. I don’t think there are any holes in the floor, but watch where you step just in case.” The place was as sinister as a horror movie set, and I had to shake off a feeling that I would round a corner and find a stack of corpses with an axe murderer standing proudly over his work. Heavy burgundy drapes hung in tatters over the sitting room windows, while the area rugs virtually moved with whatever insect life was living in them. Furniture squatted ominously in the murky shadows, and curls of dark, flocked paper rolled down the walls.

  “Good place for a murder mystery dinner,” I said, just to break the ice. Neither Belcourt had uttered a sound since we entered the house, unless you counted Ivy’s heavy breathing as she stumped along in my wake. I couldn’t hear Chesley. He was a quiet mouth-breather.

  “I assume this is the kitchen?” Ivy asked, as we opened a door off the main hall.

  I flicked another switch and said, “Looks like. I don’t suppose you want to see upstairs?”

  “We certainly do,” came Chesley’s precise tones from somewhere behind me.

  “Okay, then.” I led them back into the hall and headed toward what I hoped was the front door. I was feeling my way, and hoping not to touch anything too gross … or dead. The air wrapped us in an odour of decay. There were probably dead rats in the walls.

  I wasn’t keen on taking Ivy upstairs. Considering her bulk, if she didn’t put a foot through the treads, she was apt to take a tumble, and I knew whose fault that would turn out to be.

  Step by careful step, we ascended what must have once been a beautiful staircase, but was now reduced to a rotting death trap. I turned on all the lights I could find as the three of us stood in a long hallway leading to four empty bedrooms.

  Stepping into the bathroom, I said with the total lack of sarcasm I learned in realtor’s school, “As you can see, the bathroom needs some updating.”

  “That’s an understatement. The plumbing is archaic and the electrical service is a fire waiting to happen, I’m sure,” Ivy noted, her lips thinning as she looked around the dismal room.

  No shit, Ivy.

  “Well, you can take that into consideration if you want to make an offer,” I told her. They would have to be total idiots to even consider buying the dump.

  We made our way slowly down the stairs, me in the lead to break the fall of my prospective client, again by the book. Soon we were blinking at one another in the sunlight, like a trio of bears after a long winter’s nap. They handed back the flashlights.

  “I believe this property is close to Lake Huron, Miss Cornwall?” Ivy thwacked at some nearby weeds with her cane and uncovered part of a small stone fountain, now filled with wild daisies.

  “Bird River bisects the northwest corner of the property, as I’m sure you noticed, then crosses the road. It runs into the lake about a quarter-mile away.”

  “Well, thank you, Ms. Cornwall. We’ll be in touch,” said Chesley, flicking a strand of stray hair behind his ears.

  Yeah, right. I gave them each a card and watched as Chesley helped his mother into the driver’s side of the convertible. The tires kicked up a cloud of gravel and leaves as Ivy floored the gas pedal, and the Bug disappeared down the county road toward town.

  After locking up, I drove along River Road toward the bridge over Bird River. It was time to check on my swamp.

  Chapter

  SEVEN

  If someone told me she was acquiring a fifty-acre waterfront property as a divorce settlement, I would tell her to have the property appraised before signing off rights to any other assets. Not that the Weasel gave me a choice. Apparently, I was the last person in town to know he wanted a divorce, and before my head stopped spinning I was standing on the front porch with my BlackBerry, several suitcases, a couple of cardboard boxes, and the keys to a ten-year-old Nissan. Oh, and the deed to fifty acres on Bird River. Look up dumb in the dictionary and you’ll find my picture.

  My parents were already camped on Vancouver Island, having rented their house out to a retired couple from Hamilton who loved small-town life and weren’t leaving anytime soon. So I couldn’t stay there, and Dougal was knee-deep in his own marital woes. Not that it would have been a good idea to live with Dougal anyway. One of us would have ended up buried under the lilacs in the backyard.

  While I was standing there on my doorstep, I realized that there wasn’t one person in Lockport I could go to for shelter. Each of my friends was half of a couple, and the couples were now Mike’s friends. So I slept in my car on the marshy banks of Bird River.

  During the next week, I showered at the Y, found myself a job four days a week at the library, a Saturday seasonal job at the cemetery, and persuaded Garnet Maybe, owner of the Golden Goddess Spa, to hire me to teach yoga classes on Tuesday and Thursday nights. The two cleaning jobs on Wednesdays came later.

  I drove my clunker to Owen Sound and pawned my engagement and wedding rings, plus a few other pieces, then returned to Lockport’s used car dealership, where I sold the Nissan and bought the Savage. I had money left over to pay the first and last month’s rent on the trailer in Hemp Hollow. Only then did I call my older sister, Blyth, to tell her what had happened.

  Blyth was horrified and insisted I move in with her. I refused for two reasons. First, Blyth’s husband, Matt, was working on his psychology doctorate, and they had two small toddlers in day care, so they could ill afford another mouth to feed or another body to bed down in
their small semi-detached house in the Rexdale area of Toronto. Secondly, I was out for blood — Mike’s blood — and I couldn’t get it from Toronto.

  So began my campaign of revenge. Both Dougal and Blyth pointed out to me that I was hurting no one but myself. Chances of recovering any assets dimmed with each passing month I stayed in Lockport. I made sure I put a certain amount aside every week and had never once dipped into it. I didn’t care that I nearly froze in the winter or would have starved if not for Dougal’s leftovers. Revenge was the motivation that spurred me to get up in the mornings.

  Elaine and Rachel Simms had both come out to the Bird River property and given me their expert opinions on the value. It was clear why Mike had off-loaded this waterfront property onto me in lieu of money. It was a swamp and no developer would ever attempt to build on it. Sure, this habitat housed cranes, ducks, geese, and other water fowl, but birds don’t buy lots or build condos.

  I walked back to the road, swung my leg over my Savage, and kicked it to life. As I eased out onto the road, I promised myself that somehow, some way, I was going to pay the bastard back for this little paper trick. He would roast in hell before I was through with him, and he could kiss his political career goodbye.

  I decided to go to Dougal’s, maybe find a little something in his fridge to eat before we bearded the red-haired dragon in her lair. I passed the Super 8 Motel on the highway into town and noted the silver Volkswagen parked in front of one of the units. So the Belcourts were staying over. Maybe that was a good sign for me, but I refused to get my hopes up. They were probably talking to Elaine on the phone this minute and arranging to see more suitable properties.

  The main street was quiet as I drove through town. It was just me and the dead skunk, until I saw Chief Redfern standing on the sidewalk in front of the police station. He waved at me with one of those cop gestures that tolerates no refusal. Still holding my breath against the road-kill stench, I pulled over to the curb.

  Before he could open his mouth, I said, nearly gagging over the words, “Can’t you get Public Works to pick up that skunk?”

  “There appears to be a political issue involved. It should be resolved by tomorrow.”

  “I think I’m going to barf.” If I expected sympathy, there was none forthcoming from this public servant. The indescribable odour clung to the lining of my throat, and it was touch and go for a minute.

  “Try and control yourself. I want to talk to you about Julian Barnfeather. Do you want to talk here, or in my office?”

  In answer, I ran past him and up the steps, my hand over my mouth and nose. The vestibule of the police station was deserted and nondescript, and I let him take my arm and lead me through into a private office with his name and title stamped on the door.

  Collapsing into a straight-backed chair, I took off my helmet, shook out my hair, and unzipped my jacket. As I sucked oxygen into my lungs, I felt my stomach relax, but I could still taste and smell the decay. Just to be safe, I located the waste basket and figured I could hit it if required.

  Noting his attention on my pantsuit and silk shirt, I said, “Among my other accomplishments, I am a realtor. I just finished showing a house.”

  “It’s your grave-tending profession I want to discuss.” Chief Redfern sat on the front of his desk so his legs were mere inches from my knees. An intimidating stance learned at advanced detecting courses, no doubt.

  “Go ahead,” I told him, wishing I had a drink of water. Saliva collected in my mouth, and I quickly swallowed.

  “We got the autopsy report back. Would you like to hear what it says?” Without waiting for my answer, he picked up a file from behind him, opened it, and glanced over the words, turning a page every few seconds. Another interrogation technique — force the suspect to wait and wonder what evidence has been amassed to throw her in the big house for ten years. Oh wait, that sentence was reserved for serial killers in this country. One murder would get me about eighteen months.

  “Are you with me, Ms. Cornwall?” He had left his perch in front of me and was now sitting at his chair, with the desk between us. I relaxed slightly, but was still on guard.

  “What I’m going to tell you will be public knowledge by tomorrow. Mr. Barnfeather died from severe trauma to the head.”

  I looked at Chief Redfern with suspicion. “If somebody hit him over the head, don’t look at me. I didn’t do it.”

  A chilly smile flitted across his lips. “Mr. Barnfeather’s mortal wound was near the back of the head, close to the top. You’re too short to have hit him there unless you were standing on a step stool. And his chair was against the wall, facing the door, so unless you squeezed behind him, you didn’t do it that way either.”

  I shuddered. I actually did have to squeeze past Julian, but I wasn’t tightening my own noose. “Not likely. So you’re saying the person that hit him had to be tall and standing behind him?”

  “I’m saying nothing of the kind, Ms. Cornwall. You’re the one suggesting the victim was hit with something, by somebody.”

  “What? You said Julian died from a blow to the head.”

  “The coroner is quite sure that Mr. Barnfeather fell and hit his head.”

  Was this guy playing games with me? Did he have nothing better to do on a Sunday afternoon than torment innocent citizens? I got up and headed for the door. “So it wasn’t murder at all. Thanks for the entertainment. You have quite a way with a story, but if you’ll excuse me, I have things to do.”

  “Sit down, Ms. Cornwall. I’m not finished.”

  I plodded back to the chair and sat. My stomach was flipping, and I couldn’t tell if the smell had permeated the building or was stuck to the mucous membranes of my nose.

  “Mr. Barnfeather died from a fall, but not in the maintenance shed. Forensics came back negative on all surfaces in the shed. He died elsewhere and was transported to the shed afterward.”

  “I don’t remember seeing Julian actually doing any work in the cemetery. Maybe he tripped on his way to the washroom and fell against a headstone.”

  “We’ve looked at the headstones in the immediate area, but they’re clean. But we can’t check them all. There must be thousands. In any case, we can’t be sure what he fell against. It could have been a rock.”

  “Okay, without six or seven accomplices, do you really think I could carry Julian’s body to the shed, even a few feet? Or drag him? He must weigh four hundred pounds.”

  “Why do you persist in making this all about you, Ms. Cornwall? I haven’t accused you of anything, but I’m beginning to suspect you have a guilty conscience.”

  “Bull!” Now I was getting angry. “Your constable implied I might be a suspect, and now you’re questioning me and tying me all up in knots. If you don’t think I did anything to Julian, then why am I here?”

  Redfern stood up and came around his desk to stand in front of me again. My stomach burbled.

  “Mr. Barnfeather didn’t have to work on Saturdays, yet he was there every day you were working. I wonder why that was, Ms. Cornwall?”

  “How should I know? It certainly couldn’t have been for the few minutes at the beginning and end of the day when he could harass me. He sometimes walked around the cemetery, but he never came near me when I was working. He was probably afraid I’d whack him with my hoe if he tried anything in plain view.”

  Whoops, I shouldn’t have said that, but Chief Redfern ignored my comment. Instead, he dangled a small plastic bag in front of my eyes. His own eyes were hard.

  “Do you think it possible Mr. Barnfeather harassed you to keep you away from the shed during the day? By your own admission, you never went near the shed after collecting your tools until it was time to return them at quitting time. Until yesterday, that is, when you left your tools outside for Mr. Barnfeather to put away.”

  “Yesterday, I had other business to attend to. And I simply couldn’t face Julian again. You seem to be suggesting Julian didn’t act like a pervert because of my overwhelming cutenes
s, but for some more sinister reason.”

  He swung the plastic bag gently, moving it closer to my face. I felt my eyes cross.

  “We found this in Julian Barnfeather’s hair. Very close to the wound. Do you know what this is, Ms. Cornwall?”

  I leaned away from the bag to bring it into focus. It contained a small green-brown object, flattened. I looked up. “I don’t know. A piece of fabric? Maybe a leaf?”

  “A leaf indeed. Any idea what plant this leaf came from?”

  I shook my head, but a horrible glimmer of an idea was beginning to take shape in my brain. Please, no, not again. Surely not.

  “This, Ms. Cornwall, is marijuana. Any idea where it may have come from?”

  I dove for the waste basket, and just made it. Mostly.

  Chapter

  EIGHT

  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.