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 bru
ises 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.
Chapter
NINE
I left my face shield up on the short drive to Glory’s mansion, and the soft air cooled my flushed cheeks. It would be a perfect night to drive along the back roads outside of town, enjoying the smell of cedars, hearing the early summer sound of crickets in the grass. That’s the way I like to experience nature, whizzing by me on either side of a paved road.
Instead, Dougal ignored my instructions to keep his hands on the bars and relax his body to the rhythm of the bike. He sat rigidly upright and gripped my waist. There might as well be a 165-pound block of cement on the seat behind me. He wouldn’t shut up, either.
“I can’t do this, Bliss. Take me home. Do you hear me, turn this thing around now. It was a bad idea. I’ll have to think of some other way to pollinate my Thor. Maybe I’ll call Glory and try and set something up another way.” Since we were barely moving, I heard every word in painful clarity.
“Not a chance. We’re almost there, and you’ll live through it.”
“I don’t care. I want to go back home. I’ve changed my mind about the whole thing. Just turn around!”
A lone vehicle passed us and, as it glided by, I saw the familiar squat shape of a silver Volkswagen Beetle convertible. So the Belcourts were taking a night tour of the more upscale part of town. If they were looking at real estate in this district, they wouldn’t be interested in the Barrister property. I wasn’t disappointed, since the idea of a commission from a sale was a non-starter from the day Elaine handed me the listing.
With Dougal whining in my ear like a neurotic mosquito, I drove through Glory’s open wrought-iron gates and parked as close to the limestone steps as possible. Still, getting Dougal off the bike and up those steps to the front door was another challenge, and I ended up giving him a sharp kick on the calf to get him started. Thank God, Pan opened the door immediately. I shoved Dougal in ahead of me and stripped him of the helmet.
Pan and Dougal gazed at one another wordlessly while I divested myself of helmet and leather jacket, astonished to find I was still dressed in my black silk pantsuit. Not much protection if I dropped the bike on the way home.
Five minutes later, Glory and Dougal were squaring off in the middle of the Persian rug, standing six feet apart. Pan and I sat on one of the cream leather couches with a large bowl of popcorn between us, both of us reaching into the bowl without taking our eyes off the combatants. Simon had been fussed and cooed over by Glory for just under fifteen seconds, then tossed onto the teak coffee table. Simon squawked in protest but uttered no profanities. Yet. I slipped a magazine under his tail feathers just in time.
Hands on slim hips, shoulders back and head high in full battle mode, Glory was the spitting image of Joan of Arc’s evil twin. She wore a slinky pink tunic over matching wide-legged trousers. Pink toenails peeped out from three-inch gold sandals. Dougal, on the other hand, was still pasty and sweaty from his terrorizing minute-and-a-half ride. His buzzed hair was getting long on top, and I made a mental note to trim it, barbering being another of the personal services I provided.
Even before the agoraphobia, I doubted Dougal was a match for the hot-tempered Glory, but now I wouldn’t have bet a loonie on his chances. The thousand dollars was fading away like mist at sunrise. I jammed another handful of popcorn into my mouth and tried to make peace with that fact. But it didn’t work. I wanted that money.
“Okay, start talking and make it fast. You have two minutes to make your case, and then you can get out of my house.” Glory looked at her jewel-studded watch, tapped a shapely foot, and glared at Dougal.
Hold on. I was under the impression that I had already blackmailed Glory into co-operating with Dougal’s absurd pollinating scheme. But it appeared she thought the blackmail covered talking to Dougal only and not actually agreeing to the pollination swap. Watching Dougal’s mouth impotently open and close, struck dumb by his ex-wife’s fury, I believed a quick intervention was in order.
I stood up and walked around behind Dougal. Once I knew Glory could see me, I mimed a smoking action and winked at her. She got the message. Her eyeballs turned red as Satan’s ass, and I turned away before I burst into flames. I poured two glasses of white wine and gave one to Pan. I decided I better find that list of ladies who wanted their houses cleaned on Wednesday mornings.
Her chest heaving with rage, Glory again addressed Dougal. “Well? Are you deaf? I said start talking.”
“I wish I was deaf. Then I couldn’t hear you screech like Simon when he wants a cracker.” Ah, good, Dougal had found his voice.
“Listen, you worm. Just tell me what you want or Pan will toss you out on your pointy, stupid head. You and your backstabbing nitwit of a cousin.”
The diminutive Pan paused with the wineglass halfway to his mouth, looking a bit concerned that he could shortly be called upon to bodily throw us out the door. “As you wish, Miss.”
Glory looked at the two of us. “Are you drinking my Riesling?”
“The popcorn made us thirsty,” I said, and took another swig in case she took the glass away from me. Pan upended his own wineglass and poured the contents down his throat.
“Okay, Glory, here’s the deal.” Dougal managed to pull himself together, looking less pasty and sweaty by the minute. “We both have an Amorphophallus titanum. Both plants appear to be ready to flower. This is an historic moment, and if we can put aside our differences, we can cross-pollinate these magnificent specimens. Best case scenario is that both Titans will produce tubers, but there’s a good chance that at least one will. We share the tubers equally, no matter which one reproduces. How about it? Just think, Sif and Thor can give us lots of little ones.”
Pan and I looked at each other. Good grief, whatever would they name the babies?
As soon as Dougal started talking about tubers, Glory’s red eyes turned bottle green with envy. The woman was an emotional chameleon. Dougal knew he had her hooked and moved in to close the deal.
“You won’t even have to see me. As soon as the plants are ready, Bliss will transport the pollen between our houses. I’ll pollinate Thor, and I’ll show Bliss how to pollinate Sif.”
Dougal looked every inch the expert botanist.
“Never mind Bliss.” Glory spared me one brief, scornful glance. “Just supply the pollen. I’ll do it myself. Or Pan will. And if Sif does flower, Pan can collect her pollen and send it over to Thor.”
Beside me, Pan stirred uneasily. Probably not a plant biology major.
“Great. Now I just need to see Sif and take a few measurements.” From his pocket, Dougal produced a carpenter’s measuring tape. His eyes shone and he seemed willing, even eager, to make the trip to Glory’s greenhouse. Next stop in his recovery: Shoppers Drug Mart to pick up his own medications.
I glanced at Glory, wondering how she was going to get around Dougal seeing her pot plants. No problem, it seemed.
“Uh uh,” she told Dougal. “Tell Pan what you want and he’ll do it. Bliss can go with him to help. You stay here and cogitate on your sins, which are many if you recall. If you open your mouth even once, you can wait outside on the front steps.”
Take that, you agoraphobic.
Dougal gave us some directions on measurements, then whipped out a small digital camera and gave it to me with instructions to take a few overall shots plus several close-ups of the spathe.
“And don’t, what
ever you do, touch the Titan. It’s so fragile. It could collapse at the slightest stress.”
Glory gave Pan a meaningful look and raked me again with her eyes. The irises had more or less returned to their normal sea-blue, so I gave her another wink and followed Pan. Hopefully, Glory wouldn’t eviscerate Dougal in my absence with her pink-tipped talons.
On the way to the greenhouse, I asked Pan, “Do you know what Dougal did to Glory? It’s strange that no-one seems to have any idea.”
He shrugged. “Haven’t a clue. Don’t forget I’ve only worked here since Miss Yates tossed your cousin out, and she doesn’t confide in me. It must have been something serious, though. If anyone mentions him, her eyes turn red.”
“I’ve noticed. He won’t tell me either. He just calls her names and looks scared.”
Pan pulled up a tall stepladder close to the concrete planter. With me holding one end of the tape measure to the soil, Pan climbed to the top of the stepladder and called down the number. I found a writing pad and pen on a small table and wrote it down. We did the same for the height of the frilly, red-rimmed spathe, but it was more difficult measuring the circumference without touching it.
Finally, I took the required pictures. Pan insisted on checking the digital images, and I had to delete one shot where a tiny piece of pot frond showed in a corner. I avoided even looking at the crop, figuring if the whole thing went bad and I had to testify in court, I could almost truthfully say I never saw any pot plants in Glory Yates’s greenhouse.
“Why is Glory growing marijuana in her greenhouse? I mean, there are a lot of plants here. Surely even the two of you can’t smoke all this. And she can’t be selling it.”
Pan looked at me sideways from his glittery black eyes. “Are you kidding? Can you see Miss Glory smoking anything?”
“I don’t understand. What does she do with it all if she doesn’t smoke it?”
Pan leaned closer to me. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but it’s Miss Glory’s turn this year to grow the pot. It’s for all her friends. And they don’t smoke it.”
Corpse Flower: A Cornwall and Redfern Mystery Page 6
