“Then what? And, why?”
He leaned even closer. “They eat it. Because it makes them feel good. And because it makes them feel naughty to get away with it. You sure don’t know much about the pot subculture, do you?”
I dared a look at the potted euphoria. The plants were close to six feet, healthy, green and dripping with buds. Running to catch up with Pan, I asked him, “How do they eat it? Do you mean, like, baking it into brownies?” I couldn’t imagine Glory and her friends eating high-carb brownies any more than smoking.
But Pan was already opening the front door. We found Glory and Dougal sitting mutely on separate couches. Dougal was chewing his cuticles while Glory tried to bore a hole in his neck with her laser eyeballs. Simon hadn’t moved from the table but his head swivelled back and forth between the two. The magazine had collected a six-inch pile of birdie doo.
As I handed Dougal the camera and the paper with the measurements, Simon spoke up. “Anyone for a smoke?” he asked, sounding like a cross between Dougal and Robert DeNiro.
Glory rounded on Dougal. “Are you letting that bird smoke? Surely even you know how dangerous that is for his health. You worm!”
“Tobacco smoke has never entered his lungs,” replied Dougal with such an air of innocence that I almost believed him myself.
“Simon obviously heard that phrase on television. He watches Days of Our Lives and General Hospital regularly. He likes Law and Order, too.” Dougal managed to look both affronted and pathetic while positioning himself between the bird and Glory.
Simon wasn’t through, however. “Oh, baby, that was sooo good. Pass the joint, will you sweetie.” I didn’t recognize the voice this time, but Glory and Dougal — and Pan — all looked at me with varying degrees of horror.
“What?”
“Are you and Dougal having sex? That’s, that’s … it’s incest!” Glory sputtered and stepped way back from our unclean presence.
“Eeeww,” I replied in disgust, while Dougal said, “I’d rather hang myself,” at the same time. Pan snickered until Glory cast him a quelling glance with eyes turning bloody again. I figured it was time to retreat, and made for the entrance hall.
While I donned jacket and helmet for the ride down the block, Dougal was still talking, having never learned to quit while behind.
“He uses a voice he knows and puts words together. It’s a new thing. He doesn’t mimic verbatim.” Dougal tried to stick Simon inside his jacket and was having the same difficulty as the first time. The parrot’s scaly legs thrashed wildly.
“All I know is someone is smoking a post-coital joint in front of that parrot.” Glory’s glossy lips were pursed in disapproval. “If it isn’t you and your undersized cousin, then who is it?”
“I’d rather sleep with the bird,” I called to Glory over Simon’s furious shrieks.
“I told you. It’s the TV. Nobody’s sleeping with anybody or smoking a joint either,” Dougal shouted. I knew he wasn’t lying to save my reputation or even Melanie’s. He’d say anything to pollinate Thor.
“Just get out of my house.”
“I’m going. I’ll send Bliss over once or twice a day to check on Sif’s progress. She’ll have to take pictures as well. Both spadices are currently between six and six and a half feet tall, but it looks like Sif might flower a few hours earlier than Thor, so if you could collect the pollen, Bliss will bring it over to my place …”
“Do what you have to do, just get out now before I snap you in half and toss the pieces in the trash.” She could do it, too. Dougal was going to have to bulk up a bit if he wanted to defend himself against his ex-wife.
I stood on the second step of the curving staircase and buckled Dougal into his helmet. The parrot was having a tantrum inside the jacket, and I cautioned Dougal to unzip a little to allow Simon some air.
I figured I would have to boot Dougal out the door and kick him down the steps to my bike, and was rather looking forward to it. But at the open door, he halted so quickly, I hit him in the back with the peak of my helmet.
“Where did you get this?” he asked Glory, indicating an erect plant in a ceramic pot sitting beside the umbrella stand. About a dozen straight stalks rose several feet from the pot in a clump and ended in masses of frond-like leaves. I gave it a hard look to try to burn it into my memory cells. I’d be looking this up on the Internet later, as well as the ferns at my parents’ house.
Dougal continued, “It’s a magnificent example of Thamnocalamus tessellatus, but it needs a lot of direct sun.”
“I know what it is, you half-wit. An old friend from school just dropped it off. And I know how to look after a simple Berg Bamboo. Get out.”
“Who was it? Is it anyone I…?”
The door slammed me on the butt and caught the edge of Dougal’s helmet, propelling us both down the steps to the Savage. This time, I had no trouble getting Dougal on the jump seat. He was obviously bemused by his reunion with Glory. The growl of the motor and Simon’s muffled squawking sounded like music to my ears after Glory’s angry screeching. God, whatever Dougal did to get kicked out of her house and bed, it had been his luckiest day ever.
As we rode down the street past the woods, I saw the dark shadow of a vehicle pull away from the curb and fall in behind us. Headlights reflected yellow light into my mirror, effectively blinding my left eye. I attempted to move as far right as possible to allow the vehicle to overtake and pass. But the headlights behind me did neither, and, as I coasted under a streetlight, I dared a quick look in my mirror.
There was no mistaking the Beetle shape behind the glaring lights. The top was down, and I could see one narrow head. Chesley Belcourt was on a breakaway from Mum.
Enough was enough. Did the Belcourts want to buy the Barrister house so badly they were prepared to follow me after dark to close the deal? Not likely, but only one way to find out.
I turned the Savage around, planning to confront Chesley. I have short legs and, with Dougal squirming and twisting my jacket in a clenched fist, it took a few seconds to make the one-eighty. By the time I re-balanced and pointed in his direction, Chesley had shot past me and was speeding off into the night, probably making for the highway and the Super 8 Motel. This time, I didn’t try to turn the bike on the road, but drove over a lawn and double driveway. I was just a few hundred yards behind Chesley when he turned right onto the highway that bisected the town.
Ignoring Dougal’s bleating and the death grip he had on my stomach, I flipped my face shield down, leaned over the handlebars, and turned the accelerator toward me.
A surge of wanton recklessness suddenly washed over me and I forgot Dougal and Simon were on the seat behind, forgot even my own safety.
For a few enchanted moments, I wasn’t anything-for-a-buck Bliss Moonbeam Cornwall, rejected wife and trailer park dweller. I became Indiana Bliss, saviour of the world, hurtling through the night with 350 pounds of steel between my thighs.
Chapter
TEN
The metal foot rest scraped the pavement as we took the corner onto Highway 21, but I managed to pull the bike upright coming out of the curve. I had never driven the Savage at this speed, and wasn’t sure I could maintain control. The cemetery whizzed by on my left. The streets of Lockport were as silent as the tombs within.
Dougal’s grip had loosened and his helmet was bopping the top of mine, as though he had given up all hope of survival. I hoped this ride wouldn’t set back his recovery. Something was pushing frantically on my back, probably Simon trying to free himself, but at least he and Dougal had ceased their screams of indignation. Or maybe both of them were still shrieking their guts out, but the wind rushing by overpowered the sound.
The blood lust was abating and I geared down to seventy, still too fast entering the town centre. The Beetle also slowed, and I was about fifty yards behind as we neared the police station. Rotting skunk odour filled my nostrils.
The Beetle tried to veer, but its left tires hit the skunk dead on. Black
and white and red chunks of gore shot from under the tires, flying into the interior of the convertible, smashing onto my windshield, and skidding across the roadway. Luckily, I was barely moving when my front tire hit a lump of slimy black and white fur.
The wheel slid sideways, but just before the bike went down, Dougal swung his long leg over my head and jumped free. The crash bar saved my own leg, and I clambered out and crawled to the curb.
The Beetle kept on going.
Dougal fell on his hands and knees and barfed in the gutter. I felt like doing the same, even more so, when I recognized the uniformed man standing over us. He must have seen the whole thing.
Taking the offensive, I said to Redfern with as much indignation as I could muster, while trying not to regurgitate the popcorn, “Did you see that! If you want to put out an APB, I can tell you exactly who he is and where he’s staying.”
“Cornwall. Why am I not surprised? I think you’ve been watching too many American cop shows. We just call them plain old Alerts in these parts, and that driver who hit the skunk will be punished enough when he realizes he has a car full of decomposed animal parts.”
Was Redfern kidding me?
“You mean you aren’t going to arrest him? He was stalking me.”
We were standing under a streetlight, and I saw his blond eyebrows rise. “Looks to me like you were stalking him.”
“Get real! He followed us from my ex-cousin-in-law’s house, so I turned around and followed him. And why was the skunk still in the middle of the street?”
“As I told you earlier today, it’s an internal municipal dispute. The carcass was going to be removed in the morning.”
“Well, now I guess Public Works doesn’t have to bother.”
“There’s skunk parts everywhere,” Dougal mumbled from the gutter, before going off into another paroxysm of vomiting. I gagged involuntarily at the sight of a long strip of red gristle swathing the top of Dougal’s helmet. I unbuckled my own helmet and tossed it onto the grassy boulevard.
“Are you going to puke on me again?” Chief Redfern asked, stepping back.
“I’m not sure yet.”
He took another step away. I remembered the glass of wine I had consumed at Glory’s and tried to suck in a lungful of air to stave off the urge to heave it up.
“And who would this gentleman be?”
“He’s so not a gentleman. That’s my cousin, Dougal Seabrook.” Just then, Simon stuck his black beak out the top of Dougal’s jacket and cried, “Help me! Help me!” The voice was cracked and barely comprehensible, probably his own birdy voice.
If Redfern was surprised at the sight of a parrot bobbing out of a jacket and asking the police for assistance, he showed no sign. He said, “Looks like we better get your bike off the street, Cornwall.”
“I can do it myself,” I replied, which was a bald-faced lie. After buying the Savage, I had dropped it a few times before learning not to put the kick stand down on soft gravel or sloping ground. And I was never able to pick it up by myself. A couple of men were always around to help out a little lady in distress.
Maybe adrenaline would see me through. I braced my legs close to the undercarriage and heaved. Something ripped in my shoulder, but the bike didn’t move one iota.
“Dougal, get over here. Take this other end and help me lift.”
Dougal edged closer to Redfern. “She’s crazy,” he told the silent cop, whose eyes were undoubtedly rolling wildly in his head. “She almost killed me and poor Simon. Can you take me home, please, or call me a taxi? I have agoraphobia and need to take some medication.”
The pathetic excuse for a moron was actually plucking at Redfern’s trousers. His “medication” was probably in his pocket, and he better hope one didn’t roll out at Redfern’s feet.
Shaking his leg, Redfern detached himself from Dougal’s fingers and said, “The Lockport Police Department is not a taxi service.”
He sauntered over to me and, with one swift tug, set the Savage upright. I grabbed the handlebars and pushed the bike to the curb and kicked the stand down. Picking up a twig from the curb, I flicked the piece of skunk pelt off Dougal’s helmet and checked mine before donning it. I spent a few minutes prying out putrid bits from the front end of the bike, trying to keep my stomach contents down by thinking up ways to kill Dougal and not get caught. The bike would have to be hosed down and cleaned thoroughly, but at least the visible pieces were out. Finally, I clasped Dougal by the arm and pulled him to his feet.
“Come on, Braveheart, it’s past your bedtime. One more little ride and you’ll never have to get on a motorcycle again. At least not on mine.”
I was halted by Redfern’s voice.
“One more thing, Cornwall. Where will I find you in the morning? I have a few more questions about Julian Barnfeather’s death.” A narrow smile budded on his lips but died on the vine.
“I can be found every weekday morning, except Wednesday, right across the road at the Public Library.”
Simon chose that moment to stick his head out from Dougal’s jacket again and cry, “Par-tay! Reefer time!”
This time, I recognized my own voice. If the subject matter hadn’t been such a threat to my freedom, I would have enjoyed the sight of Redfern’s face. It was probably one of the few times in his life he was struck speechless.
I followed Dougal into his house, where I retrieved my extra helmet and cautioned him that Simon’s imprudent words regarding marijuana were apt to land us in a whole heap of trouble with Redfern who, unless he was lower on the food chain than a puffball, was going to start regarding us with suspicion. A former big-city cop likely had radar where drugs were concerned.
Since Simon’s ill-advised words were not uttered in his voice, Dougal remained unconcerned now that he was back in his own house with the door closed on the scary universe. Actually, I thought he had done well on his first excursion in almost a year and told him so. He gave me a dirty look and told me to please let the door hit me on the butt on the way out. He pulled a joint out of, yep, his jacket pocket, and went to lie down on the couch and watch the Discovery channel on his sixty-inch TV. I started to tell him to change his clothes and take a shower first, but decided I didn’t give a rat’s ass about his furniture. Simon was still entombed in his jacket, and I cared even less about that.
I took a pasta salad and two pears from his fridge before heading out.
Dougal lived south of the cemetery, while my humble home was due north. Therefore, I had to ride through the town centre again after I left Dougal, keeping my speed to the posted fifty. No cops lurked and the warm air still held a strong whiff of eau de skunk, but that might have been me.
My right shoulder had grazed the pavement and was further strained trying to lift the bike back up. It throbbed with every vibration of the motor, and I was glad to dismount behind the trailer. I was pretty sure I had some road rash on my thigh, as well, since my bottom half was protected only by thin silk, a serious no-no when riding a motorcycle. The fabric had split and seemed to be sticking to my skin in spots, signalling the ruin of my only realtor outfit. I was trying to remember if I had any antibiotic ointment among my meagre medical supplies when I heard loud noises coming from Rae’s trailer.
Rae kept pretty regular hours, but once in a while she would entertain a client later in the evening, though always before midnight in deference to her neighbours. I couldn’t see my watch but figured it had to be at least nine-thirty.
I started to hurry past her trailer, not wanting to hear the sounds of whatever the hell was going on in there, but my steps slowed as a woman’s voice cried out in agony. Then, she screamed, “Stop! Please stop. You’re hurting me.” I heard fists on flesh and something heavy hit the wall. More screams followed the sound of furniture overturning.
Dropping the bag of food, I ran around the front of Rae’s trailer and tried the door. It was locked. I hammered on it, shouting, “Stop that. I’ve called the police and they’ll be here any minute. Leav
e her alone.” The cries of pain and distress continued.
I was reaching for my BlackBerry when I was seized roughly from behind and tossed aside. As I lay on the ground, stunned, I saw two men forcing Rae’s door open. One had long, stringy grey hair and, in profile, I saw a hawk-like nose jutting from the lined face. I recognized Ewan Quigley from Hemp Hollow’s third trailer, but the other man was a stranger — tall, dressed head to toe in black leather and a silver-studded belt with a snake’s head buckle as big as a saucer. The snake’s ruby eyes glittered in the light streaming from Rae’s windows.
With the door torn away, Ewan rushed in immediately, but the second man turned and looked at me. He growled, with a voice sandpapered down from years of smoke or drink, “Get out of here.”
I finally found a smidgeon of courage. “But Rae is hurt. I’m calling the police and an ambulance.”
He pointed a grease-grimed finger at me. “We’ll look after Rae. And don’t call the police or you’ll be one very sorry little girl.” The upper part of his face was shaded by a leather biker’s cap, the lower covered in black stubble.
I believed him. I lingered at the doorway until I heard Rae say she was all right. When I heard a man pleading for mercy and dragging sounds coming back toward the door, I scuttled over to my own trailer. With trembling fingers, I managed to unlock the door and barricade myself in by shoving a chair under the handle. Leaving the lights off, I parted the curtains an inch and saw a naked man with a bundle of clothes in his arms being hauled away by the biker. I hoped his body wouldn’t be found in the river with rocks tied to his feet. Being a witness to a crime was not a long-term vocation.
A few seconds later, Ewan led Rae out and across to his trailer. She had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and seemed to be walking steadily enough. When the two reached the Quigley’s trailer, the door opened and a woman was silhouetted against the lighted interior before the door closed again.
Corpse Flower: A Cornwall and Redfern Mystery Page 7
