Corpse Flower: A Cornwall and Redfern Mystery

by Gloria Ferris

  I pulled out a white wrought-iron chair opposite her and waited. She glanced up, froze, then a curl of her lip dared me to sit down. So I did.

  “Glory, we need to discuss your pot.”

  “What? My pot? That’s got nothing to do with you, so butt out.”

  “Yes, I probably should. But, for some reason, I don’t want to see you spend your remaining youthful years behind bars.”

  “Are you threatening me? How dare you.”

  She crossed her legs at the knee and one foot began to waggle back and forth.

  “The police are hot on the trail of anything resembling cannabis in this town. They’re cracking down big time, and I don’t know why you think you’re so special you can’t be charged. Just get rid of the pot, and buy it off the street like everyone else.”

  “You have no idea what you’re suggesting, Bliss. The commercial plants are full of pesticides and other horrible things. At least I know mine don’t have toxic residue.”

  “Well, here’s an idea. Don’t use it at all.”

  The foot swung faster. I stood up.

  “Have you told that worm about my pot?”

  “I haven’t told anybody. But, like I said, the police are all over this town searching the stuff out. What if the Baker snitches on you?” Perhaps I exaggerated, given the Chief of Police was involved and I wasn’t sure of the identity of the Baker, but sometimes you need to hit those born to privilege with a mallet to get their attention.

  The foot stopped. “What do you know about the Baker? Who told you?”

  “Glory, I am everywhere. I hear things, and I know the police are ready to move in and make arrests. Get rid of the pot in your greenhouse.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “I guess that’s it, then. Now, I have to show Dougal the latest pictures of Sif. It looks to me like—”

  “Dougal!”

  Just the sound of his name threw Glory over the edge. Her eyes completed their transformation and were blood red. I looked away from her face, not 100 percent sure she couldn’t turn me into a pillar of salt if I gazed directly into those eyes.

  The high-heeled mule flew off her wildly swinging foot and came straight at me. I ducked and the slipper hit the sideboard, where it landed in a nest of sherry glasses.

  The sound of expensive crystal shattering sounded more like an explosion than a tinkle, and Pan came on the run. We passed at the door of the breakfast room, where he gave me a quick accusing glance and rushed over to the Princess of Petulance who was winding up like an air raid siren. The second slipper whizzed through the doorway as I ran out of the room. It hit a mirror in the hallway, but I kept going.

  If this was Glory on a steady diet of grass, I feared for my life, and Pan’s, if she had to give the stuff up. This afternoon, when I came back for the day’s second photo shoot, I would suggest Pan serve her an extra helping of marijuana alfredo. Just to use up the supply in her freezer. Once Thor and Sif were pollinated, and I had my money, Pan could cut her off.

  Before driving away, I called Fern Brickle. I couldn’t fit her in today and wanted to suggest Friday instead. There was no answer and I continued on to Dougal’s.

  “What part of twice a day don’t you understand?” was his greeting.

  I looked at my watch. “It’s only a little past one o’clock. Here’s the camera.”

  “How’s she looking?”

  I assumed he wasn’t referring to his ex-wife. “She’s getting really tall, maybe eight feet.”

  Dougal looked concerned. “Oh God, I hope they both have the energy to sustain that rate of growth without collapsing. It would be a tragedy if the blossoming failed now.”

  “Well, look inside the spathe. Those male flowers are visible. What more has to happen?”

  “The male flowers have to release their pollen. And that happens when the spathe is completely unfurled. By these pictures, that should happen within the next thirty-six hours. Now I’m beginning to think Thor is possibly ahead of Sif.”

  “But thirty-six hours would bring us to late Friday night or early Saturday morning.”

  “Titan Arums traditionally blossom around midnight, so, yes, what’s your point?”

  My point? “You mean I have to run pollen back and forth in the middle of the night? You didn’t tell me that.”

  “What, do you turn into a witch and fly away on your broomstick at sundown? I always suspected as much.” He laughed. “I know you don’t have a love life, so why do you care what time the Titans blossom?”

  Another glance at my watch reassured me that I had time for a quick bite before visiting the municipal offices. But, as I turned to leave, a scent like the one in Glory’s greenhouse wafted through the air. I lifted my nose and sniffed. Gone. There was nothing.

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  I walked closer to the orchids. Putting my nose inside a lavender blossom, I breathed in. That wasn’t it.

  The pot crop, like Glory’s, was fecund with ripened buds. But they weren’t the source of the elusive scent.

  “I smell something,” I finally admitted. “It happened at Glory’s, too.”

  “What? What kind of smell?” He clutched me by the collar and dragged me back to Thor. “Smell.”

  “I don’t know. It comes and goes.”

  Dougal pushed my face to within an inch of Thor’s mottled spadix.

  “Now?”

  “Oh, yeah, there it is. Barely. I think Thor needs deodorant, Dougal. Or else you have a sewer leak.”

  Dougal jumped up and down and, since I was attached to his left hand by the scruff of my neck, I found myself bouncing right along with him.

  Kissing me on both cheeks, he took my hands and swung me in a maniacal square dance, around and around Thor. My feet left the floor, and for a minute I was in danger of flying through the solarium windows and taking a few orchids and pot plants with me.

  “Enough, Dougal. Put me down.”

  He did, so abruptly that I skidded along the tiles toward the door. But I managed to stay on my feet and just kept going, heading toward the kitchen. Dancing always gives me an appetite.

  “There’s nothing in here.” Standing in front of the open fridge, I stared in amazement. “It’s empty.”

  “The Titans are going to blossom, Bliss, and very soon. There’s no doubt now. I think this is a first in the botanical world. Two Titan Arums belonging to private collectors will blossom. And if they are successfully pollinated and bear fruit, who knows how many more Titans I can grow?”

  “Great, Dougal. But why isn’t there any food in the fridge?”

  “Mrs. Boudreau hasn’t been in for a couple of days. What’s today, Thursday? She was here Tuesday. If she doesn’t show up tomorrow, you’ll have to buy me some groceries.”

  “Where is she? She’s supposed to come in every day.” I went into the pantry and surveyed the tidy shelves full of canned goods. I wanted fresh.

  “Well, you’ve been taking food out of here lately like you were stocking a bunker. Get a frozen dinner out of the freezer and nuke it.”

  Packaged macaroni and cheese from the freezer would have to do. While I ate, Dougal babbled on about how he was going to surgically cut into Thor to dab male pollen from Sif onto the female flowers. It sounded painfully clinical, and my mind wandered back to the scene outside Fern Brickle’s house yesterday as I watched her visitors arrive. Mrs. Boudreau was definitely there. She even waved at me.

  I interrupted Dougal’s discourse on how and when to re-pot Titan corms, a subject even more boring than how to harvest the fruit. “Do you remember telling me about the group of people with disabilities who grow their own cannabis, then take it to the Baker to be baked into desserts?”

  “Sure.”

  “Then, you must know that Mrs. Boudreau is one of them.”

  “I never said that.”

  “She’s in your house five days a week. She has to know about your plants in the solarium, so I’m assuming you two talk abou
t harvesting your crop. I bet you’ve been giving these people botanical advice.”

  “Bliss, you’re ignorant about the subculture. Okay, Mrs. Boudreau knows about my pot, and once in a while I give her a few doobies. She suffers from severe anxiety and smoking helps her. But I didn’t know she belonged to a dessert ring. And it’s her business. So mind yours.”

  “Dougal, listen up. The police …”

  “No, you listen. I told you I’m not growing any more after this crop is harvested. It’s almost ready now, but I don’t have time to deal with it until I complete the cross-pollination. So, put a lid on it and get out. But come back before dinner time with another report. I’m having company tonight and don’t want you underfoot.”

  “And, that’s another thing. Melanie—”

  “Don’t say her name again.”

  “But you have to know how unprofessional a relationship is between a therapist and client.”

  “Bliss, stop trying to control other people’s lives. I’m not your child, so stop mothering me. Why don’t you find a man, any man, and get pregnant. Then you can smother the poor kid with unwanted advice and leave me alone.”

  “Fuck you, then.”

  “No, fuck you. And get out.”

  I was fuming. From here on, Dougal and Glory could smoke and eat cannabis until their ears fell off, or they were arrested, whichever came first.

  Chapter

  TWENTY-FIVE

  I pushed my debit card and the notice of taxes across to the teenaged clerk behind the counter. She glanced at them, then said, “I’m so sorry. Would you wait one moment, please?” She turned back to her desk and picked up her phone. I tried to relax. I had time to kill before I could check on Sif again and report back to Dougal, then instruct the Thursday evening yoga class at the Golden Goddess. After that, both Rae and my part bottle of wine would be waiting for me in Hemp Hollow to keep the haunts away.

  The size-zero teenager finally put the phone down and returned to the counter.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Bains, but the debit card reader is malfunctioning.” She had trouble with the last word, and I wondered if she knew what it meant.

  “You can call me Ms. Cornwall. And you are…?”

  “Oh, hi. I’m Alyce. With a Y.”

  “Hi, Alyce. If your debit card machine isn’t working, then I’ll give you a cheque.” I reached into my purse and pulled my chequebook out. “Do you have a pen?”

  “Yes, but you’ll have to come back tomorrow.”

  “Okay, why? Don’t you accept cheques?”

  “Well, yes, but only if it’s post-dated.”

  “How about if I write tomorrow’s date on the cheque?”

  “That would only work if your taxes were due today.”

  “Excuse me? You mean I can’t give you a post-dated cheque today that’s dated tomorrow? Alyce, that’s a post-dated cheque.”

  Alyce’s eyes welled up.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Bains, I mean, Mrs. Cornwall. You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”

  “How about if I go across to the bank and get the cash? Then you can stamp this notice as paid and I won’t have to come back tomorrow.”

  “We don’t accept cash, Mrs. Cornwall.” The blue, mascara-rimmed eyes overflowed.

  “Since when did cash become non-legal currency?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Can you get your supervisor, Alyce?”

  “No. There’s nobody here but me.”

  “Never mind, Alyce. I’ll come back tomorrow. If you can guarantee that my taxes will not be overdue.”

  “Oh, certainly, Mrs. Cornwall. I’m sure tomorrow will be fine.”

  “It’s Ms. Cornwall, Alyce. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Not at all sure that tomorrow would be fine, I left Alyce in her Wonderland and sped down the hall to the mayor’s office.

  The Office of Mayor of Lockport was just a part-time job. Running Crooked Lawyers R Us with his wife from a sleek office in a professional building at the south end of town monopolized the rest of the Weasel’s week.

  On the off chance that he was putting in one of his mayoral hours, I knocked and turned the knob.

  Mike looked up as I dropped into the visitor’s chair and breathed out a dramatic sigh.

  “Boy, wasn’t that something in the woods this morning?”

  “What do you want, Bliss?”

  “Just my half of our assets.”

  “We don’t have anything left to discuss. I made you an offer and you turned it down. End of story.”

  “Au contraire, mon ennemi. Let’s discuss the wetland you are reportedly donating to the province. That wouldn’t be my swamp, would it, Mike?”

  “That has nothing to do with your settlement.”

  “I’m so glad to hear it. I was afraid you thought you still owned that habitat for endangered spotted turtles.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Beads of sweat popped out on Mike’s tanned forehead.

  “What happened? Did the paper leak the story a week or two early?”

  He lifted himself halfway out of his chair, then subsided and pasted a look of practised detachment on his face. I hid my satisfaction.

  “Did you think I would forfeit the land and you could swoop in and pick it up for taxes owing?”

  He didn’t respond. His air of indifference might be an effective strategy in a courtroom, but I was immune to the ploy.

  “Andrea and I will publically refute any claims you make regarding mistreatment or illegalities. Your mental instability is public knowledge.”

  “Andrea can kiss my ass. And so can you, Mike.”

  “Point proven.”

  “That I’m unstable? Maybe. But even if I end up in the psych ward, I promise that you will not be elected to any office other than this one.” My eyes swept the shabby room.

  He sneered. “You’re out of your league, Bliss. Andrea and I are on our way to Ottawa, and there’s nothing you can do to stop us.”

  I pulled the picture out of the inner pocket of my jacket.

  “You might want to look at this before you make such a rash statement, Mike. Remember this? It was taken in our last year at university.”

  He reached for it, but I pulled it back. Twenty-one-year-old Bliss, sexy as hell, sat on Mike Bains’s lap. Mike was wearing a top hat and holding a cigarette to his lips. But, wait. The cigarette was misshapen, discoloured, impossible to mistake for anything than what it was.

  “Remember that party at your frat house, Mike? You had a lot to drink and smoked a doobie. And here it is, captured for all time.”

  “You smoked one too!”

  “Actually, I didn’t. Not that it matters, since I’m not running for public office.”

  “Everybody was smoking. I shouldn’t be penalized for doing what everyone else was doing.”

  “I agree. And you can have this photo, with one wee string attached.”

  Before I closed the door on his stricken face, I said, “For the price I wrote on that piece of paper at Timmy’s, you can have the swamp and this picture. A bargain. Run it by Andrea.”

  Chapter

  TWENTY-SIX

  When I reached the street, I sat down on the curb beside my bike. My hands shook so hard I was afraid the key would fall from my fingers.

  What if Mike offered me a settlement? I would have no idea if it was fair, and, knowing him, it wouldn’t be. What figure did I write on the piece of paper at Timmy’s? Some forethought would have been wise, Cornwall.

  “There you are, Moonbeam.”

  “Thea. Hi.”

  The municipal offices and the police station shared a building. It was necessary to walk by the police nerve centre to reach the staircase to the second floor where the mayor and councillors met once a month to draft by-laws the townspeople ignored.

  Thea had changed to her summer uniform of a short-sleeved light-blue shirt. Her gizmo-laden duty belt had to weigh twenty pounds, and from my vantage point I could see dangling handcuffs, baton,
flashlight, a radio, and, of course, the holstered gun.

  “What, no shorts, Thea? You must be really warm in those long pants.”

  “No warmer than your jeans, Moonbeam. By the way, you’re looking even more fractured than this morning in the field. Has something else happened?”

  “I refuse to think about this morning. Anyway, things are coming together for me, Thea. A few more days and I should be solvent and able to decide what to do with the rest of my life.”

  “Sincerely glad to hear it. But why are you sitting on the curb in full view of Chief Redfern’s office window?”

  I looked up at the first-floor windows, but with the sun reflecting off the glass the entire Lockport force could be watching and I wouldn’t see them.

  “Ah. So he sent you out here to move me along. Okay, I’ll go. It won’t do to have a vagrant littering the streets of Lockport.”

  “Not at all, Moonbeam. I think the chief prefers you under his watchful eye rather than running around ingesting illegal substances or pitching epic fits. That’s a direct quote, by the way, not necessarily my opinion.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “He suggested we attach a tracking device to your ankle, and I’m not sure he was kidding.”

  “Thanks for the heads up.”

  “Okay, Moonbeam, now that my attempt at humour has so clearly relaxed you, I have something more serious to discuss.”

  “Shit, you’re not going to arrest me for Julian Barnfeather’s murder, are you? I thought we were past that.”

  “What? No.”

  I stood up. “Okay, what is it?”

  “That man you found in the woods today, name of Fitzgerald Corwin?”

  “I remember.”

  “Well, the coywolf didn’t kill him.”

  “It was eating him, Thea.”

  “There’s no denying that. But Mr. Corwin died from multiple blows from a sharp device like a hatchet or axe. You’re not going to faint, are you?”

  “Hardly. Why didn’t Redfern tell me himself this morning in Hemp Hollow?”