Corpse Flower: A Cornwall and Redfern Mystery

by Gloria Ferris

  “Well, thanks. You don’t have to look over my shoulder. This is my personal business.”

  “Get real. I’d be surprised if you had the price of a doughnut.” But he moved away and surveyed his damaged toes.

  My balance confirmed I did have the price of a doughnut, barely. Something better happen before my rent was due, or humiliation at the gas pump would be the least of my problems.

  “Thanks, and sorry about your toe.” I wasn’t sorry at all, but had kept to my promise not to drop the F-bomb today, and apologizing seemed to be in keeping with the new me. I was beginning to think that my involuntary ingestion of pot — twice — had mellowed me out. It better be temporary.

  “Whatever. Just make sure you keep your antique BlackBerry on,” Dougal responded. “Tonight’s the night, and I don’t want to have to wait for you. Actually, it might be better if you stay right here. I think there’s a piece of take-out pizza left in the fridge if you’re hungry.”

  “Tempting, but no. I have things to do. But I won’t be far away, so just call and I’m here.”

  “You better be.” He logged off and limped away to the solarium. Simon was still sitting on the edge of the desk, regarding me with his black-pebble eyes, head cocked to one side.

  “I couldn’t go on without you,” he said solemnly, then jumped off the desk and skittered down the hall in Dougal’s wake. The female voice he used was familiar, and once I placed it I suspected I would have the name of Dougal’s paramour. Hopefully, some skank wasn’t planning to take advantage of him. Dougal was no dummy, but he hadn’t been what you might call emotionally stable since Glory threw him out.

  I inched my way along Dougal’s front walkway. The sky was dull, without stars or moon, and the street lamps lining Pinewood Avenue flickered to life as I started the Savage. Thick fog lay close to the ground, disappearing and recurring so sporadically that, by the time I reached the end of Dougal’s street, my eyes were burning from the strain of seeking substance within the mist.

  When I saw Fern Brickle getting out of her car in her driveway, I steered the bike to the curb.

  “Mrs. Brickle. Hello.” I walked closer so she would be able to see me through the haze.

  “Bliss? What are you doing out on such a nasty night? You should be snug at home with the fire on and some hot food inside you. That air off the lake feels just like October instead of June.”

  “I could say the same thing to you, Mrs. Brickle. This is not the weather for you to be driving around.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t driving very far, dear. I was just over at the MacPhersons’. I guess you heard what happened at the cemetery?”

  “I did. But I understand no charges will be laid, so you and the others shouldn’t worry.”

  “I know that, dear. That nice young police chief explained that the Crown Attorney was unlikely to prosecute. But our group wanted to meet to discuss our path forward.”

  “What did you decide?”

  “There is no point in pursuing the cultivation of our own medication. The police took down our names and, no doubt, they will be keeping an eye on us.”

  You think?

  “I don’t believe Chief Redfern would tolerate a second transgression by our little group. But he’s a very good-looking young man, don’t you think?” She peered into my face.

  “He’s not ugly, I guess. Anyway, what happened with Julian Barnfeather? Did he find where you were growing it?” I had the official version from Redfern. But I wanted the truth.

  Fern leaned more heavily on her cane. “We started growing cannabis in the Settlers’ Plot last year. We barely harvested enough to meet our needs, and it wasn’t terribly effective since we just chopped up the whole plant and used it in baking. Then we tried to smoke it, but some of us had never smoked before and we made quite a mess of it. It didn’t feel right either. Somehow, if we put it in our food, it didn’t seem so unlawful.”

  “What happened when Julian found it?”

  “That man was evil. I’m sorry he’s dead, and even sorrier that his death was at our hands, however inadvertently, but once he found our cannabis, he just took over. He told us he would keep our secret for a share of the harvest. In a way, he helped by taking the plants to someone who actually baked the resin from the buds into desserts for us — a stronger product. Julian delivered the baked goods to me, and the group met every Thursday to play a little bridge and sample the dessert of the week. Then each member of the group took home a supply. But with Julian’s share, our medicine just didn’t go as far as we needed it to. In any case, a scuffle ensued last Saturday. I don’t want to go into details, but I hope you believe we never meant for Julian to die.”

  “I believe you, Mrs. Brickle. What are you going to do now?”

  “Those of us with chronic conditions, like my arthritis, will register for the government program. First, we have to find a doctor to prescribe cannabis as a medication, which we couldn’t do before. The legally grown cannabis is said to be inferior to the kind you can buy from dealers or grow personally, but now we have no choice. Those with more acute conditions, like cancer, well, they will have to rely on drugs that will affect their cognitive functions and make their remaining months or years less tolerable.”

  We were both silent for a moment as the mist gathered around us like a third entity silently eavesdropping on our discussion.

  Then Mrs. Brickle said, “I know what people will think of us. Cannabis is an illegal substance and we misused it, or that’s what they will believe. But I would do it again, and, as a matter of fact, our group decided we’ll join an organization to actively promote the legal use of marijuana as a medical drug.”

  A picture of Mrs. Brickle and her cohorts marching on Parliament Hill was a vivid one. Maybe I could drive the bus.

  “Mrs. Brickle, I’m sure nobody is going to judge you. If anyone gives you a hard time, just call me and I’ll take him down for you.”

  That was the best I had to offer, and to my surprise she laughed.

  “Bless you, Bliss, you are a true warrior. Now help me with my key and then get yourself home. I’ll expect you next Wednesday afternoon, as usual.”

  After I saw Fern safely indoors, I called Rae to tell her I wouldn’t be at the motel until quite late and possibly not at all that night. She sounded bored with motel living, but said she would leave a lamp lit in the window in case I made it.

  I rummaged in my saddlebag for my leather gloves and pulled them on. I had lied to Dougal when I said I had things to do. I just didn’t want to hang around old home week in the solarium, listening to frat house stories or learning how to grow bigger, faster-growing Titan Arums.

  I planted my warrior butt on the damp seat and aimed the Savage into the fog.

  Chapter

  FORTY-TWO

  My stomach focused on the hot coffee and buttery croissant I planned to order at Timmy’s. It was the perfect place to hole up until Dougal’s call summoned me back to transport the sacred pollen. Already I had forgotten which pollen was to be gathered first.

  As I turned onto Main Street, I noticed a dim light radiating from within the heart of the Good Shepherd Cemetery.

  I pulled the bike to the curb and tried to see through the fog. At that time of the evening, there should be no one working in the cemetery. But the light seemed to come from the area between the squat office building and the maintenance shed where Julian had been found.

  My footfalls sounded like thunderclaps in my ears. I ran across the road and pushed my face against the locked gates. The iron bars felt clammy against my skin.

  I pulled my head away and looked around at the empty street. No footsteps, no voices penetrated the white fog. In the parallel world of my imagination, this could be a London streetscape at the end of the nineteenth century, smog-bound and silent, with only dim illumination cast from hissing gas lamps. Jack the Ripper might glide up to me any minute and introduce himself.

  In the real world, I easily fit through the junction betwe
en fence and gate post. If teenagers were knocking over headstones, they would soon face the wrath of Bliss Moonbeam Cornwall.

  White puffs of mist floated among the graves, as ethereal as the spirits of those who rested there. I kept my eye on the light ahead, still unable to gauge its origin.

  The patches of fog interfered with my sense of direction, and the cemetery that was as familiar to me as the back of my hand became a minefield. Tombstones slammed me in the stomach. Claw-like branches raked my face and neck.

  With a grunt, quickly muted, I slid over the top of a rectangular stone — is it you, Alistair Parks? — and landed heavily against a smaller marker. Rolling away, my fingers sank into soft earth, newly turned.

  Fucking hell! A new grave. It had to be Julian Barnfeather’s. Ordinarily, the cemetery held no fears for me, but rolling around on Julian’s grave conjured up every horror movie I had ever seen, as well as the entire Buffy the Vampire Slayer series. With visions of a grisly hand reaching up to pull me in, I took off on all fours.

  At that point, I knew what a stupid decision it had been to enter the cemetery. Damn my impulsive nature. I was fucked.

  I turned until I located the yellow orb, enticing as a fairy light. Voices murmured through the mist. They seemed to come from behind me, in front of me, even from the treetops.

  Reason told me to find the fence, follow it to the gate, and get the hell out of there. But curiosity compelled me to find out why people were talking in the cemetery on a foggy evening. I hoped to find a couple of kids sitting in a circle with an Ouija board, trying to raise a spirit.

  Placing one foot carefully in front of the other and feeling ahead with my hands, I moved between the markers of the dead.

  I stood behind a massive monument to the affluent Bowles family who were related to Glory on her mother’s side. The fifteen-foot-high obelisk was wide enough for me and two of my best friends to hide behind, if I had that many friends stupid enough to accompany me to the cemetery in the dead of night.

  Two mausoleums stood straight ahead. I recalled that the iron doors of both structures were fitted with modern padlocks, the keys probably resting with the Cemetery Board or the families. And perhaps available to the cemetery’s maintenance supervisor, Julian?

  My mind apparently had already made the leap between Julian’s activities in the cemetery with the Friends of the Settlers and what Redfern had told me at Tim Hortons. Like, there were things about Julian he couldn’t yet divulge. And he told me to stay out of the cemetery.

  For some reason, I had been leaning away from the notion that Redfern was a crooked cop. Unless he was here in the cemetery.

  I glanced around the monument. Two figures bobbed in and out of the haze, their forms too indistinct for me to recognize.

  Then one of the figures spoke again and my blood stopped circulating.

  “Is that the last of it?” Snake’s gravelly voice travelled through the mist.

  Crap.

  For a moment, the fog parted and I saw the mausoleums clearly in the illumination of a Coleman lantern. The door to the one on the right hung agape. Two men stooped over the ground, their backs to my hiding place.

  The mist enfolded the scene again. Only the lantern continued to throw its feeble glow toward me.

  “We’re done here. Let’s pack up and get the hell out. The whole police force could be watching us.” The second man spoke, but I didn’t recognize the voice. Not Redfern, I realized with relief.

  At that moment, my cell rang.

  Chapter

  FORTY-THREE

  “The cops. Move!”

  “Not cops. Wait here.”

  If I had the brains God gave a flounder, I would have dropped the BlackBerry on the ground and hightailed it out of that cemetery.

  I managed to silence the phone before the third ring, noting that Blyth, not Dougal, was trying to reach me. I flattened myself against the Bowles memorial and tried to become part of the stone.

  I hoped the fog had thrown the shrill sound of the cellphone far across the cemetery, so the two men would head away from me. I tried to still my breathing, but instead took a huge gulp of air. I was afraid the sound would lead the men directly to me.

  The remnants of my courage took flight as I heard a twig snap within a yard of my hiding place. I stepped back to get my bearings, and the hesitation was nearly my undoing.

  A menacing shape loomed out of the fog. A hand brushed my jacket as I yelped in primal terror and sprinted into the dark. I wasn’t sure if Snake or the faceless accomplice was after me. It didn’t matter.

  I hoped I wouldn’t knock myself senseless trying to blindly run through the randomly placed tombstones. My pursuer followed close behind me and I nearly impaled myself on the stony sword brandished by a seven-foot angel who, I knew from experience, was glaring down at me, eyes aflame with righteousness. The sword scraped my temple, but I now knew I was close to the entrance gates.

  Heavy footfalls pounded toward me — too close. I dropped behind a headstone and lowered my chin to my knees. Panting, the man paused, inches away, his boots twisting and turning, searching for me. I pulled my jacket over my face, hoping to muffle my own breathing.

  Finally, he moved away, his footsteps scuffing through the grass, until the sounds of wheezing and shuffling were swallowed by the curtain of vapour. I heard a muffled yelp, followed by a string of obscenities. He must have fallen over a headstone. I crawled from stone to stone, pausing behind each to listen, expecting at any instant to collide with my pursuer.

  At no time during this terrifying hunt did I consider confronting the man. Every instinct demanded flight and evasion.

  I smothered a cry of relief when I felt the brick path beneath my scrabbling fingers. I was in a dangerous state of panic, no longer caring if my ragged breathing gave away my position. As the last vestiges of reason collapsed, I leaped to my feet and ran.

  I was approximately three feet from the iron gates. The impact dropped me to my knees, while the night blazed with a thousand sparkling lights.

  I lost the will to resist the F-word, and used it several times as I clutched the bars to pull myself up. Heavy hands gripped my shoulders, and I twisted around in horror.

  “Got you!”

  I recognized Snake’s raspy voice.

  As the hands tightened, I did what every threatened, red-blooded woman would do in my place.

  I kneed him in the nuts and, with all my remaining strength, gave his chest a shove. He hit the ground with a satisfying thud.

  He writhed at my feet, groaning, while I frantically searched for the gap in the fence. Hesitation was a mistake. A hand encircled my ankle and tightened. I kicked him in the head with my free foot, struggling to maintain my balance. He howled in agony and released me. I squeezed through the opening.

  Freedom was fleeting. I barely had time to absorb the sight of lights and movement when another figure materialized out of the shadows and grasped my shoulder.

  Reason deserted me. Did Snake de-materialize in the cemetery and reappear on the sidewalk? A hand covered my mouth and I was lifted off the ground.

  I bit down, and my captor pulled his hand away but didn’t release his grip. I dangled several feet off the ground, and the situation seemed painfully familiar.

  “Goddamn it all to hell. I might have known it was you.” Rage and frustration radiated from the voice near my ear.

  “Oh, fuck.”

  Chapter

  FORTY-FOUR

  No words were exchanged while an officer opened the rear door of the squad car and Redfern tossed me in. At least he didn’t handcuff me. I tried to tell him I was expecting a call and might have to leave soon, but he slammed the door so hard I was surprised the window held up.

  Someone arrived with a key to the cemetery gates and, after it was opened wide, men and women rushed in and out like crazed shoppers on Boxing Day.

  It started to rain and, between the water running down the windows and the fog, I wasn’t able t
o see what the cops were doing. I assumed they were hunting for my attacker, although nobody had asked about that. As a matter of fact, Redfern hadn’t asked me anything. I gnawed my nails and hoped I would be released before Dougal called, or I could kiss my thousand dollars arrivederci.

  After what seemed like many hours, but may have been less, I had to pee really badly and was starting to worry about the air quality in the vehicle. Redfern could have cracked a window at least. I was about to hammer on the window to attract attention when the big chief himself opened the driver’s door and jumped in.

  I scratched on the grill separating me from the front seat.

  “Listen, Redfern, I have to go to the bathroom, so could you let me off …”

  “Shut. The. Fuck. Up. Cornwall.”

  The volume at which my name was roared rattled my eardrums, and I sat back in shock. The blood rushed to my head, but before I had time to throw a fit, we arrived at the police station.

  Redfern slammed the brakes on and leaped out of the vehicle, almost in the same motion.

  “Out,” he ordered.

  “Give me a minute while I peel my face off the grill.” There had to be a law requiring the drivers of police cars to belt in their jailbirds.

  He pointed at the steps. “Up.”

  In the vestibule, I tried again. “I have to go to the bathroom. Seriously.”

  “In. My. Office. Now.”

  “Okay, then, but remember what happened last time I was here? Try getting pee off your boots.”

  He marched me down the hall to a small, unmarked door.

  “In.”

  It was a unisex bathroom that didn’t smell great, but any port in a storm. I sat down and sighed in contentment. There was a small mirror fastened to the wall over the sink, and I caught sight of my reflection while washing my hands. My hair stood out around my face in a wild tangle of witch locks and dried blood streaked my forehead — a souvenir from the angel’s sword in the cemetery. It was impossible to distinguish darkening bruises from the graveyard grime that tinted even my lips. Roadkill looked better after three days by the side of the road. I sniffed my armpits. At least I didn’t smell quite as bad as roadkill. I thought about trying to wash my face, but figured it wouldn’t help much. Fuck it.