Dark blossoming, p.24
Dark Blossoming, page 24
“A bargain. You should take it out.”
I pushed the hair from my face and burned my tongue on the coffee. “It’s my navel.”
“I have to look ...” he quit talking and headed for the door. “I’m making you breakfast. Five minutes. I’m giving Glory the letter from Bert.”
“Did I tell you about the time she threw an entire set of Waterford crystal glasses at me during a tantrum?”
“You’ll be fine. I’ll protect you.”
I waded through the mounds of clothing in front of the closet. So far, storing my clothes on the floor wasn’t working to get me a new bathroom and closet. Don’t get me wrong. It would take an entire book to tell the story, but I had the money to pay for a luxury bathroom and combination dressing room/walk-in closet without hitting up our joint accounts. But, I suspected it would be a big mistake not to include Neil’s wishes in the matter. He could reciprocate by buying a tent trailer and expecting me to camp out in it. Or, a rustic cabin, with a canoe bobbing in a nearby babbling brook ... Hell no!
I kicked over a neat pile of my clean sweatshirts on the floor and spaced out his clothes hanging in the closet until it looked like there was no room for mine. Dressed, and with my hair corralled into a makeshift updo, I mooched into the kitchen. Neil dished me up a plate of scrambled eggs and a single piece of toast. He refilled my mug.
I scanned the counter for more food. “You were supposed to buy the groceries this week.”
“We have plenty. After we deliver the letter to Glory, I’ll take you to lunch at the Wing Nut.”
“I’ll be in no state to eat after Her Eminence reads it. Call the paramedics to stand by. For us.”
“We’ll drop it and run. Pan can comfort her while she digests the contents and comes to terms with it.”
That didn’t sound like my empathetic husband, but he could be right. Sometimes people don’t react the way we expect. She’d be fine. “You’re not going to give her the will?”
“Once I verify the signatures with the lawyer who drew it up. Not today.”
I filled a travel mug and called shotgun on the passenger seat. Bean gave me the fish eye but hopped into the back and stuck her head between the front seats. I patted her nose but she rested her head on Neil’s arm. Fine, let her pout.
I waited in the Jeep while Neil went into the station to make a copy of the letter. To pass the time, I googled the Wing Nut’s menu, including today’s specials. I was torn between the stuffed chicken breast with roasted potatoes, and the grilled halibut with a side of poutine.
With Neil out of the vehicle, Bean pulled her head into the back and lay on the seat. I said, “Remember the day when my blond god of carnal delights brought you home? It was up to me whether you stayed or moved on to the animal shelter. Never forget that.”
She snuffled and pretended to fall asleep, but sprang back to life when Neil returned.
He set a neatly-folded letter in my lap. “Hold that, would you?”
On the short drive to Glory’s Tudor manor in Arlington Woods, the letter felt warm against my thighs. I was relieved when Neil turned into Glory’s driveway before the evil words burst into flame on the page.
On the stone stoop, I realized I clutched the letter, and shoved it at Neil. Not my job. A harried Pan opened the door to us. “In the drawing room. I’ll bring some appetizers.” After imparting those few words, he disappeared. Good, food on the way.
I watched Glory closely. Typically, she frowned at the arrival of spontaneous visitors, although she made an effort to be cordial for Neil’s sake. If I showed up alone and uninvited, I’d be out the door again, toute de suite.
I parked myself on an ornate antique chair near the sideboard. The sight of a new set of sherry glasses sent me to a seat closer to the hallway entrance. I let Neil make polite talk at Glory from a red leather armchair that picked up shades from the Turkish carpet.
Neil handed the letter to Glory, explaining where it was found. Her eyes narrowed as they slid my way, and I focused on the chandelier. Fuck, a cobweb glistened among the crystal drops. I took out my phone and sent a text to the team that cleaned for Glory on Thursdays. Oddly, this elegant house spawned cobwebs no matter how often my teams cleaned it top to bottom. I swear the spiders mistook her frequent yowling for mating calls and came running.
My attention swung back to Glory when she emitted a sharp screech, unlike anything I’d heard come out of her mouth before. She sucked air, then gasped, unable to exhale. The wheezing sounds were frightening as she tried to expel the air from her lungs. Neil had his phone ready. He punched a number and barked at the person on the other end. “Now!”
Pan hovered in the doorway. I called to him, “Do you have a small, paper bag? Bring it here.” He disappeared, and I smacked Glory between her shoulder blades. The air whooshed from her lungs but she struggled to draw more in.
Pan returned with the bag, threw it at me, and fled. I pouched the opening and held it to her mouth. She gave me a murderous glare but couldn’t help gasping into the bag. She dug her talons into my forearms, but I held the bag in place until she breathed semi-normally.
With the bag still shoved against her lips, I said to Neil, “You can cancel the paramedics. She’ll be fine in a minute.”
The Diva’s breathing slowed and I took the bag away. In my opinion, she dealt with the news better than anticipated.
Dabbing at her cheeks, she said, “That horrible creature had feelings for me, a child! If my dad had known, he would have castrated Bert with a bread knife, then stabbed him in the heart with it. Bert would have died 25 years ago.”
If only. Hundreds of women and girls would have been saved from Bert’s perverted attentions.
After a brief sojourn for tea and mushroom-cheese appetizers, Pan assured us that he would call if another crisis developed.
This time, Neil boosted me into the Jeep by my butt. He did that only when pleased with me. “Are you still hungry?”
“You betcha. What good are a few appetizers?” At the Wing Nut, we both ordered the grilled halibut and poutine, and I enjoyed a glass of the house wine while we waited. White, to complement the fish. Since I can’t shovel food into my mouth while conversing, the meal was mostly silent. Yummy. When I placed the knife and fork on the empty plate, I was unprepared for Neil’s question.
“How did your grandfather die? You never said.”
He took my hands in his, but I pulled them free, one part of my brain surprised at his uncharacteristic public display of affection. “Why are you asking me about that now?”
“I figured you might not run away from me in a restaurant. When Heidi took me to her property, she said I should ask you about his death. She wouldn’t talk about it.”
Rage beat its jagged wings inside my head. My grandmother could have saved me from a painful discussion with my husband about Grandpa’s death, or at least paved the way for me to tell him. This turned into a day to confront hard truths. First Glory, now me.
“I told you I used to go to my grandparents’ place after school most days. That day, Grandpa didn’t meet me at the bus stop at the end of the road. Sometimes, he had a nap in the afternoon so I walked to the house. Heidi’s car was gone. She likely went into town for an appointment or groceries, and I was disappointed because she always had a treat for me, ice cream or cookies. As you can imagine, we never really talked much but she made sure I had lots to eat. When. I was 12, Blyth quit coming with me. She had a lot of high school friends she hung out with.
“I went into the house first, but didn’t see grandpa sleeping in his chair. I checked the bedroom, too. I was annoyed because he was always there. I went outside and it was really quiet, just the bird and squirrel noises. I called for him but he didn’t answer. I turned to go back to the house to call my mother when I saw him lying on the grass at the edge of the forest. I ran over and saw the chainsaw lying beside him. He was drenched with blood.”
I stopped, the image so vivid in my mind after 20 years. I smelled the rich copper of Grandpa’s blood and heard the breeze rustling the leaves.
“Bliss.” Neil reached across the table, but I pushed back in the chair. Once started, I had to finish.
“Blood covered everything around him, the grass, the branch he cut, even the chainsaw. His skin was so white, I knew every last drop had drained out. He had a long gash in his neck.”
Neil moved his chair around the table next to mine. “Tell me the rest.”
“I knew he was dead. I held his hand until Heidi’s car drove in. She found us there and didn’t say anything for a long while. Finally, she went into the house and called an ambulance but, of course, it didn’t matter. Since I had blood all over me, they took me to the hospital, too, and I got to sit with Grandpa for a while longer in the ambulance, until we got to the hospital and my parents came. That’s it. I never wanted to talk about it.”
“Did you receive counselling afterwards?” He reached for my hand and, this time, I let him take it.
“Lockport didn’t boast therapists 20 years ago. My parents made me talk to the school guidance counsellor — totally untrained to handle trauma, by the way — and I had no trouble recounting the basics: I found my grandpa dead, covered in blood. When I didn’t talk about it unless prompted, my parents figured I was fine. I hid the trauma away in a dark, secret place in my mind and moved on. Now you know why you can’t have a chainsaw.”
We ordered coffee and stayed in the restaurant with noisy chatter and laughter happening around us until the supper crowd trickled in.
We drove home in silence to reaffirm our life forces in the way people do when tragedy is encountered or remembered.
CHAPTER 53
Bliss
I dispatched the two Monday deadbeats in a record half hour. One of them broke and begged me not to call the Better Business Bureau which was not a threat I had ever used, but would going forward. Bottom line, a good start to a blustery fall day with low, black clouds hanging over Lake Huron, depressing as hell.
Glory was absent from the greenhouse and hadn’t sent me orders for the afternoon. I stayed at my desk and composed a text to my cleaning staff. I reported on the unhygienic status at Groper High. Most of them had young children, and I asked them to fill me in on the three elementary schools in Lockport. Pictures would be appreciated.
My belly button itched like crazy, and burned when I scratched it. Into town I went to confront Ian Mueller. Let him try and charge me for the crystal.
I edged around a chrome-laden Harley outside the tattoo shop and went in. Ian’s needle buzzed in time with the old-fashioned bell hung over the front door. An over-the-hill biker dude slumped in a chair, stoically staring into space. Stoned. His right hand was strapped to a table and the needle hovered over his middle knuckle.
Ian glanced over his shoulder and shut off the needle. “You forgot to pay me for the crystal. At half price, that’ll be 62 bucks, tax included.”
I approached and pulled up my shirt. “Is this infected?”
Biker guy straightened. “Alright. Floor show!”
“Calm down, Dave. We’ll have none of that in here.” Ian bent down. “That’s an allergic reaction. Guess you’re intolerant to stainless steel. I’ll take it out and replace it with a sterling silver spike. No charge. Shall I pierce anything else today?”
“No. What can I put on this to make the itch go away? It’s driving me insane.”
He switched the needle to his left hand and wrote something on a pad of paper with his right. Ripping the top page off and holding it out, he said, “You can pick this up at the drug store. But, unless the spike is changed out, it won’t heal. Now, will that be cash or card?”
“I have a question.”
“Make it snappy. Dave’s herbal anaesthetic is wearing off fast, and no smoking allowed in here.”
“What’s the date you tattooed Henry Rittenhouse’s first butt cheek?”
Both men glared at me. Apparently, a guy’s butt cheek was a private matter. Except in a murder enquiry. Despite Neil’s and Bernie’s wavering, Bert did not fly off his staircase into space on his own.
“None of your business,” Ian leaned over Dave and activated his needle.
“It’s a simple question, and an important one,” I shouted at him. “Answer me and I’ll go away. Plus, I’ll pay you for screwing up my bellybutton.”
The needle shut off again, and Dave groaned. He could’ve been howling all along, but the buzzing drowned him out.
“It’s a deal, especially the going away part. I inked Henry’s ass, the right cheek, two weeks ago Tuesday.” On went the needle.
“What time?”
Dave squealed and pulled a crumpled joint out of his pocket. Ian ripped it from Dave’s mouth and tossed it into a trash can filled with bloodied paper towels.
“You really need to know? Henry was my second customer that day, around 10 o’clock. Finished about four hours later. If you have the cash, place it on the counter and vamoose. If not, give it to me at the next council meeting.”
I’d been kicked out of equally-inhospitable places of business. I dug through my battered tote. “I only have $58.60.”
“Good enough.”
The bat orchid I’d dropped off weeks ago decorated the counter space beside the cash register. “You’ve kept this thing alive longer than most.”
“Plants are cool. All they want out of life is a little care. Bye now.”
“Whatever.” I waved at the biker. “See you around, Dave. Remember, if you feel the fear, drop a gear.”
Bert died sometime between Tuesday noonish, two weeks ago, to early the next morning. I didn’t like Henry for the deed. He was either being tattooed or nursing his sore butt. He probably couldn’t sit in his truck and drive for several days after, let alone walk without crying. I’d tell Neil what I found out, but Henry went to the bottom of my suspect list. It would be interesting to hear Henry’s account of the money he owed Bert.
I left my car in front of Ciera’s shop and walked up to Main Street and DeLong’s Pharmacy. Since the lineup at the counter was four customers long, I opened the tube and discreetly applied the antihistamine cream while waiting my turn. The clerk picked up the tube with the indentation in the middle, then squinted at me.
“Would you like to see my rash?”
“That’s okay.” She rang me through.
I should have checked the sidewalk before leaving the drugstore. Preoccupied with not scratching, I ran straight into Ronda Rittenhouse taking verbal swings at Cranston Kirk who would be her half-great-uncle.
She shoved me away and rammed her index finger into Cranston’s paunch “You leave my Henry out of this. If anyone shoved that old lech down his own stairs, it was you.” Another hard prod emphasised the last word.
Cranston withstood the assault and fired back, “That old lech was my half-brother. Which trumps whatever tenuous relationship you shared with him. Meaning, his estate is mine. Got it? Good.” He removed his stomach from Ronda’s finger and strode away, leaving behind a strong odour of peppermint.
Ronda’s scarlet face warred with the orange of her hair, and we won’t even discuss her purple hoodie and yellow jeans.
“One way or another, you’ll get what you deserve, and it won’t be Bert’s estate.” She yelled after him, then caught sight of me perched on the outside sill of the pharmacy window. “Where did you come from?”
What a dumbass remark. “Just passing.”
“Well, did you hear? That man keeps saying he’s Bert’s brother. Where’s his proof?”
“It’s true,” I said, backing out of her swinging range. “Bert had a much younger half-brother. I’m surprised you didn’t know.”
“I told you my family never discussed Bert, or any half-brother. Are you sure?”
“Positive. Cranston Kirk is the closest blood relative Bert had.”
“Well, fuck. I didn’t believe the old drunk when he came to Bert’s house.” Her narrowed eyes swept me bottom to top. “The word is, you found the will. What does it say?”
“I didn’t read it.” Lying is an art which I’ve perfected over the years, starting when my junior kindergarten teacher asked me who peed on the asphalted playground. Four-year-old me pointed at Fang, and the years have molded me into a master of the craft.
“I suppose we can’t go back into the house and look around?”
“What for? The will has been located. Wasn’t that your only mission last time? As a matter of fact, you should give the key back to the police.”
“I will not. Until that lawyer tells me different, I have the authority to enter the house.”
She stomped away in the same direction as Cranston. I was tempted to follow her in case they started up again, but there was another place I had to be. Donald Duck squawked a call from Glory, and I ignored it.
I drove down Harbour Street, noticing Heidi’s car sat alone in the lot behind her condo. I parked on Lakeshore, half a block from the Boyer Funeral Home and texted Heidi. Would she go to lunch with me? Nope, sorry but she had lunch plans already. Right.
A black sedan drove out of the funeral home parking lot, trailed by a white van. I had time to recognize Werner at the wheel of the car before both vehicles whipped along Lakeshore heading south.
With nothing more pressing to do, I followed.
CHAPTER 54
Bliss
Werner headed straight for the old Boyer funeral home next to Everdale. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t follow a suspected killer out of town but, with the van and its occupants in the mix, I’d be safe.
Once sure of his destination, I took my time, staying well back. I pulled up behind Werner’s vehicle to see him talking to two men in the front yard of the old brick building. He darted a quick glance my way, then resumed his conversation. I stayed in my Matrix when they entered the building.
He emerged ten minutes later with the moving men behind him carrying a metal coffin from the basement. Good move. In another six months, the township would own the property and its contents.
