Dark blossoming, p.5
Dark Blossoming, page 5
“Maybe she got tied up with a boyfriend.” I gave that some thought. “They say the flame of romance flickers, no matter your age.”
When Heidi returned to Lockport six weeks ago, she’d sub-let a condo on the beach, refusing my offer of a room. I doubt Dougal extended an invitation of lodging, even though he lived alone in an expansive bungalow. His girlfriend, Holly Duffett, stayed over a lot, so guess a grandmother in residence could cramp his style.
Dougal glanced down at me, then back up to the ceiling. “Isn’t she still baby-sitting Neil?”
“Not for a few days. He doesn’t require much watching now that he can eat again. She’s bound to surface soon.”
He pointed over my shoulder. “She just did.”
Heidi climbed out from behind the wheel of her car and entered the greenhouse. I almost bowled her over in the lobby. Or, the other way around. Even if she lost some height over the years, she still topped me by four or five inches. She would have been a tall girl when young.
“Ah, Bliss. Here you are. I’ve got Neil’s keys. I’m sorry to hang on to them for so long, but I thought he shouldn’t be driving yet.” She dropped both sets of keys on Ciera’s desk and turned to leave.
“Wait, Heidi. Why the rush. Got a hot date?”
Her light blue eyes flickered. “Ha. That would be something, wouldn’t it? No, I have some social things going on at the condo complex. Didn’t I mention I joined a bridge group? We’re having another lunch today and I’m bringing a casserole. Say hi to Neil for me. See you soon. Oh, bye Ciera. I didn’t notice you there.”
“Heidi! Wait up a minute. Dougal said you forgot you invited him and Holly to dinner last night. Is something wrong? You okay?”
“I’m great. I already explained to Dougal, and I’ll be contacting him soon to reschedule. I’m running late.”
I stayed until her car sped from sight, then caught Ciera’s eye and shrugged. According to Dougal, he hadn’t been able to reach Heidi.
After a text to Neil to inform him I’d be bringing home his keys, I picked up the moocher lists. Seven names. It didn’t pay to take a day off.
The problem of deadbeat customers could be solved by requiring a sizeable deposit up front, but there’s a code of honour for crazy plant people whereby they trusted each other. Not how I’d run things, but this way I had a good-paying job, with time left over to run my cleaning business, Bliss this House, and a few other side hustles like obtaining designer items for people who weren’t savvy about online shopping sites.
Initially, I had a lovely, long chat with a lady from Montreal. Since I couldn’t speak French, and she pretended not to speak English after she learned the nature of the call, we weren’t off to a great start. It wasn’t my fault every kid in the country didn’t speak both official languages. I’d love to be bilingual.
Sweat soaked my underarms by the time I got to the end of my list — the last guy spoke Hungarian or some similar consonant-laden language. I phonetically wrote down a phrase he kept repeating. After we concluded our business — I had no idea if he agreed to pay up or not — I spoke the words several times into a translation app. It appeared I had demanded that a former member of a foreign secret service fork over $771.58 in payment for a dozen rare orchids, assorted colours. Fortunately, I always used a false name. Today I called myself Paula Anka.
Afternoons, unless Glory had something for me to do, I made a few home visits to my cleaning business clients to make sure they were still satisfied with my services.
If I called ahead, they had time to manufacture complaints, so spontaneity worked for both parties. After that, home to my blond hubby and some alone time whereby I would convince him a beard would never be a good look for him.
Donald Duck quacked as I buckled my helmet. That was my ringtone for Glory and, whenever I heard it, I suffered a full-body twitch. This time, the corner of my lip twitched, too. I considered ignoring Donald and telling Glory later that my phone had fallen into the lake and I awaited a replacement.
Ah, no point. She never believed me when I told the truth, never mind my lies. I answered.
“Stop by my house and get the stack of files on my office desk. Make a copy for each councillor and take them to Chambers. Meeting tonight, 8 p.m. Be there to take minutes.” She disconnected.
The only good thing to come out of Glory Yates’ transition from wealthy, part-time botanist to all that plus mayor of Lockport, is ... where was I going with this? Oh, right, there’s nothing good about her being the mayor. She hadn’t done anything horrible yet, but it had only been a few weeks since the election. She hired me against my will to act as her assistant, making me an offer I was too weak to refuse.
So, now I used my finely-honed organizational skills to make photocopies for Her Honour’s hapless councillors. Whatever possessed them to run for office on the same ballot as Glory Yates? Was it too late to call for a recount?
As it happened, a recount would have been a waste of taxpayers’ money.
CHAPTER 11
Bliss
I doodled along the highway into town, stopped for a pumpkin spice tea at Timmies, decided not to visit any clients today, totally forgot about Neil waiting for his keys, and eventually drove into the Arlington Woods area of town where Glory and the other well-offs lived.
Three people congregated on the front wraparound porch of the Queen Anne house next to Glory’s mansion. The house belonged to Bert Thiesson or, as three generations of Lockport women referred to him, The Groper. He’d also been a town councillor for longer than I’ve been alive, and ran for mayor against Glory. Quite the choice.
None of the three people on the porch included Bert. I counted Sarah Jane Goodfellow, Bert’s neighbour on the other side; Pan, Glory’s housekeeper; and a dark-haired guy in his early twenties I didn’t recognize. He likely belonged to the landscaper’s van parked on the street in front of the house.
I pulled my bike to the curb behind the van and cut across the lawn. From the bottom of the steps, I waited to break into the conversation. I didn’t have the security code to Glory’s house, so Pan was coming with me.
The young guy peered through one of the sidelight windows but, unless he had supernatural vision that could penetrate frosted glass, what could he see?
Mrs. Goodfellow prattled at Pan, jabbing her index finger to within an inch of his forehead. He backed away and grabbed onto a post to avoid flipping over the railing.
Whatever this was, I refused to become involved. “Hey, Pan. I’m here to pick up something from Glory’s office. Can you open the door for me?”
He wiggled away from Mrs. Goodfellow’s finger and jumped off the porch. Squeezing my arm, he urged me towards the steps.
His blood had to be charged with adrenaline, since he dragged me to the top with little effort, and he stood five feet tall without his two-inch combat boots, weighing little more than my one-oh-five.
Thrusting me towards Mrs. Goodfellow, he whispered in my ear, “You deal with her. I don’t care.”
That meant I wouldn’t care either. “I’m here for some files ...’
Mrs. Goodfellow had me by the collar of my leather jacket. “Bliss Cornwall! Look at the letter box.”
“What? A newspaper?” The Lockport Sentinel to be specific. Published and delivered every Wednesday. “What about it?”
The good lady gave me a shake, still hanging onto my collar. Why are people always manhandling me? “This is Thursday. That newspaper has been sitting there since yesterday afternoon. Bert picks it up as soon as it’s delivered. The hinges of the letter box are rusty and, believe me, it makes quite a squeak when it’s opened.”
I wasn’t caring yet. “So, he hasn’t retrieved this week’s newspaper, delivered yesterday. I’m sure he has other reading material, or he’s out of town, or accessing his bank accounts. Lots of things he could be doing.”
The dark-haired man moved to the other sidelight, pressing his nose to the opaque glass. Slow learner.
Mrs. Goodfellow let go of my collar and pointed at the driveway. “His car is here.”
Indeed, a shiny black, late model Lincoln Navigator sat in the bricked driveway. For something to say, I told Pan, “Touch the hood. Is it still warm?” I thought that was funny, but no one laughed with me.
“The car hasn’t moved for days,” said the good neighbour lady. And, I bet she knew.
Bert Thiesson had to be at least 110 years old, but I didn’t voice the obvious. Instead, I asked, “Did you knock?”
Yes, they did that, the young guy adding, “I do Bert’s lawn maintenance. On Thursdays. He always leaves instructions for next week’s jobs in the mailbox. It’s not there so I knocked. Loud, for a long time.”
“That’s when I came over,” Mrs. Goodfellow chimed in. “Henry banged on the door. I was already worried, about the newspaper.”
I raised my brows at Pan. Next.
“I just got back with groceries when Mrs. G. called me over.”
I doubted that. Not the part about Mrs. G calling him over. The grocery part. Glory had her food delivered and Pan was doubtless returning from the liquor store. Why do people lie to me?
“I have one more suggestion,” I told the inept trio. “Call the police to make a wellness visit.” I edged towards the steps, pulling Pan with me.
Mrs. G. plucked at her silver bob, until she resembled an old rooster. “I don’t want to bother the police. If Bert is okay, he’ll go ballistic. We’ve been neighbours for forty years, and he’ll complain about this for the next forty ...”
I raised my voice. “Did you try the door? Is it locked?”
By their expressions, nobody had and nobody knew.
“Fuck’s sake,” I mumbled.
Bert didn’t go in for newfangled keypads. His front door sported a tarnished brass lever, not a round knob. I depressed the lever and pushed on the door, expecting — well, nothing. Most folk in Lockport didn’t lock their doors during the day but, with a nosy lady next door, I’d lock mine if I were Bert.
Wrong, wrong, wrong. The door groaned on its hinges and swung open.
The death smell hit me like a portal to the Underworld. I tried to back up, but the butt-loaf trinity prevented my retreat. By the way they crowded against me, they didn’t notice the odour.
On the off chance a moose died behind the boxes and plastic totes piled six feet high in the foyer, I called, “Mr. Thiesson.” No answer. I called louder. I didn’t plan on taking another step, but the others nudged me over the threshold.
The source of the aroma lay at the bottom of the staircase that circled up to the second floor.
On the gloomy foyer floor, a body lay halfway between the bottom stair and the door, arms and legs flung out at unnatural angles. Dark clothing had blended with the ragged antique runner, rendering the body invisible at first glance.
The others finally caught the scent, and one or two gagged. I managed to shove them back. We hit the porch boards and clattered down the steps.
Henry rammed his head into one of the dogwood bushes that surrounded the porch and vomited. Mrs. G. didn’t stop, moving fast for a woman her age, to her own porch. The door slammed, leaving Pan and me alone on the plush grass.
Pan’s olive-toned skin took on a greenish cast, and he slapped a palm over his mouth. He raced for Glory’s house. Jackrabbits line-danced up my stomach to my throat.
That left me alone on Bert Thiesson’s front lawn. I stood for a moment, swallowing hard, again and again. Could I make a phone call before puking, or should I puke first? Henry continued to go at it, loudly and effusively, which didn’t help. The front door — I should have closed it. Either the smell had attached itself to the lining of my nose, or it wafted out to contaminate the air on the lawn. Shit, the whole street might be able to detect dead Bert, except Arlington Woods dwellers were too refined to hang off their front porches and gawk.
Bypassing 911, I hit Bernie’s number, wishing with every cell in my body I could call Neil, my favourite cop, always calm and decisive ...
“Can it wait, Bliss? I’m up to my eyeballs.”
“It really can’t. I have a dead body for you.”
CHAPTER 12
Bliss
Bernie sent two of the guys to round up the missing witnesses. They pried Mrs. Goodfellow and Pan from their residences on either side of Bert’s, and then extracted Henry from the dogwoods. The landscaper had to be running on empty, although he dry-heaved every few seconds.
The three had already been interviewed by Sgt. Thea Vanderbloom. She sent me a sympathetic glance and left me to Bernie’s ministrations. Guess I was the star witness, unfair since I had nothing to do with anything in this matter. Except my fingerprints were on the lever, and I placed one foot inside the foyer. “You’ll find Henry’s finger and nose prints on the sidelights. And, mailbox.”
The setting sun changed the western sky over Lake Huron to a fiery red. A few minutes from now, a short dusk would fall over the town, then darkness. The unnatural warmth of the day faded, and I shivered, pulling the sleeves of my jacket as far over my hands as they would go.
“I’ll make a note of it. Can you tell me what happened?”
I explained to Bernie my minuscule part in finding Bert, while we both ignored the pinging and ringing of our phones. I called Neil right after contacting Bernie. Livid to be stuck without his keys, he alternately phoned and texted Bernie and me.
I said to Bernie, “Are you going to send a car for him?”
“Already done.”
“Can you tell him that, so he’ll quit harassing me?”
“He knows. He’ll be here in a couple minutes.” Bernie focused on the front door. The forensic techs — Cory and Oliver — had been in there for half an hour. Why were they taking so long?
I motioned at Bernie with my head to move away from the other miserable witnesses. He uttered a put-upon sigh but followed.
“What is it, Bliss?” His attention never wavered from the front door. I knew why.
“You have to go in there, don’t you?”
“Yes, when the boys are done.”
“You wish you weren’t Acting Chief, don’t you?”
His glance slid over to me briefly, then returned to the door. “I surely do, but nasty smells and sights are part of the job. I figured I’d done my time when I took the deputy chief’s job, but should have known better. Neil’s a hands-on chief and expects the same of me. Fair enough.”
“Well, not to add to your burdens, and I’m sure the guys will tell you this, but I noticed something in there.”
This time he groaned. “I knew it. Nothing is simple when you’re involved.”
“I’m like the Angel of Death, right?”
“More like a catalyst. You bring elements together and create a completely unexpected result.”
“You give me too much credit. Are you going to hear me out before the force of nature that is my husband and your boss arrives? I’d rather tell you. Somehow, your condescension is easier to take.”
Bernie wrapped an elbow over his nose. “Pretty sure I can smell the body from here.”
“Thank God. I thought the smell got stuck in my nose.” I put my jacket sleeve up to my face. “I hope my clothes don’t stink.”
“Me, too. Go ahead and tell me what you know. Better talk fast.”
“Okay, the quick and dirty. Unless Bert sprouted wings and flew off the top of his staircase, someone pushed him.”
I had his attention, not necessarily his credence.
“Meaning?”
“The staircase is circular with no landing. If Bert tripped and fell from the top, he’d be crumpled up on the curve. Except, he’s flat out and clear of the bottom stair by three or four feet.”
“Anything else?” He hadn’t looked at the door for maybe 10 seconds.
“I’d say someone descending the stairs behind him gave him a push after they reached the curve.”
“That it?”
I thought for a moment. “If he simply fell from the point where the staircase straightens, wouldn’t part of his body be on the bottom stairs — legs or even feet? He’s not. He’s halfway to the front door.”
“Got it, Bliss. Good points. Let’s wait until the boys come out.”
He glanced over my shoulder and added, “Here comes the boss.”
The scout, lights whirling but no siren, stopped abruptly in the middle of the street. Neil sprang from the passenger side, dressed in jeans and a padded jacket, all black which is a good colour for him with his blond hair. Not a twinge of pain appeared on his face. Must be the food he’d stuffed himself with all day, with no one around to watch him.
He bypassed the groups on the lawn, the cops, the witnesses, the lookie-loo neighbours who finally exited their mansions to watch the drama unfold.
He came directly to me and Bernie, put one arm around me and held out his free hand, palm up. I delved into my bag. It took a few minutes, but I came up with both sets of keys. He took possession without comment.
“Sorry,” he said to Bernie. “I won’t interfere, but couldn’t sit at home, waiting for word, especially with my wife in the middle of it. Again.”
“Don’t blame you a bit. I’ll update you as much as I can. Oliver and Cory haven’t come out yet.”
“Hope they have respirators. I can smell the body from here.” Unlike Bernie, Neil didn’t mind. He’d seen and smelled a lot of bad shit during his days on the Toronto drug squad. One dead old man wouldn’t throw him.
While they tossed around cop-speak, I eased myself from under Neil’s arm and away from the warmth of his body. Glory stood on the sidewalk next to my bike with Pan a few feet away. Henry and his landscaper’s truck had slipped away. As had Mrs. Goodfellow.
“I didn’t get to the files,” I told Glory. “I could be here for hours.” Like I planned to leave anytime soon. Especially for a paralyzing council meeting.
Glory wore a parka and toque, both silvery white. If the temperature dipped any lower, I’d deck her and take the coat and hat right off her body.
