Cornwall and Redfern Mysteries 2-Book Bundle. Gloria Ferris
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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. Leave 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