Cornwall and Redfern Mysteries 2-Book Bundle. Gloria Ferris
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involve the state of her toilets or the alleged cobweb in the corner of her ten-foot parlour ceiling was bound to be uncomfortable. Before I rang her doorbell on a day other than a Wednesday, I needed solid evidence she was harbouring a fecund Titan Arum.
I found the greenhouse only because it was lit up like a centenarian’s birthday cake. I followed a faint glow that grew brighter until I glimpsed steel beams and glass walls blending seamlessly into the forest.
Even before I peeked through the glass, I felt confident I would find a Titan Arum. Although Glory was undeniably rich, she didn’t spend a penny more than she had to unless it was on her hair or body. She paid me minimum wage and hadn’t given me so much as a box of cheap chocolates for Christmas. Even though, during my former life, we had played tennis together for years at the Lockport Country Club.
So there had to be a good reason why the greenhouse was artificially lighted after the sun went down. I crawled up to the wall and raised myself high enough to peer into the interior.
My mouth fell open. After spitting out either an oversized black fly or an early mosquito, I closed it again and pressed my nose against the glass to get a closer look.
Then I plunked back down on the damp, spongy ground and muttered out loud, “Jee-suz.” I batted at the insects and stood up for another look. Still there.
Glory was making no pretence of growing orchids or geraniums or any other normal plant in her greenhouse, which was at least twice as big as Dougal’s solarium.
Oh, there was a Titan Arum in there. It sat in the far corner of the greenhouse in a pot identical to Dougal’s. The spike reached up, way up. The spathe-thing was barely visible over the rim of the pot and appeared to be at about the same stage of development as Thor.
But, it was the rest of Glory’s crop that drew my attention. Weed, pot, Mary Jane, grass. She had twenty or thirty pots of them, far more than Dougal. I almost felt ashamed of myself for yelling at him about his paltry dozen.
While moisture from the soft earth soaked the seat of my overalls, I replayed my heated discussion with Dougal before I left his house.
“Many people, including you obviously, don’t know that it’s legal to grow marijuana in Canada for personal medical reasons,” he told me.
“Dougal, the government has a list of people who are allowed to buy or grow marijuana for specific illnesses, and I don’t think agoraphobia is one of them. You can’t grow your own unless you’re registered, you idiot.”
“Well, let me put it this way, you little freak. The cops aren’t going to come knocking on my door looking for pot. And, since I find it’s the only drug that helps me, I sure the hell am going to keep using it, so mind your own business.”
“I wonder how an agoraphobic like you will fare in a nine by nine prison cell. I can just see the police dragging you out of your house, screaming and clinging to the door frame with your fingernails. But you aren’t bad looking, so I’m sure you’ll find comfort in the arms of a burly Hells Angel. You can be his new bitch.”
The conversation went south at that point. Neither of us changed our stance on the subject of home-grown weed, so I had grabbed my lasagna from his fridge and marched out the door. After stowing tomorrow’s dinner in my saddlebag, I drove the block and a half to Glory’s property and tucked the bike under a towering maple, well away from the streetlights that were blinking on and casting long shadows onto the street.
Now, deep in the bush, the only light came from Glory’s grow house. In places, the pines grew tight against the glass, and I was betting the artificial lighting shone during daylight hours as well as the night, so the sun-hungry pot plants could get the energy they needed to mature. I hoped that pilots wouldn’t mistake this shining beacon for the small airport west of town. I hugged the walls, forehead to the glass, until the concrete planter was directly in front of me.
Up close, the Titan Arum appeared to be slightly taller than Dougal’s, seven feet perhaps. The spathe was beginning to unfurl and the faintest blush of pink showed on the inside.
A pinecone bounced off my head and rolled across my shoulder as I leaned against the greenhouse wall. I took a minute to reflect. My cell was in the saddlebag of my bike with the flashlight, so I couldn’t call Dougal and describe Glory’s Titan. Should I go back to his place and tell him what I found, or should I try and broker a deal with Glory right now? She hated Dougal, so there needed to be something in the deal for her. With a last glance into the greenhouse, I followed the flagstone path along the side of Glory’s Tudor mansion and ended up at a locked gate. I shinnied over it and climbed the stone steps to the front door.
Glory answered the ring, a glass of white wine in one hand and an exquisitely waxed eyebrow arched in surprise.
“Why, Bliss.” Her sea-blue eyes widened and she shook her mane of red waves in sudden understanding. “I forgot to pay you on Wednesday, didn’t I? Well, wait right here and I’ll get your money. I’m so sorry.”
“You paid me, Glory.”
“Well, then … I don’t understand. It’s Saturday evening.” She gazed down at me as though she suddenly found the Easter Bunny on her doorstep on Christmas Eve.
“I’m here to discuss business. Botanical business.”
“Botanical? Business? You’re acting very strangely, Bliss, but come in if you must.”
She drifted through the foyer toward her living room of gleaming oak floors and artfully placed furnishings, with me following behind like a stray cat.
She draped herself over a cream leather couch and took a sip of wine. I plopped myself down, uninvited, on a matching loveseat facing her and watched her wince when I planted my soiled runners on her Persian area rug. I remembered my wet, muddy butt and hoped I wouldn’t leave a stain on the leather.
“What have you been doing, Bliss? You look more like a hobo than usual.”
“Well, let’s see. I spent the day tending graves at the cemetery. You do know I work as a groundskeeper in the cemetery on Saturdays, don’t you?”
She answered with a slight wrinkling of her nose.
“Then I went to Dougal’s, where I ate supper and he offered me a very interesting proposition. Want to hear what it is?”
At the mention of Dougal’s name, Glory’s face underwent a transformation, like from a human to a werewolf. I suddenly saw, not the socialite who spent her days playing tennis and lunching with her peers, but a primal creature with claws and teeth. And I distinctly saw the whites of her eyes turn red. What had Dougal done to warrant this reaction from his former wife? Nobody seemed to know, but it must have been nasty.
Her fingers squeezed the stem of her glass so tightly I expected it to shatter and splash wine over her turquoise silk trousers, but it remained intact.
“I think you know, Bliss, that I have no interest in anything relating to that worm, Dougal Seabrook. And I wish you would tell me why you are here.”
“Yes, well, I don’t disagree that Dougal can be a serious pain, but since I was married to a weasel, I think I have the edge on bad marriages. At least Dougal didn’t leave you flat broke and living in a trailer in Hemp Hollow.”
“I had my own money, don’t forget, and that bastard couldn’t get his hands on it, not that he was brainless enough to try. Spit it out, Bliss.”
“Okay, then. Dougal’s Titan Arum is about to blossom, and he thinks yours might be at the same stage. For some reason, he’s keen on pollinating his Titan and getting the seeds or whatever happens when two plants mix up their pollen.” I still wasn’t sure about the mechanics of the whole scheme but, since Glory had the same plant biology degree as Dougal from the University of Waterloo, I figured she would get the idea.
“What makes you think I have a Titan Arum?” Glory got up and poured herself another glass of white wine. She didn’t offer me any and I licked my parched lips.