Shroud of Roses. Gloria Ferris

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СКАЧАТЬ closed his eyes and imagined a woman’s body falling fifteen feet from the loft. It wasn’t often he wished he had spent time in homicide.

      The autopsy results could take weeks. The report might help, might not. The chances of the bullet showing up as a match in another homicide somewhere weren’t great. And guns used to kill were rarely registered, no matter where the crime occurred. From the casing Thea found, they could determine the calibre of the bullet and a list of weapons that used that calibre. Reverend Quantz met someone in the choir loft last night. He had to scrutinize her life and determine who wanted her dead. Or who needed her dead.

      “How many other exits from the church besides this one?” he asked Oliver.

      Oliver jammed his numb hands back into his coat pockets. “There’s one from the back room where the … priest, or whatever, gets dressed for the service. It’s the door the three ladies and Mr. Quantz found unlocked this morning. So, Reverend Quantz may have come in that way last night. And possibly her assailant. There’s another door from the walk-up basement. It’s locked from the outside and barred from the inside. I think it used to be an old coal cellar, but doesn’t look like anyone’s been down there for years.”

      Neil stepped aside. “You two get back to the station and start processing the evidence for transfer to the CFS in Toronto. I’m going to arrange for the church to be secured. We might have to take another run-through tomorrow.”

      By the time two more officers arrived, it was fully dark. “These outer doors aren’t locked and we don’t have the key yet. Put some tape across and make sure no one goes in.”

      His phone rang as he climbed into his vehicle: Cornwall. Maybe she wanted him to answer another robbery call. That was going to have to wait. Sunday or not, he had two deaths to investigate.

      “Hi, Cornwall. I can’t talk right now. An incident …”

      “I know all about it. Reverend Sophie Quantz died in her church. Do you know who she is?”

      “You mean other than the priest at St. Paul’s?”

      “Yeah, other than that. Her maiden name is Wingman.”

      “I don’t see…. Wait, wasn’t she in your graduation class?”

      “Congrats, you aren’t as blond as you look, Redfern. Yesterday, you discover the body of someone who shall remain nameless for the moment, but could be a member of the last graduating class of the old Lockport High. Today, another grad dies. I believe in the occasional coincidence, but this looks more like cause and effect.”

      Neil thought so, too. The trouble was, Cornwall had a talent for adding two and two, getting to four, but causing a lot of trouble on the way. “Keep this theory to yourself for now, okay? We can talk as soon as I take care of a few things. Where will you be?”

      “At home, waiting for you, cutie. I’ll even make you dinner. Bring the yearbook.”

      She rang off and Neil drove to the station. His stomach lining gnawed itself and acid splashed into his throat. Cornwall’s cooking was a hit-and-miss challenge. He preferred to barbecue a steak while she emptied a ready-made salad into a bowl. And if he read the signs correctly, she thought she would be helping him with the murder investigations.

      He asked Lavinia to connect him with the Ontario Provincial Police headquarters in London.

      CHAPTER

       eight

      I was well into my second drink when Redfern finally showed up.

      “Close the door, will you? You’re letting all the heat out.” I sucked up the cherry at the bottom of my glass and stabbed a mandarin orange slice with the point of my wee umbrella.

      “Why are you wearing a bathing suit and eating a fruit salad from a margarita glass?” He hung his outer layer of clothing on a hook by the door and loosened his tie. “Christ, it’s hot in here.”

      “This is a special, vitamin-packed margarita. I cranked the heat to twenty-five, so you better divest yourself of some more clothes. Just a suggestion, I’m not trying to be bossy.” I tied the strings of my sheer black cover-up into a neat bow and padded into the kitchen to turn the broiler on.

      When I returned, Redfern was fiddling with the thermostat.

      “Hey, leave that alone, copper. Nachos will be ready in a couple of minutes. Sit down and I’ll pour you a drink.”

      He eyed the pitcher of margaritas like it had committed an indictable offence and he was preparing to whip out the handcuffs. “I’d rather have a beer.”

      “Go get one, then. And check the nachos aren’t burning while you’re there. I’m going to be pretty wasted if I have to drink this whole pitcher by myself.”

      He came back with a tray loaded with nachos, salsa, sour cream, and a frosty bottle of Molson Canadian. His hair was standing up in sweaty spikes and he shed another layer of clothes down to his underwear, but not before closing the drapes and locking the front door. Like anybody who wanted in wouldn’t go around to the kitchen door, or come through the garage.

      “Where’s Rae?” He sank down beside me and picked up a napkin.

      “In her bedroom. She’ll be out in a minute.” I laughed at his expression. “Kidding. She’s in Owen Sound again, staying overnight with one of her sisters.”

      “You didn’t answer my first question. Why are we pretending it’s July and listening to steel band music? Which is quite loud, by the way.”

      “That’s two questions. But I have one answer. I’m trying to forget about the first storm of the winter, with at least four months to go until spring. I’m feeling quite depressed.”

      “Maybe we can take an island vacation in January or February. Would that help?”

      A dollop of sour cream dripped onto my bare knee. I leaned over and lapped it up. “Don’t toy with me, Redfern.”

      His gaze followed my tongue back to my mouth. “We’ll do it if you want, but right now I have a crime or two to solve.”

      I ignored the napkins he handed me and licked the salsa off my forearm. The ice was melting in the pitcher and I topped up my glass, adding more fruit and a fresh umbrella. “So. Sophie Wingman. Murder?”

      “Perhaps.”

      I snorted. “Sure. Pull the other one, Redfern.”

      “If you were on the job, I might tell you that, at this time, murder is probable.”

      “I may not be on the job, but I bet I know more about this town and its citizens than your exclusive little club.”

      “I don’t doubt that, Cornwall.”

      “What are your reservations, then, about giving me more details?”

      “I can’t allow a civilian to influence the investigation.”

      I picked up a maraschino cherry by its stem and twirled it in front of my eyes. It was so round СКАЧАТЬ