and scored a seventy-two-piece place setting of “Seasons Repast” china. What the Bitch of Christmas Present would do with that was anybody’s guess, but I looked forward to the look on her face when she saw it.
Chico insisted we had to go through the checkout where he would put in some mysterious code and void the sale. Standing in line, I unzipped my parka and fanned my face with a box of tinsel. In my book, power shopping was right up there with jogging in the fitness department. And about as fascinating.
Chico sweated, too, but I’d guess not from exertion. It was more likely he was wondering if he should write this off as a charitable donation, or if it would be more advantageous to use it as an entertainment expense. If I remembered correctly, he was not great at numbers, so hopefully he had a good accountant.
The checkout lady didn’t seem to care that she was checking her boss through. She scrutinized each item as I handed it to her, turning it over as though she had never seen the like before, then turned it again until the bar code could be ever so slowly scanned. I added a couple of rolls of duct tape from the rack. Duct tape always comes in handy when sticking things to walls, or trees. My phone chirped nonstop in my purse. It was bound to be Dougal wanting to know why I wasn’t at the greenhouse yelling at deadbeat customers.
Chico leaned on his cart and panted like he had done all the work. “Say, Bliss, I guess you heard about the body they found in our old school. Who do you think it is?”
I stopped fanning. My fellow decorating committee member from high school could have some memories rattling around in his brain that might help me figure out this puzzle. Or might help Redfern, I should say.
I reached into my tote bag and extracted a yearbook. I opened it to the pictures of the now-infamous grad party and shoved it in front of Chico’s eyes. “You took all these pictures, right?”
He took the yearbook and smiled appreciatively. “I haven’t looked at my copy in ages. Hard to believe it was fifteen years ago, right, Bliss?”
“It seems like a lifetime ago to me. Especially since I can’t recall anything after the ceremony. What about you?”
“I took a lot of pictures that night. Don’t you remember? I had my regular Nikon, and a Polaroid. Fang and I …”
The cash register bleeped and the cashier shrieked. She held up a box of gold balls. “Oh, my God! The register doesn’t recognize the bar code.” In an instant she had gone from laconic to dangerously anxious.
Behind us, the line had grown to five customers, each with a heaping shopping cart. In Lockport, that’s a riot in the making. The customers muttered and glowered.
Chico tossed the offending ornaments over my head onto the pile of goods already scanned. “Never mind,” he told the cashier. “Keep going. I’ll call in someone to open another register.”
Since our scanning lady was about to go ballistic, and while Chico was calling on the intercom for Rick to present himself at Register Four, I scooped up my remaining items and deposited them on top of the carts waiting on the far side of the war zone. My eyes met the clerk’s, and we nodded. Screw the year-end inventory.
A bright red parka hung by the door and Chico put it on before helping me out with his donations. Halfway to my car, my feet lost traction. I clung to the side of the shopping cart, but Chico fell against me. The weight of his body took us both down, me on the bottom.
“Get off me!” When I raised myself to my knees, I left a red stain behind on the ground. “Ow, my nose. It better not be broken.”
“Oh, my God, look at you! I’m so sorry, Bliss.” Chico squawked in abject contrition as we crawled toward my Matrix, dragging the carts along by their axles. “Although, if you wore boots with sensible soles instead of three-inch heels, you might not fall so often.”
“What’s your excuse?” I shot back. “Your sensible soles almost killed me.”
It was a long crawl, long enough for me to formulate another clever plan. I pulled myself up and opened the hatchback. Chico had to use one hand to empty the carts while clinging to the back of my vehicle with the other. I stood by and held a wad of tissues to my nose.
“Tell me, Bliss, what else can I do for you?”
He should be trying to remember his lawyer’s name.
“Two things, Chico. First, you can clear this parking lot of snow, then get your employees to crack open a tub of Ice Melt. You’re losing customers.” I pointed to a man twenty metres away who was flopping around on his back like a beached tuna.
He started toward the fallen customer. I stuffed the tissues into my pocket and clutched the front of his coat. He tried to pull away and my grip tightened. A few droplets of blood fell from my nose onto the red nylon of his jacket and disappeared. “Secondly, mark December 14 on your calendar. I’ll send you an email with the details, and I’ll expect confirmation.”
“Sure, you got it, Bliss. But you do remember I’m married, don’t you? I have three kids.” He pulled free and speed-crawled over to the man who was beating his heels and flapping one arm, trying for enough leverage to get his fat head off the ground. Something was wrong with his other arm.
It might be fun watching Chico try to buy off this guy. I crawled after him, leaving a blood trail on the ice.
Chico tried to roll the man over, and good luck with that. The guy had to weigh three hundred pounds.
“What are you doing?” I pulled Chico away. “You need to call an ambulance. You could injure his spine.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” The victim had a commanding voice for someone in his condition, and it seemed familiar. “Charles Leeds. And Bliss Cornwall. Good God.”
I looked at the beefy face, the triple chin, and eyes enfolded in layers of flesh. “Mr. Archman?” Since I had last seen him, the man had eaten himself into obesity.
He gave me that steely glare that used to make me regret whatever I had done to land in detention.
“Chico. You’ve injured Mr. Archman!”
“Take it easy, Miss Cornwall, you’re dripping blood all over me. I believe my left arm may be broken. Perhaps you should call an ambulance, Mr. Leeds.”
CHAPTER
eleven
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now without my Sophie.” Kelly Quantz was slumped in an easy chair, arms hanging, a burning cigarette dangling from one hand. He seemed unable to pull his attention from the ceiling to look at Neil. “Without her, there’s nothing left for me.”
Tears coursed down his face and he made no attempt to wipe them away. His eyes were swollen and red and he had clearly not shaved or showered that morning. A group of women — parishioners, undoubtedly— buzzed around in the kitchen, looking into the living room and casting worried glances at the widower.
While he waited for Quantz to compose himself, Neil scanned the room. The rectory resembled a movie set of an old-fashioned parlour. Worn, but clean and comfortable furniture, subdued area rugs dotting the hardwood floors, a few tasseled lamps — everything he’d expect in the home of an elderly priest. But Sophie Quantz was thirty-two, the same age
