preceded him as he took a few tentative steps. He wore black cotton pants and white tunic. His tan Sorel boots reached his knees.
“Pan! What are you doing here? Are you a chauffeur now?” I had never seen him in the greenhouse before, or anywhere other than Glory’s mansion, except once outside the local pot dealer’s trailer. And that had nothing to do with me. At the time, I lived next door to the local pot dealer and couldn’t avoid seeing his customers.
Pan was Glory’s houseboy. He didn’t cook, since she seldom ate, and he never did housework, since my cleaning company, Bliss This House, cleaned Glory’s Tudor-style mansion once a week. Other than answering the door, refilling her wineglass, and dodging the missiles she flung during her frequent fits, it was anybody’s guess what he did with his time.
Pan’s interruption sidetracked Glory’s preoccupation with bird-icide. She gave a derisive snort. “Somebody has to serve the sandwiches. Pan, you can take the tray through to the prospective garden room. The meeting will start momentarily.”
Pan scurried away. He had no idea where he was going, but looked happy to escape.
I was confused for a different reason. And suspicious. Glory lived on protein shakes and white wine at home, and she never brought any food to work. I opened the door to the corridor and was hit in the face by air even more humid than in the foyer.
“Hey, Pan. Wait up. Do you know what the meeting is about? And did you bring any booze?”
“It’s not even noon.”
“If things go bad, could you slip me some Riesling in a water glass?”
“I would if I had some. You’re very amusing, Bliss. Regarding the reason for this meeting, well …” He mimed hanging himself with a noose.
I led the way to a long room at the back, home of the future tropical garden. Plans included a waterfall and pond with accompanying bridge, and stone benches to sit on and contemplate the sodden flora. I heard talk of fish for the pond and maybe a few tropical birds as playmates for Simon. Good times ahead.
For now, the upcoming Garden of Eden contained a long table and a half-dozen lawn chairs. We used it as our lunchroom, and it was pleasant to wear sunglasses and a T-shirt and pretend it wasn’t -8°C outside. And that was back in November.
Pan pulled napkins, paper plates, and Tupperware containers of pickles and cookies from the cloth bag slung around his neck. Before I could eat more than a sandwich or two, the others came in. All were unbloodied, even Simon.
Dougal immediately took off his shoes, socks, and shirt, and rolled up his pants. He filled a plate and sank back in a lounger. I was impressed that a former agoraphobic could sit in such a vast space, look upward at the endless ceiling, and appear so relaxed. I took a closer look at him. Yeah, tranqu’ed. Who could blame him?
Rae chose a low-slung sand chair, which left her with her knees up around her ears. She realized her mistake and attempted to get up. After several tries, she rolled off onto the floor and stayed there, legs folded lotus-style.
Pan hauled a chair to the farthest corner of the room and sat down, ready to hop up and fetch something if the Mistress of Mayhem should beckon. She rested a hip on the table and tapped a fingernail on the ever-present clipboard.
“Everyone sit down. I don’t want to be here all day.” She flung her titian hair back and picked up a pen from the table. I started to worry. St. Patrick’s Day was less than four months off, and I sensed another parade on the horizon. Elves and leprechauns are related, aren’t they?
Glory clapped her hands for order, even though the rest of us hadn’t uttered a word. “Okay, everyone. First item: yesterday’s parade.”
We groaned. Outside, the storm picked up and hurled tiny ice pellets against the glass. Surely Ivy’s architect had taken Bruce County winters into account when he drew up the greenhouse plans.
Glory’s lips smiled at us. “Parade collection was a success! I had a look at our stock earlier this morning, and I believe the food bank can feed our needy families through Christmas. Seventeen grocery carts filled with food. Let’s give our Cat in the Hat a hand.”
Rae and I gave Dougal a round of applause. Far from looking pleased or embarrassed at the accolade, Dougal eyed the door and put on his socks. He knew something bad was coming.
“Everyone did a fabulous job yesterday.” Glory turned to Rae and widened her smile fractionally. “But what happened to the other chipmunks? I only saw one.”
Rae licked her lips. “I asked Dwayne Rundell and Thea Vanderbloom to do it, but at the last minute Dwayne said he had to drive the police car in the parade and Thea got called in to work. I didn’t have time to find anyone else.”
“I’d have been a chipmunk,” I said.
I shouldn’t have opened my big mouth.
A tinge of red appeared in Glory’s eyes. “We needed an elf, Bliss. And you’re short. However, this might be a good time to mention that I received quite a few complaints about you. Did you throw candy canes at a group of teenaged boys?”
“They laughed at my bells.”
“And did you knock Andrea Bains’s hat off?”
“Lucky shot.”
“Next time, you’ll hand out leaflets.”
“Next time, I’ll kill myself first.” I ate another sandwich and turned my head to stare out at the snow-covered trees. According to legend, if you looked into Glory’s eyes during their crimson phase, you turned into a zombie. I never chanced it.
It seemed like a good idea to change the subject, though. “Hey, did you guys hear about the skeleton in the old high school?”
Dougal straightened up and rolled down his pant legs. “It was all over CTV News last night. I’ll be surprised if they don’t find worse things when they tear the building down. Like asbestos.” He put on his boots.
“I heard it on the news this morning, too,” Rae said. “I wonder if a homeless person crawled in there for warmth, and just died. It’s so sad.”
Redfern had made me promise not to speculate on the identity of the skeleton, and I didn’t want to mention a second body in case Dwayne had pulled that one out of his ass.
Glory slammed her clipboard against the table. Her pen flew off into a corner, missing Simon’s tail feathers by a hair. The parrot shot her a look of hatred, but wisely kept his beak shut.
“It’s a terrible thing, but can we get back to business? We have another item to discuss. We’re going to have a Christmas open house and sale, here at the greenhouse. On December 14.”
Dougal wasn’t as drugged as he looked. “Not happening. That’s two weeks from yesterday. We can’t organize a show and sale in such a short time!” He struggled into his shirt.
Rae’s round blue eyes widened even more. “But, Glory, we don’t sell poinsettias or other seasonal plants.”
Glory waved Rae’s objections aside, and totally ignored Dougal’s. “If people want seasonal plants, they can buy them at the grocery store or
