washer with plenty of bleach. In the guest bathroom, I ran into a problem with the road rash. The night before, I had been too scared over Rae’s drama to think about my leg, but now I found that the fabric of the sweat pants was stuck to my skin. I had to get in the shower with the pants on and soak them off. I almost screamed when the hot water hit the injured skin. Once the pants were off, I remained under the pulsating water for at least twenty minutes, shampooing and rubbing a floral-scented body wash over every inch of non-injured skin.
I found a hand mirror and had a look at my right leg. The abrasion stretched from hip to just above the knee and oozed a clear liquid. The dress pants I had brought to change into would simply stick to the fluid, and I would wind up having to soak them off again later. If I kept that up, I would never heal.
Taking a day off was not possible. If I didn’t work, I didn’t get paid. Wrapped in a large towel, I passed Dougal, still dead to the world, and crept into the walk-in closet in his bedroom. Somewhere in that mess of shirts, pants, and piles of jockey shorts, I hoped to find — aha!
The elusive Melanie had left behind a few garments on her visits to counsel the afflicted Dougal (and that relationship had to be wrong on all sorts of levels). Sorting through a blouse, a pair of jeans, and various tee-shirts, I found a flowered skirt with an elastic waist. It was probably calf-length on Melanie, but skimmed my ankles and flowed loosely around my thighs. With any luck, I wouldn’t have to peel the skirt off later.
So, I rode to work wearing a skirt and ankle-length leather boots, with a ripped denim jacket to complete the ensemble. Granny Clampett was coming to town on a motorcycle.
I wasn’t a pretty sight, judging by the heads that turned as I drove into town. I had to drive with one hand and use the other to hold my skirt down. By the time I reached the back of the library, where I parked the Savage, I had decided to stop at the Liquor Store after work, buy a bottle of cheap red wine, then go home and drink the whole thing at one go. Maybe then I would be able to sleep.
Clomping into the employees’ bathroom, I removed the jacket and changed the boots for sandals. I applied lipstick and brushed my helmet hairdo into a ponytail. There, much better. Throw a bonnet on me and I could pass for an Amish ho.
Allison Seymour, the librarian, was off on two weeks’ vacation, leaving me in charge of our summer student, Bailey Russi. Thankfully, Allison had given Bailey her key, so my late arrival inconvenienced neither Bailey nor readers eager to nab the latest Mary Jane Maffini or Louise Penny novel. If Bailey squealed on me to Allison, well, frankly, I didn’t give a shit.
Dropping onto the chair behind my desk, I gestured at Bailey to continue applying bar codes to new books. She overflowed with teenage angst most days, and I just wasn’t in the mood for it. I hiked the right side of the skirt up to my waist so the fabric wouldn’t stick to the road rash and turned on the computer. First, I logged on to my bank account and checked my balance. Since my only expenses were rent, gas for the Savage, and a modicum of food if I couldn’t get enough from Dougal’s fridge, there were no surprises. I just needed regular reassurance that the balance was growing, if at the pace of an icicle melting in January.
Then I Googled “marijuana.” After looking at a multitude of sites and dozens of pictures, I was pretty sure the ferns growing against the tool shed in my parents’ backyard were really ferns. And the plant in Glory’s foyer was bamboo. I looked up every few minutes to make sure Bailey didn’t sneak up on me and catch a full screen view of the pot. That’s how I spotted Chief Redfern before he reached me.
I logged out of the Internet and feigned interest in a catalogue of new publications, letting him stand for a few seconds before looking up and smiling at him.
“Ms. Cornwall.”
“Hey, Redfern,” I replied. “Nice morning.”
“Is there someplace we can talk?” He looked at Bailey, who was openly gawking at the Chief of Police in his carefully pressed uniform, blond spikes gleaming. As I said, he was no ugly duckling. “In private?”
“Sure.” I carefully pulled down the skirt before pushing my chair back and leading the way to the staff room. I sat down in a chrome chair and pushed out another one with my foot. “Have a seat. Can I get you some coffee?”
“No thanks.” He looked me up and down, either admiring my outfit or sizing me up for a prison jumpsuit. “You look, uh …” He was again at a loss for words.
“Like a hillbilly?” I suggested.
“I was going to say nice.”
“Sure.”
His eyes lingered on my fingers as I pulled the skirt away from my leg. “Road rash?”
I looked at him, surprised. “A little.”
“I’ve seen more than my share of motorcycle accidents, and I have a Honda Goldwing. It’s the 2005 Anniversary Edition. Red.”
“Nice. I haven’t seen you riding around on it. I’d have noticed that bike.”
“Well, I haven’t had much leisure time since I moved to Lockport.”
“Yeah, I imagine that the crime rate here in Lockport must keep you up nights.”
He looked at me, hard. “I think, Ms. Cornwall, you might be surprised at what goes on in a small town, one that is three hours from Toronto, two and a half from Hamilton, four from the border.”
“Well, now you have a murder to solve. But that doesn’t happen very often,” I replied, feeling I should defend my home town.
“Nobody says Julian Barnfeather was murdered.”
“You did. You said that Julian Barnfeather didn’t die in the maintenance shed. That he was put there afterward. What else could it be? If it’s not murder, why are you trying to pin it on me?”
He watched me as though trying to make up his mind about something. Maybe whether to arrest me, or just threaten me some more.
“Cornwall, do you recall the marijuana leaf found in Barnfeather’s hair? It didn’t jump in there by itself. You may be the best possible lead we have to his death.”
I said indignantly, “Why don’t you question the staff that digs the graves, or the people in the office? They’re all regular employees, like Julian. I’m just a seasonal worker.”
“The fact remains, Cornwall, you were the only one there on Saturday when Julian Barnfeather met his untimely end.”
To my everlasting shame, I burst into tears. I’m not generally a crier, but the violence of Rae’s attack, followed by a night without sleep, had shaken my emotions loose. During the past two years, I had ignored the hunger, the cold in winter, and the veiled contempt from former friends. Yes, it was my chosen path, but it wasn’t fun.
Now, not only was I terrified for Rae’s safety, I was furious with Dougal for risking his health and freedom by growing marijuana.
And now I was suspected of murder. The tears flowed faster than I could wipe them away with my forearm, and I was making a disgusting hiccupping noise. Redfern reached over and snatched a box of tissues off the counter, practically throwing it into my lap.
“Come on now, Cornwall, there’s no need to carry on like that. I’m simply saying
