I called the board, and they agreed to keep you on till the end of the month. That should give you more time to line up something else.”
I seriously considered it. I would be crazy not to. Continuing to work a few more weeks at the library would give me a chance to resolve some key issues without worrying so much about money, issues like pollinating two giant plants, finding another place to live, extricating myself from marijuana purgatory, screwing the Weasel right back … Actually, these issues were so pressing, I didn’t have time to work at the library.
I hopped on my bike and called to Allison over my shoulder, “Gotta go. Oh, and thanks for the offer, Allison, but I’ve made other plans.”
It was peaceful and quiet at the back of my trailer, but I couldn’t shake a feeling of unease. There was no smell of four-legged carnivore and no sinister rustlings in the underbrush. I was fishing at the bottom of my purse for my key when I emerged from the shade of the trees into the bright sunlight of the courtyard. A sense of being watched forced my eyes upward from the key in my hand.
Snake was staring at me. He wore his dusty leathers and chains, with a skull-patterned do-rag wrapped around shoulder-length, greasy black curls. I froze for a second, then darted up the two steps to my door and tried to open the lock. My fingers wouldn’t grip the key and I dropped it twice onto the platform porch. I looked behind, but Snake hadn’t made a move in my direction. Neither had he taken a step back. Finally, on my third try, I jammed the key home.
Locked inside, I watched through the narrow slit in the curtain as Snake opened the Quigleys’ door without knocking. He looked up once toward my trailer before closing the door. God, where was Rae? Should I check on her? No, I didn’t think Rae was in immediate physical danger from Snake. But I could be. Who knew what was going on in that shack built onto the back of the Quigleys’ trailer?
With the baseball bat securely between my knees, I sat on my worn bench and contemplated the bottle of wine tempting me from the counter. I looked at my watch and sighed. Pretty soon I had to do the ugly plant run, then I was due at the spa. I wasn’t looking forward to returning to the trailer after dark tonight.
With fingers still shaking, I pawed through the junk drawer again until I located the list of potential cleaning customers. Within the hour, I had booked two clients for Fridays, starting next week. The rest of the list had found alternate cleaning help but would keep me in mind if circumstances changed. Two phone calls went unanswered and I left messages.
A stomach rumble sent me to the fridge. Empty. Not even a cracker. Simon probably had more crumbs in his cage than I did in my whole trailer. I perked up when I remembered the stacked cans in my cupboard.
Somehow I had to find work for Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays. Suddenly, my hasty decision to walk away from the library before the end of the month didn’t seem like such a smart move.
I turned over one of the old tax notices and, with my pencil stub, wrote the total of my bank account on the top of the page. Then I wrote down what I could reasonably expect to earn in the next three weeks before rent was due again. I could probably make the rent payment without dipping into the bank account, but it would be close. I still had to buy gas for the Savage. And, if I wasn’t mistaken, Dougal was starting to take note of the amount of food I was removing from his fridge. Well, I would cut back on food for a while if I had to. And there was the slight possibility I could coordinate the pollination of the two Titan Arums, but I shouldn’t count on that money. The whole thing seemed too quixotic to actually work.
So, without touching my bank account, I could survive for a month. Put another way, if I paid the back taxes on the swamp, I had a month to sell it back to the Weasel. Or I’d threaten to blow the whistle on his crooked scheme to donate land he didn’t own to the province.
On the other hand, I could let the swamp go, allow the Weasel to take it away from me, and use my savings to keep myself going for six months while I tried other means of squeezing my share out of him. I could even find a safer place to live.
Turning my hands on the table, palms up, I looked at them, envisioning one choice in each. I had to make a decision now, and it had to be a choice I could live with, no matter what happened. I looked at the numbers written on the paper.
What the hell.
Tomorrow afternoon, when I was finished cleaning Fern Brickle’s house, I would stop by the registry office and pay off the taxes. Then I’d wait for the Weasel to find me and offer me a deal. Let next month take care of itself. And the month after that. Who cared? No pain, no gain, Cornwall.
At Arlington Woods, Pan looked alarmed when I asked to speak to Glory. I still had half an hour before my class at the spa.
“You might want to think twice about that, Bliss. The Mistress of Darkness is still chewing nails, and I don’t mean her own.”
Pan was walking me around the side of the house to my bike after visiting the greenhouse. We had taken our look at the plant, and I had snapped the required pictures. The pot crop was coming along well, too.
“I need to know about tomorrow, Pan. It’s my morning to clean, and I want to know if Glory still wants me to come.”
He whirled to look at me. “What do you mean? Of course she wants you to clean the house. You know I don’t clean.”
“I’ve noticed that. But after the other night, I got the impression she was really angry. She yelled at me to get out.”
“Mostly she meant your cousin. Just the sight of him sends her into a frenzy. She’s been eating her special food like crazy, but it hasn’t helped.”
“What special food? Oh, you mean … special?”
Pan nodded his sleek head. “Cookies, casseroles, dips, you name it.”
“You can make all those kinds of food from … you know?”
“Certainly. But it’s very rich, and Miss Yates is going to hate herself when she comes out of this, then she’ll hate your cousin even more when she has to go to a fat farm to lose the ten pounds she put on.” Pan pressed his fingertips to his temples and looked every inch the overworked servant.
“So, are you the creator of all these special dishes?”
“I don’t cook.”
“You don’t clean, you don’t cook.” I was afraid to pose the obvious question, and instead asked, “Who does the cooking, then?”
“Herself doesn’t eat breakfast, eats lunch only on occasion with her closest female friends, and eats dinner at the Club. Unless a gentleman takes her out.”
“Well, I know that, Pan. I mean, who cooks these special meals? I’m pretty sure the Glorious One doesn’t slap on an apron and start chopping up the pot and other herbs.”
He smirked. “I’d love a picture of that.”
I thought about telling him I had seen him the previous night, dropping something off at the Quigley trailer. Trouble was, I didn’t know if his errand had to do with Glory’s diet or something more personal. If Pan was there on private business, it was probably in my best interest to keep quiet.
Pan seemed to make his mind up about something. Moving closer until our noses were almost touching, he whispered, “The less people who know about this the
