River bisects the northwest corner of the property, as I’m sure you noticed, then crosses the road. It runs into the lake about a quarter-mile away.”
“Well, thank you, Ms. Cornwall. We’ll be in touch,” said Chesley, flicking a strand of stray hair behind his ears.
Yeah, right. I gave them each a card and watched as Chesley helped his mother into the driver’s side of the convertible. The tires kicked up a cloud of gravel and leaves as Ivy floored the gas pedal, and the Bug disappeared down the county road toward town.
After locking up, I drove along River Road toward the bridge over Bird River. It was time to check on my swamp.
Chapter
SEVEN
If someone told me she was acquiring a fifty-acre waterfront property as a divorce settlement, I would tell her to have the property appraised before signing off rights to any other assets. Not that the Weasel gave me a choice. Apparently, I was the last person in town to know he wanted a divorce, and before my head stopped spinning I was standing on the front porch with my BlackBerry, several suitcases, a couple of cardboard boxes, and the keys to a ten-year-old Nissan. Oh, and the deed to fifty acres on Bird River. Look up dumb in the dictionary and you’ll find my picture.
My parents were already camped on Vancouver Island, having rented their house out to a retired couple from Hamilton who loved small-town life and weren’t leaving anytime soon. So I couldn’t stay there, and Dougal was knee-deep in his own marital woes. Not that it would have been a good idea to live with Dougal anyway. One of us would have ended up buried under the lilacs in the backyard.
While I was standing there on my doorstep, I realized that there wasn’t one person in Lockport I could go to for shelter. Each of my friends was half of a couple, and the couples were now Mike’s friends. So I slept in my car on the marshy banks of Bird River.
During the next week, I showered at the Y, found myself a job four days a week at the library, a Saturday seasonal job at the cemetery, and persuaded Garnet Maybe, owner of the Golden Goddess Spa, to hire me to teach yoga classes on Tuesday and Thursday nights. The two cleaning jobs on Wednesdays came later.
I drove my clunker to Owen Sound and pawned my engagement and wedding rings, plus a few other pieces, then returned to Lockport’s used car dealership, where I sold the Nissan and bought the Savage. I had money left over to pay the first and last month’s rent on the trailer in Hemp Hollow. Only then did I call my older sister, Blyth, to tell her what had happened.
Blyth was horrified and insisted I move in with her. I refused for two reasons. First, Blyth’s husband, Matt, was working on his psychology doctorate, and they had two small toddlers in day care, so they could ill afford another mouth to feed or another body to bed down in their small semi-detached house in the Rexdale area of Toronto. Secondly, I was out for blood — Mike’s blood — and I couldn’t get it from Toronto.
So began my campaign of revenge. Both Dougal and Blyth pointed out to me that I was hurting no one but myself. Chances of recovering any assets dimmed with each passing month I stayed in Lockport. I made sure I put a certain amount aside every week and had never once dipped into it. I didn’t care that I nearly froze in the winter or would have starved if not for Dougal’s leftovers. Revenge was the motivation that spurred me to get up in the mornings.
Elaine and Rachel Simms had both come out to the Bird River property and given me their expert opinions on the value. It was clear why Mike had off-loaded this waterfront property onto me in lieu of money. It was a swamp and no developer would ever attempt to build on it. Sure, this habitat housed cranes, ducks, geese, and other water fowl, but birds don’t buy lots or build condos.
I walked back to the road, swung my leg over my Savage, and kicked it to life. As I eased out onto the road, I promised myself that somehow, some way, I was going to pay the bastard back for this little paper trick. He would roast in hell before I was through with him, and he could kiss his political career goodbye.
I decided to go to Dougal’s, maybe find a little something in his fridge to eat before we bearded the red-haired dragon in her lair. I passed the Super 8 Motel on the highway into town and noted the silver Volkswagen parked in front of one of the units. So the Belcourts were staying over. Maybe that was a good sign for me, but I refused to get my hopes up. They were probably talking to Elaine on the phone this minute and arranging to see more suitable properties.
The main street was quiet as I drove through town. It was just me and the dead skunk, until I saw Chief Redfern standing on the sidewalk in front of the police station. He waved at me with one of those cop gestures that tolerates no refusal. Still holding my breath against the road-kill stench, I pulled over to the curb.
Before he could open his mouth, I said, nearly gagging over the words, “Can’t you get Public Works to pick up that skunk?”
“There appears to be a political issue involved. It should be resolved by tomorrow.”
“I think I’m going to barf.” If I expected sympathy, there was none forthcoming from this public servant. The indescribable odour clung to the lining of my throat, and it was touch and go for a minute.
“Try and control yourself. I want to talk to you about Julian Barnfeather. Do you want to talk here, or in my office?”
In answer, I ran past him and up the steps, my hand over my mouth and nose. The vestibule of the police station was deserted and nondescript, and I let him take my arm and lead me through into a private office with his name and title stamped on the door.
Collapsing into a straight-backed chair, I took off my helmet, shook out my hair, and unzipped my jacket. As I sucked oxygen into my lungs, I felt my stomach relax, but I could still taste and smell the decay. Just to be safe, I located the waste basket and figured I could hit it if required.
Noting his attention on my pantsuit and silk shirt, I said, “Among my other accomplishments, I am a realtor. I just finished showing a house.”
“It’s your grave-tending profession I want to discuss.” Chief Redfern sat on the front of his desk so his legs were mere inches from my knees. An intimidating stance learned at advanced detecting courses, no doubt.
“Go ahead,” I told him, wishing I had a drink of water. Saliva collected in my mouth, and I quickly swallowed.
“We got the autopsy report back. Would you like to hear what it says?” Without waiting for my answer, he picked up a file from behind him, opened it, and glanced over the words, turning a page every few seconds. Another interrogation technique — force the suspect to wait and wonder what evidence has been amassed to throw her in the big house for ten years. Oh wait, that sentence was reserved for serial killers in this country. One murder would get me about eighteen months.
“Are you with me, Ms. Cornwall?” He had left his perch in front of me and was now sitting at his chair, with the desk between us. I relaxed slightly, but was still on guard.
“What I’m going to tell you will be public knowledge by tomorrow. Mr. Barnfeather died from severe trauma to the head.”
I looked at Chief Redfern with suspicion. “If somebody hit him over the head, don’t look at me. I didn’t do it.”
A chilly smile flitted across his lips. “Mr. Barnfeather’s mortal wound was near the back of the head, close to the top. You’re too short to have hit him there unless you were standing on a step stool. And his chair was against the wall, facing the door, so unless you squeezed behind him, you didn’t do it that way either.”
I shuddered. I actually did have to squeeze past Julian, but I wasn’t tightening my own noose. “Not likely. So you’re saying the person that hit him had to be tall and standing behind him?”
“I’m saying nothing of the kind, Ms. Cornwall. You’re the one suggesting the victim was hit with something, by somebody.”
“What? You said Julian died from a blow to the head.”
“The coroner is quite sure that Mr. Barnfeather