Shroud of Roses. Gloria Ferris

frantically through the pile of clothes — shirt, pants, jacket — where was that darn phone? By the time he located it in his coat, it had stopped ringing. The sweat ran off his body in rivulets and I opened the front door and fanned it back and forth to let some of the snowstorm in.

      The cold air froze the blood in my veins, so while Redfern redialed, I went to my bedroom and changed into a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt.

      When I came out, Redfern was pulling his clothes on with one hand while holding his phone in the other and conducting an official-sounding conversation. Who says men can’t multi-task?

      “Okay. Why didn’t we have a report in our files? Really? When? I wonder why Davidson didn’t mention this to us. Read it to me. Okay, call me back.”

      I scooped more fruit from the pitcher into my glass and watched Redfern button his shirt.

      Redfern in full uniform can be an intimidating sight — for some people. His hard stare made even innocent folk quake in their shoes. “What’s up with you, Redfern? Got a hot tip?”

      “Tell me everything you remember about your graduation night. Begin with your arrival at the high school.”

      “Oh, well. There are a few gaps in my memory. Keep in mind, it was a long time ago.”

      He sat down in the easy chair across from me until our knees were almost, but not quite, touching. “High school graduation is a highlight in everyone’s life. You must remember something.”

      “We had all moved on, whether to university, college, jobs, whatever. The ceremony was just for our parents’ benefit. They wanted to see their kids dress up in robes and stupid hats and get handed a rolled-up piece of paper that didn’t matter because we all knew we had graduated the previous June.”

      “Point taken. The ceremony didn’t matter to you kids. Any of the grads missing?”

      “We were all there, except Lionel Petty, who went to the University of Victoria and refused to fly back, then or ever. His mother accepted his diploma.” I pointed at Lionel’s picture. He looked nerdy, but he was stubborn. It was impossible to talk him into hiding a paper bag containing a wasp’s nest in the boys’ locker room to get even for their sexist behaviour over the past four years …

      “Forget Lionel then. Everyone else there?”

      “Each and every little captive one of us.”

      “So the ceremony is over. You have a party in the gym?”

      Vague wisps of memory were all I had from that night, most of them from before the party began. “After the ceremony, the parents left, taking the rented gowns and caps and diplomas. The few significant others weren’t allowed to stay …”

      “Why not?”

      I shrugged. “Maybe the chaperones didn’t want anyone making out in the dark corners. Then, the decorating committee — including my reluctant self — hoisted the disco ball to the rafters, set up tables and refreshments. We flipped the lights off, turned on the floodlights, and the DJ started playing tunes. And there it was. One magical evening.” After that, the rest of the night was pretty much a blur.

      Redfern didn’t glance away from my face. “Go on.”

      “To tell you the truth, I believe someone may have brought a bottle of tequila, or two, and when the authority figures weren’t looking, some of us may have poured a drop or two into our pop cans. You have to remember, Redfern, we didn’t want to be there, our high school teachers were still trying to boss us around, and they wouldn’t let us leave until we had a party to celebrate our graduation. By the time they unlocked the door — and that had to be against the fire code — we were pretty much blasted. Even the nerds were bored into imbibing.”

      “You paint a vivid picture, Cornwall. So, that’s all you remember?”

      “Pretty much. I do recollect the body jam in the door to the parking lot when they finally released us. Must have been midnight or so. But you can’t go by me.”

      “Obviously. What next?”

      “I woke up rolled in a rug in the back of Fang Davidson’s pickup. In Dogtown.”

      “Really? Did Fang roll you up to keep you warm?”

      “I think I did it myself, to prevent liberties being taken with my person. It’s a trick I learned from my dad, and that night wasn’t the first time I took advantage of his wisdom.”

      “I feel a strange compulsion to hear the end of this story.”

      “Well, that’s about it. I unrolled myself and wandered away to find Fang. His father told me he was passed out in his bedroom and drove me home himself. My parents were still sleeping. I crawled into bed. And I’ve never been able to drink tequila since. End of story.”

      “You just made a quart of margaritas.”

      “I used white rum. And Grand Marnier. It doesn’t taste as good as it sounds.”

      He shook his head like a dog that stuck its head too far into the water dish. “And that’s all you remember? You can’t recall where anybody else was, or where you were for that matter?”

      “Sorry, Redfern.” My glass was empty of fruit and I reached for the pitcher, but Redfern picked it up and headed for the kitchen. “Don’t throw out the fruit! It’s expensive.”

      He returned with his notebook and pen in hand. Things were about to get serious. I stifled a snort at his cop face. He was so cute.

      “Besides your fellow classmates, who was at the dance? Caterers, chaperones?”

      “No caterers. Our moms supplied the sandwiches and desserts. Mr. Archman was there, and a couple of lady teachers whose names escape me at the moment. Mr. Archman is principal now. The others might be retired, or dead. Oh, and Kelly Quantz was the DJ.”

      Redfern looked up from his scribbling. “Kelly Quantz? Sophie Wingman Quantz’s husband?”

      “Kelly always DJed the school dances. He was a graphic artist, designing covers for books, mostly horror and fantasy. But, that doesn’t pay well, so he moonlighted as a DJ at the school dances — and weddings. I think he still does.”

      “So, he would have known Sophie when you were in high school?”

      “Everyone knew Sophie.” Oops, I shouldn’t have started down that road. Speaking ill of the dead isn’t classy.

      Redfern must have caught an inflection in my voice. “What does that mean?”

      “Well, before Sophie became a priest, she was … um … not so priestly.”

      “Who was she not priestly with? Anyone in particular?”

      “Pretty much everyone in particular. She nearly went through the entire senior class by spring break. There were even rumours she was involved with an older man.”

      His phone rang again. He did a lot of listening and a bit of grunting; so sexy. “Thanks, Bernie. If you find anything else, call me.”

      “What’s the big news, Redfern? Does it have to do with this case?”

      He pushed the yearbook with the grad photos closer to me. “First, tell me which boys were involved with Sophie.”

      CHAPTER

       nine

      Neil watched Cornwall as she leaned over the yearbook. Her crazily striped hair was pulled into a ponytail and her toenails glowed neon green. He meant it about taking a vacation. Somewhere warm where they could lie in the sand and coat each other with sunscreen. Margaritas would not be served, but he would find her some other tropical drink with an umbrella … and no tequila.

      “I can’t remember the exact order, but the only guys Sophie didn’t date in senior year were these.” She pointed to four young males in turn. “Nerd,