Shroud of Roses. Gloria Ferris

by and held a wad of tissues to my nose.

      “Tell me, Bliss, what else can I do for you?”

      He should be trying to remember his lawyer’s name.

      “Two things, Chico. First, you can clear this parking lot of snow, then get your employees to crack open a tub of Ice Melt. You’re losing customers.” I pointed to a man twenty metres away who was flopping around on his back like a beached tuna.

      He started toward the fallen customer. I stuffed the tissues into my pocket and clutched the front of his coat. He tried to pull away and my grip tightened. A few droplets of blood fell from my nose onto the red nylon of his jacket and disappeared. “Secondly, mark December 14 on your calendar. I’ll send you an email with the details, and I’ll expect confirmation.”

      “Sure, you got it, Bliss. But you do remember I’m married, don’t you? I have three kids.” He pulled free and speed-crawled over to the man who was beating his heels and flapping one arm, trying for enough leverage to get his fat head off the ground. Something was wrong with his other arm.

      It might be fun watching Chico try to buy off this guy. I crawled after him, leaving a blood trail on the ice.

      Chico tried to roll the man over, and good luck with that. The guy had to weigh three hundred pounds.

      “What are you doing?” I pulled Chico away. “You need to call an ambulance. You could injure his spine.”

      “Oh, for God’s sake.” The victim had a commanding voice for someone in his condition, and it seemed familiar. “Charles Leeds. And Bliss Cornwall. Good God.”

      I looked at the beefy face, the triple chin, and eyes enfolded in layers of flesh. “Mr. Archman?” Since I had last seen him, the man had eaten himself into obesity.

      He gave me that steely glare that used to make me regret whatever I had done to land in detention.

      “Chico. You’ve injured Mr. Archman!”

      “Take it easy, Miss Cornwall, you’re dripping blood all over me. I believe my left arm may be broken. Perhaps you should call an ambulance, Mr. Leeds.”

      CHAPTER

       eleven

      “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now without my Sophie.” Kelly Quantz was slumped in an easy chair, arms hanging, a burning cigarette dangling from one hand. He seemed unable to pull his attention from the ceiling to look at Neil. “Without her, there’s nothing left for me.”

      Tears coursed down his face and he made no attempt to wipe them away. His eyes were swollen and red and he had clearly not shaved or showered that morning. A group of women — parishioners, undoubtedly— buzzed around in the kitchen, looking into the living room and casting worried glances at the widower.

      While he waited for Quantz to compose himself, Neil scanned the room. The rectory resembled a movie set of an old-fashioned parlour. Worn, but clean and comfortable furniture, subdued area rugs dotting the hardwood floors, a few tasseled lamps — everything he’d expect in the home of an elderly priest. But Sophie Quantz was thirty-two, the same age as Bliss. The only incongruent elements sat on the small side table at Quantz’s elbow. A smeared glass with an inch of amber liquid, a near-empty bottle of Canadian Club, and an ashtray overflowing with the debris of numerous cigarettes. These items seemed at odds with the carefully placed furniture and an antique mantel clock over the wood-burning fireplace. This morning, the fireplace was cold and cheerless.

      A haze of tobacco smoke hung in the air, causing Neil’s eyes to smart. He was tempted to open a window and let some fresh winter air in, but he didn’t want to interrupt the flow of Quantz’s words.

      An inch-long ash fell from Quantz’s cigarette. Neil planted his boot on it, smearing the ash into a black smudge on the rug.

      He glanced at his watch and touched Quantz’s arm to get his attention. “Can you tell me when you last saw your wife?” Quantz had told him yesterday in the church but he had been barely coherent at the time. He wasn’t much better now.

      The widower looked up at Neil blearily. If there had been a window of rationality between the drugs Ed Reiner gave him yesterday, and this morning’s bottle of whisky, Neil had missed it.

      “I saw her yesterday,” Quantz said, and erupted in another flood of tears. His chest heaved and for a second Neil thought the man might vomit. He moved out of the way and removed the cigarette from Quantz’s hand. He had been puked on plenty, and had learned to heed the signs. A collective murmur of dismay rose from the kitchen.

      He had dispatched Bernie to keep the visitors in the kitchen, but the unflappable officer was losing the battle. Half a dozen women pressed against him in the doorway, and his outstretched arms wouldn’t be effective for long. Neil stood with his back to the kitchen, shielding Quantz from their view. He addressed the man again.

      “Mr. Quantz. I know this is difficult for you, but we need your help to determine what happened to your wife.”

      “Somebody killed her and she fell off the fuckin’ choir loft, that’s what happened. Now she’s dead and I don’t know how I can live without her.” He threw himself back in the chair and sobbed.

      “What time on Saturday did you last see her, sir?” Neil was damned if he’d leave without some answers.

      Quantz hiccupped and reached for his glass. Neil itched to take it away and tell the man that liquor wouldn’t help, but he wasn’t the morality police, damn it.

      “After dinner. I went to my studio to do some work. I’m a graphic artist. I must have worked until two, three in the morning. Then I crashed on the cot in there. I woke up late and had to rush to shower and change for the service. Sophie had already left for the church. That’s what I thought, anyway. When I got to the church — I always go in the front entrance with everybody else, but it was locked, so me and the ladies had to go in the back. That’s when we found … we found …”

      He bent over in another paroxysm of grief. Neil didn’t have much time. The throng of worried parishioners was going to break past Bernie any second.

      “What time did you go to your studio after dinner, Mr. Quantz?”

      “Don’t know. Maybe seven o’clock or seven-thirty.” He threw back the liquid in his glass and poured the remainder from the bottle. He drank half of that down, and his body began to shudder.

      Neil took the glass from his fingers. “I’m very sorry for your loss, sir. Try to get some rest now.”

      In the kitchen, he asked the ladies, “Does Mr. Quantz have any family in town?”

      A middle-aged woman in a navy exercise suit answered. “He only has a mother, Chief Redfern. She’s in the nursing home in Blackshore. Poor Kelly is quite alone now.” Assenting murmurs surrounded him, almost drowning out the sorrowful sobs from the living room.

      “I’m going to call Victim Services,” he said. “Someone needs to check on Mr. Quantz and help him through this.”

      “We’ll make sure Kelly is looked after.” The navy-clad woman looked around at the others for support. Everyone nodded.

      “Mr. Quantz is lucky to have such good friends. However, in situations of sudden death, it’s routine to ask a crisis intervention expert to look in on the victim’s family.” If Kelly Quantz decided to swallow a bottle of pills with his whisky, he didn’t want anyone pointing a finger at his department. He stood back as the women stampeded around him to minister to Quantz.

      He let Bernie get behind the wheel of the 4 X 4. “Where to, Chief?”

      “Hang on a minute.” Neil called the high school to ask if Earl Archman was available.

      He listened to the principal’s secretary, then thanked her and rang off. “We’re going to the hospital, Bernie. Earl Archman slipped on some ice and is in the emergency room.”

      He