Shroud of Roses. Gloria Ferris

item to discuss. We’re going to have a Christmas open house and sale, here at the greenhouse. On December 14.”

      Dougal wasn’t as drugged as he looked. “Not happening. That’s two weeks from yesterday. We can’t organize a show and sale in such a short time!” He struggled into his shirt.

      Rae’s round blue eyes widened even more. “But, Glory, we don’t sell poinsettias or other seasonal plants.”

      Glory waved Rae’s objections aside, and totally ignored Dougal’s. “If people want seasonal plants, they can buy them at the grocery store or local flower shops. We’ll sell exotics, of course. Fortunately, we have a surplus at the moment. And I’ve already spoken to Ivy. She thinks it’s a wonderful idea. So, we’re doing it.”

      Dougal’s testosterone spiked, causing his mouth to malfunction. “Who put you in charge?”

      Glory and Dougal were home-grown Lockportals. They hated each other growing up, much like now, but something extraordinary happened when they went to university to study plant science. They fell in love, or whatever that was. Personally, I believe all the pollinating — and field trips into the bush — screwed up their hormones. It lasted long enough for them to graduate, take a European holiday with classmate Chesley Belcourt, and get married.

      Now, they were divorced and minority shareholders in the Belcourts’ Bruce County greenhouse enterprise. That’s minority shareholders. No reason for either of them to show up every day. Or any day.

      Glory loomed over Dougal. “Ivy did, you useless worm. I’m in charge of this fundraiser.”

      “Fundraiser? Didn’t we just do that?” Dougal bounced his chair back a few feet and struggled to his feet. “Anyway, I’m too busy to get involved with anything you’re in charge of.”

      Dangling a preposition was a sure sign of fear, and Glory knew it. She lifted a high-heeled boot and shoved him in the chest. He fell back down again. “I guess you weren’t listening. The food bank will be empty before the New Year. The admittance fee to the event will be a food item. And cash only for plant sales, no guarantees since most people will kill the plants before Valentine’s Day. All proceeds to the food bank. Understand?”

      We did.

      Unfortunately, she wasn’t done. “You will all wear an appropriate costume …”

      “I’m not wearing that Cat costume again. It’s too hot in here.” Dougal sat in his chair, crossed his arms, and looked defiant. But we all knew he was as beaten as the rest of us.

      Rae’s lip trembled. “And Glory, I can’t wear the chipmunk costume either. I’ll sweat to death.”

      I figured it was now or never. “And I’m not dressing like an elf. Ever again.”

      “Fine! You people are selfish to the core. I will leave choice of costume to your discretion. But remember, nothing frightening to children, like witches or zombies. And no stupid robots or superheroes. Got it? As the dumbass here has pointed out, we have less than two weeks to pull this together, and all of you will help. Take a copy of this list, and I don’t want to hear any complaints about the work assignments. And no trading tasks either.”

      I didn’t care if it was barely noon, I was going to have a glass of wine, maybe two, any colour, when I got home.

      Rae squirmed like people do when their phone vibrates in their pants. She got up and walked to the window before pulling it out.

      Dougal and I reluctantly took a list from Glory. My job didn’t look too bad. I could accomplish it in one morning. Dougal glowered at his ex-wife but didn’t open his mouth again. He stuffed the paper in his pocket without glancing at it and started for the door.

      I heard a sound from Rae, and turned toward the glass wall. She stared at me and tried to speak. Her legs gave out and she sank heavily to the floor.

      I dropped down beside her. “What’s wrong, Rae? What’s happened?”

      She clutched at me. “It’s Sophie. She’s dead!”

      “Sophie who?” I knew a couple of Sophies.

      “Sophie Quantz. She fell from the choir loft this morning or last night. Nobody knows for sure.”

      Dougal postponed his dash to freedom. “She runs the Step Dancing Academy in town, right?”

      “No, you’re thinking of Sasha Gillhouse,” I said.

      Glory addressed her ex-husband. “Idiot. She used to be Sophie Wingman. You went out with her in grade twelve, remember? She was only a kid in grade ten then. Now she’s an Episcopal priest at St. Paul’s.”

      “Oh, that Sophie,” he said. “I barely remember her.”

      “She was in my class,” I said. “After graduation, she went to a university out east, then to Divinity College. I haven’t spoken to her since graduation …”

      Graduation. Well, shit.

      I pulled my phone out of my purse.

      CHAPTER

       seven

      Neil and Ed drove to St. Paul’s in separate vehicles in case Ed was called back to the hospital to deliver a baby. Two empty squad cars lined the curb in front of the church. Constable Cory Angetti wound perimeter tape through the bars of the wrought-iron fencing. As they headed inside, Ed observed, “Our last body was six months ago when that deranged woman axed her husband to death. Now, two bodies in two days. It’s a record for me as coroner. How about you, Neil?”

      “Only since I moved here, Ed. I’d see three or four dead bodies some days in Toronto. Mostly overdoses.”

      Violence was seldom involved in those deaths. But dead was dead, and six years on a Toronto drug squad had hardened him, although highway crashes still knotted his stomach and put him off his food for a few days.

      In the vestibule, Thea and Oliver pulled on their crime scene gear while Bernie ran police tape across the door leading into the nave. Bernie’s partner, Margo Philmore, waited near four individuals sitting on a corner bench. Three were elderly females; the fourth, a male, mid-forties. His shaggy dark hair was shot through with grey. He moaned and rocked rapidly on the bench.

      Neil turned to Bernie. “You were first responder? Who have we got?”

      Bernie took his hands out of his pockets as he stepped forward. He spoke in a low voice. “Reverend Sophie Quantz, age 32, married, no children. Priest of this church. Bullet hole in the forehead. Lying across a couple of pews directly below the choir loft.”

      He nodded his head at the foursome on the bench. “The ladies were the first into the church for morning services. One of them called us. The male is Kelly Quantz, the husband. He came in with the parishioners and saw the body. He’s been incoherent since I got here.”

      “Did any of them go near the body? The husband?”

      “One of the ladies checked for a pulse but didn’t move her. They said Quantz tried to go to her, but they managed to pull him away.”

      Neil glanced over at the three elderly women, dressed in wool coats and knitted hats, pale but with stoic expressions. “Good thinking.”

      “I tried for a pulse, too. None.”

      “You’ve started the log sheet? Good.” Meticulous records had to be kept on every individual entering and leaving the crime scene.

      While Ed suited up, Neil stood behind the tape and looked into the nave. The woman’s body was sprawled over two pews, head hanging back but face up, arms and legs flung into unnatural positions. He counted the pews. She had fallen into the eleventh and twelfth. From this location, there was no visible blood, and the blonde hair fell forward, obscuring her face.

      He moved aside to let Ed slide under the tape, followed by Thea and Oliver. His two SOCOs stayed back while Ed walked slowly to