Cornwall and Redfern Mysteries 2-Book Bundle. Gloria Ferris

girl.” The upper part of his face was shaded by a leather biker’s cap, the lower covered in black stubble.

      I believed him. I lingered at the doorway until I heard Rae say she was all right. When I heard a man pleading for mercy and dragging sounds coming back toward the door, I scuttled over to my own trailer. With trembling fingers, I managed to unlock the door and barricade myself in by shoving a chair under the handle. Leaving the lights off, I parted the curtains an inch and saw a naked man with a bundle of clothes in his arms being hauled away by the biker. I hoped his body wouldn’t be found in the river with rocks tied to his feet. Being a witness to a crime was not a long-term vocation.

      A few seconds later, Ewan led Rae out and across to his trailer. She had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and seemed to be walking steadily enough. When the two reached the Quigley’s trailer, the door opened and a woman was silhouetted against the lighted interior before the door closed again.

      For another hour, I peered through the curtain into the dark night, but didn’t see the leather-clad man or Rae’s attacker again. Finally, shaky with exhaustion, I replaced the torn silk trousers with old sweat pants and fell into bed. Throughout the night, I jumped at every owl hoot and rustle in the grass.

      If I had to sleep in a tent on my swamp land, I was not going to spend another month living amongst that nest of criminals. Quigley and his pals were up to no good, and Rae, for all her lofty dreams, attracted the worst scum walking upright. It was only a matter of time before her lifestyle either earned her a prostitution charge or landed her in the cemetery. Maybe my life sucked, but I didn’t want to die, at least not until I completed my mission of retribution.

      With arms wrapped around a scarred wooden baseball bat, and my eyes wide open, I waited for the night to end.

      Chapter

       ELEVEN

      I was late for work Monday morning and deeply pissed when I got there. The rose-tinged tendrils of friggin’ dawn had already touched the treetops before I gave up any hope of sleep and crept out to use Rae’s hose at the back of her trailer to rinse off the Savage. The early light was bright enough to confirm I had missed plenty of gory skunk bits with the twig. That done, with some gagging involved, I went back into my trailer and dropped the ruined silk trousers into a garbage bag along with the matching top. The leather jacket I draped over a bush behind my trailer until I could figure out how to remove the smell.

      Since Secret Valley’s shower facilities weren’t open until ten o’clock, I shoved my bedding into another garbage bag, gathered an old denim jacket and some clothes for work, and headed over to Dougal’s. Letting myself in with the key he had given me when I first became his drudge, I discovered Dougal snoring on his living room couch, still wearing the jacket from the night before. Simon appeared to have escaped, and I saw small puddles leading away in the direction of the solarium. I left the puddles; not my problem. The house reeked of skunk.

      I threw my bedding and yesterday’s underwear in the washer with plenty of bleach. In the guest bathroom, I ran into a problem with the road rash. The night before, I had been too scared over Rae’s drama to think about my leg, but now I found that the fabric of the sweat pants was stuck to my skin. I had to get in the shower with the pants on and soak them off. I almost screamed when the hot water hit the injured skin. Once the pants were off, I remained under the pulsating water for at least twenty minutes, shampooing and rubbing a floral-scented body wash over every inch of non-injured skin.

      I found a hand mirror and had a look at my right leg. The abrasion stretched from hip to just above the knee and oozed a clear liquid. The dress pants I had brought to change into would simply stick to the fluid, and I would wind up having to soak them off again later. If I kept that up, I would never heal.

      Taking a day off was not possible. If I didn’t work, I didn’t get paid. Wrapped in a large towel, I passed Dougal, still dead to the world, and crept into the walk-in closet in his bedroom. Somewhere in that mess of shirts, pants, and piles of jockey shorts, I hoped to find — aha!

      The elusive Melanie had left behind a few garments on her visits to counsel the afflicted Dougal (and that relationship had to be wrong on all sorts of levels). Sorting through a blouse, a pair of jeans, and various tee-shirts, I found a flowered skirt with an elastic waist. It was probably calf-length on Melanie, but skimmed my ankles and flowed loosely around my thighs. With any luck, I wouldn’t have to peel the skirt off later.

      So, I rode to work wearing a skirt and ankle-length leather boots, with a ripped denim jacket to complete the ensemble. Granny Clampett was coming to town on a motorcycle.

      I wasn’t a pretty sight, judging by the heads that turned as I drove into town. I had to drive with one hand and use the other to hold my skirt down. By the time I reached the back of the library, where I parked the Savage, I had decided to stop at the Liquor Store after work, buy a bottle of cheap red wine, then go home and drink the whole thing at one go. Maybe then I would be able to sleep.

      Clomping into the employees’ bathroom, I removed the jacket and changed the boots for sandals. I applied lipstick and brushed my helmet hairdo into a ponytail. There, much better. Throw a bonnet on me and I could pass for an Amish ho.

      Allison Seymour, the librarian, was off on two weeks’ vacation, leaving me in charge of our summer student, Bailey Russi. Thankfully, Allison had given Bailey her key, so my late arrival inconvenienced neither Bailey nor readers eager to nab the latest Mary Jane Maffini or Louise Penny novel. If Bailey squealed on me to Allison, well, frankly, I didn’t give a shit.

      Dropping onto the chair behind my desk, I gestured at Bailey to continue applying bar codes to new books. She overflowed with teenage angst most days, and I just wasn’t in the mood for it. I hiked the right side of the skirt up to my waist so the fabric wouldn’t stick to the road rash and turned on the computer. First, I logged on to my bank account and checked my balance. Since my only expenses were rent, gas for the Savage, and a modicum of food if I couldn’t get enough from Dougal’s fridge, there were no surprises. I just needed regular reassurance that the balance was growing, if at the pace of an icicle melting in January.

      Then I Googled “marijuana.” After looking at a multitude of sites and dozens of pictures, I was pretty sure the ferns growing against the tool shed in my parents’ backyard were really ferns. And the plant in Glory’s foyer was bamboo. I looked up every few minutes to make sure Bailey didn’t sneak up on me and catch a full screen view of the pot. That’s how I spotted Chief Redfern before he reached me.

      I logged out of the Internet and feigned interest in a catalogue of new publications, letting him stand for a few seconds before looking up and smiling at him.

      “Ms. Cornwall.”

      “Hey, Redfern,” I replied. “Nice morning.”

      “Is there someplace we can talk?” He looked at Bailey, who was openly gawking at the Chief of Police in his carefully pressed uniform, blond spikes gleaming. As I said, he was no ugly duckling. “In private?”

      “Sure.” I carefully pulled down the skirt before pushing my chair back and leading the way to the staff room. I sat down in a chrome chair and pushed out another one with my foot. “Have a seat. Can I get you some coffee?”

      “No thanks.” He looked me up and down, either admiring my outfit or sizing me up for a prison jumpsuit. “You look, uh …” He was again at a loss for words.

      “Like a hillbilly?” I suggested.

      “I was going to say nice.”

      “Sure.”

      His eyes lingered on my fingers as I pulled the skirt away from my leg. “Road rash?”

      I looked at him, surprised. “A little.”

      “I’ve seen more than my share of motorcycle accidents, and I have a Honda Goldwing. It’s the 2005 Anniversary Edition. Red.”

      “Nice. I haven’t seen you riding around on it. I’d have noticed that bike.”

      “Well,