Cornwall and Redfern Mysteries 2-Book Bundle. Gloria Ferris

it take to get there on your motorcycle?”

      “Start to finish? About sixty seconds. And I have a spare helmet.”

      “Okay, then, I’ll try.” He reached out toward the unfurling spathe, but stopped short of touching it. “For my Thor, I’ll try.”

      I had to bite the inside of my lip. “I’m sure Thor is grateful. Your country would be grateful if it knew of your courage.”

      “Shut up and go home.”

      “Just one more thing. I almost forgot.”

      He looked at me, his eyes narrowed. “What?”

      “Glory wants you to bring Simon with you. For some reason, she seems to miss that bird.”

      “Simon! Are you sure? What’s she up to? African greys only bond with one person, and that’s me.” He went over to the cage and peered in at the sleeping parrot.

      Simon opened one dark eye and said in Dougal’s voice, “Gimme some weed.”

      “Are you letting that bird smoke marijuana? Because I think that’s even more illegal than smoking it yourself.”

      “Of course not. He’s a parrot. He used to just repeat what he heard, but now that he’s older, he can make up his own sentences, using words he’s learned.”

      “Right. Anyway, Glory wants to see him, so he’s coming with us.”

      “How will we get him there? He can’t ride on my shoulder. He’ll be traumatized, or else he’ll fall off and be killed.”

      “We’ll stuff him in the saddlebag.”

      Both Dougal and Simon squawked so loudly at that idea, I had to think of another way. “I know. You can put him inside your jacket. How scared can he get in less than a minute?” He might poop himself silly, but that was Dougal’s problem.

      “If I fall off, he’ll be squashed.”

      “If that happens, a squashed parrot will be the least of your troubles.”

      “Seeing Glory again will probably finish him off anyway,” Dougal grumbled, but I pretended not to hear.

      I checked Dougal’s fridge one more time for leftovers and acquired a lamb stew meant for his next day’s lunch and a carton of milk past expiry date. Stashing these treasures next to the lasagna, I zipped on my black leather jacket and buckled my helmet.

      As I came alongside the cemetery on my way home, I noticed three police cars with their lights whirling and several figures milling around in the shadows. I slowed for a better look. Whatever was happening would be all over town by morning, and when I stopped at Tim Hortons before my house showing, I would hear the news. I hoped no gravestones had been desecrated by vandals.

      I cruised slowly through Lockport’s downtown core, and noticed the dead skunk was still lying in the middle of the road in front of the police station.

      It was getting smellier and more bloated each time I passed. I smiled at the probability that complaints had been forwarded to the Town Offices from Public Works. Since the Weasel was also the mayor, any such complaints would wind up on his desk. For a moment, I fantasized about scooping up the skunk myself and depositing it on the Weasel’s front step. But no, that was beneath me, if barely.

      The Secret Valley Trailer Park occupied a natural dip in the landscape with the Niagara Escarpment looming on the horizon. Mostly retired or single, the residents appreciated not having the upkeep or expense of a big lot in town. The small yards were well-kept and, in summer and fall, flowers bloomed profusely on every windowsill. Front doors competed for the freshest paint and driveways glistened with sealed asphalt. Secret Valley’s residents were proud of their humble homes.

      I didn’t live there.

      If you drove through the narrow, winding main street of Secret Valley, the pavement ended abruptly. And, just to emphasize that this was the end of the rainbow, a chain hung between three white wooden posts. Beyond these posts, the ground dropped sharply. At the bottom, my trailer squatted with two others, like toadstools in a goblin’s circle.

      Officially, it was part of Secret Valley, but unofficially it was known as Hemp Hollow.

      The trailers in Hemp Hollow were real trailers and didn’t pretend otherwise. The wheels sunk into the ground and the hitches were propped on stacks of bricks, ready to fall at the slightest shove. All three trailers shared a dirt courtyard where even weeds refused to grow.

      My trailer rental was three hundred dollars a month. I hadn’t been able to find anything cheaper, not even a room in somebody’s basement. From November to April, when the weather made riding a motorcycle impossible, it was a long walk into town and I hoped that, before I had to spend a second winter in the dump, I could find a place in town that was affordable. I was terrified that the rusty gas furnace would malfunction and emit deadly carbon monoxide, so I moved a small electric heater from room to room in cold weather to prevent death by hypothermia. Even so, last winter my bedding froze to the thin aluminum wall more than once.

      I rode north past the front gates of Secret Valley and, more by memory than sight, found the dirt trail leading to a dense stand of trees shielding the perimeter of Hemp Hollow.

      Food and flashlight in hand, I walked cautiously through the trees to the clearing behind my trailer and listened closely. Except for a few hooting owls and grass-rustling rodents, the night was silent. Then, a faint, earthy odour I had noticed several times lately after nightfall wafted into my nostrils. I whirled around and saw a pair of green, unblinking eyes staring back at me. A bear?

      Not wanting that question answered, I turned and ran, aiming the flashlight beam ahead. A garbage can blocked my path, and I’m pretty sure I leapt over it, because the lid flew off, pinging off my trailer and, no doubt, bringing the bear on the run. I knew garbage drew bears like some women are drawn to Chanel No. 5 perfume.

      Judging by their darkened windows, both my neighbours had turned in. No help there. I located the keyhole with shaky fingers, my bag of food still intact under one arm. As soon as I rushed inside, I turned on the light and shut and locked the door behind me. While trying to catch my breath, I listened for nails scratching on the outside of the door and peered through a crack in the faded gingham curtains. No eyes, no scratching, no roars in the night. My heart thumped rapidly as I stored my food in a tiny fridge under the sink.

      I had running cold water, but no toilet hookup. There was a common bathhouse in the trees behind the middle trailer, and we were expected to take turns cleaning it. After my first look at the place, I never went back. Instead, I used Dougal’s bathroom to shower when I could, and if that wasn’t possible, I waited for darkness, then made my way up the hill to Secret Valley’s recreation building where there were clean showers and toilets.

      I was starving again, but before I settled down to eat some of Dougal’s leftovers, I communicated with my bladder to determine if it could hold out until morning. It couldn’t.

      Toiletries in hand, I opened the door. I looked both ways for slavering beasts, then raced up the hill to the rec hall where, after relieving myself, I took a shower and washed my hair. Returning to the safety of my trailer, I was barely able to stay awake long enough to lock my door before falling into bed. My empty stomach gave way to exhaustion, and I found sweet unconsciousness on the lumpy mattress.

      It seemed I had only been asleep for seconds when there was a loud thumping on my door. My eyes shot open to find the sun was shining through my bedroom window. It was morning in Hemp Hollow, and my regular Sabbath visitor better be bearing the gift of strong coffee.

      Chapter

       FIVE

      I threw an old fleece jacket over my pyjamas and opened the door. My neighbour, Rae Zaborski, usually dropped in on Sunday morning with two cups of coffee. I looked at the old windup clock on the counter and wasn’t surprised to see it register seven o’clock. Rae liked to get her visiting done before she left for church at ten-thirty.