Cornwall and Redfern Mysteries 2-Book Bundle. Gloria Ferris

SIX

      If the cops did determine that Julian had been murdered, would I be their chief suspect? I tried to put things into perspective. I didn’t kill Julian, so I should stop worrying. But memories of Guy Morin, Donald Marshall, David Milgaard, and Stephen Truscott kept intruding on my thoughts. Innocent people did go to prison.

      Changing into my real estate agent outfit of white silk shirt, black pantsuit, and motorcycle boots, I rode to Tim Hortons on Main Street and ordered my Sunday favourites. Sitting at a table, I organized my coffee and whole wheat bagel.

      I was taking my first bite into thick strawberry cream cheese when a man dropped into the seat opposite me. He placed his coffee mug and cruller on the table and smiled.

      I didn’t smile back.

      “How are you doing, Bliss?” the Weasel asked, his smile still pasted in place. I barely registered the close-cropped dark hair and light brown eyes that, a lifetime ago, could quicken my pulse and send my heart soaring.

      “Couldn’t be better. And you?”

      “Same. You’re looking very well.” He lifted his mug to his lips, his eyes studying me over the rim.

      I swung my tri-coloured hair.

      “Sued any widows or orphans lately?”

      “Come on, Bliss, when are you going to stop obsessing about the past and move on? You’re young and could have a wonderful future.” His white teeth bit into the cruller.

      “It could be wonderful if I had some money to get on with.”

      “Let’s not go over this again. Our relationship is over, and I have no obligation to continue to carry you financially.”

      I looked at him through a red haze of rage. “You’re an asshole, Mike. I supported you through law school, and yet it’s okay for you to tell me to leave our house with three suitcases and two hundred dollars in my purse?”

      “You took your jewellery, and I gave you the fifty-acre property.”

      “Fifty acres of swamp, and we won’t even discuss the cheap jewellery.”

      He deftly changed the subject. “Let the past go, Bliss. I want to tell you something before it becomes public knowledge.”

      “Don’t tell me you and Andrea are having a baby?” The time had never been right for me to get pregnant, and if he told me he was about to become a father, I would stab him with the plastic knife in my hand.

      He smirked. “Not yet, but we’re hopeful.”

      “Well, you better get on with it. Andrea is, what, forty? Forty-one?”

      “She’s only thirty-eight. Now listen. I will be running for federal office in the next election.”

      I put the plastic knife down and scrutinized the smooth, satisfied face. “You’re the Liberal candidate?”

      “Yes.” He managed to look modest and proud at the same time.

      “Bliss.” He leaned forward, cupping his hands around his coffee mug. “I was hoping to find you here this morning. I have a cheque for you, for five thousand dollars.” His eyes crinkled at the corners but remained watchful as he pushed a cheque across the table.

      I inhaled a large piece of bagel and spent a few seconds coughing it back up. It gave me time to think. I didn’t believe in the Tooth Fairy, nor did I expect to win a lottery. Therefore, I didn’t believe in the Weasel’s cheque.

      “Five thousand dollars isn’t near enough payoff for putting up with you for eight years.”

      “Bliss, can’t you forget your bitterness? You could use the money to relocate, perhaps to Toronto. You might even go back to school.”

      “With five thousand dollars? You are a very strange man, Mike. I think I can make more money by staying right here in Lockport.”

      He ran a well-manicured finger around the rim of his cup. “From what I hear, you are working several minimum-wage jobs. I think you can do better.”

      “I think I can too.” I watched his eyes and stuffed a smaller piece of bagel into my mouth.

      Mike shifted in his chair and gazed into his coffee. “I hear there was a death in the cemetery yesterday. Weren’t you working there?”

      “Yes. Apparently Julian Barnfeather was found dead last evening.”

      “Have the police contacted you?”

      “We had a chat.”

      “I hope they don’t think you had anything to do with his death.”

      “Why would they?”

      “No reason, except that you were apparently the last person to see him alive.”

      “Except for whoever murdered him, assuming he was murdered.”

      He looked me in the eye. “I wouldn’t want to see you involved in a messy murder investigation.”

      “I’ll bet you wouldn’t. It wouldn’t be good for your public image. Your ex-wife’s name in the paper in the same column as that of a murder victim.” My mind had been racing and crossed the finish line when I finally figured out why Mike was offering me a cheque to get out of town.

      I stabbed my knife into the remains of his cruller, pretending it was his throat. He managed not to flinch.

      “Don’t you have to be a member of the provincial party first, before you can run federally?”

      “Not at all. The party has convinced me that I have an excellent chance of becoming the next MP for this riding. Now, are you going to accept this cheque? If so, I have a waiver for you to sign.”

      “No thanks. I think I’ll hold out for more.”

      “There won’t be any more. This is all I’m going to offer, so take it or leave it.”

      I tried to look pensive. “I wonder if one of the major newspapers, maybe the Toronto Star, will want to interview me.”

      Mike snorted. “Why would they?”

      “Because they like to print controversial articles, especially political ones. They might feel that an interview with the impoverished ex-wife of a Liberal candidate would increase their readership. Their photographer could take my picture leaning on a tombstone with my rake. I’d wear my denim overalls, the ones with the rip in the knee.”

      I was just yanking the Weasel’s balls, but by the look on his face, he wasn’t enjoying it. A warm, fuzzy feeling washed over me. Maybe, just maybe, I was on to something. “You’re crazy, Bliss. And nobody is going to take a nutcase seriously. You might as well take this cheque and sign the waiver.”

      I had no doubt he would do well in politics, playing in the big boys’ sandbox. Andrea’s father was a Liberal backbencher from a neighbouring constituency and would know how to groom Mike for public display. The Weasel might even wind up becoming Canada’s youngest prime minister someday and the thought made the fuzzy feeling disappear in a wink. With Mike at the helm, there would be no women and children first into the lifeboats. It was my civic duty to prevent such a catastrophe from happening

      “Looks like you have a golden future ahead of you, Mike. But you’ll be wide open to public scrutiny if you run. Female voters won’t endorse a wife abuser and skinflint.”

      Aware of curious glances from nearby tables, Mike lowered his voice. “What are you talking about? I never laid a hand on you, and I paid for all your clothes, country club fees, and anything else you needed.”

      “True, but I didn’t even have my own chequing account or a joint account with you. I had to beg every time I wanted money for something other than clothes or country club fees. And I think I can make a case for emotional and verbal abuse.”