He should find a warmer, more convenient place to live. Perhaps buy a house. But that would mean making a commitment to remain here.

Before turning off the lamp, he glanced, as always, at Debbie’s picture. He made a point of putting the picture away before Bliss arrived. Except for that one time. She hadn’t said anything, but she hadn’t been back since.

When he first looked around for a place to rent, he was hesitant when the realtor brought him here. But it was the closest place he could find that was within quick response distance. Gradually he grew accustomed to the night noises and enjoyed the absence of sirens, gunshots, and the voices of people in pain or distress, although some of those voices were in his head forever.

The station received several calls a week from hysterical homeowners who spotted bears — or maybe just the same one — lurking around their properties. The kicker was, the police couldn’t do a thing about it. You couldn’t shoot a bear just because it was foraging for food. So, each complainant was told the same thing: phone the Ministry of Natural Resources, number provided, and they will explain how to discourage bears from hanging about.

Neil had seen one a couple of months ago, lumbering around the side of the cabin as he drove up one evening. Thank God Bliss hadn’t been with him. After that, he had started bringing his gun home with him instead of locking it up in the station like he insisted his officers do when they completed their shifts.

His mind refused to turn off and let him sleep. Far better to be pressed against Cornwall in her warm bed than shivering alone here. Maybe he should buy some flannel sheets. And flannel pyjamas. Just like his grandfather. No, strike that mental image. Maybe he should just move out and find a place with heat. Or, should he go back to Toronto?

An hour later, his eyes were still wide open. Debbie crept into his thoughts again. She was always home from work before him. Dinner was in the oven unless they decided to go to one of the little ethnic restaurants that peppered their downtown neighbourhood. She’d tell him about her day as administrative assistant to one of the city councillors. And he would give her an uncensored version of what happened during his shift. She listened and massaged the tension out of his shoulders, but didn’t tell him what he should do.

Unbidden, that last night replayed itself in his mind. Holding Debbie’s hand in the ambulance as it raced through the rain-slick streets toward Toronto General. Refusing to acknowledge that she and their unborn baby were already gone.

There was nothing he could have done, the doctors said after the autopsy. There was no way anyone could have known about her congenital heart defect. The pregnancy may have overtaxed her heart, but it could have happened anytime. Time bomb.

The next few months were a blur. When the fog lifted, he felt he had to get away from her family, his family and friends and, most of all, the memories. When he saw the Ontario Association of Chiefs of Police vacancy for Lockport, he applied. He had never heard of the place. Now, he visited family when he felt like it, but no one came hunting for him, especially from November to April when whiteouts could close the highway at any time. City people weren’t up for it.

He ignored the scrabbling sounds outside his window, trusting it was a raccoon and not the town bear, which should be hibernating by now. His eyes closed.

CHAPTER

twenty

Dougal didn’t look up as I passed him on the way to my tiny cubicle. He was immersed in another world — of murder and of conservatories full of lush, dripping flora. His first book, Death in the Conservatory, told the tale of a dashing gentleman in mid-1800s Toronto who discovers the body of a woman under a palm tree in the glasshouse of his luxurious city home. Of course this gentleman doesn’t want his wife to find out the body used to be his mistress. I read the book and, holy geez, marble limbs and lustful loins abounded throughout each chapter. Since the mistress was from Montreal, Dougal threw in a handful of French phrases, like tout nu and frisson. But that, it appears, was exactly the attraction for readers and why Dougal’s publisher wanted a sequel tout de suite. Now, the sequel, Death in the Convent, was almost ready for his editor, and he was being more of a jerk than usual, like the whole world should recognize his genius.

I introduced myself as Jenny Jolie to the first deadbeat customer and was totally reasonable with him. The gentleman from an area code I’d never heard of screamed in fractured English that he wasn’t going to pay the $800 he owed Belcourt Nurseries for the forty Calathea makoyana plants he admitted receiving in good condition. I tactfully pointed out that their demise was because he planted them in full sun and neglected to mist them. The instructions were included with the plants in English, and if he couldn’t read English, that also was his own fault. Next time he should buy the plants from Brazil where they originate if he wasn’t happy with our product. Just cough up the money.

He responded with a high-decibel “Fluck you.”

We had already established he didn’t have a good grasp of the English language, so I yelled back, “Fluck you, too, buddy.”

I wrote WHFO, which was my ranking code for When Hell Freezes Over, next to his name and prepared to call the second number on the list.

“Will you keep it down in here?” Dougal stuck his head in the doorway. “The racket is causing plants all over the greenhouse to wither and die.” He frowned at me. “You really need to work on your customer relations interactions. We’ll be hearing from the Minister of Foreign Affairs before day’s end after that diatribe.”

“I doubt it, but I’m pretty sure you can kiss that eight hundred dollars goodbye.”

He scowled even harder and stepped into my cubicle. “It’s your job to collect money from overdue customer accounts, not insult them and call it a day.”

“Get lost. Of every ten calls I make, I close nine of them. You’re lucky to have me and should give me a raise.”

“And you should be locked up during daylight hours. But that’s unlikely to happen either.”

His dark hair and facial stubble were the same length and, frankly, it was not a good look. “I hope you’re going to shave before Holly comes home. She prefers her men clean-shaven, as do I.”

“You don’t have anything in common with Hol, so don’t give yourself airs. Just quit screaming at customers.”

I motioned for him to come closer. “Do you think Glory went out with Tony last night?”

“Don’t know and don’t care.”

“You should have seen the pheromones flying between Glory and Tony yesterday when they met. Actually, a really torrid affair could benefit all of us if it puts Satan’s Chosen One in a better mood.”

He planted his butt on the corner of my desk. “I don’t think that will make any difference. Her personality was the same when we were married.”

Before I could make the obvious comment that perhaps Dougal hadn’t been up to the job in the lovemaking department, my cell rang.

“It’s Pan,” I said. I listened to him until he ran down. “No, she’s here. Yeah, that’s really interesting. I’m sure your job is safe. Keep me informed, will you?”

“What’s got his apron in a twist?” Dougal asked.

“You won’t believe this. Glory didn’t go home last night.” I leaned forward and lowered my voice. “At all. But her car is outside now, so she must have come straight to the greenhouse this morning from wherever she spent the night.”

He got up. “I’m all for anything that keeps her away from here as much as possible. Just don’t count on a big personality change.”