“Why are you really here?” Andrea’s voice matched the Weasel’s in chilling quietude.

“I came to ask Mike if he remembered anything about grad night. I thought together we might come up with something to help with the investigation. That’s all.”

“Get out.” Andrea stood aside as I got to my feet.

I stopped in the doorway and looked back. “Congratulations on winning the Liberal nomination for this riding, Mike. Guess you’re getting ready for the federal election whenever the present government implodes through its own corruption and greed.”

“We’re ready now,” Andrea said. “There’s nothing you can do to stop us.”

“I wouldn’t dream of interfering. In the meantime, don’t underestimate me. And don’t mess with Redfern.”

CHAPTER

thirty

Lunchtime at Timmy’s is a free-for-all. First, you have to fight your way to the counter, then you’ve got to balance a tray while you shove through the crowd to grab a seat before Grandma or Uncle Barney body-checks you into the potted plants.

Against all odds, I snagged a window table, chicken soup and roll in hand. Sniffling and sneezing has its advantages because the tables near me remained clear while I ate. I couldn’t taste or smell the soup, but assumed it was delicious. That gave me an idea. Man, I was full of ideas today.

I ordered another chicken soup lunch and a couple of coffees — to go — and borrowed an old-fashioned phonebook from the kind, matronly lady at the counter. She used the doughnut tongs to push the items across the counter to me. I looked up Earl Archman’s address and picked up my order. By the look on the counter lady’s face, she was going to drop the phonebook straight into the trash. People are so nervous around a few germs these days.

Before getting out of my vehicle in front of Mr. Archman’s bungalow on Balmoral Crescent, I studied my face in the visor mirror. Yikes. My cover-up had failed and the yellow skin around my eyes made me look like I had Hep A, or even B. My nose and upper lip had reddened from all the blowing. I needed to stay away from Redfern for a few days. If I wanted to force him to his knees and elicit apologies for his asshole behaviour, he shouldn’t see me like this.

My face was good enough for my former math teacher, though.

I noticed that Mr. Archman’s backyard butted up to the rear of the St. Paul’s manse. The stone tower of St. Paul’s Church loomed over the rooftop of the house. Creepy. While Sophie was being killed, Mr. Archman — and his neighbours, to be fair — were within a couple of hundred metres. It would have been possible for him to shinny over the fence to do the deed — if he didn’t weigh three hundred pounds.

I realized I was leaning toward Mr. Archman being the killer. That would simplify things a lot. I had second thoughts about confronting him alone, in his home. On the plus side, I could outrun him. So, as long as I didn’t stand within striking distance, he couldn’t club me or strangle me. I brought my own coffee so he couldn’t slip me poison. As long as he didn’t pull out a gun, things should work out in my favour.

I rang the doorbell while admiring the giant Grinch on the rocking chair. Now, that was my idea of the Christmas spirit. The doorbell worked because I heard it when I pressed my ear against the curtained glass in the door. He should be home. The town grapevine reported he was taking sick leave for the rest of the school year. I pushed the button twice more before the door flew open.

“Oh, for God’s sake! What the hell are you doing at my door, Miss Cornwall? Can’t a sick man get any peace? What do you want?”

A lot of women seem to like that three-days-growth-of-beard look. I find it a total turn-off and told Redfern early on in our relationship that stubble was grounds for immediate dismissal. He took that to heart because I’ve never felt the slightest bristling during our close encounters.

I digress wildly, but my point is that stubble was especially unattractive on Mr. Archman. Between that and his soiled grey sweat suit, the man was, frankly, a mess. I felt much better about my own appearance.

“Hi, Mr. Archman.” I smiled brightly, cracking the chapped skin around my lips. “I brought you some lunch.”

“I’m on a diet. Go away.” The door began to close. I thought of shoving my foot in like they do in the movies, but given the difference between his weight and mine, that may have been a bad idea.

“Oh, come on now. You could use a little chicken soup, couldn’t you? And some coffee? It’s from Timmy’s.”

He hesitated, and that was all the advantage I needed. I pushed on the door and managed to squeeze in the crack before he slammed it shut behind me. I skipped a few metres down the hallway, mindful of the striking distance I vowed to avoid.

On the right was the living room. I set the cardboard tray on the coffee table but stayed on my feet. He glared at me, and I pretended great interest in the room, which was, honestly, a disaster.

When his wife left, she must have taken most of the furniture, forcing Mr. Archman to scavenge from the landfill or from curbside during the municipality’s annual discarded furniture and appliance pickup day. Our entry into the room caused a few dust bunnies to hop off the furniture and join the rest of the gang on the floor. And, bugger … the magazines and books scattered around all featured guns and archery.

I wrenched my attention back to the murdering SOB, while he collapsed into an armchair that faced a flat-screen TV. Remember Martin’s duct-taped armchair on Frasier? This one would have benefited from a couple of rolls. I rummaged through my tote bag before remembering I’d left my supply at the greenhouse.

“Why must you torment me, Miss Cornwall? Can’t you see I want to be alone, to die without witnesses and be found months from now, mummified or otherwise ready for burial?” He rested his plaster-encased right arm in his lap.

I contemplated him in astonishment and, forgetting to stay well away, I crept to within a few feet of his chair. “Good one, Mr. Archman. But I don’t think the police are going to let you go softly into that good night, not quite yet. Not while the killer of Faith and Sophie is at large.”

I glanced out the dining room window. I didn’t see a gate in the wooden fence separating the backyard from the manse. Plus, it was at least eight feet high. So, if Mr. Archman killed Sophie, he must have walked around the crescent to the other side.

“You’ll feel better with some hot soup inside you. Here, I’ll leave the bowl in the tray and open your coffee. Do you take milk and sugar?”

He finally gave in. While he ate, I chatted about nothing in particular, ignoring his eye rolls.

At one point, he interrupted: “I see you didn’t bring a can of paint for my bathroom. I’m partial to yellow, but I wouldn’t mind looking at a few colour chips. And I’ll pay for the paint.”

Okay, no more kid gloves. “I don’t paint. I have my own cleaning business. How about we put our heads together about the grad party in the gym, Mr. A? See if we can’t come up with something to help the police. You tell me what you remember, and I’ll compare it to my recollection. More and more details are coming back to me every day.”

“Nice try, Miss Cornwall. You were in no condition to remember anything, and I’ve already told your boyfriend everything I recall. And it seems to me we had a discussion at the hospital when I was in too much pain to toss you out.” A noodle hung from the hairs on his chin, but I wasn’t going near it.

“How about you call me Bliss? And can I call you Earl?”

“No. As I told your boyfriend, I regret inadvertently leaving Faith’s body in the locker room, even though I had no way of knowing it was there, and I regret mistaking some other young woman for Faith at the bus stop later that night. What’s done is done. Now, if you don’t mind….”