As the machine started, I poked at the up arrow and took off running.

The orange juice was almost gone, and most of the cheese puffs, when I heard the door from the kitchen open. Redfern plunked himself down on the couch. He could move quickly and quietly for a guy his size. He didn’t mention my appearance, which boded well for his short-term survival.

He looked around and sniffed. “I smell hot electrical wiring. How long since that treadmill’s been used?”

“Don’t know. First time for me.” I pressed the up arrow again and trotted faster. At least the snot production was slowing down. “How did you know I was in here?”

“Rae told me. She said you looked quite nostalgic and planned to eat a whole bag of cheese puffs.”

I held up the bag and offered him the last one. He declined. “So, you actually talked to Rae. Wow.”

“She warmed up her chicken stir-fry for me.”

“Wow,” I said again. “If you’re looking for a girlfriend who cooks, cleans, and is skilled in the mechanics of sex, you could do worse.”

“Funny. Other than the cooking, you do okay. Can we talk about something else?”

I thought about that for a minute. I took the last swig of juice. And the final cheese puff. “I got nothing else. What’s on your mind?”

“You never told me you could shoot.”

“You never asked. I haven’t told you I can do back flips around the yard and hold a headstand for thirty minutes either.”

“Now, that I can believe. Where’s your target pistol now?”

I looked at him and turned my speed up another notch even though I was already panting. I pulled my sports bra out, then let it snap back against my dripping skin. “I didn’t take it with me when I left the spousal home. The Weasel can’t sell it without my signature, so unless he tossed it, he must still have it. Hey, isn’t it illegal to store a gun for someone else?”

Redfern took out his notebook and wrote something in it. Good, maybe he could charge the Weasel for a gun violation. That would be fun for me.

“How long have you been on that treadmill?” He reached over and pressed the down arrow a bunch of times.

I looked at my watch. “About forty-five minutes. I feel like I could run forever, which is funny because I have this horrible, drippy head cold.”

My pack of cold tablets had fallen out of the pocket of my robe. He picked it up and read the tiny print on the side of the box. “How many of these have you taken?”

“Two. Well, maybe six if you count the ones I took this morning and afternoon. I think I’ve finally dried up, though.”

He waved the package in front of my nose. “These expired four years ago.”

“That explains why I had to take so many. Hey, quit turning my speed down. I’m sweating the cold out of my system.” Bloody hell. I was walking so slowly a turtle could have passed me.

He pressed stop and yanked me off the treadmill. “Put your robe on while I get you some water.” He stuck my cold tablets in his pocket.

When he returned, he handed the water over at arm’s length. I sprawled on the couch and waited while he turned over an empty plastic box and sat down three feet away near his Gold Wing.

“Do you know anyone who owns a pistol that chambers .32s?”

My heart was hammering in my ears, and my legs twitched like I was on amphetamines. “So, Sophie Quantz was shot with a .32? A .32 ACP?”

“Keep that to yourself, okay?”

“Of course. You know how discreet I am. Well, now, if you’re looking for a gun that uses .32 ammo, you have your work cut out for you. Bruce County has thousands.”

“I heard hundreds, but go on. Tell me about your personal experience with guns.”

“I know zilch about modern guns. I used to go with my grandpa every Saturday to the target range at the clubhouse. He and his cronies brought the guns they liberated from the enemy during the war. They’d sit and clean them and hand them around for the other guys to admire. They told whoppers about how they acquired a particular weapon. They fed us kids chocolate bars and pop. It was great. That’s how I know so much about old guns.”

“What kinds, exactly?”

“Specifically, semi-automatic pistols that use .32 calibre cartridges. Well, the most common was the Mauser HSc. I remember four or five of them. My grandpa also had a Dreyse and a Sauer 38H. I really liked that little Sauer. Grandpa taught me to shoot with it.”

“Those are all prohibited weapons.”

“My goodness, who knew? But I’m not done. There were Lugers, a couple of Walthers, even an Astra. I think they took 9x19-millimetre Parabellum rounds, though.” Actually, I knew they took 9x19s, but nobody likes a smarty-pants. I picked up the remote and turned up the volume.

Redfern pulled the remote out of my hand and stared at the screen. “What the hell are you watching?”

“It’s a Duck Dynasty marathon. See, these rednecks in Louisiana struck it rich with a duck call their father invented. His name is Phil and he’s married to Miss Kay …”

Redfern hit the off button. “Can you concentrate for a minute?” He had moved off his box and onto the old couch beside me. Either my knowledge of guns had impressed him, or my looks were improving.

“I thought I was.”

“I’m trying to get my head around the fact that prohibited weapons may be scattered all over the county.”

“There’s no may be about it. You have no idea, and best you don’t go poking around in attics or basements.”

“Or garages.” Redfern made a point of scanning his surroundings. Blue plastic tote boxes were stacked against one wall, piled three high, none labelled. A man’s dream of a toolbox on wheels held a tantalizing selection of drawers that might open to reveal a screwdriver collection. Or guns. Cardboard file boxes held documents — or perhaps guns. A tall tarp-covered case in the back corner might harbour a cherished hockey stick collection — or four or five long guns, never registered or licensed.

“Where is your grandfather’s gun collection now?”

I deliberately kept my eyes front. “Who knows? Am I still on your suspect list?”

“Tony tried removing you, but officially you’re still on the list because you’re one of the few grad students left in town. I don’t think you killed anybody. Yet.”

“You’re too kind.” I truly could not understand the man’s logic. I shouldn’t even try. My fingers inched toward the remote.

He moved it out of my reach. “Who else attended these clubhouse meetings?”

“Uh, I’m not sure I remember.” Fucked if I was going to rat anyone out. To give my hands something to do, I picked up a bottle of gun oil and opened it. I breathed in the tangy aroma.

Immediately, the smell transported me back more than twenty years to the clubhouse. I was nine again, sitting at the table with the old men while they gossiped and cleaned their guns. Grandpa sometimes let me hold one, but he had to help me. They weren’t very heavy, unloaded, but cumbersome for little fingers. Grandpa told me repeatedly never to point a gun, even one I was sure wasn’t loaded, at anyone.

Redfern nudged me. “Come on, Cornwall. I could use your help on this. Chances are good that the gun that killed Sophie Quantz was at that clubhouse. If we find her killer, we may solve Faith’s murder, too.”

I put the cap back on the gun oil. He was right. I had been hiding from the fact that someone I knew, and knew all my life, was a murderer.

“Did you just ask for my help, Redfern?”

“Are you going to make me pay for that scene in my office this afternoon?”

“What do you think? But first we find the killer.”

He flinched at the “we,” but nodded. “So, where is this clubhouse?”

“Back then, Lockport didn’t have an official Canadian Legion branch, so the vets took over an old shed south of town and set up some tables, an old refrigerator, and an outhouse. That outhouse was scary. There were spiders as big as your head in there. The boys were lucky. They could just duck behind a tree.”