Skull Garden: A Cornwall & Redfern Mystery, #3

By Gloria Ferris

The old burial grounds are lively again … with graverobbers, gunrunners, and a coven of skyclad Wiccans.

Bliss needs to rethink her "anything for a buck" approach to life. Lockport's mayor from hell has her scouting the back roads on her motorcycle, searching for abandoned cemeteries. Her mission: locate, evaluate, and report. Easy money. First day out, she falls into a grave and lands on a pile of bones. Shock turns to outrage when she realizes the skull is missing.

She expects her boyfriend, Police Chief Neil Redfern, to throw everything he has at the crime, but Neil is in the middle of a serious investigation and can't spare the resources. In his job, missing firearms trumps the desecration of a century-old burial. Bliss won't accept this decision, and their relationship founders when she senses he's also keeping personal secrets from her.

Despite Neil's insistence she leave police work to him, Bliss continues her quest to find the graverobber. She discovers more headless skeletons in the far reaches of the township and stumbles across a dying man poisoned by Jimsonweed.

Not until she narrowly escapes death by the same toxin, does Neil concede there may be a link between the gun thefts and the violated graves. On Midsummer's Eve, Bliss faces their adversary alone. Will Neil find her in time? Or, will she join the ranks of the long-dead she has so fiercely championed?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gloria Ferris
• Release date: Aug 31, 2017
• ISBN: 9780995224858

Gloria Ferris

Gloria Ferris is a former technical writer who now writes mysteries, both paranormal and humorous. Her first novel in the Cornwall and Redfern series, Corpse Flower, won the Unhanged Arthur Ellis Award in 2010, and her first novel, Cheat the Hangman, won the 2012 Bony Blithe Award. Gloria lives in Guelph, Ontario.

Book preview

Chapter 1

I eased the Savage to the edge of the pavement and cut the engine. Chesley swung a lanky leg over my head and hopped off the back seat. While he checked his teeth for bugs, I spread a hand-drawn map across the seat. It should be around here somewhere.

Consulting the compass duct-taped to my dash, I faced north and pointed to a gentle incline covered with a century’s worth of pine growth. It might be on the other side of that hill. Hunting for a graveyard abandoned over a hundred years ago is no easy task, especially if the township records suck.

Chesley hung my spare helmet over a handlebar and tucked his chin-length hair behind his ears. The cemetery could be inside the thicket. The undergrowth’s had plenty of time to cover the gravesites.

The June afternoon heated up, and I stripped off my helmet and jacket. I hope not. I want to take photos of any inscriptions, count up the headstones, and call it done.

How did Glory talk you into this? Seems odd she’d care about old burials.

She thinks she's my boss. She assumed I’d do it on a volunteer basis. I snorted. As if. So, she offered me minimum wage. I refused, but made a fatal mistake. I said I’d need the rate the town was giving summer students. The Cranky Contessa screeched for a while and told me I was a bad citizen. Finally, she gave in and pointed me towards the municipal archives for maps. I hate her.

We crossed the road and ploughed through an expanse of waist-high grass. If the cemetery was inside the gloomy stand of trees, Chesley might come in handy, to serve as bear bait. I shoved him into the lead.

We skirted a couple of flowering shrubs with white, trumpet-shaped blossoms. I picked one and stuck it in my hair. Chesley stumbled and I fell on top of him. After that, I stayed back.

As interim mayor of Lockport, a town of 7,000 hardy souls on the shores of Lake Huron, Glory Yates was on a crazy power trip. Who cared if there were burial grounds being overtaken by time in the wilds of the township? Dust to dust, right? Not. She wanted them located, inventoried, photographed and restored. I’d do the first three, but Bliss Moonbeam Cornwall wasn’t getting paid enough to restore anything. And, I’d run for mayor myself in the fall if that was the only way of preventing her from permanently slapping the gold chain of office around her neck. Although, someone was bound to strangle her with it five minutes into the first council meeting, so it was all good.

You’re earning some extra money, Bliss. Look at it that way.

We stopped to catch our breath at the edge of the forest. Don’t need another job. I gave him a nudge. Let’s do this.

Midday became twilight. The pines soared thirty feet above our heads, spindly at first, then branching and tangling into a thick mass as the trees fought for sunlight.

It’s beautiful in here. Chesley turned his face up to the green ceiling and inhaled. Don’t you love the smell?

Yeah, awesome. But what’s with all this ivy? How am I supposed to find graves? This doesn’t look like a cemetery. The floor of a pine forest is usually spongy with fallen needles. Here, clumps of shiny, calf-high plants undulated as far as the eye could see, like emerald waves.

That’s not natural. Someone planted it. Chesley spoke with expert confidence.

I backed up. I vote we strike this one off the list and not mention it to the Royal Pain.

Chesley dropped to his knees and burrowed into the ivy, giving me a tasteful view of his scrawny butt.

With a joyful hoot, he popped up. "Score. A Piperia unalascensis!" He pointed to a two-foot twig spiking out of the ground, half-entangled by the ivy. Trust a botanist to zero in on a stick.

Super. I’m looking for tombstones.

You might know it as a Slender Spire Orchid, Bliss.

That’s what I thought. Since Chesley and his mum, Ivy Belcourt, owned the greenhouse that employed me, he was technically one of my bosses. Still, I had no patience with his botanical enthusiasms and refused to encourage them.

This genus is considered globally secure but very rare in this area. Did you know this plant grew from Alaska through Manitoulin Island to the east coast of Canada during the glacial melt 10,000 years ago?

Unbelievable. I scuffed through the undergrowth, stopping when my boot connected with a hard object. Kicking aside the vegetation, I uncovered a grave marker. Green plant scum obscured the inscription.

I prepared to share the happy news with Chesley, but he pulled a miniature set of gardening implements out of his pocket and selected a trowel.

What are you doing?

I’m taking this specimen back to the greenhouse.

This could be crown land. Do you know the penalty for digging in crown land?

He made a show of looking around. So, who’s going to tell? Anyway, the plant isn’t endangered.

Fine. I searched for tombstones, finding another dozen. They had all been flattened by time and the elements, and inscriptions were mostly illegible. Without an army of volunteers, I couldn’t see a way of enumerating the dead and restoring their final resting places.

Chesley stood beside a hillock of earth that rose several feet high, bare of greenery. You should come and look at this, Bliss.

I trudged over and peered into — a hole. It was approximately six feet long and four wide on ground level but narrowed in toward the bottom. So?

Look closer.

I inched toward the edge of the pit and saw rotted splinters of wood. Coffin pieces.

My pupils dilated to their maximum and the shards of wood mingled with rounded, lighter objects. My mind filled in the pattern. Bones.

Yup.

A thin shaft of sunlight pierced the overhead canopy, scattering cheerful rays across the heaps of earth under our feet.

Chesley balanced close to the edge. Somebody dug this grave up by hand. You can still see the shovel marks.

There’s the tombstone. A weathered marker leaned against a tree trunk. I slithered down and tilted the stone to catch the light. The lettering was barely legible. Catherine Mileski. She died at age 16 in 1847 and was the beloved wife of Stanley Mileski. Shit, the pioneers were a bunch of pedophiles.

Didn’t there used to be a Polish settlement nearby?

I climbed up beside Chesley. Guess we found it. I pulled a folded piece of paper from my pocket. St. Stanislaus Cemetery.

When I shifted to put the paper away, my foot sank into loose soil and I fell to my knees. The earth collapsed beneath me. Chesley grabbed my sleeve, but the thin fabric ripped. I slipped and rolled over the edge.

My body slammed against the wood and bone fragments. Chesley’s white face appeared above me, one hand holding the T-shirt, his grape-green eyes popping.

Are you hurt? Can you move?

I flexed my legs. Check. Reaching my hands over my head, I touched tree roots spilling from the wall. Rolling over, I got to my hands and knees. I think I see Elvis.

I remembered the bones and staggered to my feet. My ass hurt like you wouldn’t believe and my spine shot forks of fire.

Chesley moved back as clumps of dirt fell onto my head. "Can you climb out?’

I extended my arms and dug my fingers into the sides of the grave. The earth crumbled. I worked my way around the hole with the same result.

I’m stuck. We need help. I pulled my phone from the front pocket of my jeans. I’m not getting a signal.

Me either. I’ll have to go back to the road. Shall I call Chief Redfern?

Just call 911 and mention my name. They know me. Mosquitoes buzzed around my head, preparing to land on my naked shoulders. Toss my shirt down.

The crashing sounds as he ran to the road stopped abruptly. Surely the numbskull hadn’t fallen into another grave? Chesley! Can you hear me?

"I found a second Pipera unalascensis. I’ll dig it up so I don’t lose track of it."

I’m going to kick your ass when I get out of here.

Have to seal the bag. There. You’re practically rescued.

I tried not to think about my co-inhabitant’s cause of death. When did I last have a tetanus shot? Oh, right. Last December, when I had been shot. The ER doctor got carried away and I was covered if a polio, diphtheria, or whooping cough outbreak hit town. But, not cholera or smallpox. Or plague.

My shirt had a long tear down the front. I put in on backwards so the rescuers wouldn’t be distracted by my grave-besmirched lacy bra. A low moaning drifted through the tops of the pines. Just wind. The scurrying noises were squirrels running through the branches.

No doubt about it, I needed to rethink what I’d do, and not do, for money. First time out on the cemetery job, and it could be my last. If the botanic savant managed to summon help to get me out of this hole, I was going to take the cheap badge and the copy of the Cemetery Act that Glory had given me and shove them down her throat.

To pass the time, I used the screen light on my phone to scan the grave. I directed the light to the far side. And, back.

Bony fingers of ice squeezed my neck. Where was Catherine Mileski’s head?

Chapter 2

What do you want me to do, Neil?

Neil Redfern kept his expression blank as Glory Yates slammed the file folder closed in front of her. She had tied her red mane into a business-like knot at the back of her head, but a few wisps escaped and floated around her face.

Opening his own file, he extracted a sheet of paper and pushed it over to her. Here are police budget comparables. From small towns in Ontario with municipal police services. You’re head of the Police Services Board. Do you see the discrepancies?

Her glance flicked to the graph in front of her and back up. You promoted Thea Vanderbloom and Bernie Campbell. You now have two sergeants.

I need three. I have no deputy chief, no investigator and, with Thea promoted, I’m down a Scene of Crimes Officer. Additionally, my training budget is a joke.

You know perfectly well that the last mayor is responsible for the police budget deficit. I’ll rectify it as soon as possible. If I’m elected in October for a three-year term, I’ll be in a stronger position to make changes.

Neil hitched his chair back. As Chief of Police, my job should be mainly administrative. I’ve been putting in sixty-hour weeks, in and out of the field. Perhaps if you stopped funding folk festivals and amateur art displays in the park, I could increase my staffing. You need to re-examine priorities.

He waited for her to argue that a small, lakeside town didn’t warrant a beefed-up police force. Three murders less than six months ago, and a major drug bust last year, proved his point.

Beyond a flutter of her eyelashes and a flushing of her pale skin, she showed no reaction. How about this? I’ll allot funds for you to send one of your constables for SOCO training. There’s a class starting soon, isn’t there?

It’s a start. I’ll be down another street constable, and we’ll need to look at overall numbers. Neil headed for the exit.

Wait. You haven’t signed your contract renewal.

Correct.

Her eyes thinned to slits. Are you blackmailing me? Increase the police budget or you walk?

Neil turned and faced her. You should know I don’t play games.

There’s a salary increase for you. Have you even looked at the contract?

I’ve read every word. Without an adequate budget for staffing and training, this contract will reinforce the status quo for another three years. And, as I hope I’ve made clear, that isn't acceptable.

I said I’d do my best.

Pissed, he closed the door with more force than he intended. His feet pounded down the wooden stairs to the ground floor of the municipal building that housed the police offices.

His civilian employee, Lavinia Woods, stopped him when he entered the outer office.

Chief, Sergeant Pinato just dropped by. He brought a friend. I told him you wouldn’t be long and put them in your office. I’ll bring coffee.

Tony sat behind the desk with his feet up. He was out of uniform, wearing soiled runners rather than regulation OPP boots. The friend was a black Lab sprawled in front of the filing cabinet, muzzle buried in its paws.

Get out of my chair and take your feet off my desk. This had become the standard greeting between them. Is that your dog? It needs a bath.

What’s got your spikes in a twist? Your face is as red as my shirt. Better get your blood pressure checked. Tony snickered and sprawled into the visitor’s chair. I’ll tell you about Sabeena in a minute.

Would it damage our friendship if I said I just had a hot session with your girlfriend upstairs?

"Nope. My bella can be tough on the rank and file. I find her fiery temperament a total turn-on if you want the truth."

I don’t. You can catch her in her office if you hurry. Otherwise, she’ll be leaving for the greenhouse.

We made plans to meet up later. It’s you I came to see. Tony stopped rocking and rolled closer to Neil.

So, this is official? Neil looked Tony up and down, eying the ragged T-shirt, jeans, and well-worn Nikes.

I’m off duty, man. Wanted to drop in and shoot the shit with you on my way to visit my babe.

Tony had spent ten years undercover in the biker subculture prior to extraction by his Ontario Provincial Police superiors who felt he was a little too good at it. A year later, Tony was still re-adjusting to regulations and boundaries.

Neil tore off his tie and threw it on the windowsill. The hell with it. He should be off duty, too. So, what’s up? Not another grow-op?

Not even close. It’s been noted at HQ that you’ve been hit by a burglary spree. Of a unique and specific type.

If by ‘spree’ you mean two incidents, okay. The crimes occurred in the township, not in Lockport. If we’re talking about the same thing.

Tony’s dark eyes lit up. Antique guns, bro.

A few years older than Neil, an inch shorter, a little wider, they became friends when Neil served on the Toronto drug squad and Tony was undercover OPP. They had worked together on a couple of operations in Toronto until Neil left to take the police chief’s job in Lockport. Tony infiltrated a drug ring operating out of a trailer park within Neil’s jurisdiction. After that, Tony had been re-assigned to OPP headquarters in London. From there, he was dispatched as an investigator to assist municipal forces when they needed murder expertise since most small municipalities lacked the budgets to maintain qualified murder investigators. He and Tony met up again when a series of homicides hit Lockport last December. Tony and Glory Yates locked eyes and fell into each other’s arms.

You, too? Neil prodded his laptop until the screen displayed the latest home burglary information.

Yeah. Could be the same suspect. Isolated residences. Break-ins occur during the day when the owners are absent. Alarm systems disabled. Only items taken are antique firearms. Silver, jewellery, money — all ignored.

Good chance it’s the same guy. One thing strikes me, though. Neil paused as Lavinia set down a tray with coffee, cookies, and water for the canine.

I made them myself. Lavinia smiled at Tony and handed him a cup. White chocolate chip.

You’re an angel, Lavinia. Tony winked at her and swept up three cookies from the plate. I wish we had someone like you at HQ. Anytime you want a job with better pay, let me know.

Neil shook his head at his friend as the pink-faced woman left the room. You are pathetic. Is any female off-limits to you?

What? She reminds me of my Aunt Octavia. Every woman deserves to be appreciated. You could try a little more of that with your Bliss Moonbeam Cornwall.

I appreciate Cornwall. Let’s get back to business.

Crumbs tumbled from Tony’s mouth. Sure. Appears we have a pattern here. There are multiple cases in the area. Tony reached for the cookie plate.

No licenses required for antique guns. I checked and neither of my victims hold licenses for restricted or prohibited firearms. But, they aren't likely to report the theft of weapons that should be licensed and aren’t.

Tony smirked. Exactly. Chances are, if you collect antique guns, you like guns, period.

Neil snatched the last cookie as Tony’s fingers inched toward it. We can only deal with reported incidents. Many antique firearms aren’t operable, so the market must be dealers or collectors.

He closed his laptop. The dog sighed and closed her lids. What’s the matter with her? Is she sick?

Tony reached down and rubbed the dog’s head. She lifted her eyelids, then let them fall. Sabeena is eighteen months old. She washed out of training school and I said I’d find a home for her. She’s a little depressed and needs a new family to cheer her up. A family with a uniform.

Can’t you keep her?

Wish I could, but no pets allowed in my apartment building.

Maybe Glory will take her in and you can visit her. No chance in hell of that, but Neil didn’t like where this was heading.

I thought you could adopt her. You had dogs growing up. Sabeena will make a great addition to your happy little home.

I’d take her, but Cornwall won’t agree. She’s never had a dog and, besides, she has her hands full now. Her parents want her to sell the house and contents. Her sister, Blyth, lives in Rexdale with two toddlers and a professional student for a husband. Cornwall has to do it alone.

These are the parents who are touring the west coast in an RV, living like hippies and hugging redwoods?

According to Cornwall. I’ve never met them. All I know is, if I bring home a dog, she’ll throw me and everything I own onto the front curb.

You’re whipped, you know that, buddy? Tony ran his hand down Sabeena’s silky back. The dog opened her eyes and fixed them on Neil’s face, as though she knew her fate was in his hands. Listen, how about this plan? You take Sabeena home and introduce her to Miss Bliss. Sabeena is a big pussy-cat and your lady will fall in love with her. Guaranteed.

Can’t happen. Why did she fail her training?

She loves explosives and guns. She’s A-1 at the weed but can’t detect coke or heroin. HQ only wants all-purpose sniffers.

Lavinia poked her head into his office, waving a sticky note. The 911 dispatcher forwarded a call for assistance from Chesley Belcourt. He’s on Sideroad 11 in the township. Bliss fell into a grave.

Chapter 3

Death would claim me. Chesley was unconscious with a broken leg and his phone out of battery. Exhausted, I sat cross-legged, dead centre in the pile of jagged wood and pitiful bones. Above me, the sky darkened and the pitter-patter of rain drops joined the sighing wind in the pines.

I picked up a small bone and tried to figure out what it was. Finger? It was possible that my own bones wouldn’t be found until they were as brown and pitted as these. An anthropologist would be dumfounded to find two skeletons with one skull.

The rain changed to heavy splattering. The pines folded in their branches, allowing the downpour to turn the dry earth in my grave to muck. Shit. I always knew I would meet an early and undignified end.

I looked up but didn’t have the energy to shake my fist at the universe. The sides of the grave seemed to close around my body, the tree roots reaching for me. I leaned forward, my head on my arms. I would miss Redfern, even though he was an arrogant, inflexible cop.

To take my mind off earthly delights, I thought about the cemetery. Why did someone take the time to dig a grave and steal the skull? My mind skittered around and stopped at one possibility. Devil worship or another arcane belief system.

I listened. Death whispered my name. Footsteps, cursing, the indescribable scent of testosterone. Okay, not Death.

I stood up and called, Here. I’m over here.

Water dripped from Redfern's blond hair and ran down his face. He struggled for firm footing on the earth surrounding the grave, but rain had rendered it unstable. His foot slipped and he jumped back.

Did you bring a rope?

We’ll get you right out of there, Cornwall.

I saw Tony’s face, and several more heads topped with climbers’ helmets. Hi, Lonnie, Ian, Brandon. Nice to see you all. The Search and Rescue Team from the volunteer fire department had come out to the last man. Flashlights illuminated the neon green vests they wore over black shirts and pants.

Step back, Bliss. I’ll be coming down for you. Lonnie’s eyes glittered with enthusiasm. Please stand in the far corner. I’ll bring a first aid kit.

Now, I was really scared. I tried to defuse the situation. I am not injured. Toss down a rope, Lonnie, and you can pull me out.

Lonnie’s head disappeared. I heard a muted discussion about who was going down into the hole — they all wanted to — and who was staying back to prepare the back board — none of them wanted that mundane task.

I was wet, thirsty, and I had to pee. I hated Glory Yates. and I was going to quit this cursed job before another day dawned on my pathetic life.

Redfern! When his head came into view, I screamed, Throw me a rope. A bungee cord. Your belt. Anything.

Tony smiled down, white teeth gleaming against his olive skin. You’ll be topside in a jiffy, little lady. From this vantage point, the scar running across his throat was visible, compliments of a biker’s knife, and the reason for Tony’s gruff voice.

I resigned myself to rescue by a trio of eager amateurs.

A lot of grunting followed as, inch by inch, Lonnie was lowered into the grave. A melting ice cap would have won that race. Lonnie’s eyes blazed as he landed next to me. Okay, Bliss, you’ll be out of here soon.

I heard that half an hour ago.

Lonnie came at me. My back flattened against the muddy wall. Roots grasped at my hair and held me fast. When I reached up to free myself, Lonnie seized me by my waist and heaved me over his shoulder.

He shouted out that we were ready. I didn’t think it was necessary for Lonnie to clasp my upper thigh, but what the heck did I know about rescue techniques?

I let my body go limp. When we were on firm ground, Redfern plucked me from Lonnie’s shoulder while everyone else whooped and cheered like they had saved a baby from a collapsed well.

Thanks, everybody. I thought I was a goner. In the gloom of the forest, I was betting none of them could see my eyes rolling.

You were down there less than an hour, Bliss. Chesley’s hair lay in wet tendrils across his cheeks and forehead, but he suddenly looked handsome, tough, and brave.

I pushed away from Redfern and threw my arms around Chesley. Thank you. You saved my life. Later, I felt embarrassed about the effusive way I hugged all the firemen, Tony, Redfern again, and Chesley over and over. My brush with death had loosened my inhibitions, which aren’t tight at the best of times as anyone who knows me can confirm.

You aren’t going to charge me for this rescue, are you? I asked Lonnie.

This one’s on the house.

While the fire fighters packed up their rescue gear, I motioned at the grave and whispered to Redfern and Tony. This is a crime scene.

They eyed me like a Martian had crawled out of the forest floor and asked for a mojito.

Are you saying somebody pushed you in, little lady? Tony’s cop stare swept over Chesley. His fingers twitched.

Grave robbery. This body is missing its skull. My voice hissed on the esses.

Chesley recovered from Tony’s silent accusation and found his tongue. Interfering with a grave is a crime. Isn’t it?

Certainly, Redfern agreed. I’ll get someone out here tomorrow.

I had a thought. Chesley, take some pictures. I need to show the Maniacal Mayor — sorry, Tony — the reason I’m never setting foot in this place again. Go on, we’ll wait for you. I could have done it myself, but didn’t want to get my phone wet.

We stood under the dripping branches while Chesley complied. He slipped on the wet ivy and disappeared from view, then thrashed his way clear.

Lonnie strode towards me carrying a light stretcher. Hop on, Bliss. We’ll strap you down and transport you to the hospital to be checked out.

No. Knocking Chesley aside, I ran through the woods, calling back to him, Email me those pictures ASAP. You can wait until you get home. Nobody could accuse me of thoughtlessness.

Emerging from the woodland, I skidded on the grassy bank and gave my sore butt a few more bruises.

The monster rescue van took up the whole of the pavement. Its emergency lights whirled and flashed while, behind it, the police 4X4 looked like a Matchbook toy. A black dog leaned out of the window and flapped its tongue.

I didn’t take the time to pull my leather jacket from the saddlebag. Buckling on the helmet, I threw my leg over the seat, checked for oncoming wildlife, and sped off.

Chapter 4

I swung by the greenhouse to pick up my laptop. The week’s staff schedule for my cleaning company, Bliss This House, needed finalizing. If I completed that tonight, I could choose a less deadly cemetery to investigate in the morning. Since Chesley found a valuable plant today, he might be willing to accompany me again. Roaming abandoned boneyards alone was too risky.

Cousin Dougal’s Lexus, Glory’s white Corvette, Ivy Belcourt’s Lincoln Navigator, and Chesley’s Volkswagen convertible stood in a stately lineup of conspicuous consumerism in the greenhouse parking lot.

I left the Savage beside the main entrance, in a space reserved for the rare customers who arrived in person to select their exotic or native plants. The Belcourt Nursery dealt mainly in mail-orders. After the new tropical garden feature opened to the public, we would need a larger parking lot, according to Chesley who promised exotic butterflies and reptiles as well as the plants. Good times ahead.

Late afternoon sunshine parted the last of the rain clouds, and I paused to read a text message from Redfern:

WHERE ARE YOU?

HM LR. That should keep him busy. He had trouble with missing vowels and, when I dropped a consonant as well, he was screwed. By the time he figured out the message, I’d be pulling into my driveway.

The new receptionist sat at her post, ordering compost. A single blond plait bobbed up and down in rhythm with her words. Ivy hired Ciera Dorlan to replace my friend, Rae, who had moved to Montreal. Good luck with that — Rae didn’t even speak French. Ciera nodded as I passed. One pale-yellow orchid in a pot decorated her desk. To my untrained eye, the flower didn’t look long for