So, without touching my bank account, I could survive for a month. Put another way, if I paid the back taxes on the swamp, I had a month to sell it back to the Weasel. Or I’d threaten to blow the whistle on his crooked scheme to donate land he didn’t own to the province.
On the other hand, I could let the swamp go, allow the Weasel to take it away from me, and use my savings to keep myself going for six months while I tried other means of squeezing my share out of him. I could even find a safer place to live.
Turning my hands on the table, palms up, I looked at them, envisioning one choice in each. I had to make a decision now, and it had to be a choice I could live with, no matter what happened. I looked at the numbers written on the paper.
What the hell.
Tomorrow afternoon, when I was finished cleaning Fern Brickle’s house, I would stop by the registry office and pay off the taxes. Then I’d wait for the Weasel to find me and offer me a deal. Let next month take care of itself. And the month after that. Who cared? No pain, no gain, Cornwall.
At Arlington Woods, Pan looked alarmed when I asked to speak to Glory. I still had half an hour before my class at the spa.
“You might want to think twice about that, Bliss. The Mistress of Darkness is still chewing nails, and I don’t mean her own.”
Pan was walking me around the side of the house to my bike after visiting the greenhouse. We had taken our look at the plant, and I had snapped the required pictures. The pot crop was coming along well, too.
“I need to know about tomorrow, Pan. It’s my morning to clean, and I want to know if Glory still wants me to come.”
He whirled to look at me. “What do you mean? Of course she wants you to clean the house. You know I don’t clean.”
“I’ve noticed that. But after the other night, I got the impression she was really angry. She yelled at me to get out.”
“Mostly she meant your cousin. Just the sight of him sends her into a frenzy. She’s been eating her special food like crazy, but it hasn’t helped.”
“What special food? Oh, you mean … special?”
Pan nodded his sleek head. “Cookies, casseroles, dips, you name it.”
“You can make all those kinds of food from … you know?”
“Certainly. But it’s very rich, and Miss Yates is going to hate herself when she comes out of this, then she’ll hate your cousin even more when she has to go to a fat farm to lose the ten pounds she put on.” Pan pressed his fingertips to his temples and looked every inch the overworked servant.
“So, are you the creator of all these special dishes?”
“I don’t cook.”
“You don’t clean, you don’t cook.” I was afraid to pose the obvious question, and instead asked, “Who does the cooking, then?”
“Herself doesn’t eat breakfast, eats lunch only on occasion with her closest female friends, and eats dinner at the Club. Unless a gentleman takes her out.”
“Well, I know that, Pan. I mean, who cooks these special meals? I’m pretty sure the Glorious One doesn’t slap on an apron and start chopping up the pot and other herbs.”
He smirked. “I’d love a picture of that.”
I thought about telling him I had seen him the previous night, dropping something off at the Quigley trailer. Trouble was, I didn’t know if his errand had to do with Glory’s diet or something more personal. If Pan was there on private business, it was probably in my best interest to keep quiet.
Pan seemed to make his mind up about something. Moving closer until our noses were almost touching, he whispered, “The less people who know about this the better, but since you keep asking questions and you know about the stuff, I’m going to explain a few things. But if you blab, we could both get hurt.”
I could tell he was serious, so I didn’t laugh. Honestly. This was Lockport. Then I thought of Snake and Ewan Quigley and lost even the desire to smile.
He whispered, “Okay, there’s a person in town called the Baker. The Baker takes private stashes and turns them into gourmet meals to die for. A lot of the influential people in town use the Baker’s services.”
“It must be expensive.”
“The Baker takes a cut of the stash. No money changes hands.”
“Then what does he do with his cut?”
Pan shrugged. “I don’t know, but I’m guessing the Baker sells it.”
I sucked in a breath. “Okay, we’ve crossed over into serious criminal activity here.”
“That’s what I’m saying. Now you know how dangerous this whole thing is.”
“I never doubted that. I don’t even like being in the same room with those plants. I keep thinking the feds are going to come smashing through the glass windows with guns blazing.”
“Well, how about me. I have to water and feed the stuff.” Pan managed to look highly affronted at his servitude to the Cannabis Queen.
“Glory must pay you well.”
“I do all right. So, you see what I’m saying here?”
“Not really.”
“We’re both in this, right along with Miss Glory and all her society friends. Maybe more so. Who do you think is going to do more time if they catch us?”
“You. They won’t charge me just for being in the same room, especially if I plead family connections. You, on the other hand, will be kissing your ass goodbye for a few years.” I didn’t add that I could be forced to testify against him. No point branding the words Witness for the Crown on my forehead.
He nodded and stepped back. “I guess. Anyway, remember what they said during the Second World War, ‘Loose lips sink ships.’”
I agreed. I didn’t want to be the torpedo aimed at anybody’s ship.
Chapter
SIXTEEN
The class was performing the Tree Pose, and two of the fifteen participants had already fallen over onto their yoga mats. This pose promotes balance but is not one of the more simple yoga moves. Staring at a spot directly in front helps and, to maintain my own equilibrium, I was concentrating on the sweating nose of the thirty-something woman who had positioned herself in the middle of the front row. She was doing pretty well, although yoga consists of slow movements and if you sweat you’re probably trying too hard.
The perspiring woman crashed to the floor, followed by several others. My line of sight was now cleared to the back row where I noticed that one of the few still standing was a male. As the woman on either side of him fell over in unison, I saw he was wearing black bicycle shorts and matching muscle shirt. This was not a good look for …
Chesley Belcourt. Now he was standing like a lone sapling in a fire-ravaged forest. We both stood firmly, one foot high on the inside of the opposite thigh, arms reaching ceilingward with palms pressed together. Our eyes locked.
Chesley held onto that pose like he could do it forever, but I drew a bead on his eyes. I always won the blinking contest against Blyth and Dougal, and I knew how to stare without blinking. Chesley’s eyes moved away slightly and I followed them. When he moved them back, I was there too. Within seconds,