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had the nerve to laugh out loud. “So did your parents embrace any other trends from the sixties, like free love or pot smoking?”
    Oh. My. God. They knew about Dougal’s marijuana! Maybe Glory’s too! I tried to swallow the panic caught in my throat.
    â€œHard to say, I never dared ask. They retired to Vancouver Island where I believe they are camping in a forest in their fifth wheel, or maybe chained to a giant redwood so the socialist developers won’t chop it down and build a row of condos.” I managed an uneasy smile.
    â€œPlease, can we get down to business,” admonished the male cop. “Ms. Cornwall, I am Chief Neil Redfern and this is Constable Thea Vanderbloom.”
    He flashed an identification card. I remembered seeing his picture in our weekly newspaper several times. Since Chief Redfern was relatively young and not ugly, although I wasn’t attracted to fair-haired men, he made good media copy. He had left his job as a Toronto detective to take up the post as Lockport’s Chief of Police about two years ago.
    â€œNow we all know who we are, why are we here? I lead a blameless life, I assure you. Frankly, I’m too busy to even jaywalk.” Shit, it was jail for Dougal and Glory, and I would be forced to appear as chief witness for the Crown.
    Constable Vanderbloom pulled a small black notebook and a pen from her breast pocket. She looked down at me and waited expectantly. I was nervous, and desperately tried to think of a way to avoid answering direct questions about two affluent Lockport homes where grass was cultivated and served.
    Chief Redfern said, “Do you know Julian Barnfeather?”
    That threw me. What the hell. Was the creep accusing me of something?
    â€œIs this a trick question? Because I might want a lawyer, but then again, all the lawyers I know are crooks, so I guess I’ll do without.”
    He tried again. “According to the Cemetery Commission, you work at the Good Shepherd Cemetery on Saturdays from April until October. Is this true?”
    â€œNovember. Yes?” One word answers were best.
    He took off his sunglasses and rubbed his forehead. In an effort to hide the fact that I forgot the question after one glance at his deep blue eyes — they were navy, really — I quickly turned away and scanned the treetops for eagles or buzzards. In the split second those eyes were locked on mine, I was sure all my recent indiscretions had been revealed. Like socializing with pot growers and hookers, and thinking about dropping a dead skunk on my ex-husband’s doorstep.
    â€œYes you work at the cemetery? You don’t seem to be too sure about anything this morning, Ms. Cornwall.”
    â€œLook, I’m not used to being interrogated before I’ve had my second cup of coffee.” Not so smart, Cornwall, I told myself. When cornered by the law, it’s not wise to reveal sarcasm is your first language.
    â€œYou call this an interrogation, Ms. Cornwall? These
are very simple questions. Now, do you work at the cemetery on Saturdays and were you working yesterday? Yes or no will do.”
    â€œYes. And, yes.”
    â€œGood. Did you see Julian Barnfeather during the course of the day?”
    â€œI saw him in the morning, as usual, and that’s it.”
    â€œSo, you didn’t see him again before you left the cemetery at the end of the day?”
    â€œNo, I did not. I left my tools outside the maintenance shed.”
    â€œWas there a reason for doing so?”
    â€œHe’s a dickhead and I wanted to avoid him. I figured he would put the tools inside before he went home. He’s always there when I leave at five o’clock — he locks the gates. My cousin called and wanted me to come right over so I left at five on the dot. I don’t know what time Julian left.”
    â€œSo you didn’t see him yesterday before you left. You only saw him first thing in the morning. What time would