Cornwall and Redfern Mysteries 2-Book Bundle Read Online Free PDF

Lockport’s downtown core, and noticed the dead skunk was still lying in the middle of the road in front of the police station.
    It was getting smellier and more bloated each time I passed. I smiled at the probability that complaints had been forwarded to the Town Offices from Public Works. Since the Weasel was also the mayor, any such complaints would wind up on his desk. For a moment, I fantasized about scooping up the skunk myself and depositing it on the Weasel’s front step. But no, that was beneath me, if barely.
    The Secret Valley Trailer Park occupied a natural dip in the landscape with the Niagara Escarpment looming on the horizon. Mostly retired or single, the residents appreciated not having the upkeep or expense of a big lot in town. The small yards were well-kept and, in summer and fall, flowers bloomed profusely on every windowsill. Front doors competed for the freshest paint and driveways glistened with sealed asphalt. Secret Valley’s residents were proud of their humble homes.
    I didn’t live there.
    If you drove through the narrow, winding main street of Secret Valley, the pavement ended abruptly. And, just to emphasize that this was the end of the rainbow, a chain hung between three white wooden posts. Beyond these posts, the ground dropped sharply. At the bottom, my trailer squatted with two others, like toadstools in a goblin’s circle.
    Officially, it was part of Secret Valley, but unofficially it was known as Hemp Hollow.
    The trailers in Hemp Hollow were real trailers and didn’t pretend otherwise. The wheels sunk into the ground and the hitches were propped on stacks of bricks, ready to fall at the slightest shove. All three trailers shared a dirt courtyard where even weeds refused to grow.
    My trailer rental was three hundred dollars a month. I hadn’t been able to find anything cheaper, not even a room in somebody’s basement. From November to April, when the weather made riding a motorcycle impossible, it was a long walk into town and I hoped that, before I had to spend a second winter in the dump, I could find a place in town that was affordable. I was terrified that the rusty gas furnace would malfunction and emit deadly carbon monoxide, so I moved a small electric heater from room to room in cold weather to prevent death by hypothermia. Even so, last winter my bedding froze to the thin aluminum wall more than once.
    I rode north past the front gates of Secret Valley and, more by memory than sight, found the dirt trail leading to a dense stand of trees shielding the perimeter of Hemp Hollow.
    Food and flashlight in hand, I walked cautiously through the trees to the clearing behind my trailer and listened closely. Except for a few hooting owls and grass-rustling rodents, the night was silent. Then, a faint, earthy odour I had noticed several times lately after nightfall wafted into my nostrils. I whirled around and saw a pair of green, unblinking eyes staring back at me. A bear?
    Not wanting that question answered, I turned and ran, aiming the flashlight beam ahead. A garbage can blocked my path, and I’m pretty sure I leapt over it, because the lid flew off, pinging off my trailer and, no doubt, bringing the bear on the run. I knew garbage drew bears like some women are drawn to Chanel No. 5 perfume.
    Judging by their darkened windows, both my neighbours had turned in. No help there. I located the keyhole with shaky fingers, my bag of food still intact under one arm. As soon as I rushed inside, I turned on the light and shut and locked the door behind me. While trying to catch my breath, I listened for nails scratching on the outside of the door and peered through a crack in the faded gingham curtains. No eyes, no scratching, no roars in the night. My heart thumped rapidly as I stored my food in a tiny fridge under the sink.
    I had running cold water, but no toilet hookup. There was a common bathhouse in the trees behind the middle trailer, and we were expected