by Rickie Blair
Do something, she mouthed, eyes wide. No doubt the memory of a pastry-hurling melee in the village hall the previous summer was flashing through her mind.
Hastily, I rose to my feet. “Do I get to say anything? Or is this just between you two?”
My aunt jerked her head in my direction as if startled to see me. Slowly, she unclenched her fists. “Verity. Of course you can speak.”
“Frank says he’s here on a matter of life and death.” I whirled on him. “Did you mean that?”
Aunt Adeline harrumphed loudly, folding her arms.
I twisted my head to glare at her.
“Sorry.” She gave a dismissive wave.
Frank gripped the back of a chair, his knuckles white. “Yes. But I can’t tell you why.”
“Typical,” my aunt said in an acidic tone. “Lies, as usual. Verity, there’s no way—”
“How dare you interfere?” Frank unhanded the chair and marched over to Adeline. “You… you…” he spluttered.
They glared at each other from inches away. If somebody didn’t do something soon, there’d be blood on the floor. Frank towered over my aunt by at least three inches, and her pixie-cut hair was was more gray than brown. But I would have put my money on Adeline in a tussle between the two. She’d drilled me for years in the self-defense moves of Krav Maga, but her martial arts skills far exceeded mine—and, I suspected, Frank’s. He’d never been famous for his commitment. The years of practice required to master those abilities were beyond him. Warily, I eyed his back pockets for anything that might indicate a weapon. There was a wallet-shaped lump, but nothing more.
I did the only thing I could.
Slumping into a chair, I buried my face in my hands and started to cry. “Why are you doing this to me?” I wailed. “Why are you fighting?” I even eked out a few actual tears. It was an Oscar-worthy performance. Or, at least, the Canadian equivalent—formerly known as a Genie.
They turned to me with stricken expressions.
I threw in another wail. “My father finally comes home, and this is what happens?”
Emy ducked out from behind the counter to hand me a pack of tissues. I accepted it with a feeble, “Thanks,” and blew my nose loudly. Out of sight of Aunt Adeline, Emy winked before returning to her post.
“Verity, don’t—” my aunt cried, rushing to my side. She leaned over with a hand on my shoulder. Her brow wrinkled as she tilted her head to study my face. I could tell from her smirk that she wasn’t buying it. Then, to Frank, who was now standing on my other side, “Look what you’ve done.”
“What I’ve done? What about you—flying in here like one of the Valkyries? You set her off.”
Behind my tissue, I realized with amazement Frank must have absorbed some of my mother’s talk about mythology after all. But this was not the time to marvel at it. “Waaaah,” I wailed.
“Stop it, Frank,” Adeline hissed.
They bent to stare at my face, one on either side of me.
Crumpling the tissue into a ball, I sat up straight. “You should be ashamed of yourselves.”
Frank took a step back, grinning broadly.
Aunt Adeline shook her head with a tsk-tsk and a half-smile. “I knew you were faking.”
“Truce?” I asked.
There was muttering, but the air had cleared. When Frank thrust out a hand, Adeline warily shook it.
Emy walked over with a cup of my aunt’s favorite green tea and honey. Adeline took the cup with a nod, then sat at the table. Crossing her legs, she swallowed a quick mouthful without taking her eyes from Frank.
Emy returned with a carafe of coffee to refill Frank’s cup. He sat, too.
Over their respective beverages, Frank and Adeline glowered at each other. As truces go, it was tense, but at least they weren’t at each other’s throats.
I leapt on the opportunity. “So. Frank Thorne has returned to Leafy Hollow. I think the question on everyone’s mind is—why now?”
He settled back in his chair. “Isn’t it possible I simply wanted to catch up with my daughter?”
Adeline harrumphed again. “Sorry,” she said when I flipped a gesture of irritation. “I’m listening.”
“Perhaps I wanted to meet the new beau,” he continued. “Jeff Katsuro, right?”
I narrowed my eyes. “How do you know about Jeff?”
“We have social media in Australia.”
“I don’t remember friending you on Facebook.” An unnerving thought hit me. “Have you been stalking me?”
“That’s your aunt’s domain, not mine.”
Adeline’s teacup paused halfway to her mouth. “Excuse me?”
I winced. Even as a child, I knew that whenever my aunt became super-polite, the next words out of her mouth were likely to be—not polite.
“Let’s start again,” I said hastily. “Just tell me what you meant by ‘life and death’.”
He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I can’t explain.”
Before my aunt could harrumph again, I held up a hand to her without shifting my gaze from his face. “Why not? Is this like the time you said if I walked to the park by myself, I’d be eaten by a bear? And scared me half to death?”
“I never said that.”
“You did. And plenty of other things, too.”
“You couldn’t possibly remember something like that. You were too young. Somebody put that thought into your head. And I can guess who.”
The glares between my father and my aunt ratcheted up to a level that reminded me of superheroes’ X-ray vision. I half expected to see tendrils of smoke.
Aunt Adeline set her teacup down and leaned back, choosing her words with care. “You’re in trouble. Aren’t you, Frank?” She paused, fingering the handle of her cup. “Are some of your pals unhappy with you? Is that why you came halfway around the world—to get away from them?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“What would they do if they found you, Frank?” Her tone was cold. “Would we have to send you home in a body bag?”
I jumped to my feet with a gasp, my chair scraping loudly on the floor. “Why would you say that?” This time, my distress was real. My breath caught, and I pressed both hands to my throat, hoping to fend off an anxiety attack.
Adeline slapped her hand on the table, eyes flashing at Frank. “See what you’ve done?”
“Stop blaming me. You’re the one with the big mouth.” He rose to cover the steps between us. “Verity, your aunt is kidding. Nobody’s going anywhere in a body bag.” He squeezed my shoulders reassuringly with both hands.
I thought I saw a glint of moisture in his eyes.
He dropped his hands, looking sheepish, and turned away.
My mouth hung open as I watched him. Since walking into Emy’s bakery and seeing my father, I wanted only one thing—for him to leave and never come back. And yet, his concern seemed genuine. Was he telling the truth about wanting to reconnect? Or was I being naive?
There was no doubt which side of that line Adeline toed.
“We need facts, Frank. Not your usual fiction.”
His mouth twisted into a wry smile. “Facts change depending on who you ask.”
“Whom,” my aunt corrected automatically.
He ignored that. Wisely, I thought.
“You’ve had years to reconnect with your daughter,” she continued. “You didn’t. There must be a reason why you picked today to stage the return of the prodigal father. And if you’re not willing to tell us why—” She pointed to the exit. “There’s the door.”
Frank settled into his chair. Emy approached with the carafe, but he waved her away. “The prodigal father, eh? Isn’t the original story about forgiveness?” He arched his eyebrows.
“I’m sorry I brought it up,” Adeline said grimly, crossing her arms.
I dragged my chair over to my aunt’s side before sitting down. If my father noticed our stand of solidarity—the Hawkes girls vs Frank Thorne—he gav
e no sign.
“You’re half right, Adeline,” he said. “I had a disagreement with former associates. But nobody’s going to end up dead.”
Before another harrumph could leave my aunt’s lips, I pinched her arm in warning.
Frank turned his gaze on me. “Your mother left something for me, Verity. It’s important that I find it.”
I stared at him, confused. “So you did come here for money?”
His palms slammed the table with a thud that made me jerk in alarm.
“I never mentioned money. Why does everybody think the worst of me?” He pointed at Adeline. “You have a lot to answer for.”
She jumped to her feet. “If the next words out of your mouth even resemble, ‘You turned my daughter against me,’ I swear I’ll break your arm.”
Never had I seen my aunt this furious. I almost regretted texting her. Although—if Frank’s concern turned out to be fake, I’d break his other arm.
The short whirr of a siren broke into my thoughts. An unmarked police car pulled up in front of the bakery, cherry top flashing on the roof.
I twisted my head to give Emy a quizzical glance. Lifting her shoulders, she mouthed, Jeff. She must have texted him.
With a jangle of the overhead bell, a tall, lean man—with straight black hair, dark eyes, and cheekbones that could cut glass—pushed open the door. My honey, I thought possessively. But only to myself. I would never embarrass Jeff by calling him that while he was on duty. He nodded at my aunt before tossing me that slow smile that always made me feel as if we were the only people in the room.
Frank stood up to extend a hand as Jeff approached our table. “I hear you’ve been looking after my little girl here,” Frank said.
My little girl? I snarled under my breath, regretting his unbroken arm.
Jeff’s eyebrows rose. With a side-eyed glance at me, he said, “Not sure I’ve ever heard Verity called that.” Then he shook Frank’s hand. From where I was sitting, it looked like one of those death-grip handshakes men used to prove who has the biggest watch.
“I assume you’re—”
“Verity’s father. Frank Thorne.”
They dropped their hands, both men standing awkwardly.
“Well,” Jeff said. “I believe Emy wants to close up for the night.”
We swiveled our heads to her.
She spread her hands apologetically. “If it’s not too much trouble? I don’t want to hurry anybody along. You’re welcome to stay as long as you want.”
Adeline rose briskly from her seat before turning to the door. “We’ll be out of your hair in a second, Emy.”
“Right behind you,” Frank said.
Adeline froze. Slowly, she pivoted and pointed a finger at him. “You. Stay away. From Verity.” She grabbed my arm, ushering me out the door.
Jeff followed. I could tell he was bemused—his usual reaction whenever my aunt’s maternal side made an appearance.
Once we were out on the street and the door had closed behind us, Adeline reached up to jab Jeff’s shoulder. “Get rid of that man. Immediately.”
He looked down at her, still bemused. “You know I can’t do that, Adeline. What’s the problem, anyway?”
“The problem?” She stepped closer. “He’s putting Verity at risk.”
Jeff was instantly alert. “What do you mean?”
“He’s got some cockamamie story about a bequest Verity’s mother supposedly left him that he’s here to collect. It’s nonsense. If Claire had left anything for Frank, I’d know about it. And I don’t.”
“That sounds more like a question for the lawyers.”
“That’s not all. He admits he had a falling out with his associates—all of them criminals, mind you. They’re after him, Jeff. That’s the real reason he’s here.” She pointed over my shoulder, looking aggrieved.
I turned to look behind me and jerked back, startled.
Frank had emerged silently from the bakery. He now stood inches away, with his head tilted, listening. He gave us a cheery smile and a brief wave before striding over to a late-model gray sedan parked behind Jeff’s car. A bright orange rental tag hung from its rearview mirror, visible through the windshield. “See you later, Verity,” he called before driving away.
Adeline scowled. Jeff looked thoughtful. I simply sighed. See you later? I wasn’t looking forward to that.
Chapter Three
After Jeff left for the station the next morning, I puttered around Rose Cottage in my favorite kitty-themed pajamas and chenille robe, deciding what to do next. New planting schemes for a client’s woodland garden lay on my desk, lacking only a final wash of color on the drawings. But it was hard to concentrate on colorful anemones and graceful epimediums when it was still too cold to plant them. I glanced out the kitchen window, admiring the soaring spruce trees, the winter-barren herbaceous borders, and the still-leafless chestnut and maple trees that melded into the purple-hazed woodlands of Pine Hill Valley four hundred feet in the distance. I’d done my best to restore my aunt’s tattered gardens since accepting her gift of Rose Cottage—and her landscaping business, Coming Up Roses—the previous year, but it was a labor-intensive job.
Nevertheless, it was a job I was itching to resume. Anxiously, I studied the clump of serviceberry trees—Amelanchier canadensis—my aunt had planted years earlier near the kitchen door of the cottage. Serviceberries are reliable indicators of spring. According to my aunt, the pioneers knew that when they flowered, the ground had thawed enough to dig a grave.
There was no sign of their fluffy white blossoms today. The branches showed only the barest hint of buds. Digging up perennial beds, never mind graves, would have to wait.
I was pouring a coffee from the carafe Jeff had left for me when my cell phone vibrated with a text message. Eying my phone, I puffed out a sigh. Frank had texted me thirteen times since our standoff in the bakery, including one in the middle of the night. He wanted “to talk,” “to explain,” or—my personal favorite, “make it right.” Like that was a possibility.
After the first few texts, I turned off the phone in case Jeff took matters into his own hands. I needn’t have worried. “Ignore him,” he said with a yawn before rolling over.
But when he kissed me goodbye at the door, he gave me a searching look.
“You’ll call if you need me—right?”
“Stop worrying. Frank doesn’t even know where I live.”
That was a white lie. Frank Thorne knew very well the location of Rose Cottage. Leaving my phone on the kitchen counter, I picked up my mug and wandered into the living room.
Sipping my coffee, I recalled Frank’s words in the bakery. We have social media in Australia. I wondered if he used Google Earth to monitor my restoration of the cottage’s nineteenth-century fieldstone walls. Carson Breuer, the taciturn handyman who carried out those repairs from a tent-trailer parked in my driveway, was wintering in Key West. Did Frank know Carson’s trailer was gone? Did he realize that once Jeff left for work, I’d be alone?
That thought sparked a twist of unease mingled with curiosity. If Frank showed up on the doorstep, what should I do? Invite him in for a chat? Or surprise him with a Krav Maga knee strike?
I decided it was fifty-fifty. Could go either way.
While I pondered my hosting options, General Chang rubbed against my leg. The one-eyed tomcat had insinuated himself into Rose Cottage within hours of my bewildered return home from Vancouver the previous summer.
“Mrack.”
“Hi, fella.” I stroked the gray-and-white fur that was always scruffy no matter how many times I brushed it. “Looking for some salmon?” Before he could reply with an affirmative “Mrack,” a volley of piercing barks echoed off the walls, making me wince.
Arf-arf-arf-arf-arf-arf.
Boomer was awake.
A leaping, squirming, tail-wagging bundle of canine enthusiasm bounded out of the bedroom, jumping up to rest his paws on my shins. I bent to rub the ears of the scrappy terrier cro
ss I’d acquired after his previous owner perished under a mountain of hoarded magazines. I often threatened to take Boomer to the animal shelter, but both Jeff and the dog knew I was kidding.
The General—looking disgusted by Boomer’s oafish entrance—lifted his tail like a flag and retreated to the kitchen, where the salmon lived. In the doorway, he stopped. “Mrack,” he declared before turning to sashay through the entrance.
That was my cue.
“Coming,” I called, placing my mug on the coffee table.
Boomer trotted after us into the kitchen, where he immediately sagged to the floor in his patented portrayal of an animal about to faint from hunger. He flicked a pointed glance at his empty dish, then at me.
I replied with the patented glare of an owner who wasn’t falling for that. “Jeff fed and walked you before he left. Don’t even think about a second breakfast.”
Boomer fixed me with that wide-eyed, bewildered expression dogs practiced in the mirror when their owners weren’t home. Right after they’d rolled on the sofa and made a dog-sized tent out of the duvet.
“One biscuit,” I said, picking up a tin from the counter and rummaging through it. “One.”
Boom. Boom. Boom.
The hammering on the front door was so loud I dropped the biscuit and nearly the tin.
Boomer raced to the front door, snatching up the fallen treat on his way.
Arf-arf-arf-arf-arf-arf.
His attack-dog skills were unreliable—as I’d learned a few weeks earlier when threatened by an unexpected assailant—but the little dog had been known to cooperate with the highest bidder. So I carried the biscuit tin with me.
Glancing out the front window while placing the tin on the coffee table, I saw a gray sedan parked outside. A rental tag gleamed orange under its windshield. The cottage’s driveway was white with an overnight dusting of late-spring snow, and a new set of footprints led along the walk to the front door.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
I debated whether to open it. If I didn’t, Frank would go away—right?
Then I remembered his other declaration in the bakery. Claire left something for me, Verity. I need to find it. Adeline was sure he was lying, and she was usually right. But my habitual curiosity kicked in. What if he wasn’t lying? Either way, I had to know.