by Rickie Blair
But how was Irina involved? Did she know about Frank’s sideline? And now that he was back in town to reclaim his stash, had she threatened to reveal it—unless he gave her a cut?
Which sparked another, even more horrifying, thought. Did Irina learn Frank was back because I came to see her, asking questions? I wracked my brain, trying to remember if I’d mentioned him when I was in her office. Oh. With a sick feeling, I realized I had.
Your father—is back?
I put that thought out of my head. There was nothing I could do about it now. Except—
If Frank hid these valuables in Rose Cottage, he could find them within minutes. But only if the cottage was empty and no one was watching him.
I needed to text Emy first thing in the morning.
Jeff noticed my frown. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing…” I rubbed my forehead. “I’m exhausted. I need a tub full of bubbles and then straight to bed.”
He drew me nearer to nuzzle my neck. “I’ll draw a bath.”
Chapter Sixteen
It was still dark the next morning as I sat at the kitchen table in my chenille bathrobe, with my chin in my hands, watching Jeff finish his breakfast.
“You don’t usually get up this early,” he said before taking a swig of coffee.
“In the summer, I do. Always.”
“It’s not summer yet.” He gave me a worried look over the rim of his cup before setting it carefully on the table. “Verity. We’ll sort this out. Nobody thinks you’re a killer.”
Maybe—if I didn’t know him as well as I did—I would have believed that. But his expression gave him away. “Of course they don’t,” I said brightly—even though I suspected Detective Ferret Face had spent the night throwing darts at my mug shot.
From his vantage point beside Jeff’s knee, Boomer whimpered.
Jeff rose, scraped a bit of scrambled egg into Boomer’s dish, then put his own plate into the sink before pouring his coffee into a thermos and tightening the lid. “Can I get you anything before I go?”
“I’m fine. Stop worrying.”
I accompanied him to the door, where he paused on the threshold. I gathered the lapels of my robe in one hand to ward off the chilly breeze before giving him a peck on the cheek.
“Why don’t you go back to bed?”
“Maybe I will.”
Once he was gone, I leaned against the door with my eyes shut. It would be easy to give in. What little sleep I’d had the night before was interrupted multiple times by images of Irina Lasher’s crumpled body—and Detective Unwin’s face, so close her eyes seemed like saucers. Her voice was distorted, as if coming from a long way off.
I’m confused. Were you lost? Or were you looking for something?
When I tried to answer, my mouth wouldn’t open.
The last thing I wanted to do was go back to sleep.
While I sagged against the door, fighting exhaustion, a favorite maxim of my aunt’s rose to mind. You can sleep when you’re dead.
With a toss of my head, I pushed off from the door and headed for the bedroom to retrieve my cell phone. I tapped in a text.
i need your help. and lorne’s.
anything, Emy replied.
Briefly, I explained my plan.
we’re in.
My phone beeped with a second reply—this time from Lorne’s phone.
camouflage? check!
This gave me pause. Nothing in my instructions had implied undercover work. Biting my lip, I recalled Lorne’s previous camouflage attempts—such as the tractor cap with leaves duct-taped all over it. Or his burglary disguise of choice—a royal blue balaclava topped with a fluffy wool pompom and a Maple Leafs hockey logo.
He must be joking, I decided.
see u in 30 minutes, I texted.
check!
After dressing hurriedly, I fastened Boomer’s leash and the two of us climbed into my pink Coming Up Roses truck. The previous autumn business-student Lorne had suggested a new paint job on my aunt’s vintage vehicle as a “marketing opportunity.” The highly visible color had been my idea. Today, I was counting on that visibility to make this plan work.
Boomer took the seat beside me, paws braced on the dash.
Emy’s neon-yellow Fiat was parked at our rendezvous point—the deserted parking lot of Pine Hill Conservation Area—when I arrived. I pulled in beside her and climbed out, leaving Boomer in the truck’s cab.
Emy opened her door to bestow a brief wave. “Verity.”
The Fiat’s passenger door opened, and a husky young woman in a parka stepped out. Her black hair streamed over a fluffy pink-and-white scarf that wrapped twice around her neck.
I hesitated, wondering to whom Emy had confided our plan.
The woman waved, displaying huge leather work gloves.
“Lorne?” I squeaked.
Beaming, he stepped nearer. “Pretty good, eh?”
“Is that—lipstick?”
“Well, sure. For verisimilitude.”
I exchanged side-eyed glances with Emy.
“He insisted,” she said, flicking a hand. “We couldn’t find any gloves to fit, though. Or a coat.”
This wasn’t surprising, given Emy’s five-foot-two frame. Her clothes would be far too small for Lorne.
He simpered, one hand in the air. “How do you like the hair?”
“Is that the wig from Emy’s Halloween costume?”
They nodded.
“It’s very… convincing. But why—”
“I’m supposed to be you, driving your truck. What if someone sees me?”
“Who’s going to see you? You just have to park it outside Wilf’s office, take Boomer, and leave. Then, when Frank drives by, he’ll see my truck and think I’m not home.”
A key part of this plan depended on Frank driving into the village from his motel on the highway, but since he’d already complained about Sleepy Time’s coffee, I figured that was a given. And when he did—there was no way he could miss that vivid pink.
“Verity,” Lorne scolded. “You can’t be too careful on these covert ops.”
Unable to come up with a rejoinder for that, I tossed him the keys. “On your way.”
“Copy that,” he said, opening the cab door. At the sight of Lorne’s new hairdo, Boomer wagged his tail—hesitantly. Lorne extracted a lint-covered biscuit from his pocket, then held it out. The terrier grabbed it before resuming his shotgun position, paws on the dash, with intense concentration.
Once seated in the truck, Lorne pulled down the driver’s visor to check his lipstick in the mirror. He pressed his lips together several times before he was satisfied.
Emy looked away. Which was good, because if she’d caught my eye, we both would have burst into hysterics.
After flipping the visor back into place, Lorne gave a wave, tossed a strand of black hair over his shoulder, and pulled out of the parking lot, headed for the village.
Emy’s mouth was still twitching. “So,” she said. “If Frank shows up—”
“When,” I said. “When Frank shows up.”
She nodded. “When Frank shows up at the bakery, I’m to tell him that you’re visiting your lawyer and expect to be quite a while.”
“Correct.”
“Do you want a ride back?”
“No, that would ruin everything.”
“Oh, right.” She winced. “Sorry. See you later.”
I took the back way home, walking along the nature trail that led through the woods behind Gideon’s place. Once I reached Rose Cottage, I entered through the kitchen door at the rear—after checking to make sure no one was around.
General Chang met me at the back door with a gentle “Mrack?” and a swishing tail. Then he settled into his favorite spot on the back of the sofa, watching while I strode through the cottage to turn off every light. Gray clouds hung low in the sky, and the inside of the cottage was gloomy. Normally, I’d have turned on the lights and maybe even lit a blaze in the fireplace
. But I wanted to give the impression no one was home.
Finally, I stepped back, satisfied. Rose Cottage was open for business—the kind of business that called for a practiced hand with a lock pick.
After mounding a duvet on the floor between the sofa and the wall, I snuggled into it to wait. No reason to be uncomfortable. As I knew from previous stakeouts—including one conducted from the cramped confines of Emy’s tiny Fiat—comfort was paramount. It was hard to tackle a miscreant with a cramped calf muscle.
Unfortunately, I forgot to allow for my sleepless night. Before long, I was a little too comfortable. So comfortable I didn’t hear a car drive up. Or stealthy footsteps on the porch. In fact, I didn’t wake up—with a startled jolt—until a rattle in the front door told of lock-picking in action.
Only one lock, since I’d left the second one unlatched.
I held my breath—wincing silently while the General kneaded my stomach with his pointy paws. “Stop that,” I whispered.
The rattle at the front door halted, followed by an almost imperceptible turn of the handle. A waft of chilly air brushed my cheek.
The door closed with a click.
Floorboards creaked near the front door. And again.
Then, a muttered “Damn” rang out as the intruder ran shin-first into the footstool I’d positioned in the middle of the foyer.
I slapped a hand across my mouth to muffle a giggle.
The General, who had draped himself across my lap, brushed a paw against my arm. “Mrack?”
“Not now,” I whispered, shoving him out of the way.
Footsteps approached my hiding place. Either Frank was headed for the kitchen, or he’d heard me muttering to the cat.
More footsteps. Any closer and he’d see me.
“Sorry,” I whispered to the General. And then heaved him around the edge of the sofa.
Rrrrrwwwwhhhh, the tomcat snarled.
Gleefully, I imagined a swipe of claws across denim.
“What the hell?” Frank shrieked. “Get off me.”
The footsteps accelerated through the living room. Frank was indeed headed for the kitchen. I frowned. I’d searched the cabinets, and there wasn’t anything hidden in them. Unless— I grimaced, remembering a thriller I’d read where the bad guy hid his guns and illicit loot in the empty space behind the kick plates. With his carpentry skills, Frank could have done that easily.
But it didn’t matter where he’d hidden his stash. The moment he retrieved it, I planned to jump out and—
The footsteps crossed the kitchen, creaking loudly on the old floor. Then the ceramic knob on the basement door rattled and the door squeaked open. Frank clattered down the stairs. Obviously believing himself to be alone, he’d given up all pretense of stealth.
Silently, I followed. My stocking feet slid noiselessly across the kitchen floor—unlike Frank, I knew where the creaky bits were.
At the top of the stairs, I paused, listening to his boots tap across the concrete floor below. Crouching, I peered through the gap between the ceiling and the top steps, trying to make out his figure in the muted shafts of light that broke through the dingy basement windows.
If Frank had concealed something in that basement, he did a good job. He had a mechanic’s mind, though. He could have rigged a hiding place in the walls or the floor that would be near-impossible to find.
Below me, his indistinct shape moved through the space. He walked to the opposite side of the room, where the former holographic wall of trompe-l’oeil beer cases had concealed Control’s console and monitors. Did Frank know about that shadowy outfit’s existence? Did Mom tell him?
When he paused in front of the silent, dust-covered monitors—with his back to me—I crept down two steps.
Muttering, Frank pulled out a drawer on the console.
Nothing happened.
He pulled out other drawers.
Straining my eyes, I tried to make out what he was doing. It was hard to see through the thousands of dust motes swirling in the air. I tiptoed down two more steps. When I tried for a third, one stocking foot slipped on the worn wooden treads and slid out from under me. I grabbed for the railing, my other foot slamming into the wall with a thud. Ouch.
Frank whirled around at the sound of the impact, hands in the air. “I’m not doing anything,” he called. Then he thrust his head forward, peering through the gloom. When he realized who it was, he lowered his arms. “Verity? What are you doing here?”
I trudged to the bottom of the stairs, where I toggled the antique light switch. Glare from the ceiling’s bare bulb cut through the dust motes. “I think the question should be—What are you doing here?”
At least he had the good grace to look embarrassed. “I know how this looks—”
“It looks like you’re trespassing.”
“No. Well, yes. I meant, no. That is—”
Crossing my arms, I fixed him with what I hoped was a menacing stare. “What were you doing with that?” I nodded at the Control console.
For several seconds, we stared at each other.
With a sigh, Frank held out his hand in a gesture of reconciliation. “Verity, this is not the time to air your so-called grievances.”
Spluttering, I tried to come up with an appropriate response that wouldn’t involve breaking his outstretched wrist. “So-called?”
“Maybe I could have worded that better.”
I planted my hands on my waist. “You think?”
He scrunched up one eye. “I’m sorry?”
I pointed to the exit. “Upstairs.”
Sheepishly, he climbed the steps.
In the kitchen, I turned on the overhead light and pointed to the gray Formica table and chairs. For once, I held my tongue. He knew something about my mother’s past that I wanted to know. No—that I was desperate to know. Especially now, since it might shed light on Irina Lasher’s death and get me off the prime suspects’ list. Prying it out of him would require sugar, not vinegar. No matter how much it rankled.
“Coffee?” I asked.
He shrugged.
While I filled the coffeemaker and got out the mugs, Frank flipped around one of the vintage chairs and sat astride it, his long legs spread, knees bent. Only the rapping of his fingertips on the chair’s back betrayed his nervousness.
I placed one filled mug on the table, then handed him the second. Briefly, I considered offering biscuits on a plate, but decided against it. Those were for company, and Frank wasn’t company. He was—what? Family? Foe? I couldn’t decide. But I certainly wasn’t wasting chocolate-covered cookies on him.
I sat, picked up my mug, and nonchalantly crossed my legs. “Start talking.”
Chapter Seventeen
Frank took a swig of coffee. After reaching around to put his mug on the table, he turned to face me. “Where should I begin?”
“You decide.” My hand shook as I sipped my own coffee, so I placed my mug on the table and crossed my arms. Realizing I must look like a pretzel, I uncrossed my legs. “No, wait. Start with my so-called grievances. How do you know what they are?”
“You blame me for leaving.”
“Why wouldn’t I? You did leave.”
“Your mother and I decided it was for the best. As I’ve said.”
“That doesn’t explain why you didn’t tell me yourself.”
“There was no time.”
“That’s ridiculous. You couldn’t take five minutes to explain to your eight-year-old child why you were abandoning her?” I slumped against the chair in astonishment. “You’re a coward, Frank.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Pushing off from the chair, he rose to pace the kitchen.
The General, tail swishing, watched him intently.
“Here’s what I know,” I said. “You blamed Mom for something she hadn’t done, and you took it out on me.” My tone was bitter. “If you wanted a divorce, why drag me into it?”
He halted, twirling to face me. “What are you talking abou
t?”
“You thought Mom was having an affair with her professor. Don’t deny it.” I waved an arm. “I know all about it. Even Adeline knew.”
“She shouldn’t have told you that.”
“She didn’t. I only got it out of her once I’d been to the university and learned the truth.”
He laughed. “Those—people know nothing about the truth. With their subsidized jobs and their sponsorships…” He turned his head away before dropping into his chair. “They have no idea what it’s like to earn a living,” he muttered.
My jaw dropped. “That’s spectacularly unfair. Mom worked hard. I remember her staying up late to mark papers after I’d gone to bed. Not to mention all the work she did to earn her degrees.” I pointed a finger at him, recalling my aunt’s words. “And you weren’t much help.”
“If you’re trying to make me feel guilty for earning less than Claire—”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I only meant you didn’t support her career.”
Frank twisted the chair around to face the window. He sat, legs outstretched, hands thrust into the pockets of his jeans, staring at the garage. For a long moment, he said nothing.
“Well?” I asked.
He gestured to the window. “Remember that old T-Bird I restored when you were six? You’d started school that autumn, and we stayed here while Adeline was away. You were so proud of yourself. You used to run home to show me whatever you’d painted or made out of clay that day.”
Nodding, I smiled in spite of myself. “I remember. You’d be in the garage, surrounded by car parts. You spelled out their names for me, and I wrote them in a notebook with my colored pencils.” In my mind’s eye, I could still see my childish printing on those pages.
He nodded. “Then you’d take that notebook inside. And your mother would correct my spelling.” He stared out the window, not looking at me. “After a while, you stopped asking me the names of those parts. You’d breeze through the garage with a quick wave on your way into the kitchen. I’d come in for dinner, and you and Claire would be deep in some word game—Latin or something.” He shifted uncomfortably in the chair, his eyes still averted. “I don’t know what, because my answers were always wrong. You’d say—‘Oh, Dad. That’s dumb.’”