by Rickie Blair
Scrunching up my face, I hit the key.
A detailed map flashed on the screen with a red dot in its center. My mouth fell open, and I leaned back.
“Look at that.”
Peering over my shoulder, Emy pointed a shaky finger. “I recognize some of those street names. That’s in—that’s in…” Her mouth dropped open, too.
Lorne finished her sentence. “Whoa. That’s in Strathcona.”
I zoomed out on the map to get a broader picture. The red dot was indeed within Strathcona city limits. But there were no buildings nearby. The area surrounding the red dot was colored a uniform green. “You know the city better than me—is that parkland?”
“I don’t know,” Emy said, staring at the screen. “Does it have a name or a title or anything?”
“Nothing.”
Lorne pointed to a road bisecting the green corridor. It was the closest vehicle access to our red dot. “If that’s an overpass, we’d get a good view from there. We should check it out.”
“You mean—drive to Strathcona? Now?”
“Why not?” they replied in unison.
After parking by the side of the road, we walked to the edge of the overpass to look out over the barrier wall. Below us stretched acres of city blocks. Subdivisions, strip malls, and condo towers extended to the horizon. In the distance, shrouded by early spring mist, rose the skyscrapers of Strathcona’s business district, dominated by the Palmerston tower in the center.
Bisecting it all like a green river lay a hydro corridor—the green band of the map. Dozens of massive transmission towers were spaced along an undulating line that disappeared into the distance. According to the map on my phone, our red dot was located in that corridor, beneath budding green grasses and the fluffy white blooms of serviceberry trees.
“Huh,” Lorne said.
My sentiments exactly.
Emy gave a half-hearted shrug, twisting around with her elbows on the barrier. “There’s nothing here. We still have no idea who wrote this location on that postcard or why they sent it to your mother. Or what it has to do—if anything—with the skeletal hand in your basement.”
Together, we leaned on the rough concrete, staring at the hydro towers. Traffic whizzed by on the damp overpass behind us, tires swishing through puddles.
I puzzled it out in my mind. The skeletal hand. The postcard. The stranger skulking around the dig site. A theory began to form.
“No, I think we do have an idea. The question is—why was it a secret?”
I pushed off from the barrier. “Meanwhile, I’m going to find a safer place than Rose Cottage for that postcard. Somewhere no one will think to look.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Back in Leafy Hollow, I dropped Emy and Lorne at the bakery and walked to Wilf’s law office. Harriet was still away, and the royal-blue waiting room was silent. But not empty. Dozens of boxes with plastic-covered shipping labels were stacked haphazardly around the room. I closed the front door behind me.
“Wilf?”
“In here,” came a muffled voice from behind his office door.
After pushing aside a carton marked fragile, I opened the door. Wilf’s desk was piled high with more boxes, along with teetering stacks of padded envelopes.
Wilf was leaning back in his executive chair, raised to its highest level, staring at the ceiling. He craned his neck to peer over the packages. “Hello, Verity,” he said wistfully.
“Good heavens, Wilf—what happened here?”
“I asked Alicia to return the candied walnuts.”
Puzzled, I glanced around. “How many walnuts were there?”
“Three crates. With a gross of packages in each one.”
I did a rapid calculation in my head. “Over four hundred packages?”
He nodded.
“That’s a lot of candied walnuts.”
He nodded again, looking miserable.
I drew back the flaps on an opened box to peer inside. “Maybe you can send them as Christmas gifts to your clients this year, instead of salami.” I reached down to pluck a tin from the box. My brow furrowed when I read the label. “Wilf—these aren’t walnuts.”
“I know. Those are the replacements.”
I looked at him. “You have over four hundred packages of Wilson tennis balls?”
“Great, eh?” he asked morosely.
Since Wilf had to stand on tiptoe to see over the top of a tennis net, this was not a good resolution to his problem.
“How many of your clients play tennis?”
“Not enough.”
“Never mind.” I appraised the stacked packages. “It will make a nice charitable donation to the community center.”
“You haven’t seen the staplers yet.”
“How many?” I asked cautiously.
“Six dozen.”
My mouth dropped open. “How did that happen?”
“Well.” He sighed. “We’ve been running low on office supplies, and I thought it would be a pleasant surprise for Harriet when she gets back to find the cupboard fully stocked. You know, to show her how well I manage things when she’s away.”
Uh-oh, I thought.
“I asked Alicia to order six dozen packages of sticky notes—the little yellow ones?”
“And?”
He sighed. “I may have said, ‘try Staples’.”
“Where’s Alic—that thing—now?”
“In my Hummer,” he said morosely. He straightened, looking anxious. “She can’t drive it, can she?”
“Oh, I’m sure not.” Mentally, I made a note to look that up later. “Wilf, you have to get Harriet back.”
“I know. I’m working on it.” With a sudden movement, he hit the button to lower his chair. “But that’s not why you’re here. Make a hole,” he commanded on the way down, indicating the packages on his desk.
We cleared enough space that we could talk face to face.
“Harriet used to buy office supplies in Strathcona,” Wilf said, waving a hand at the boxes. “There was a terrific store downtown—been there for decades. Gone now.”
After depositing a pile of boxes on the floor, I sat down. “Where was it?”
“Where the Palmerston tower is now.”
My ears perked up. “Actually, Wilf, the Palmerston building is why I’m here. I’m researching local history for a magazine article and hoped to ask you about a few things.”
I didn’t even flinch at this lie. I could give Alicia pointers.
“Do you have time to answer questions?”
He waved a weary hand. “No idea. I can’t find my appointment book. You might as well fire away. To be honest, I could use the diversion.”
“When that tower was built, how many businesses had to move?”
“Quite a few. Some eventually moved back into the Palmerston building, once it was completed. Most didn’t. A few of those businesses had been in that block for decades, but the rents in the Palmerston building were triple what they’d been paying.”
“Were those shopkeepers angry about being forced out?”
“Some were, I suppose. But cities change. Other businesses profited.”
“Was there an automotive garage in the vicinity?”
He narrowed his eyes, looking thoughtful. “There may have been.” He brightened. “Harriet would know. She’s not answering my texts, but if I say it’s for you, I’m sure she’ll get back to me.”
I drew in a sharp breath. There was no way I wanted to get involved in Wilf’s spat with his long-suffering assistant. “Please don’t. It’s not important.”
“Okay,” he said, looking downcast.
“But to get back to the construction—how long did it take to finish the building?”
“Over a year.”
“So those businesses were in limbo all that time?”
“Possibly. I don’t remember anybody protesting, though. The media coverage was positive. Everyone expected the new skyscraper to revitalize the downtown area.”
“And did it?”
“Eventually. But it took time to build enough momentum that other developers moved in. Palmerston Corp. toughed it out alone for years.”
“That must have been expensive.”
“It was a wildly ambitious plan, and it could have easily gone wrong. The Palmers took their company public to finance the construction. Shareholders were nervous about it, as I recall. Their first annual meeting was pretty lively.” Wilf leaned back, momentarily distracted from the walnuts’ fiasco. “It was the making of Palmerston Corp., though. Today, it’s Strathcona’s premier landlord.”
“Is that all they do—rent out buildings?”
“Not anymore. The share issue enabled the company to branch out into projects with bigger budgets. Office buildings, shopping malls, even factories.”
“Is it fair to say this turnaround in the company’s prospects happened after my father left the country?”
Wilf’s brow wrinkled as he considered this. “Well, sure. But it’s not likely those events were connected.”
“Do you know anything about organized crime in Strathcona?”
Wilf looked startled. “Why do you ask?”
“Someone mentioned it to me.”
He rubbed a hand across his throat. “There were always rumors.”
“Did any of those rumors involve the Palmer brothers?”
“Good heavens, no. They’re well-known philanthropists.”
“So, no underworld connections?”
Leaning forward, he lowered his voice. “Verity—I don’t ask questions like that. And neither should you.”
“Do you know the family?”
“Not personally. I did a little business for Roy Palmer once.”
“The surviving cofounder? The one whose brother just died?”
“That’s him. It was years ago, but we hit it off well. We keep in touch.”
This was not surprising. Wilf kept in touch with everyone. Since I knew how much he loved a networking challenge, I gave him one.
“How well did you hit it off—exactly? Well enough to get me in to see him?”
With a grin, he picked up his handset. “Let’s see.”
While Wilf chatted on the phone to a succession of people, I did a quick survey of the boxes in his office. Several had stickers that read, “Refrigerate after opening.” I wondered if I should point that out, but I decided against it. Wilf had enough on his mind.
Behind me, he replaced the handset with a click and smiled. “You’re in. Five o’clock.”
“Thanks, Wilf. If I leave now, I’ll be there in plenty of time.”
The receptionist motioned me to go in without asking my name. “Mr. Palmer is expecting you.”
I paused at the door to ask, “Is Tracy around today?”
“Not at the moment. But she’s due back shortly. I’ll let her know you’re here.”
“It’s not important. I only wanted to say hi.”
“I’ll tell her.”
When I pushed open his office door, Roy rose from his chair while I crossed the broadloomed floor to his desk.
“Verity. How nice to see you again. Take a seat, then tell me how I can help.”
“Thanks. Wilf Mullins tells me you two are old friends. He’s my lawyer,” I added lamely. Roy Palmer must know that already, but I found myself tongue-tied in the old man’s dignified presence.
“Wilf’s been a tremendous help over the years. I hear he’s pondering a run for Leafy Hollow mayor.” Roy’s grin broadened. “He’s fond of that little village, although I can’t imagine why.”
My face must have betrayed surprise, because he quickly added, “It’s a charming spot. Quaint.”
“Yes. Well, we like it. Thanks for seeing me, by the way.”
“No problem.” He glanced at his watch. “Although I don’t have a lot of time.”
“I’ll make it quick. My main questions have to do with the circumstances surrounding the disappearance of Professor Dignam twenty years ago.”
“As I already said—I don’t know much about his activities.”
“I remember. But my questions aren’t about him. I’m interested in Palmerston’s corporate history.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Your company made a huge leap forward twenty years ago. It went public, then diversified into bigger, more lucrative construction contracts. And built this magnificent building, of course.” I motioned vaguely at the nearest bank of windows with a gesture I hoped indicated admiration.
“That’s all public record. I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”
“Well…” It was crucial to voice my misgivings without sounding accusatory. That wouldn’t be easy, because I wasn’t certain myself what I was getting at. “With everything that was going on with Palmerston at the time, it’s understandable if the professor’s disappearance went unnoticed. When things went wrong at the dig, you wouldn’t have been aware of it—until the police arrived.”
Roy Palmer’s furrowing brow told me I’d better get to the point, and fast, before he jabbed that intercom button on his desk to have me thrown out. Frantically, I cast my eyes around the room, searching for inspiration, until my gaze landed on a shelf full of framed photos and trinkets. My eyes widened at the sight of a tiny wooden puzzle box.
I hurried over to pluck it from the shelf. Its intricate carvings marked it as one of my father’s creations, although it was smaller than the one containing the skeletal hand.
I held it out. “Where did you get this?”
Looking puzzled, Roy gestured for the box. I handed it to him. His brow furrowed as he turned it over in his hands before giving it back.
“I don’t know. Tracy may have put it there—she likes to brighten up my office. It’s probably from Eugene’s collection.”
“It’s similar to ones my father made years ago.”
“Your father? I thought Tracy said…”
His voice trailed off, leading me to wonder what his granddaughter told him.
“Well, well,” he murmured. “It’s none of my business.”
“It’s not a secret. My father is visiting from Australia. We’ve been estranged for years. He found one of these old puzzle boxes in Rose Cottage—that’s where I live, on the Escarpment above Leafy Hollow—and said my mother left it there for him. They have secret latches.” I demonstrated, opening the tiny box and upending it over his desk. Nothing fell out. This one was empty.
I studied the carvings again. It could have been made by my father—the style was identical, as was the latch mechanism. But if it came from Eugene’s collection, as Roy suggested, where did Eugene get it? When did my auto-mechanic dad rub elbows with the cofounder of a huge corporation?
I placed the box on the desk, mulling it over.
There was another possibility.
Claire may have given it to Eugene.
It made sense—she worked on the dig, and Eugene was a corporate sponsor with a lifelong interest in anthropology. They could easily have met—perhaps several times. My father said they sold those boxes at flea markets. It made sense Claire would offer one to a man who’d done so much for the university and the dig.
Roy fingered a fountain pen on his desk while regarding the box. “Those are intriguing creations. Was there anything in the one your father found?”
Picking up the tiny box, I headed across the room to return it to the shelf. “Nothing. It was empty. My father considered it a sentimental keepsake. That’s why he wanted it.”
I lied because, technically, it was a police matter. And also because if my mother illegally removed an object from that dig, it might not be wise to alert the sponsors of said dig. Not yet, anyway. Not until I had to.
“And your father has that box now?”
After a last scan of the shelf’s contents, I returned to my chair. “No. I have it.”
He picked up the pen, balancing it on his open palm. “I’m afraid I don’t see what this has to do with Pa
lmerston’s corporate history.”
“Maybe nothing. I was simply hoping to look at any company archives that might discuss the dig.”
“I’m sorry. I’d like to help, but I don’t know anything about it. These questions are better put to my nephew, Nelson, our CEO. He visited that dig several times, as I recall.”
I tilted my head at this, confused. Nelson told me he went to the dig only once, and never met the professor. My knowledge of that era is minimal, he’d said. I tried to picture the uptight CEO as a younger man—twenty years younger. He would have been close to my father’s age. Similar build, too.
“Did you visit the archaeology museum?” Roy asked, breaking into my thoughts.
“Yes. And I met a man there who remembered the night Professor Dignam disappeared.”
Roy closed his fingers around the pen. “After all this time?”
“It was a memorable night, surely.”
“What did he remember?”
“Not much. Although—he said there was a stranger skulking about.”
His eyebrows arched in surprise. “I thought you were interested in artifacts, not digging up the past.” He smiled. “No pun intended, sorry. It’s an excellent collection, I’ve been told.”
“Yes, it is. Fascinating. But so was his claim of an intruder.”
“It was twenty years ago. I doubt anyone’s recollection would be reliable after that long a time. Besides, the police must have checked his story and discounted it.”
“He didn’t tell the police.”
His forehead wrinkled. “That’s odd. Who was this person?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“I see. Well, what possible reason could he have to withhold that information?”
“He was afraid the police wouldn’t believe him. Besides, once it became clear Professor Dignam left of his own accord…” I shrugged. “There was no point.”
Roy opened his hand to let the fountain pen roll off his fingers. “I always thought there was something strange about that.”
A breath caught in my throat. Once I could reply, I asked, “What do you mean?”
He frowned, staring at the pen. “I can’t put it into words. But something was—off. My brother was always talking about that professor and his ridiculous dig. But after he disappeared—nothing. Eugene never mentioned him again. I assumed he was angry Dignam left without telling him.”