by Rickie Blair
Snowed Under
The Leafy Hollow Mysteries, Book 5
Rickie Blair
SNOWED UNDER
Copyright © 2018 by Rickie Blair.
Published in Canada in 2018 by Barkley Books.
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All rights reserved.
The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise stored in a retrieval system, without the express written consent of the publisher, is an infringement of the copyright law.
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
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ISBN-13: 978-1-988881-06-5
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Cover art by: www.coverkicks.com
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Epilogue
Also by Rickie Blair
About the Author
Chapter One
Ignoring the rowdy scuffle underway in the back of his van, Mickey Doig sized up the house across the street. With its dented aluminum siding, barricaded windows, and snow drifted over the walkway, it appeared deserted.
He knew different.
While tugging down the earflaps of his tasseled wool hat, he reviewed his strategy. As usual, it hinged on a silent entry and rapid survey, followed by a little sleight of hand, and—if necessary—application of his awesome personal charm. He saw no reason to change it.
A particularly vigorous blow in the back of the van rocked the vehicle. Annoyed, he glanced at the rearview mirror. “Keep it down,” he hollered, before renewing his scrutiny.
His decrepit white van was well known in the neighborhood. On its side, a magnetic sign advertised Mickey’s Dog Care. A detailed inspection would reveal another slogan underneath, but none of his clients cared to look that closely. He was the cheapest dog walker in Leafy Hollow, and their pets ecstatically wagged their tails when they saw him. What more could you ask for? the owners agreed whenever they met on the village’s snowy streets.
For their part, the four dogs wrestling on the van’s bare metal floor found its urine-tinged atmosphere invigorating. A standard poodle with poufed silver hair relinquished its choke hold on a chunky beagle to check out a particularly aromatic corner before returning to the fray.
Mickey paid no attention. His gaze remained fixed on his objective.
Casual onlookers often mistook the snow-covered mounds in the front yard of that house for tastefully pruned shrubs tucked under a picturesque blanket of white. Oskar York’s long-suffering neighbors knew better. When that snow melted, a dozen discarded ladders, two rusted-out wheelbarrows, broken lawn furniture tangled in weeds, and a stack of worn tires would emerge. The neighbors often pleaded with Mickey to convince the old man to clean up his act. “He’ll listen to you,” they insisted, with more hope than conviction.
Mickey couldn’t blame them. He was used to ignoring domestic situations some would consider sub-standard, but even he disliked spending time in Oskar’s house. It wasn’t the filth that deterred him, but the claustrophobia that gripped him by the throat after only minutes inside.
None of those neighbors were home, judging from their empty driveways. But the old man would be in. He always was—along with the most obnoxious dog Mickey had ever met. Boomer, a scrappy terrier cross, was nothing but trouble. Not only that, but Oskar never paid Mickey’s Dog Care. To Mickey’s amusement, the old man believed he walked Boomer for the fun of it. Oskar York would be surprised to learn that exercising Boomer was Mickey’s most lucrative gig. The feisty terrier was the key money maker among his “regulars,” although the standard poodle, with her talent for wallet-snatching, was coming up fast.
After flattening his earflaps, he stepped onto the slippery road, slamming the van door behind him. Ice pellets stung his face, and he glanced up at the gray sky with disgust while zipping up his parka. According to the weather forecasters, the “storm of the century” was on the way. He shivered. Next winter, he was going South, no matter what he had to do to finance it.
He didn’t bother knocking, because the door was never locked. Dusty planters, broken lamps, and dirty laundry stacked in the front hall reliably barred most intruders. With a muttered curse, he squeezed through the opening, stepping over a knee-high pile of old jigsaw puzzles before closing the door.
The hallway was dark. Not surprising given that the fabric shade of its wall sconce hadn’t been dusted since the seventies.
“Mr. York?” Mickey called, knowing from experience that using Oskar’s first name would trigger a stream of hurled insults. “I’m here to pick up Boomer.”
No answer, as usual, since Oskar was hard of hearing. Mickey called out only to ensure the old man hadn’t wandered into the front of the house. He cocked his head, listening.
Normally, Boomer greeted him at the front door with a barrage of abuse. Not that Mickey paid it any mind. He knew the terrier only carried on like that for the old man’s benefit. Strangely, though, Boomer was quiet. Shrugging, he continued into the front room.
York often insisted he was writing a history of Leafy Hollow, but Mickey had never seen anything among the clutter that resembled a manuscript. Mounds of papers, old books, and rumpled sweaters swamped a threadbare chesterfield. An inch of dust and crumbs, mingled with mouse droppings and crumpled scraps of paper, covered the floor.
With two rapid strides, he reached the roll-top desk, where he rifled through the drawers. In the past, he’d taken fistfuls of cash from this desk—with Boomer on lookout duty—and the old man had never been the wiser. Sometimes, he found antique jewelry. The pieces rarely turned out to be valuable, but given his current situation, he couldn’t afford to turn up his nose. A filigreed brooch seemed promising, and he slid it into his parka pocket along with an empty leather wallet and a gold watch that lacked a stem and a second hand.
A furious scritch-scritch-scritch made him raise his head. It was coming from the closed closet door under the stairs.
Scritch-scritch-scritch.
He shook his head in exasperation. No wonder Boomer hadn’t greeted him at the door. How did that stupid dog get itself locked in the closet?
As he turned toward the stairs, a red shoebox on the desk caught his eye. He tugged it from its moorings, taking care to hold back the potential avalanche of papers that surrounded it. He flipped off the top to find dozens of old photos. Jamming the lid back on, he placed the box by the front door, where he could grab it on the way out.
Scritch-scritch-scritch.
He opened the closet door, and the terrier burst out, darting down the hall to the bathroom. When Mickey caught up, Boomer was lapping from the toilet bowl as if he hadn’t had a drink in days. Then he trotted over to the closed kitchen
door, scratching furiously at it until Mickey wrenched it open.
Resignedly, he followed the dog into the back of the house. Old Man York would be in the solarium, as usual. Calling it a solarium was totally bogus, Mickey thought, given its utter lack of plants. Like every other room, it was crammed with junk. Its glass roof leaked. Bits of paper stuffed into cracks along the window frames had long since wadded up, and frigid drafts chilled the air.
“Mr. York?” he called, navigating a perilous route through towering stacks of newspapers, magazines, flattened cereal boxes, and empty tins.
His foot slid on a discarded potato chip bag. Instinctively, he thrust out a hand to steady himself. The nearest wall of Canadian Geographics shuddered under his touch, like a volcano about to erupt. Frantically, he grabbed the pile with both hands to steady it, holding his breath.
When it finally settled, he drew back, puffing out a breath.
Somewhere ahead, Boomer was yapping.
Arf-arf-arf-arf-arf-arf…
That meant the old man was on his feet, lumbering through the makeshift tunnels to holler at Mickey for whatever he was teed off about today. Mickey imagined his rant, delivered in nasal tones through discolored teeth. “Doig! Where the hell have you been?”
If he had disturbed the old man’s treasures, God help him. He’d never hear the end of it. Honestly, if it wasn’t for the cash…
He sidled around the next corner, taking care not to touch the stacked magazines.
Arf-arf-arf-arf-arf-arf…
The terrier, frantic, barreled around the corner.
And ran right into him.
Startled, Mickey tripped over the dog, falling against the nearest stack. It wobbled wildly before giving way and pitching him backward onto the floor.
As he fell, he watched with horror while magazines toppled around him. After hitting the floor with a painful thud, he closed his eyes against the clouds of dust, cringing at each thunderous crash.
When it was all over, Mickey opened his eyes. He was lying on the scarred linoleum, books and magazines digging into his back, surrounded by tattered newspapers and dented tins. Dozens of discolored ladles, rusty whisks, and scratched plastic cups spilled out of a cardboard box, covering his legs.
With a groan, he sat up. He pulled off his hat and shook it free of dust before replacing it on his head. Then he took in the scene, his mouth hanging open.
The kitchen was knee deep in the old man’s ruined treasures. Magazines were ripped, china plates broken, cardboard boxes split and torn. An upended bottle of olive oil glugged over the nearest pile.
Arf-arf-arf-arf-arf-arf…
Mickey raised his eyes to the ceiling, heaving a sigh. Naturally, that odious mutt had survived. Straining his ears, he tried to hear Oskar’s shouted abuse over Boomer’s barking. But the terrier’s yapping drowned out everything else.
He rose and shuffled through the mess, trying not to slip on the shiny Canadian Geographic covers. “Mr. York?”
Arf-arf-arf-arf-arf-arf…
The dog was frantically shredding a mammoth pile of fallen magazines with its front claws.
When he saw what the terrier was after, Mickey gasped.
A single foot stuck out from under a mountain of magazines and chipped porcelain bowls. Poking through a hole in its gray woolen sock was a hardened yellow toenail.
Neither the nail nor the foot was moving.
“Mr. York?” he whispered. With a shuddering breath, he crouched to grasp the foot, holding it for several seconds with his eyes scrunched shut. The skin was as cold as the drafts whistling through the leaky solarium windows.
Mickey opened his eyes. Almost hypnotically, he picked up a worn plaid slipper that lay nearby. After staring at it a moment, he slid it on to the foot. It was the least he could do.
He rose to consider his options. Since his wireless provider had long since pulled his account for lack of payment—and Oskar refused to have a phone in the house at all—he couldn’t call 9-1-1. And what good would that do, anyway? No one could help the old man now.
Mickey could help himself, however—by getting the heck out of there. He had been a good friend to Oskar York when he was alive. He’d even walked his dog for free. Why should he suffer because the old guy was dead? The police would be bound to check his record. How long would it be before they blamed him for what was clearly an accident?
Nope. He had to exit this scene ASAP.
Arf-arf-arf-arf-arf-arf…
Boomer continued his assault on the mountain of kitchen debris.
Mickey watched, pursing his lips. He couldn’t take the dog with him, because that would prove he’d been here. Which would lead to uncomfortable questions about how the old man ended up dead.
“You’re on your own, buddy,” he whispered, shutting the kitchen door on the furious terrier. On his way out, he snatched up the red shoebox and thrust it under his arm.
Outside, he glanced warily up and down the street. The neighbors were still not home. All he had to do was get into his van and drive away.
Mickey didn’t check his rearview mirror as he sped off with the dogs bouncing and quarreling in the back. If he had, he might have noticed a formerly empty sedan now had a driver at the wheel. And that when he turned the corner, the sedan pulled away from the curb behind him.
Chapter Two
Shivering in my parka and mittens, I pushed open the red door of Leafy Hollow’s favorite bakery with a sigh of relief. But that first welcome breath of warm, cinnamon-scented air caught in my throat when I saw the owner’s knitted brow.
Emy Dionne was bent over the counter, dark curls framing her petite face, tapping her finger on a sheet of paper spread out over the glass. She appeared to be muttering.
At the jangle of the door’s overhead bell, she jerked her chin up. “Hi, Verity. Your usual?”
“Please,” I said, shaking snow from my parka before adding it to the coat rack in the corner. Then I leaned over the counter to reach for my personalized mug. As Emy’s best friend, I had favored-customer privileges. “Is anything wrong?” I asked with a twist of unease, brandishing my empty mug at the paper.
“No.” Emy hastily folded it and pushed it to one side. “Nothing. Listen—are you stocked up on sidewalk salt? There’s a real rush on it at Canadian Tire. Better get over there if you need any. They expect to run out by tomorrow.”
“I’ve got plenty. But thanks for the tip.”
“They’re forecasting the storm of the century, Verity. Can’t be too careful.”
“Uh-huh.” Storm of the week, I thought, is more likely. Leafy Hollow was over a thousand miles from the Arctic Circle, yet the villagers were stockpiling tinned goods, candles, and batteries as if Napoleon was on the way. Not to mention firewood—whether they had a fireplace or not.
I pointed again to the document. “What’s that?”
Emy took my mug and filled it from a teapot on the counter, then plonked a raisin-butternut scone on a plate and handed it over. “I’ll tell you—but don’t mock.”
Sputtering with disbelief, I said, “Why would I—”
“Please.” She held up a hand, her lips twitching. “Save it for someone who doesn’t know how cynical you can be.”
Giving her my best fisheye, I bit into the scone. After dealing with a particularly chewy raisin, I reached for my mug. “I’m listening.”
The bell over the front door jangled again, followed by a blast of cold air. A shivering young woman, her hair pulled tightly on top of her head in an afro puff, stamped her boots on the front mat.
Before she’d had time to take off her coat, Emy waved her over. “Shanice. Take a look at this.” She held out the folded paper.
The young woman took the paper while passing Emy a brown paper bag. “Bertram’s only had one jar of that lime-and-basil marmalade.”
“Thanks,” Emy said, tucking it behind the counter.
Shanice unfolded the paper, reading it in one hand while shrugging off her coat wit
h the other. “Wow.” She whirled around to face us with a triumphant expression. “This puts a new light on things.”
Emy nodded emphatically. “I know.”
I watched this exchange a little wistfully. Shanice Clarke, Emy’s new assistant, had only been in Leafy Hollow one week and, already, she and her new boss had secrets. “Is somebody going to tell me what you’re talking about?”
Emy shot me a sly grin. “Remember your promise not to mock.”
I solemnly crossed my heart.
“It’s a blank crossword contest. With a huge prize.” She motioned at the paper in Shanice’s hand. “One of the librarians just found a new clue.”
“But I love crosswords,” I said, putting down my mug to reach for the folded paper. “Why would I make fun of it? Wait. What do you mean—it’s blank?”
“It has no clues on it.”
“How do you guess the answers, then?” An all-white jigsaw puzzle that had been a childhood nemesis sprang to mind. Even my dauntless aunt had given up on that one.
Shanice grinned. “That’s the best part. There are clues, but they’re in discarded wallets. People find them all over the village, one at a time. Then they post each clue at the library.” She tucked the paper beside the cash register.
“Why wallets?”
“They’re easy to spot, I guess. Nobody walks away from a wallet.”
“They could have used red feathers.” I buttered a piece of scone.