by Rickie Blair
“Emy told me that at the bakery, but I find it hard to believe.”
“It’s on the puzzle. Take a look.”
I walked over to examine the board. The crossword puzzle was posted dead center. Rows of stick-on notes adorned its borders like ruffles on a Victorian ballgown. Each note held a potential clue. And sure enough, the title across the top read, The Million-Dollar Mystery. It seemed a leap to take that obvious hyperbole as truth. Perhaps the impending storm of the century was making people lightheaded.
So far, five clues and answers were filled in.
My mother had been a professor of ancient languages, so I was good at word games. I even managed to crack the Latin password on my aunt’s laptop when she was missing. I couldn’t help but try to fill in the missing squares in my head. For instance, it was quite possible the answers to the clues for eight down, eleven across, and three across spelled out the phrase:
Killers Amongst Us
Which proved I really did have murder on the brain—because, depending on the missing clue, “killers” could just as easily be “pillows.” Come to think of it, pillows could be used to— Yikes. I did have murder on the brain.
However, I wasn’t the only person to betray a flair for the macabre. Along with pillows, the words tillers, billets, and killers were written on multiple notes.
I wandered back to the desk. “Who started this contest? The village business association?”
Hannah shrugged. “Maybe.”
“How could they afford a million dollars?”
“We think it’s an annuity,” she said, sagely tapping the side of her nose.
As a former bookkeeper, I knew all about annuities. The only million-dollar annuity the village association could afford would be paid out over centuries. I kept that thought to myself. “But why killers?” I pointed to the posted notes. “Seems morbid.”
“It’s all in fun. No harm meant.”
I wondered how she knew that.
“Oh—I have a good one,” blurted a woman in a puffy parka standing beside the poodle. She plopped her tote bag onto the floor, rummaged through it for a pencil, and left it on the floor while she wrote, Six across: B-U-T-T-E-R. She stuck the note on the board.
Everyone nodded as she stepped back with the pencil in her hand.
“That could work,” someone said approvingly.
Beaming, the woman retrieved her bag to drop in the pencil, then opened the tote wider, looking confused. “That’s odd. I could have sworn my wallet was here a moment ago. Has anyone seen a wallet?” she asked, glancing around.
“Not me.”
“Nope.”
At the front desk, Hannah held up a jangling basket overflowing with key chains, abandoned memory sticks, and mismatched gloves. “Did you check lost and found?”
While the wallet owner rummaged through the basket, the poodle trotted over to nudge my leg. Absently, I patted its head. A tag hanging from its jeweled leather collar read Cranberry.
The poodle nudged me again, then sat obediently beside me. She had something leathery in her mouth. I bent over for a better look. Straightening up, I asked, “Is your wallet navy blue with white piping?”
“Did you find it?”
“It’s right here,” I said, trying not to snicker. But when I reached to take it from the poodle’s mouth, she ran off, darting between two of the stacks and down the aisle.
“Get that dog,” the tote-bag owner shouted, racing past me. “It has my wallet.”
She was followed by the woman in the sheepskin coat. “Cranberry! What have you done?”
Hannah dropped the lost and found basket on the counter before dashing out from behind the desk to join the chase.
“Get her,” someone yelled.
Cranberry’s poufed head poked out from behind a bookcase, the wallet firmly clenched between her teeth.
“There she is,” I shouted, pointing.
Cranberry bolted. A moment later, her swishing tail disappeared behind an easel with a Library Safety First display. The easel toppled over with a crash.
Irma and Zuly ran down adjacent bookcase aisles, colliding when they emerged at the end.
Surprisingly, Mickey Doig didn’t laugh. Or even smirk. He was too busy sidling along the wall in the direction of the exit.
Returning my attention to the chase, I braced my feet and held out both arms, determined to stop Cranberry if she headed my way.
The poodle scampered out from behind a bookcase, trotted up to Mickey—who had reached the exit—and dropped the wallet at his feet.
Mickey regarded the battered object, his mouth twitching. “Will you look at that, eh?” Then he yanked open the door and swept out, tassels swaying.
I made my way over, gave Mickey’s departing back a curious glance through the door’s window—he was halfway down the block—and stooped to pick up the wallet.
“Good girl, Cranberry. Got it,” I yelled, holding it aloft.
People emerged from all corners to surround us. They stood back to let the wallet owner through. I handed her the slightly damp billfold.
While she was turning it over in her hands, Cranberry’s owner trotted up, puffing. “I’m so sorry,” she said, gasping between sentences. “I’m afraid that’s not the first wallet she’s scooped when the owner wasn’t looking. I can’t imagine where she picked up such a bad habit.”
I adopted a solemn look. “Poodles are natural retrievers. And smart.”
“Too smart,” agreed Cranberry’s embarrassed owner. “Did she ruin it?”
The owner tucked it into her tote bag with a laugh. “It’s fine—as long as Cranberry didn’t use my credit cards.”
“Luckily, she didn’t have time to go next door to the butcher’s,” I said.
While the poodle’s owner sputtered apologies, I headed over to the bulletin board to copy down the puzzle clues as well as the names of people who’d found them.
On my way out, Hannah leaned over the front desk to wink at me. “I told you it was exciting.”
Nodding my head, I turned for a last look at the crossword. The same phrase leapt out at me, no matter how many combinations I tried.
Killers Amongst Us.
With a shudder, I headed for the exit. Given my history, I saw nothing in those words to be excited about.
Chapter Four
I couldn’t resist a giggle when I left the library and saw my pickup truck on the street. Even three months after the big makeover, it remained a little startling. When our bookings had started to drop off the previous autumn, my landscaping assistant Lorne Lewins suggested a new paint job. “You’re missing a marketing opportunity with that truck,” he said. “You park it all over the village. Why not take advantage of that visibility? Let it make a statement.”
Besides the fact Lorne had obviously reached the marketing module of his business classes, he had a point. So, I took the truck to our local paint shop for a refresh. I had to promise the owner free lawn care from here to eternity to pay for it, but it was worth it.
Proudly, I beamed at my Pepto-Bismol-pink pickup with the huge red roses on the doors and the gold-painted logo for Coming Up Roses Landscaping.
It definitely made a statement.
Unfortunately, when Lorne saw the new paint job, he had refused to drive it—or even be seen in it—for weeks. His beloved Emy pointed out it had been his idea, after all. “Okay,” he said reluctantly. “But I’m not wearing a pink T-shirt.”
Still grinning, I climbed into the truck and drove three blocks to Henri Vartan’s house in the oldest part of the village. While Henri’s mysterious wallet did not contain a contest clue, I was confident one would turn up in a quick search of his front yard. It was too much of a coincidence that all the other clues were found in discarded wallets. It must have fallen out.
Henri lived on a street of three-story nineteenth-century brick homes with wraparound porches that fairly screamed upper-crust—I could almost see the original signs: Tradesmen use bac
k entrance. Carefully tended lawns and perennial gardens, shaded by massive beeches and elms, completed the picture of tranquil affluence. Even covered in snow, those sweeping gardens were impressive.
Henri’s one-and-a-half-story house was dwarfed by its looming neighbors. Anywhere else in the village, the casual charm of its yellow stucco walls and brown wood trim would have stood out. On this street, it was a definite underperformer.
I strolled along the front walk and up the two stone steps that led to the door, carrying Emy’s box of cookies. An engraved sign on the stucco said—Heritage Home, indicating the house was at least a century old. The front half of a brass dachshund protruded from the eggplant-painted door. Gingerly, I raised the knocker by its ears and rapped sharply, wondering idly if the other half was inside.
The door was opened immediately by Henri, who must have been waiting in the foyer for me. His substantial bulk filled most of the frame, his hair was carefully combed over a shiny pate, and his ample red cheeks gave new meaning to the word “jolly.” When Henri planted his stocking feet on either side of the opening, I noticed tiny knitted dachshunds cavorting across his green woolen-socked feet.
“Verity. Come on in.” He stepped out of the way.
I followed, unable to resist the temptation to check the interior of the door for the dachshund’s rear end. Sadly, nothing. Definitely a missed opportunity.
Plastic sheeting covered the shiny wooden floor and crunched under my feet. On the right, a staircase with an oak newel post carved with acanthus leaves led to the second floor. On the left, the entrance to the living room was cordoned off. More plastic sheets hung over the door, with a hand-lettered sign—No Admittance.
Under the sign, a real—and overweight—miniature dachshund with red pedicured nails and a Burberry plaid collar sat placidly.
“Say hello, Matisse,” Henri urged.
The dachshund stared at me.
“Like the painter?” I asked, bending to pat its head.
Henri grinned, pointing to his chest. “Henri.” Then he pointed at the dog. “Matisse. Get it?”
“Clever.”
“Let’s go upstairs. That’s where I’m living these days.”
I climbed the stairs after him. Matisse trailed behind, each hesitant step-hop an obvious challenge.
“Are you excited about the opening?” I asked.
“It’s going to be great,” Henri said over his shoulder. “The girls and I have been working hard on it.”
“When’s the big day?”
He waved a dismissive hand. “We haven’t decided yet. We’re aiming for spring, but there’s a lot to do. Here we are. Let’s go through into the kitchen. Oh, no—wait.”
Henri swept his huge bulk around, nearly toppling me down the stairs. “I should give you a tour first,” he enthused. “This is an historic dwelling. Let’s begin at the front.” He clomped down the hall.
I followed, maintaining a safe distance. Matisse mounted the final stair-hurdle and trudged along behind me.
Plush armchairs and a sofa with a large depression in the middle crowded the front room. Since the second-floor walls slanted to meet the ceiling, the artwork that covered them projected over our heads. Feeling claustrophobic, I walked over to the three-paneled window to look down on the street. I had to lean over the jammed bookcases that spanned the lower walls.
Matisse made a beeline for a cushioned dog bed covered in red velvet. Popping his front paws onto the edge, he willed the rest to follow. The little dog settled in, resting his head on the edge of the bed to watch us intently.
“What a lovely view,” I said, wondering how a man as big as Henri could be comfortable in such cramped quarters. “Didn’t you used to live downstairs?”
“Ah…” he exhaled loudly. “The sacrifices we make for art. I still have a studio there, in the back. But otherwise”—he swept a hand through the air—“this is it. Let me show you the kitchen.” He hustled down the hall.
With a sigh, Matisse hopped out of his scarlet bed and followed.
Henri ushered us into the tiny kitchen at the back. “Tea?”
After traipsing across the room, Matisse flopped onto a satin mat, also red. I sensed a color scheme at work.
“Sure,” I said, tossing my shoulder bag onto a chair and mounding my puffy parka over it. I handed Henri the white cardboard box from the bakery. “Emy sent along her bacon-toffee shortbreads.”
“Oooh. Nice.” Henri lifted his shoulders, rubbing his hands in delight before accepting the box and rummaging around on the cluttered table for a putty knife to snip the string.
Once we were sitting at the kitchen table with mugs of tea in our hands, the box of enticing shortbreads between us, I asked Henri to tell me about the wallet.
“I’ll show you. It’s right here.” While leaning over to root through a drawer, he repeated the story he’d told Emy. With a flourish, Henri placed the wallet—a cheap imitation-leather Alfred Sung knockoff—on the table in front of me.
I picked it up to scan the contents. “The police said these credit cards were—”
“Worthless. The ID was fake, too. They kept it.”
“Emy told me. But why did they let you keep the credit cards?”
“I told them I wanted to use the cards in an art project. They agreed, finally, but insisted on punching holes through all of them.” He rolled his eyes. “Kind of defeated the purpose.”
“Was there a crossword clue in the wallet?”
“For that contest everybody’s talking about? No. And before you ask,” he raised a hand to stop me from speaking, “I double-checked the yard. There was nothing else out there.”
I turned the wallet over in my hands. “Why weren’t the police interested?”
Henri blew air through his lips in mock disgust. “It took them two days to check the contents. Once they realized it was all fake, they washed their hands of it. ‘No evidence of wrongdoing,’ they said.”
I placed the wallet on the table before taking a sip of my tea. “Henri, don’t you think it’s odd you found a fake wallet while this contest is going on? All the clues have been found in empty wallets. None of them had ID in them—fake or otherwise—but it’s a striking coincidence.”
Mulling it over, I thought, There are no coincidences—isn’t that what Hercule Poirot always said? Or was I thinking of Miss Marple? Maybe Aunt Adeline. Whatever. It still held true.
Henri’s expression turned morose. “I suppose it is unlikely, when you put it like that.”
“It’s also suspicious. The contest, I mean.”
“What are you saying?”
“Who’s behind it? If there’s a cash prize, as everyone seems to think, where is it coming from?” Frowning, I selected a smallish shortbread and bit off a chunk.
Henri straightened up, looking askance. “Verity, I had no idea you were such a cynic.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. “I am not—”
“Everyone in the village has cabin fever. It’s nice to have something to take our minds off the weather. They’re calling for the—”
My eyes snapped open. “Storm of the century. Yes, I know.”
“I suppose you don’t believe that, either?”
Glancing through the kitchen window at the peaceful, swirling snowflakes, I said, “Not so far.”
Henri merely harrumphed and plucked out a cookie.
Opening the billfold, I removed the three credit cards and spread them out on the table. “Do you know how that contest started?”
“Moi?” Surprise flashed over Henri’s face. “No. I only heard about it yesterday. But it’s exciting. Everybody’s talking about it.” After biting off a hunk of shortbread, he contemplated the wallet while chewing.
“It could be a fraud.”
Henri puffed out a few crumbs in his astonishment. “A fraud? To what end?” He brushed the crumbs from his cardigan onto the floor. On his mat, Matisse perked up with interest before deciding the meager windfall wasn’t worth leavin
g his bed for.
“I don’t know, Henri. It’s possible.”
“Ridiculous.”
With a shrug, I picked up each card in turn. The first thing I noticed was they lacked the usual heft of credit cards. The plastic was thin and bendable. “D. Smith” was the name on all three accounts, and the scrawled signature was illegible. I licked the end of my finger before running it across the magnetic stripe on the black. A smear of black ink stained my fingertip.
“The police said they’ve seen plenty of fake cards like those,” Henri said. “A counterfeit ring in Strathcona churned out a bunch of them, they said.”
“What for? You can’t buy anything with fakes.”
He shrugged. “Identity theft, maybe?”
After replacing the cards in the wallet, I pulled out the twenty-dollar bill. I held it up to the light coming through the window, more because Henri was regarding me expectantly than because I expected to find anything.
“This is a regular bill,” I said. “They’re hard to counterfeit, what with the hologram and the special features. The synthetic polymer they’re printed on is fairly sturdy. That’s why it didn’t disintegrate in the snow.” I flipped it over to scrutinize the back. Peering at it, I noticed something odd. “Do you have a photographer’s loupe?”
After another rummage through the drawer, Henri handed me one. I pressed it against my eye while flattening the bill upon the tabletop.
Under the magnifying lens, tiny letters were visible.
Aloud, I read, “5 G-R-E-E-N S-P-A-C-E.”
Each letter and number was etched on a different block of the First World War memorial to Canadian dead at Vimy, France depicted on the twenty-dollar bill. It would have taken a steady hand wielding a pen with a superfine nib to fit them on.
Straightening up, I put the loupe on the table and pulled out my copy of the crossword puzzle. “Look. That fits. Five across. Starts with a ‘P.’ Could the answer be—P-A-R-K?”
Henri’s look of excitement was contagious. I handed him the bill and the loupe, so he could look for himself.
He hunkered over the table with the lens pressed to his eye. “It is part of the contest,” he said with a triumphant air. “Green Space—PARK. Verity, you solved it. I knew you would.”