Snowed Under

by Rickie Blair

  That was weird. No dogs here.

  As I turned off the engine, a scruffy young man wearing a parka and a wool hat with earflaps got out of the van and offered a languid wave. It was Mickey Doig, the smirking onlooker from the library.

  I jumped out of the truck, turning to slam the door before asking, “Can I help you?”

  “Verity Hawkes? Coming Up Roses landscaping?”

  “Yes.” I didn’t mean to be rude, but there wasn’t much call for lawn cutting in January. If this guy even had a lawn, which I doubted.

  Plus, as I’d already mentioned—no dogs.

  “I’m Mickey Doig. And, like, I need your help.” The tasseled earflaps bobbed as he held out his hand.

  In January? I thought as I grasped his outstretched fingers. He was wearing mittens with a flap that folded back over the hand. I had a pair myself—it was the best way to keep your hands warm when doing precision work in cold weather, like pruning small branches in early spring. Or picking up after dogs.

  I gave his hand a tepid shake. “It’s a little early in the season for lawn care.”

  “Pretty much, yeah.” He glanced vaguely at my snow-covered front yard, then added with a chuckle, “Like, where the frick is the lawn, eh?”

  “So—why are you here?”

  “I was hoping… could I come in? To explain?”

  “I’m in a hurry. Can it wait?” I struggled through the snowdrifts over the front walk. Not much point in shoveling it, since there was more on the way. Snow shoveling was a little like housework—it was never done. Unlike housework, however, if you waited long enough—snow melted on its own.

  Mickey followed me up the steps to my new porch, which had been replaced after an arson attack the previous summer. It was holding up well, I noted with satisfaction as I stamped my boots by the front door.

  “Like, it’s a bit tricky.” Mickey gave me a forlorn look. “But I really need your help.”

  Momentarily, I reviewed the wisdom of inviting a total stranger into my home. But apart from a battered red shoebox he held under one arm, I saw no weapon. Also, Mickey was scrawny. In fact, that was a generous assessment. By the looks of him, a square meal was not at the top of his daily to-do list. Any one of my Krav Maga moves would take care of this guy.

  And if that wasn’t enough, an armed police officer would be here before long. If Mickey tried anything on Jeff’s girlfriend, he’d be minus a head—I pictured his tasseled hat rolling across the yard, and giggled inwardly. Then the phrase “Jeff’s girlfriend” momentarily distracted me, and I giggled again. It just had that effect on me.

  Mickey’s forlorn expression escalated to one of utter despondency. I didn’t fall for that, naturally, but it was annoying enough that I wanted it to stop.

  “Okay. But five minutes is all I have.”

  I opened the door, motioning him across the threshold. Once inside, I tossed my parka over the nearest armchair and turned to face him with my eyebrows raised.

  He held out the shoebox with both hands. “It’s about this.”

  I hesitated. “What’s that?”

  “Old photos, mostly. Knickknacks. Jewelry and stuff.” He gestured for me to take the box.

  I heaved a sigh. “Put it on the coffee table. And sit down.”

  After plunking the box on the table, Mickey perched on the edge of the armchair.

  I sat on the sofa across from him, then pulled the box toward me. “Photos, you said?”

  “And jewelry.”

  “And you want me to look at it because?”

  “You’re an investigator, right? I need your opinion.”

  My brow furrowed as I considered this request. How could Mickey know about my new venture? I hadn’t even bought accordion file folders yet. “When did you—?”

  “I heard about it at the bakery.”

  Ah. Emy must be trying to drum up business for me.

  I assessed the worn edges of Mickey’s parka, his unkempt hair, and his two-day stubble—long enough to be visible, but not groomed enough to be deliberate. I also detected a faint whiff of… Was that weed?

  This guy was never going to pay me—that was obvious. But it appeared the only way to get him out of Rose Cottage was to take a look at his “stuff.” I flipped open the box.

  It was, indeed, filled with photos. A few were faded pictures from the seventies and eighties, others older. But none were recent. The cell phone camera put an end to printed photos. Everything was online now, in the cloud.

  At the bottom of the box lay a bracelet, two rings, and a child-sized chain necklace with dangling charms that spelled Lucy. Even with my uneducated eye, I could see they were worthless.

  “Are these your photos? Family, maybe?”

  “No. I picked them up at a flea market, like. Pretty much. That one by the highway that’s only open Sundays. I think.”

  “You think?”

  He shrugged. “Can’t really remember.”

  Dropping the lid back on, I slid the shoebox across the coffee table to him. “What do you want me to do with them?” I glanced at the clock. Ninety minutes to dinner. And I hadn’t done anything yet. Even my easygoing boyfriend wouldn’t consider triple-chocolate ice cream a meal.

  I leaned forward on the sofa, hoping to impart some urgency to Mickey, and raised my eyebrows again.

  “Those photos are valuable,” he blurted.

  I gave an involuntary start of surprise. “I don’t think so. But I’m not an expert,” I added quickly.

  “You’d be surprised at the things people will pay for. Old pictures can be useful. Artists, for instance. They need them for, like, those mixed-up things that have all those other things on them.”

  Wracking my brain to make sense of this, I finally offered, “Collages?”

  “Yeah.” He brightened. “Collages.”

  “Mickey.” I adopted my most professional tone. “What exactly do you want me to investigate?”

  His expression changed again, this time to a near-perfect depiction of shifty used-car salesman. “I was hoping you’d ask that artist guy if he’d buy them from me.”

  I sat back, confused. Clearly, my anxiety about making dinner had caused me to lapse into momentary unconsciousness. When did we go from please investigate to please pimp out my stuff?

  “What artist are you talking about?”

  “You know, that Vartan guy you saw this afternoon.”

  “Do you mean Henri Vartan?”

  He nodded. “That’s the guy.”

  “How do you know I saw Henri this afternoon?”

  Shifty used-car salesman made a reappearance. “I might have witnessed said visit.”

  “Witnessed—as in stalked? Were you stalking me?”

  “No! Not… exactly.”

  “Not exactly? But you did follow me, correct?”

  “No. Maybe a little.”

  “A little?” My professionalism faltered as I consider the effectiveness of various Krav Maga moves. One that involved heaving the recipient across the room came to mind. Rising to my feet with a commendable lack of violence, I said haughtily, “I think it’s time you left.”

  Mickey slid the shoebox over to my side of the coffee table. “I really need your help.”

  “No, you don’t. You can visit Henri yourself. Now, if you don’t mind—” I pointed to the front door. Leaning over, I grabbed his upper arm to heave him out of the chair.

  He resisted. “I can’t. Vartan won’t listen to me. I have a… rep with those artists.”

  Despite my desire to get him out of there, I was intrigued. Momentarily, I relaxed my grip. “For what, exactly?”

  “It’s, like, so harsh. They threw me off their bowling team over a little mix-up.”

  Since I had an unfortunate bowling incident in my own past, this piqued my interest. “Go on.” Straightening, I folded my arms, regarding him silently.

  “They claimed I threw a tournament. For money. Imagine.” He gave a wild wave of his hand. “After that, st
uff got weird.”

  Before I could ask for details, he continued, words spilling out. “It’s all BS, of course. But it means I can’t ask the guy directly. On the other hand, Verity Hawkes is a respected member of the community. Famous, even. You could give him the box, all serious like, and not tell him where it came from. Then, after he pays you—”

  I held up a hand to halt this stream of nonsense. “Absolutely not. That has nothing to do with investigating, and I’m not your patsy.”

  “I’ll give you a cut.”

  I picked up the shoebox and shoved it at him. “No. Time to go.” Leaning over, I grabbed his arm again and tugged him upright.

  But instead of turning to the door, Mickey twisted out of my grasp and crumpled into the armchair, clutching the shoebox to his chest. His earflap tassels swayed as he shook his head.

  “I’m not taking no for an answer,” he muttered.

  “You’re not—wait, what?”

  He hunkered in the chair, shoulders raised, clinging to the shoebox.

  I could have forcibly tossed him out, but time was running out and I didn’t want to waste any of it rearranging the living room.

  “Fine,” I snapped. “Leave the box here, and I’ll see what I can do. But you have to go.”

  Dropping the box on the coffee table, Mickey leapt to his feet. “Thanks, Verity. You’re a pal.”

  After marching to the door, I wrenched it open. “Out.”

  Once he was gone, I picked up the shoebox, shoved it into the bookcase in the dining nook, and promptly forgot all about it.

  A decision I would live to regret.

  Chapter Seven

  When army grunts peeled potatoes in old-time Hollywood musicals, they always managed an endless strip of peel that practically jumped off the spud and into the bin. In real life, peeling potatoes was arduous work. And finicky. After poking out my hundredth potato eye with a paring knife, I assessed my progress. The aluminum bowl beside me was barely half full, and the potatoes I had successfully peeled were already turning brown. Emy’s scalloped potatoes were always perfectly white, perfectly peeled, and perfectly sliced. And her cheese sauce—I sucked in a breath, staring wide-eyed at the potatoes. I’d forgotten to buy cheese.

  My gaze drifted to the pile of apples sitting next to the unpeeled spuds. I hadn’t started the piecrust yet, either. In fact, only one component of my fantasy meal was done—the meatloaf, which was bubbling away. Maybe I should check on it again. Opening the oven, I admired the perfect brown crust forming on the top before shutting the door and turning back to the counter. The pile of potatoes had not gotten any smaller while I’d been checking the meatloaf.

  From his perch on a kitchen chair, the General watched me intently, head tilted. “Mrack?”

  “Where’s the piecrust, you’re asking? Me, too.”

  “Mrack?” General Chang hopped off the chair and strutted, tail swishing, to his empty dish.

  After retrieving a bag of kibble from the cupboard, I topped up his dish. The General took a delicate sniff before sitting down to gnaw at a troublesome claw on his hind leg.

  Rolling my eyes, I returned the kibble to the cupboard and reassessed the potatoes. I had to start the piecrust, peel the apples, and get the daikon into—uh-oh, where was the daikon? It was one of Jeff’s favorite dishes, and I wanted to get it right. Hastily, I filled a pot of water in the sink and transferred it to a burner set on high to blanch the daikon—when I found it.

  My cell phone rang while I was transferring plates and cutlery from the cupboard to the last clear space on the kitchen table. After pushing flour, sugar, and butter out of the way, picking up the General—who had returned to his perch on the chair—and plonking him on the floor, I found the phone. “Yes?”

  “Verity. Thank goodness I caught you.”

  “Aunt Adeline? Is something wrong?”

  “I hope not. It’s the storm. I forgot to tell you—”

  My aunt launched into a lengthy list of bad-weather preparations that might have included building an igloo in the backyard. I couldn’t say for certain since my attention kept wandering to the unpeeled potatoes. And the piecrust recipe I’d taped to the fridge door, under Carson and Reuben’s Key West selfie. Inwardly, I cursed my failure to check call display before answering. My aunt was halfway through a warning to check the eaves for icicles before stepping outside—“A falling icicle can kill you”—when I interrupted her.

  “I’m really busy, Aunt Adeline, making dinner for Jeff.”

  “The well has an electric pump, Verity. Don’t forget. When the power goes out, you won’t have any water. Make sure you’ve filled the bathtub and several buckets.”

  “I will. But I’m really busy—”

  “Making dinner for Jeff. I got that. Why can’t he make his own dinner? He’s not an infant.”

  Sometimes my aunt’s feminist side got the better of her.

  “He’s perfectly capable of making dinner, but I wanted to do it tonight. Because…” My voice faded. Aunt Adeline was fond of Jeff, I knew that. She didn’t need an explanation.

  “You sound stressed.”

  “I didn’t leave enough time, and nothing’s ready.”

  “Can’t you order pizza?”

  “It’s our four-month anniversary.”

  “Four months?” asked my puzzled aunt. “Is that even a thing?”

  “Umm…”

  “Never mind. We can fix it. Tell me what you’ve done so far.”

  While I was explaining about the unpeeled potatoes, the unpeeled apples, the missing daikon, the forgotten cheese, and the total lack of piecrust, I noticed the General peering intently at the stove. With a sniff, I realized that something was… burning.

  Dropping the phone and diving for the oven mitts, I opened the oven door. Puffs of smoke emerged. The meatloaf’s lovely brown crust had significantly deepened in color. All the way to black.

  “What happened?” came a tinny voice from the floor.

  “The meatloaf,” I wailed. “It’s burnt.” After placing it on the stovetop, I pulled off the mitts and picked up the phone. “It’s only been in the oven for half an hour.”

  “Verity.” My aunt’s voice was calm and reassuring. “What temperature did you set the oven at?”

  “Four-fifty.”

  “That’s a little high for meatloaf.”

  “I know, but I’m running late and I wanted it to cook faster.” I swiveled to assess the peeled potatoes in their metal bowl. At the rate they were discoloring, they’d match the meatloaf before long. A hissing caused me to whirl back to face the stove.

  The pot of water was boiling over.

  Dropping the phone on the table, I grabbed a tea towel to slide the pot off the burner. Hot water slopped over the side and onto the meatloaf.

  “Oh, no,” I moaned.

  “Verity,” came a calm, but still tinny, voice from the table. “What have you done?”

  Picking up the phone, I explained.

  “It’s not too late to order pizza,” Adeline said.

  “I guess.”

  “Don’t sound so dejected. I was kidding. You can fix this.”

  “How?”

  “Put the phone on speaker, and I’ll walk you through it. First, dump those potatoes into the boiling water.”

  “They’re not peeled.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Roughage is popular these days.”

  “What about slicing them?”

  “You’re no longer making scalloped potatoes. You’re making mashed potatoes. If you add enough butter, Jeff won’t even notice the difference.”

  I did as she instructed. Once the potatoes were bubbling away, I asked: “Now what?”

  “The meatloaf. Set the oven to three-fifty, drain off the water, scrape away the burnt layer, and put it back in the oven. It’ll be ready in an hour.”

  “Done.”

  “Now we make dessert. Core and slice the apples—don’t peel them—mix them with brown sugar and butter, then
put them in a baking dish. Remember my crumble recipe?”

  “Sort of.”

  “I’ll walk you through it. It’s easy.”

  Once the apple crumble had joined the meatloaf in the oven, and I was mashing the cooked potatoes, I brought Adeline up to date on Oskar York.

  “I heard about it,” she said. “Poor man.”

  “I don’t know why I bother telling you anything. And I’ve run out of time to set the table.”

  “Eat in the kitchen, kiddo. Men love that.”

  Outside, a car horn beeped.

  “Jeff’s here. Gotta go. Thanks for your help.”

  “Verity. About the storm—”

  “I’ll be careful. And thank you.” I clicked end call on my way out of the kitchen.

  Before Jeff got out of his black pickup, I was at the front door. I waved from the doorway, not willing to step outside and ruin my new down slippers in the foot-high drifts on the front walk.

  Jeff bounded up the walk and the stairs until he reached the door, where he swept me up for a big kiss.

  “Wow,” I said a few moments later, trying to get my breath back. “That was something. I only saw you this morning.”

  “I missed you,” he whispered, his lips brushing my ear.

  I settled in for another kiss, even though the door was wide open, the wind was howling, and the snow—

  “What’s with all the snow, by the way?” Jeff asked, taking a step back to assess the front porch.

  Biting my lip, I evaluated the frosty boards. “I haven’t shoveled yet.”

  Jeff grinned. “You really hate snow, don’t you?”

  “You would, too, if you’d been living in Vancouver for years. I’d almost forgotten what snow looked like.”

  “I’ll do it,” he said.

  “No.” Grabbing his arm, I pulled him through the door and closed it. “You had a busy day. I drove by Oskar York’s house earlier. What happened?”

  He grimaced. “Later.”

  “Are you still going to Strathcona tomorrow for that two-day departmental meeting?”

  “Yeah. It’s bad timing, though. If this storm gets worse, I’ll have to come back early.”