by Rickie Blair
Immediately, I felt guilty for pressing him. Placing a hand on his arm, I squeezed. “Why don’t you switch on the game? I’m going to walk that dog.” At the sound of the “W” word, Boomer leapt up to frantically pace the floor. “Then we can talk some more.”
Jeff yawned again. “I am a little tired.”
It only took a few minutes to clean up the sink and make a leash for Boomer from kitchen cord, but Jeff was already asleep in an armchair. General Chang perched on the chair’s back, one paw resting on Jeff’s shoulder. The cat swished his tail as I edged past with the terrier, but otherwise ignored him. It was a truce of sorts, but only because Boomer was more interested in going outdoors than in lunging at the cat.
As we walked along Lilac Lane—Boomer did more peeing than walking—I stopped to gaze at the picture-perfect crescent moon and the thousands of stars sparkling overhead. The snow had stopped falling, and the ground was crisp and crunchy underfoot. The silence was broken only by the far-off hoot of an owl. It was hard to believe a “storm of the century” was on its way.
I turned around to head back, tugging on Boomer’s makeshift leash. He followed happily, trotting along beside me. I found myself almost hoping the shelter would have no room for him after all.
Despite the tranquility of the setting, my mind was in turmoil. Why couldn’t Jeff accept I might have a talent for investigating? He’d praised me for it in the past.
I should rephrase that. Not praised, exactly, but he admitted I’d been helpful. When he wasn’t scolding me for putting my life in danger, that was. Which was not my fault, by the way. There had been a rock-climbing incident that even I had to admit ended badly. And the arsonist’s attack—poor General Chang had taken the brunt of that. Not to mention a misguided expedition to Niagara Falls—or, to be more exact, the deadly whirlpool at its base. But honestly, how could I have anticipated that?
Stopping outside Rose Cottage, where only a faint light shone through the drawn curtains, it hit me maybe that was the problem. A real detective would anticipate disasters like those. Jeff was right. I should stick to landscaping. Even crossword puzzles were no longer a safe pastime.
Killers Amongst Us.
Ridiculous. I had to rein in my imagination and drop Emy’s far-fetched idea. Tomorrow, I would contact Henri Vartan to tell him I couldn’t help.
Resolutely, I mounted the front steps and pushed open the door. I’d admitted defeat. I should have felt relieved. But instead, a wave of disappointment swept over me. I had ridiculed Emy’s idea from the beginning. Why did it make me sad to give it up?
Boomer waited impatiently for me to untie the cord from his collar, then vigorously shook off a few flakes of snow before trotting into the kitchen. No doubt he was checking to see if more food had materialized in our absence. On his way through the living room, he nuzzled Jeff’s hand, which was draped over the side of the armchair.
Jeff mumbled, but did not wake up.
I stood for a moment beside his chair—admiring his strong shoulders and long legs, the straight black hair that tickled the back of his collar, the black lashes that brushed his sharp cheekbones. I remembered his concern for a dog he didn’t know. Recalled the touch of his lips against my ear as he whispered, I missed you. And felt again his comforting arms, holding me close.
Joy surged within me.
Followed immediately by confusion. Given how much I cared for him, why was I so reluctant to discuss our living arrangements? What was I afraid of? Emy’s voice echoed in my brain. That was nearly three years ago. You’ve moved on. But had I? Then why couldn’t I accept Jeff’s assessment of my abilities? Why didn’t I fully trust him?
After slipping off my boots and parka, I trod noiselessly on stocking feet toward the bookcase in the dining nook. In his chair, Jeff was gently snoring. The General watched me cross the room before lowering his head and closing his eyes, too.
I searched the bookcase, running my fingers across the titles, until I found the one I wanted. Risk Mitigation and Threat Assessment. It was my aunt’s book. When I first arrived in Leafy Hollow, I noticed it while combing her shelves of gardening volumes for pruning tips. At the time, I thought “threats” referred to garden pests. Later, I assumed it was an accounting textbook.
Now that I knew about my aunt’s extracurricular activities, I reviewed it with fresh eyes.
Stretching out on the sofa, I turned to the front page to scan the list of contents.
Part 1: Vulnerability assessment.
Part II: Cyber-risk Mitigation and Threat Assessment in Military Intelligence.
Part III: Potential strategic responses.
This was not exactly the how-to book I was hoping for. I needed something more along the lines of Sleuthing for Beginners. Tomorrow, I would visit the library and see what they had. And since I was going to be there anyway, surely it wouldn’t hurt to get an update on the crossword situation. And perhaps see if anyone else had found a wallet like Henri’s.
I closed the cover, then set the book onto the coffee table.
Maybe I wasn’t cut out to be an investigator, but that didn’t mean I should give up.
Chapter Nine
The 5X Bakery was bustling when I dropped by early the next morning, hoping to avoid the usual crowd of midmorning caffeine addicts. I must have timed it wrong, because a dozen customers were huddled in the back of the tiny shop, peering at an easel.
I sidled over to the counter, where Emy was restocking the baked-goods trays.
“What’s with all the clientele?”
“Hello to you, too,” she said, rearranging a display of scones.
“Sorry. Hi. But seriously, you never have that many people in here at this time of the morning.”
Emy shot me a wry grin. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. But you’re right. That,” she tilted her head at the crowd, “has more to do with Shanice. Remember her idea to lure in more customers? Take a look.”
I had no problem seeing over the dozen heads surrounding Shanice’s project. Even from ten feet away, I could make out a giant crossword puzzle surrounded by sticky notes. A few steps nearer and I heard scraps of conversation.
“I think you’ve got that one,” said a woman pointing to a note on the board.
“I think she’s right.” Another woman leaned in to move that note from the sidelines.
Stepping back to the counter, I leaned an elbow on it while watching the crowd. “How long has this been going on?”
“Since yesterday. Shanice went to the office-goods store to pick up supplies. I paid for them from petty cash.”
“Isn’t it a copy of the clues already posted at the library?”
Emy grinned. “It’s identical. Hannah keeps me updated.” She finished making a café latte.
“Why don’t people just go there, then?”
“Theresa,” Emy called. “Your order’s ready.”
A lithe young woman pranced over, grinning, to claim her coffee and walnut-toffee scone with clotted cream before returning to the group.
Emy lifted an eyebrow. “You have to ask?”
That was when I noticed the extra chairs in a row along the far wall. I pointed. “When did you add those?”
Emy beamed. “There are tables coming, too. Lorne found a style that attaches to the wall. They hardly take up any room at all.”
“Scandinavian?” I asked, eyebrows raised.
She nodded.
“Do they come with a key wrench and recommended curse words?”
“Dunno. That’s Lorne’s department.” Eying the chairs, Emy smiled. “I doubted there was room for more seating, but turns out I was wrong. What can I get you, Verity?”
“I wouldn’t say no to a green tea. But I really came in to ask your advice.”
“Ask away.” After flicking on the burner under the kettle, Emy placed a teabag into a mug.
I pulled the crumpled list of names from my pocket, then smoothed it out on the counter. “These are the names of people wh
o found clues to the crossword. I want to interview them to see if they can shed any light on Henri’s mysterious wallet.”
Emy nodded. “Good thinking. And you want to know—”
“Who’s this?” I pointed to a name on the list.
Emy looked grim. “Rick Armstrong? I know who he is, worse luck.” The kettle boiled behind her, and she turned to fill my mug. “He’s the new owner of Lucky Lentil. My competition.”
She placed my mug on the counter with a thud. A trickle of green tea splashed over the side.
“The new restaurant?”
“Yes. Want a scone with that?”
“No thanks. Trying to quit.”
“You are not. Hey, speaking of food—how was the big dinner last night? Did you make my piecrust recipe?”
“No.” I sighed, watching the group around the bulletin board debate the next clue.
“Why so glum? Jeff didn’t complain, did he?”
“He would never. You know that. But I wanted it to be special.”
“Don’t put so much pressure on yourself. Jeff’s not interested in your baking.” She winked.
I turned around with my elbows on the counter and my back to Emy, to hide the flush rising on my cheeks.
“You’re turning red, like always,” she teased.
“I am not.”
But when I whirled around to pick up my mug, Emy was staring out at the street, chewing on her lip.
“What about this other name?”
She didn’t look at me.
“The list?” I asked, leaning over the counter to poke her arm. “Emy?”
With a startled jump, she said, “Huh?”
“Who’s this other person? Rebecca Butterfield?”
“Oh.” Emy shook her head as if she was brushing away a bad memory. “She’s married to Noah Butterfield, the investment adviser. They have an office up the street, across from Lucky Lentil. I guess you’ve never met them.”
“I’ve never needed an investment adviser,” I said ruefully. “How do you know them?”
Emy ignored me.
I poked her arm again. “Emy?”
She jerked. “What?”
“How do you know the Butterfields?”
“They’ve lived here over a decade. Mom knows them. She says Noah never misses a day’s work. I’m sure you’ve seen him around—the middle-aged man in the Italian suit and expensive loafers? Tall, perfectly groomed, brown hair combed back? He comes in here midmorning for a green tea and a toasted half-bagel, no butter. Oh, look, here’s Lorne.”
The front door opened with a whoosh of frigid air and a tinkle of the overhead bell. Lorne pulled off his wool toque, revealing a bad case of hat head, and brushed snow off his parka. After stamping his boots on the mat, he walked up to the counter and leaned in to give Emy a kiss.
“How’s it going?” He aimed an inquisitive glance on the crowd around the bulletin board.
“Lorne, tell Verity about Noah Butterfield. She’s never met him.”
“Noah’s a good guy. He advised me which business courses to take at the college. Babe, can I get a coffee to go, and—” Lorne peered through the glass wall of the counter, his brows furrowed in disbelief. “No sausage rolls?”
“Sorry, hon. I’ve had quite a run on them this morning. How about a cheese cruller?”
Lorne nodded enthusiastically, and Emy prepared his order for takeout.
I pointed to the waiting chairs. “Brilliant suggestion for the tables, Lorne.”
“Yeah. Emy needs to monetize that wasted space.”
“Hmm-hmm.” The transformation of my formerly tongue-tied landscaping assistant into a jargon-spouting businessman made me smile. I had no doubt Lorne would fulfill his dream of presiding over an entire chain of bakeries, with Emy at his side.
For now, though, he had to pass his exams. Lorne was painfully conscious of being older than the other students in his class, and anxious to make up for lost time.
“Gotta get back to studying,” he said, picking up his takeout bag and leaning over the counter for a farewell kiss. “See you later, babe.”
Brushing past me on his way to the door, Lorne leaned in to whisper out of the side of his mouth. “A word?”
Mystified, I followed him to the door.
Emy shot us a puzzled glance, but was soon busy filling more orders from crossword contest contestants.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Have you noticed Emy’s a little preoccupied?”
“Now that you mention it—” Turning my face away from Emy, I lowered my voice. “I have.”
“Any idea what’s wrong?”
“I don’t know that anything’s wrong. Exactly. Can you be more specific?”
“She’s been looking up stuff online, scowling at it. And when I ask her what it is, she slams the laptop shut and refuses to talk about it.”
“That doesn’t sound like Emy.” With a workday that started at four AM, she didn’t have time to surf the Internet. Lorne had told me that on many nights, he found her asleep on the sofa in her apartment above the bakery, still wearing her apron. My chest tightened. “She’s not ill, is she?”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so. But something’s on her mind.”
“What are you two whispering about?”
We jerked around with guilty expressions. New assistant Shanice had moseyed up behind us.
“Nothing.”
She glanced between us. “I thought maybe you were discussing—” After a glance back at Emy, she leaned in to whisper. “The rumors.”
Lorne and I exchanged surprised glances.
“What rumors?” I asked.
“You haven’t heard?” Shanice had the expression of someone who knew a juicy secret and was dying to tell.
“No,” I said impatiently. “What rumors?”
“Somebody—” Shanice stretched out the word, building anticipation. “Has been posting on restaurant review sites that Eco Edibles uses butter.”
“No.” My jaw dropped. “That’s outrageous.”
Lorne screwed up his face in confusion.
“Vegans don’t eat dairy products,” I said. “They would be horrified to learn there was butter in their food, even the tiniest amount.”
“I knew that,” he hastily added.
“Emy would never do such a thing. It’s nonsense.” I pointed to the sign posted above the pass-through to the vegan takeout—you are entering a meat and dairy-free zone. “She’s extremely careful.”
Shanice nodded. “I know she is. But it looks bad. Negative online reviews can destroy a business overnight. It’s hard to fight them.”
“Even when they’re obvious lies?”
She nodded ruefully.
“Who would post something so hateful?”
Shanice pulled her cell phone from the pocket of her white apron, and scrolled down before handing it to me. “Take a look.”
Someone called ButterUpTripleX had posted: emy’s eco edibles is a fraud. i saw a cask of butter in the cooler. and the avocado rollups definitely had butter in them. milk, too. i had a reaction the next day, so i know it’s true.
“Emy?” I marched up to the counter, flourishing the phone. “Have you seen these?”
She gave the screen a cursory glance. “Yes.” She turned to make another latte.
“What are you doing about it? It’s slander.”
“Henrietta,” Emy called. “Your order’s ready.”
A smiling, red-cheeked woman in a plaid blazer hurried up to collect the latte. Once she returned to the group huddled in front of the crossword—their voices getting louder as they debated the merits of each new guess—Emy turned to face us.
“Nothing. I’m doing nothing.”
“But—” I spluttered.
“You can’t respond to online reviews, Verity. It only makes them worse.”
Next door, in Eco Edibles, the counter bell dinged sharply.
“Shanice.” Emy said. “Customers.”<
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Shanice snatched back her phone, ducked behind the counter, and dashed through the connecting door. We heard her say, “What can I get you?” Followed by a muffled conservation.
“You can’t just ignore this, Emy,” I said, keeping my voice low.
“Verity’s right,” Lorne added. “Someone’s trying to hurt your business. We have to take action.”
“No.” Emy’s retort was sharp. “You two should do nothing.”
At Lorne’s hurt look, she apologized. “Sorry, hon. I appreciate everything you’ve done, I really do. But leave this to me. It will blow over.”
“What if we try to find out who’s responsible?” I asked.
Emy wrinkled her brow. “How exactly would you do that?”
“Well…” Temporarily baffled, I tried to work up a course of action. “For starters, we could explain that nobody gains access to your storage room except staff. So, obviously, this person who claims to have seen anything there is lying.”
I straightened up with a triumphant air.
Lorne nodded aggressively. “That’s true,” he said.
Emy heaved a sigh. “Apparently, you haven’t seen the online review with the photograph of my storage area. With an industrial-sized tub of butter in it.”
“What? How is that possible?” I whipped out my own phone and did a quick search, then halted at the incriminating photo. “Oh.” Morosely, I studied the screen. “How did that happen?”
Lorne leaned over my phone, adding helpfully, “Photoshop?”
“That must be it.” We nodded together, sagely. “Wait—it does look like your storage area, Emy.” I tapped on the part of the picture that showed the butter cask’s delivery label. Eco Edibles was clearly visible.
“You see why I told you to leave it alone?” she snapped. It was obvious she immediately regretted her tone. “Sorry.”
Lorne ducked behind the counter to give her a hug. “Don’t worry, babe. It’ll all work out.”
My confusion grew as I stared at the picture. “But if this wasn’t photoshopped”—and I had to admit it looked real—“who could have taken this if no one goes back there?”
Emy winced. “That’s not exactly true.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean—the delivery guys have a key.” At my look of surprise, she added, “They deliver my orders in the middle of the night. Once a week, on Wednesday usually. It’s easier that way. They don’t have to fight traffic to make their rounds.”