by Rickie Blair
“I don’t see why, unless he needed that clue on the twenty. But I compared it to the other clues and it’s a duplicate, so it’s not helpful in any way. That answer is already posted at the library. Besides, we don’t know if there’s even a prize.”
I wasn’t sure he’d heard me.
“No,” he muttered, staring at the wallet. “That can’t be it.”
Turning to the stove, I filled the teakettle and flicked on a burner. After a short search, I found two unchipped mugs and a packet of tea bags.
Matisse plonked down next to Henri’s feet.
That was when I remembered Mickey’s strange request.
“There is one other thing, Henri. I was approached by someone who owns a shoebox full of old photos. They suggested maybe you could use them for a collage—Leafy Hollow historic lore and so on. This person wanted to know if you’d be interested in buying them. I meant to bring them by before this, but I forgot.”
Henri shot me a surprisingly sharp look for someone suffering from a head wound. “This person wouldn’t happen to be Mickey Doig, would it?”
“Maybe.” To hide the growing flush on my cheeks, I bent over to rub the dachshund’s silky ears. For an aspiring PI, I really needed to develop a better poker face. I straightened up. “What if it was?”
Henri’s expression hadn’t changed. “Mickey Doig is a two-bit crook and a scoundrel.”
“That’s a bit severe.”
“Any photos of his will be worthless, Verity. Or worse, stolen. Did he say where he got them from?”
“Not exactly.”
“Plenty of vintage photos have been donated since we announced the new gallery. So many, in fact, that we don’t have time to sort them. All were offered free of charge. Unless old photos depict famous subjects, they’re valuable only to the person who took them. Or their descendants.”
This tirade seemed to drain the last of his resources. Henri slumped forward with a groan, holding his head.
I filled a mug with a tea bag and boiling water from the kettle, added milk from a carton in the fridge, and passed it to him.
After taking a sip and clearing a spot on the table for the mug, he continued. “Even if by some miracle they were valuable, Mickey’s wrong if he thinks we can pay for them. Our budget doesn’t allow for that. We’re operating on meager donations. In fact…” Miserably, he picked up his tea. Matisse jumped onto his lap. Henri wrapped his other hand around the dog, staring vaguely at the contents of his mug.
I regarded him with a sudden stab of worry. It wasn’t like Henri Vartan not to boast and bluster his way through a potential marketing opportunity. “Henri,” I said softly. “Does the gallery have enough money to open?”
Wincing, he placed his mug on the table and shook his head.
I leaned over to give his shoulder a quick squeeze. “I’m sorry. That must be discouraging.”
“Irma and Zuly are so excited about the opening. I haven’t had the heart to tell them.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Before this happened”—helplessly, he waved a hand at the mess—“we planned another fundraising drive. There were local businesses we hadn’t tapped yet, like the village’s investment adviser. So, I approached him.”
“Noah Butterfield?”
Henri nodded. “Noah was helpful. He even suggested someone who might back our opening exhibit.”
“Like who?”
“I don’t think I should say.” He let out a despairing moan. “Besides, there’s no point. It’s too late.”
“You can tell me. I’ll keep it to myself, I promise. Why is it too late?”
A siren blast whirred on the street outside, and car doors slammed. The police had arrived.
Henri leaned forward, dropping his voice to a whisper. “Because Noah told me to ask Oskar York.”
I stepped back in surprise. “You’re kidding. The rumors about him having a secret stash were true?”
Bang, bang, bang.
Booming knocks reverberated through the house. “Police!”
Bang, bang, bang.
“It’s not locked,” I called down the stairs.
As the front door opened, I tried to get more answers from Henri. “What did Noah say about Oskar’s money?”
“I can’t tell you,” he whispered. “Don’t ask me.” Rising, he turned to the staircase.
I grabbed his arm. “No, please,” I hissed. “Just tell me that one thing. What did Noah say?”
“Police!” a baritone voice called from the landing. “Anyone here?” Footsteps thumped on the steps, accompanied by a gust of freezing air.
Henri tugged his arm away, scooped up Matisse, and went down to greet the officers. I followed, stopping in the first-floor gallery to peer out the front window. An ambulance had pulled up, and two paramedics were headed for the front door.
I watched their approach while I puzzled over Henri’s remarks. If Oskar York had indeed been wealthy instead of penniless, and if that wealth was hidden in his crowded house—that meant only one thing.
His death was not an accident.
Chapter Thirteen
Jeff called me from his Strathcona conference within ten minutes of the police arriving at Henri’s house. He insisted on returning immediately to check on me.
“Don’t do that. I’m fine. Really. There’s absolutely no reason for you to leave your meeting.”
“I can be there in an hour.”
“No, you can’t,” I said, bemused. “Unless you speed the entire distance with your siren on.”
“It is an emergency,” he replied defensively.
“No, it’s not. Someone ransacked Henri Vartan’s house and knocked him on the head, but he’s going to be fine. The paramedics are checking him out, and then they’re taking him to the urgent care clinic. Meanwhile, I’m dropping his dog off at a friend’s place, so I won’t even be at home. Stay where you are.”
“Then I’m coming back tonight. Tomorrow’s meetings aren’t that important.”
“Jeff, listen. I’m absolutely fine. Henri was thumped on the head, yes, but I wasn’t. I want you to stay there until the end of your conference. I’ll feel guilty if you come back.”
I decided not to tell him about my encounter with Henri’s intruder and my forced snow angel. It would only provide more ammunition for his case against my fledgling PI business.
There was another reason I didn’t want him to return early, but I obviously couldn’t tell him about that, either.
“Are you sure you’re not hurt?”
“Positive. I mean it, Jeff. Stay where you are.”
“Only if you promise to stay with Emy tonight. And take Boomer with you. He’s a good guard dog.”
Crossing my fingers behind my back, I said, “Okay. I promise.”
After agreeing to call Jeff later, I set about packing doggy essentials. Henri was adamant about which coat the little dachshund required, and his preferred food.
“Matisse has a sensitive stomach,” he said, waving an arm. “And please see if Bertram’s has any more of those homemade organic dog biscuits—the ones with the cheese,” he implored, frantically texting on his cell phone with his other hand.
“Hold still,” cautioned the paramedic who was wrapping a temporary bandage on Henri’s head wound.
“And don’t give him licorice, whatever you do,” Henri beseeched with an outstretched hand.
“Sir. Please,” the paramedic chided.
Nodding, I repeated, “Grain-free food. Organic biscuits. No licorice.” I held up a tiny red snowsuit with four tiny red legs, an artificial fur-trimmed hood, and “Canadian Canine” embroidered in white on the back. I’d found it tossed into the cupboard under the stairs. “Is this the right one?”
Henri nodded vigorously. The paramedic sighed loudly, but refrained from giving his patient a cuff on the head.
“Did you find his winter booties?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Well, don’
t let him walk on any salt.”
“Check.”
As I left holding Matisse in my arms, the little dog whimpered anxiously, looking over my shoulder at Henri. But once I got him into the truck, he sat placidly on the passenger seat until we were underway. Then he jumped up to plant both paws on the windowsill for a better vantage point.
Zuly Sundae lived above a convenience store on Main Street, several blocks from the village’s center. Her second-floor one-room unit overlooked a parking lot at the back. When we pulled up outside, she was waiting downstairs with the front door open to the sidewalk, a cardigan pulled tight with her other hand.
She brushed her black hair over her shoulder before taking Matisse from my arms with a squeal. “You poor widdle ting. What an awful day for you.”
Matisse frantically licked her face.
I followed Zuly and Matisse upstairs, closing the door behind me and edging past a dripping parka hanging from a wall hook at the top of the stairs. “Did you go out in this weather?”
“I didn’t realize it was so awful. I wanted to see if any more clues had been posted at the library. The contest is fascinating, don’t you think?”
I nodded, watching Zuly settle Matisse into a makeshift bed in the kitchen. “I guess.”
“You sound dubious.”
“I am, a bit.”
“We can talk about the contest later. Tell me about Henri. He sounded hysterical in his texts. Is it true the gallery was ransacked?”
“I’m afraid so. But none of the art was taken, according to Henri.”
“I rushed back from the library as soon as I got your call about Matisse. Did they take him all the way to Strathcona Hospital?”
“No. He’s under observation at the urgent care center. I’m sorry I couldn’t take Matisse home with me, by the way. I’m already hosting a visiting dog.”
Boomer, I suspected, would not take kindly to interlopers. And I knew for certain the General wouldn’t. I was on thin ice with the ornery old gentleman as it was.
“That’s no problem. I love Matisse. I’ll drop by the center later to let Henri know he’s okay. And I’ll send him a pic right now.” Zuly rummaged around on the counter, shoving aside a plastic-wrapped loaf of bread, a carton of orange juice, and a stack of advertising flyers before finding her cell phone.
Plucking the dog from his new bed, she held him next to her face with one hand. “Say cheese, Matisse,” Zuly instructed, holding up her phone for a selfie.
At the word “cheese,” Matisse yipped excitedly.
I slapped a hand on my forehead. “Darn. I forgot to check Bertram’s for those organic biscuits Matisse likes.”
Zuly issued an amused snort. “Yeah, like we’re going to pay fifteen dollars a bag for those. And a tiny bag, at that.”
I scrunched up one eye. “That does seem excessive.” However, given Bertram’s reputation as the village’s highest-end food peddler, I wasn’t surprised.
“No kidding. Listen, pup.” Zuly nuzzled the little dog. “I have perfectly nice cheese right here.”
She placed Matisse on the floor. Then she pulled a package of processed cheese slices from the fridge, slapped two on a plate, and set it down in front of him.
The dachshund tucked in ravenously. Luckily, I wouldn’t be cleaning up after him.
After pulling a chair opposite mine, Zuly sat down. She leaned in, fixing me with an intense look. “Now. Tell me the truth. Why are you dubious about the contest? Don’t you think it’s a good thing for Leafy Hollow?”
I puffed in exasperation. “It could be a fraud, Zuly. How is that a good thing?”
Eyes widening, she straightened up, tossing her hair back with one hand before replying. “It’s just a bit of fun, Verity. You’re such a cynic.”
“I’m not a cynic. Why does everyone keep saying that?”
“Have you been telling people it’s a fraud?” Red spots of color on her cheeks announced her rising indignation.
“No, I haven’t said anything. But it’s suspicious, don’t you think?”
She smoothed the front of her vintage blouse with both hands as she rose to her feet. “No, I don’t think.”
“And you’re right—we don’t know anything about it. Why is that? When I was a bookkeeper, I saw plenty of questionable transactions. Not everybody can be trusted. I’m sorry, but it’s true.”
Zuly bit her lip.
“Why would someone start a contest for no reason at all?” I continued. “What’s the point? If there’s a prize, what is it? Where is it?” My thoughts couldn’t help returning to a previous crime in the village. “What if it’s a decoy, to cover up something else?”
Zuly moved in jerky, almost angry movements to the sink, then twisted the hot water tap. With her back to me, she dumped a stack of dirty dishes into the sink with a clatter and added a stream of liquid soap. “You’re from a big city,” she said, raising her voice over the sound of the running water, “so you don’t know how rarely anything exciting happens here. Maybe that’s why you’re so quick to heap scorn on us.” She turned off the tap with a vicious twist.
“That’s spectacularly unfair,” I spluttered. “I love Leafy Hollow. I spent years of my childhood here. Vancouver is no longer my home. I left that all behind. I live here now.”
Zuly showed no sign she’d heard me. “Or maybe you consider us country bumpkins who don’t know any better than to be taken in by scam artists? And we need Verity Hawkes to save us?”
“How can you think that?”
I slumped against my chair, a hollow feeling in my chest. Did the villagers really see me as merely the latest interloper telling them how to run their lives? On my neck, a vein throbbed, a sure sign an anxiety attack was on the way. Shutting my eyes, I tried to slow my breathing. The anxiety that kept me a virtual prisoner in my Vancouver apartment after Matthew’s death had tapered off during my time in Leafy Hollow. I wanted to keep it that way.
Zuly whirled around, making my eyes snap open at the sudden movement. She wiped her hands on a kitchen towel more viciously than I thought necessary. “Not everyone lives your charmed life, Verity. You’ve only been here a few months, yet you’ve already snared your own home and your own business and the most eligible bachelor in town. It all landed right in your lap. Things are pretty sweet up there in Rose Cottage, as far as I can tell.”
She threw the towel onto the counter and crossed her arms, glaring at me.
Matisse’s wide brown eyes swiveled from Zuly to me and back again.
A wave of indignation rose in my throat. Wow. Where to start with the description of my so-called charmed life? The deadbeat dad who abandoned my mother and me when I was a child? The husband who died much too young, making me a widow in my twenties? Or the aunt who disappeared for months, scaring me half to death?
“Listen,” I said, struggling to form words. “That is so—”
Before I could finish my sentence, Zuly burst into tears.
On the floor, Matisse tilted his head in confusion as he stared up at her.
My mouth hung open in disbelief. Wordlessly, I pulled a tissue pack from my pocket and handed it to her.
Zuly took it, sniffling, then turned to face the window and blew her nose. After several deep breaths, she faced me again. “Sorry,” she said.
Matisse pawed at her leg. After another swipe at her nose with the tissue, she picked him up and swiveled back to the window and its mundane view of a parking lot, sighing heavily.
“What’s going on, Zuly? What’s wrong?”
No reply. The soap bubbles in the sink gradually dispersed, leaving only a slick on the surface of the water.
Finally, she straightened her shoulders, smiling weakly as she spun toward me, clutching the dog to her chest. “This attack on Henri and the gallery has been upsetting. Not to mention Oskar York’s horrible accident. It’s been an awful week.” She took another deep breath. “I shouldn’t have said those things, Verity. I’m sorry.”
“Did you
know Oskar?”
She shrugged. “Not really. But he’s a Meals on Wheels client, and Irma’s a volunteer. It’s too bad she wasn’t there that day…”
Letting her observation hang there unfinished, Zuly put Matisse on the floor and sat in the chair opposite me. She lifted the lid of a teapot sitting on the table. “Shall I boil some water?”
“Not for me, thanks.”
She replaced the lid and pushed the pot away.
Since our pleasant conversation seemed beyond repair, I decided to go for broke. “Speaking of Oscar York, did you ever hear rumors that he hid money or valuables in his house? Or that he was secretly wealthy?”
Zuly’s eyes rivaled tea saucers at this line of questioning. “Who told you that?”
“Henri mentioned it. Today, after the attack.” I tried to recall if I’d promised not to tell anybody, but came up blank. Despite my assurances to Jeff that I was fine, I was rattled. The vein in my neck continued to throb. This was no time for an anxiety attack, I thought. I forced myself to concentrate on the soothing bubble bath I intended to slip into at the end of this trying day.
Meanwhile, Zuly was talking.
“…so I don’t know anything about that. Irma delivered meals to Mr. York, sure, but they never talked about his money as far as I know. Or if he even had any, come to think of it.”
“No rumors?”
She ran a hand along the edge of the table, not meeting my eyes. “Not that I heard.”
Rising to my feet, I said, “Let me know if you need any help with Matisse.”
“We’ll be fine.” Her brisk tone told me my help wouldn’t be needed.
Back in the truck, I turned on the engine to heat the cab and sat there, thinking. Something in Zuly’s reply when I asked about Oscar York’s rumored riches didn’t sit right. She knew something about the old man, something hidden. But what?
I didn’t want to think about it anymore. I wanted to go home to an early dinner and that soothing bath. And then, I intended to curl up on the sofa in front of a roaring fire and thumb through Mickey’s shoebox of photos.