by Rickie Blair
I recalled Henri’s question. Did he say where he got them from? Remembering Mickey’s suspicious claim about the flea market, I thought—no, he didn’t. And why was that?
My phone beeped with a text.
Are we set for tonight?
I texted back a thumb’s-up emoji.
Chapter Fourteen
Later that night, I parked the highly visible Coming Up Roses truck in a side street two blocks from the bakery and trekked the rest of the way, my head bent against the bitter wind. Main Street was deserted. Even The Tipsy Jay had long since sent its last drinker home. The bar’s hanging sign creaked in the wind, making its giant bird sway. After a cautious glance around, I ducked into the alley beside the 5X.
At the back entrance, Lorne was huddled over the lock. He turned his key. A moment later, we were inside with the metal door closed behind us.
“Did you bring your flashlight?” I whispered.
“Right here.” Lorne switched it on. “I taped over it,” he said, pointing to the lens, where duct tape blocked all but a tiny stream of light. “That way, it can’t be seen from the street. But we should hold it facing the floor at all times.”
“That’s impressive, Lorne.”
“I saw it on a rerun of It Takes a Thief.”
“Even so, it’s quite professional.”
In the feeble gleam, I saw him shrug modestly. “We should take our coats off, so we’ll be ready for action in case we have to tackle anybody.”
“Why would we be tackling anybody?”
“They might try to escape.”
“Why would they—wait, why are we whispering? Emy’s a sound sleeper.”
“Yeah,” Lorne said in his normal voice, with a glance up at the ceiling. “True.”
After shucking off our parkas and boots and throwing them into a heap in the back room, we crept into the takeout’s customer area, where we paused, surprised by the sudden light. “I forgot about the streetlamps,” I said with a groan, pointing to the square of yellow on the floor facing the plate glass window. “We’ll have to sit behind the counter. That way, we can hear anyone who comes in the back door, but they won’t see us.”
Given that I was five-ten and Lorne five-eleven, tucking ourselves out of view behind the tiny counter wasn’t easy. We wiggled and squirmed for a bit.
“Ow,” I said. “Watch it. That was my eye.”
“Sorry,” Lorne said, pulling in his elbow. “There’s not much room here.”
“When does this delivery person arrive?”
“I narrowed it down to a one-hour window. I couldn’t ask Emy outright, so I employed an unorthodox line of interrogation.”
“Such as?”
“Questions about her inventory methods.”
“Wasn’t she suspicious?”
“No. Inventory control is one of my college courses.”
“Did this interrogation produce any concrete evidence?”
“Our target arrives between two AM and three AM. Emy comes downstairs to start baking at four, and the new stuff is always here by then.”
“We don’t have long to wait. Fortunately.” With a groan, I rearranged my limbs. “So, Lorne—your courses. How are they going?”
“Really good. A year or two more, and I’ll have a diploma.”
“That’s terrific. Good work.”
“I never could have done it without your help. And Thérèse, of course.”
Thérèse Dionne, Leafy Hollow’s chief librarian and Emy’s mom, had convinced Lorne to enroll in the local community college as an adult student to earn a business diploma.
“You had help, sure, but the hard work was all yours. Thérèse is proud of you. When the big day finally comes—”
“The big day? You mean graduation?”
I punched his upper arm. “No, idiot. Well, yes, graduation, but I was thinking more of a wedding day.”
Lorne let out a long puff of air. “I don’t know about that.”
This was puzzling. I’d never met anybody crazier about someone than Lorne was about Emy.
“I know your parents have that nice rental unit in their basement, and you’re comfortable there, but…” I took a deep breath. “Shouldn’t you be living here, with Emy?”
“I can’t,” he said wistfully.
“Why not? It’s not Emy, is it?” I knew it wasn’t, but I didn’t want Lorne to know that my best friend and I frequently discussed his reluctance to commit.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said.
“Okay, then. How about those Leafs, eh? Did you see that game against the Bruins on Tuesday?”
“Yeah. That third-period save by Andersen was amazing, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah. For sure. It was—amazing.”
The digital clock on the wall ticked over. Then again.
“Oh, come on, Lorne. I don’t want to talk about hockey. I want to know why you’re not living with Emy.” I flicked a hand in annoyance.
“Ow. Watch it. That was my ear.”
“Sorry. But—”
“I have no income, no job, and no prospects. I’m not going to live off Emy’s money.”
“She doesn’t care.”
“I do.” The light streaming through the windows revealed the stubborn set of his jaw. Lorne wasn’t kidding. He wanted to be the provider. Men. I recalled Jeff’s earnest declaration—It’s not a problem. I have plenty of money—and my heart gave a little twist. That led to memories of my deadbeat father and the realization that wanting to be the breadwinner wasn’t a bad thing. In fact—
With a sudden start, I placed my hands on my hips. “What do you mean, no income? I pay you to work at Coming Up Roses.”
“Not in the winter,” Lorne said, then added hastily, “Which isn’t your fault. I’d be happy to help with snowplowing if it wasn’t for my classes.”
“I know. To be honest, I’m not that keen on snow removal myself. As for future prospects, I’d bet on you any day. In fact, in the future I fully expect to holiday on your yacht in the Mediterranean.”
He snorted with laughter.
“But I won’t visit you in the south of France if Emy’s not there,” I added in a warning tone. “You better decide what you’re doing, buster. She’s not going to hang around forever.”
Actually, I suspected Emy would hang around forever waiting for Lorne, but that was a different argument. Meanwhile, my knees were throbbing after half-an-hour crammed into that tiny space. “Enough heart to heart. Let’s stand up and stretch our legs,” I suggested.
We were jogging lightly in place when a key turned in the back door.
“Get down,” I blurted. We dropped in our tracks.
“Ow,” I said. “That was my—”
“Shh,” Lorne hissed.
The door opened and then closed with a clink of metal.
I expected the new arrival to switch on the overhead light, but nothing happened. Poking Lorne with my finger, I whispered, “No light.”
“I know,” he whispered back.
Shuffling footsteps came down the short hall. A delivery person would have turned into the refrigerated storage area by the back door to drop off their goods, but this one continued on until they reached the public area of the shop where we were hiding behind the counter.
I poked Lorne again. “Burglar?” I whispered.
“Maybe,” he whispered back.
More shuffling footsteps. A hooded figure paused, outlined in the light from the streetlamps. It was almost as wide as it was tall, with both hands clasped on a massive belly as it waddled forward. If this was a delivery person, he or she was badly out of shape.
“On three,” Lorne whispered. “One. Two—”
We darted out from behind the counter to tackle the newcomer.
Well… Lorne tackled the newcomer. I caught my toe on the edge of the counter, then screamed in pain before jumping about on one foot. “Oww-oww-oww,” I squealed. “That hurts.”
“Verity—help, please,�
� Lorne called from the floor, where he was grappling with the intruder. “What the blazes?” he yelled. One of his hands hit the vinyl flooring with a loud slap.
I hurried over to assist, surprised the athletic Lorne couldn’t handle an overweight delivery boy on his own. But before I could apply my planned headlock, my foot stepped into something slippery and slid out from under me.
I hit the floor. “What the blazes?” I muttered, unconsciously mimicking Lorne.
“Verity—get him,” Lorne yelled.
Lorne was crawling across the floor in an uncoordinated way. Every so often, a knee or hand slid away from him. The hooded figure was also scrambling on all fours, trying to evade Lorne. They were both moving with the speed of turtles.
Sore toe forgotten, I dove for the intruder with a guttural cry rarely heard outside a Wimbledon forecourt. My arms closed around his torso at the approximate location of that enormous belly. I expected it to be, if not exactly firm, at least wobbly. Instead, it collapsed beneath my hands, almost as if the entire figure was dissolving.
With a horrible squelching sound, I slid off the intruder and onto the floor, face-first.
When I tried to raise myself up on my hands and knees, my arms slithered out in front of me. When I lifted one hand, it came away from the floor with a sucking noise. “What is this stuff?” I asked in disgust. “Where did it come from?”
“Get him,” Lorne called.
Not much chance of that. I was mired in place.
“Show yourself,” I demanded—trying, and failing, to stand up. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”
“Verity?” came a tremulous voice. “Is that you?”
My jaw dropped at the sound of a familiar voice. “Shanice? What are you doing here?”
“I can explain. Really.”
Lorne clapped his hands against the nearest wall, one after the other, to pull himself up. He shuffled to the back door, without lifting his feet, and flicked on the overhead light.
I took a good look around, hardly believing what I saw.
“Son of a bee sting. Shanice—what have you done?”
The tiled white walls and floor of Emy’s pristine vegan takeout were covered in yellow swirls, mounds, and splashes. As were all three of us.
I lifted the back of my hand to my face for a quick sniff, followed by an exploratory lick. “It’s butter, isn’t it?” I asked. “There’s butter everywhere.”
Shanice tossed her parka hood back, shooting me an apologetic look. “I’m sorry.”
Sighing, I closed my eyes.
“It’s unsalted,” she added hesitantly.
The room went silent.
Finally, “I can’t believe you’d do this to Emy,” I said. “Bring a pail of butter in here, I mean. You posted those photos online, didn’t you?”
Shanice’s eyes were wide. “No! I didn’t. Please believe me, Verity. It’s not what you think.”
“It was bad enough that you planned to store another pail of butter in Emy’s back room. But why did you leave the lid off? Look at this mess,” I wailed.
“I didn’t. It’s not what you think.”
Lorne spoke up from his position by the light switch. His eyes narrowed at Shanice. Lorne was slow to anger, but this was too much, even for him. “You better start explaining.”
Shanice swiped butter from her face, leaving one eye partially closed. “I wanted to cheer up Emy. And it wasn’t a pail of butter. It was a sculpture.” She gestured at a black garbage bag muddled in a heap at her foot. “I had it in there, on a board, and when you tackled me—”
“A what?” I asked, my voice cracking. “It was a what?”
“A butter sculpture,” Shanice said. “I made it for Emy.”
I scrambled to my feet by clutching the edge of the counter and stood, clinging to it. After a few seconds of wordless staring at the mess, I managed only, “I have to sit down.”
Lorne skated slowly forward, sliding a stool my way. I plunked onto it. “Thanks.” Slumping forward with my arms on my thighs, I regarded the muddled garbage bag. I raised my gaze to Shanice. “Explain it to me again.”
“When our class checked out the food exhibits at the fall fair last year, one of the displays had these cool butter sculptures. Ever since, I’ve wanted to try making one. And now, with all those horrible reviews online, I thought it would be a way to have fun with the whole butter thing. I imagined Emy would display it in the bakery and everybody would—laugh.”
“I’m not laughing.”
“No, not after this. But it was so cute, Verity. I thought Emy would like it. I thought it would give her a chuckle. Maybe take her mind off things.”
“Is this the truth, Shanice?”
“Yes,” she wailed. “Would I make that up?”
Lorne puffed out a stream of air. “She’s got a point there.”
“Why were you delivering this sculpture in the dead of night?”
“Because I wanted it to be a surprise when Emy came downstairs, and she always does that at four, so I had to get here early, and I have a key, naturally, so I thought—if I just let myself in, I can go into the bakery and leave it on the counter and—”
I held up a weary hand. “I’m not saying I believe you, but what did this sculpture look like?”
Shanice brightened, just a little. “Emy standing behind the counter with a tray of cookies. I have a picture. I can show you. It’s on my phone.”
“All right.” I stumbled to my feet. “Better wash your hands before you get out your phone,” I said, pointing to the sink.
While Shanice was cleaning herself up, I asked, “Have you ever sculpted butter before?”
“Not exactly. I practiced at home first.” Shanice dried her hands, then retrieved her phone. While she scrolled through the photos, she added, “That nice artist woman, the one from the library, helped me.”
“Zuly? Or Irma?”
“The one who does the beautiful watercolors.”
“That would be Irma.” After Shanice handed me the phone, I studied the sculpture in the picture. Lorne leaned over to take a look. Sniffing, he stood up again.
“It was rather good,” I said, handing back the phone. “Too bad it’s all over the floor.” I turned to Lorne. “What do you think? Should we call the police?”
Shanice started forward with pure terror on her face. “Don’t do that. Please. I’m so sorry.”
Lorne knew I was kidding. His mouth started to twitch. “Sounds like a good plan to me.”
Shanice whimpered, clapping a hand over her mouth.
I let her dangle for a few moments.
Then I said, “We’re not doing that. But you’ll have to help clean this up. Before Emy sees it.”
Shanice carefully shuffled off to get mops and pails from the back room.
Lorne, who had winced at the mention of his beloved, glanced at the clock. “We’ll never get it done in time.”
“We have to try.”
With all three of us mopping and wiping, we almost missed the arrival of our true quarry. It was after three when we heard the telltale sound of a key in the lock.
We froze. Gripping my mop handle, I whispered, “The delivery guy.”
The door opened, and a young man in a parka with a logo on the chest entered. He was carrying a large box with both hands. He kicked the door shut behind him with one foot.
Whistling, he headed for the storage area.
Suddenly, he froze. He slowly turned his head to face us.
“Hi,” I said.
“Whoa. Normally, there’s no one here.”
“Sorry if we startled you.” I propped my mop handle against the wall. “We were hoping to ask you a few questions.”
“Can I just—” He tilted his head toward the storage area. “Put this away first? It’s heavy.”
“Go ahead. Meet you back here.”
He returned a moment later, smiling feebly. “I’m in kind of a hurry. Lots of deliveries tonight. So, if you don
’t mind—”
“This will only take a second. Did you bring a tub of butter in here and photograph it?”
“No. I would never do anything…” His voice trailed off as he flicked his gaze between us. “Like that.”
It took only a few seconds of Lorne towering over him with a grim expression before Harry—the name was stenciled on his parka under the logo of a wholesale grocer—came clean.
“Look,” Harry said. “They told me it was a practical joke. Some kind of birthday thing. It wasn’t serious.”
I adopted my most earnest tone. “Let me get this straight. An unknown person paid you fifty dollars to plant a vat of butter in Emy’s storage area, snap a photo of it, and then take the butter away again?”
“That’s right. Like I said, a practical joke. That’s all.”
“Then you emailed them the photo—and they posted it online?”
“I don’t know what they did with it. I just sent it to them. I never met them in person.”
“How did you get the cash, then?”
He cocked his head, raising an eyebrow. “You’ve never heard of online banking?”
“Don’t get snarky with me.” I’d spent nearly an hour mopping up butter at that point, and I was in no mood for chitchat about our financial system. “You must know their real name.”
“I don’t. Sorry. Can I go?” His gaze zeroed in on a point over my shoulder. “Emy. How ya doing?”
Lorne’s eyes, also fixed on something behind me, widened.
Cringing, I turned around.
Emy was wearing a fleece robe and slippers. Her hair was rumpled. “What’s going on here?”
Her voice was eerily calm—the kind of calm that must have been in evidence right before the passengers on the Titanic said, “Why is there so much water in this stateroom?”
Lorne, Harry, and I stood rooted to the spot.
Shanice stepped forward. “It’s my fault.”
That was when Emy noticed our pails and mops, and the butter we hadn’t reached yet. Her mouth opened and closed a few times like one of those little aquarium fishes while she surveyed the scene. No one spoke.
Finally, Harry cleared his throat. “Can I go?” When no one replied, he added, “Invoice’s on the counter, Emy,” and backed out, closing the door behind him.