Snowed Under

by Rickie Blair

  “It’s not really a case—merely an odd coincidence. It’s these strange wallets people are finding. And then there’s Oskar York.”

  Adeline nodded sorrowfully. “So sad.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “Years ago, before he became a recluse.”

  “He wasn’t always that way?”

  “No. He was a respected academic at one time. Oskar was never what you’d call a party animal, but he did leave his house from time to time.”

  I winced. This was hitting close to home. After Matthew died, for the next two years I rarely left our Vancouver apartment. I spent most of that time kicking aside dust bunnies and devouring self-help books. Maybe I’d be there yet if Adeline hadn’t gone missing.

  “Oskar was nothing like you,” my aunt quickly added, noting my discomfort. “He was always eccentric. I don’t believe any one thing pushed him over the edge—if that’s what happened. His death was probably unavoidable.”

  “Do you believe it was an accident? Because—”

  “Jeff told me you’re suspicious.”

  I halted, giving her an intent look. “He shouldn’t have said that.”

  “He worries about you,” Adeline chided, squeezing my arm again. “It’s a good thing.”

  “He doesn’t think I’d make a good investigator.”

  “I’m sure he didn’t put it like that. He wants you to be safe, that’s all.”

  I sighed. “He’s probably right, anyway.”

  “Verity.” My aunt’s tone had turned no-nonsense. “You’re smart, resourceful, and brave. Don’t doubt your abilities.” She narrowed her eyes. “Do you hear me?”

  For an instant, I was ten years old again, balking at chowing down on an edible insect. “Yes,” I said, kicking my toe into the nearest snowbank like a spoiled child.

  My aunt raised her eyebrows.

  “Sorry.” I lowered my foot to the ground. “Yes. I will believe in myself.”

  “That’s better.” Without warning, she jabbed her fist into my upper arm.

  “Ow,” I exclaimed, rubbing the smarting area. “What did you do that for?”

  “You need to keep up your training. I didn’t want to admit it in front of Gideon, but you were a little slow.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Also, I meant to tell you—Gideon and I will be out of town for a while. A week or two. Maybe more. We’re leaving tomorrow.”

  My stomach did a flip-flop. “Why? You told me—”

  “It’s not work. Honestly. We’re taking a vacation.”

  “Why don’t I believe you?”

  Aunt Adeline winked. “Because, like I always say—you take after your mother. You’re a cynic.”

  Boomer and I walked on alone to Rose Cottage, approaching through the cedars in the rear. A black pickup was parked in the driveway, and smoke was coming out of the fireplace chimney. My pace quickened. Jeff was back.

  When I reached the porch, the phone in my pocket beeped. I pulled it out for a closer look. I’d set the online restaurant review site to notify me of any new postings about Emy’s vegan takeout. With growing indignation, I read:

  Vegan? No way. Clear signs of butter. Uncultured, too.

  This was too much. I texted the review to Lorne.

  We’ll get them, he texted back.

  Followed seconds later by, Do not tell E.

  Inside, I barely had time to shuck off my parka before Jeff gripped me in a bear hug and whirled me about the room. He settled me back on the floor for a lingering kiss.

  “What was that all about?” I asked later, still breathless.

  “Nothing. Just glad to see you.”

  As usual, I melted. “You’re adorable.”

  “I am, aren’t I?”

  Grinning, I gave his arm a backhanded tap. “How come you’re back this early? You said the conference didn’t wrap up until tonight.”

  Boomer pawed at Jeff’s leg, and he bent to rub the terrier’s ear. “It was supposed to, but with an ice storm on the way, the organizers decided to end early. I’m headed into the station, but I wanted to check on you first.”

  “We’re fine, as you can see.”

  “I also wanted to remind you about our lesson. Couples’ curling, remember?

  “Yikes. Is that tonight?”

  He checked his watch with a grin. “Yes, it is.” His expression turned serious. “Have you changed your mind?”

  Our search for a fun sport we could share had been fruitless so far. During summers as a teenager working on his grandfather’s farm, Jeff developed an interest in horticulture. But our shared love of gardening was no use in the winter. Hence—curling.

  However, his prior attempt to teach me another sport that featured heavy objects had ended badly.

  “I haven’t changed my mind. It’s only… remember my bowling lesson?”

  He winced. “How could I forget? Thing is, in curling, you don’t pick up the stones. They stay on the ice. And if you don’t pick them up—you can’t drop them.” His eyebrows arched.

  Now it was my turn to grimace. “That was one time. Are you never going to let me forget it? It wasn’t my fault. I never claimed to know anything about bowling.” I worried my lip between my teeth while I studied him. “Besides, you got over that bruised foot in no time. You said it was ‘nothing’.”

  “I lied. It hurt like heck.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You can’t tell the woman you’re wooing that she just cracked a bone in your foot. It’s not—macho.”

  I placed my hands on my hips. “You’re exaggerating. It wasn’t that bad.”

  “The guys at the station called me ‘Hopalong’ for weeks.”

  I doubted that, but decided to drop it. “All right. Curling it is. As long as nobody gets hurt.”

  “Well.” He dropped his gaze.

  “Stop looking at your foot.”

  “I was only thinking—curlers sometimes slip and fall on the ice. Especially beginners.”

  “Oh. You were worried about me. That’s sweet.”

  Jeff gave me one of those looks that implied he always worried about me before sweeping me back into his arms. “Wish I could stay,” he whispered, lowering his face to mine.

  Several minutes later, I reluctantly pushed him away. “One of us needs to keep their job,” I said, tugging at my sweater. “Also, I want your advice.”

  Jeff leaned against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed. “All ears.”

  I recited my reservations about Oskar York’s death, based on what I’d learned from Henri Vartan. “Turns out Oskar had money. Quite a lot, even.”

  Jeff was not convinced. “Did Henri ask Oskar for this money?”

  “He didn’t have a chance. But he intended to. And if Noah Butterfield told him that Oskar had enough money to foot the bill for the new gallery, don’t you think it’s worth checking out?”

  “No.”

  “No? What do you mean—no?”

  Jeff uncrossed his arms. “Verity, this case of yours—the mysterious wallet Henri found?”

  “Yes.” I eyed him suspiciously. “What about it?”

  “Did Henri tell you he turned it in at the police station?”

  “Yes. And they gave it back to him later.”

  He frowned. “I asked around. Nobody remembers Henri Vartan coming in with a wallet. And there’s no paperwork on it in the files.”

  “But that must be a mistake,” I blustered. “He was so particular about it—what was in it, what the police said to him when he got it back. Everything.”

  “I’m only telling you what I know.”

  “Why would Henri lie?” Emphatically, I added, “They lost the paperwork, I bet. Maybe they didn’t even fill it out, since nothing was stolen.”

  “Maybe, but I think the most likely explanation is that Henri made it up.”

  “But why would he—”

  Jeff held up a hand. “I wouldn’t put too much stock in what Henri Var
tan tells you.”

  Slumping onto the nearest chair while Jeff admired the stuffed toy Boomer had presented him with, I mulled over this development. Henri had been so adamant, his story so detailed. Jeff must be mistaken. At the very least, it was worth another trip to Noah Butterfield’s office. If the Leafy Hollow police detachment didn’t want to follow up on this, there was nothing stopping me from asking a few questions. I couldn’t be accused of stepping on toes if there were none to step on.

  A tap on my own toes caused me to glance down.

  Boomer tapped again. Then he jumped into my lap.

  “Do you want me to try the shelter again?” Jeff asked.

  “We don’t need to do that, do we?” I crooned at the little terrier. “We can keep the widdle pup a few more days.”

  Jeff rolled his eyes.

  “By the way, where’s the General?” I asked.

  “Last time I saw him, he was on your bed, sulking.”

  “Did you give him any liver treats?”

  “A whole handful.”

  “That mean ol’ kitty will have to get over it. Won’t he, Boo-Boo?”

  Boomer licked my face.

  “I gotta get back to work,” Jeff said, shaking his head as he headed for the door. “Pick you up later for curling?”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  Once the door shut behind Jeff, I put Boomer on the floor. “Let’s find your leash, buddy. This seems like a good time to continue our walk.”

  And if that walk should happen to take us past Oskar York’s empty house for a little reconnoitering, so much the better.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The morning’s scattered snowflakes had turned wet and slushy, but that didn’t mean the weather forecasters were right. It could blow over, I thought, scrutinizing the darkening horizon. No need to be all cynical about it.

  Boomer enthusiastically scrambled into my truck for our hasty trip to the conservation area. I assumed he wouldn’t mind a detour past his old home.

  After driving down Lilac Lane, I turned onto the narrow, slippery road that ran for two miles alongside the conservation area. For half that distance, the road hugged the partially frozen river. Ice thickened the water’s edge, but the surging stream in the middle was visible.

  Within minutes, I was on the two-lane road that zigzagged down the Escarpment. It was plowed and salted and the way was clear.

  In the village, I pulled up near Oskar York’s house. I parked half a block away because vehicles jammed Oskar’s driveway and the street on either side. The front door was wide open.

  Two men in coveralls, work boots, and face masks walked out carrying boxes. They loaded them into a moving van parked in the driveway. I watched as they made multiple trips. This was hardly the deserted site I’d hoped for.

  Making up my mind, I reached for the door handle.

  Boomer planted both front feet on the dash, intently watching the work crew.

  “Sorry, fella. This must be hard for you.” I rubbed his back consolingly. “You curl up in that blanket, and I’ll be right back. If I see any dog toys, I’ll grab ‘em for you.”

  When I got out and closed the driver’s door, Boomer objected.

  Arf-arf-arf-arf-arf-arf…

  I tapped on the window. “No, no, no. Don’t do that. Shh.”

  Arf-arf-arf-arf-arf-arf…

  “No. Shh. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Boomer shot me a fleeting glance before lifting his muzzle to resume his tirade.

  Arf-arf-arf-arf-arf-arf…

  I threw up both hands, giving up and hurrying away. At York’s open front door, I hesitated. What would I say if the work crews demanded to know what I was doing? I perked up as an excuse came to me—looking for Boomer’s toys. I glanced at the truck. Even from half a block away, the terrier’s barks were ear-splitting. These guys would happily hand over anything I wanted, just to get rid of us.

  In the end, no one even spared me a glance. Methodically, the men gathered up yellowing newspapers, cracked china figurines, and ancient kitchen utensils, then shoved them into garbage bags and boxes.

  While I watched, they started on a room at the front of the house. Stacks of typewritten sheets and worn, leather-bound books spilled from a huge roll-top desk. All of it was going into cardboard boxes.

  “You’re not throwing that stuff out, are you?”

  A beefy man who was bent over with a sheaf of papers clutched in his work-gloved hand stopped, eyeing me. “Who are you?”

  “A friend. I’m looking for the—dog stuff.”

  He shrugged, uninterested. “Our orders are to bag everything. It’s going to one of those storage places.”

  “But those documents might be important.”

  He shoved the papers into a garbage bag, then bent to scoop up more. “Not our problem.”

  “Can you tell me who hired you?”

  He shrugged again. “Don’t know. Check with that lawyer.”

  “Wilf Mullins?” I asked, citing the village’s favorite councilor and go-to attorney. He was also my lawyer, as it happened.

  “Yeah. That’s the one.”

  I appealed to the second workman, who was about to step through the front door to pitch another two bags into the van.

  “You might be destroying evidence.”

  “Evidence of what?” His lip curled. “That this guy was a slob?” He brushed past me on his way to the bin.

  I stood, fixed to the spot, watching him go.

  “Excuse me.” A heavy hand pushed me to one side, and a third man edged past with three more bags.

  Helplessly, I surveyed the mess, thinking this was a cavalier way to dispose of a man’s life. Once Oskar’s belongings were packed away in a storage unit, they might be there forever.

  Or until the rent ran out, when they would go to the nearest landfill.

  Through the kitchen doorway, I saw another blue-suited figure at work. But there was no noise from upstairs. They hadn’t reached that far yet. I had time to take a look around.

  I sprinted up the steps, two at a time. At the top, I ducked into each room in turn—or as far as I could before hitting stacked furniture and clustered boxes. While the first floor smelled fresh, thanks to the frigid air rushing in through the open door, the second was musty. I picked out the odors of well-used footwear, wet dog, and crumbling cardboard.

  And something else, which I decided not to probe too closely.

  A small room at the front, overlooking the street, was more promising. Two chairs and a side table were arranged into a seating area. The boxes and crates that lined this room were low enough that the photos and artwork covering the walls were visible.

  Slowly circling the room, I scanned the pictures—pen-and-ink drawings covered with glass, small oils in ornate frames, old photos with captions handwritten in white ink, advertisements torn from flyers. It was an eclectic collection, but included nothing valuable as far as I could tell. Many of the drawings appeared to have been made by children.

  A group photo caught my eye. I unhooked it from its nail to take it down for a closer inspection. Holding it up to the dirt-encrusted window, I scanned the faces to see if I’d been correct. Yes. The tall, thin man in the back row was definitely Oskar York. Much younger, but recognizable as the man I’d seen in the village. His wild, white hair was mahogany brown and carefully combed, and he was a hundred pounds lighter—but it was him.

  There were dozens of children in the photo, and other adults. Two women were dressed in nurses’ uniforms. The entire group stood in front of a huge house, possibly an institution. Was this the school Aunt Adeline mentioned?

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and I ducked my head out the door to check the hall. Two workmen, carrying a sheaf of empty garbage bags, tromped into a room at the back.

  Quickly, I flipped the picture over and pried off the back of the frame—scratching a finger in the process. Cursing, I slipped out the photo and replaced the empty frame on the wall. I regarded it f
or a moment, sucking blood from my finger, wondering if the removal crew would notice this frame was empty. Then, after snatching the frame off the wall, I guiltily tossed it into the nearest box.

  With the photo hidden under my parka, I trotted downstairs.

  The workman I’d spoken to stopped what he was doing to glance up. “Find what you were looking for?”

  “Not really.” I forced a laugh. “Hard to find anything in this mess.”

  He joined in my mirth—“Tell me about it”—then resumed his work.

  Back in the truck, Boomer stopped barking long enough to greet me enthusiastically. After licking my face, he clapped his front paws on the dash, staring ahead as if to say, “Let’s go.” I sensed the little terrier was not burdened by nostalgia.

  I started the engine to get the heat flowing before tugging the photo from under my parka. As I studied it again, I knew what had drawn me to it. It was similar to one of the photos in Mickey’s shoebox. I couldn’t remember if it was the same people, the same pose, or simply the same building. Maybe I was wrong, and it wasn’t the same at all. But something nagged at me, and I was anxious to compare it to the pictures at home.

  As I drove up the Escarpment road, thinking it over, my suspicion mounted.

  Mickey gave me those photos.

  Mickey was a dog walker. He might have walked Oskar’s dog. Meaning—that shoebox of photos could have come from Oskar’s house.

  What was it Henri Vartan said about Mickey? That he was a two-bit crook.

  But Jeff said, I wouldn’t put too much stock in what Henri Vartan tells you.

  It was a conundrum, all right.

  One thing was certain. Someone authorized a cleanup of Oskar’s house. Since he had no apparent relatives, there was no one to complain. But what if the police decided to take a closer look at Oskar’s death? With all his odds and ends gone, there’d be nothing to see.

  Which left the question—who ordered the cleanup?

  Noah Butterfield was the obvious person to ask. Jeff might be right that Henri was unreliable, but I’d seen Oskar walk out of the investment adviser’s office myself.

  That left the problem of how to get past Rebecca Butterfield.

  Aunt Adeline could have introduced me to Noah. She knew everybody in the village—and where all the bodies were buried. Normally that was a figure of speech, but in her case, it was probably true. Unfortunately, she and Gideon were taking a vacation. No help there.