by Rickie Blair
Navigating the conservation trail was nothing compared to traversing a snow-covered field. Frozen furrows threatened to trip me on every step. Melted ice trickled under the edges of my hood. I was damp, inside and out.
Boomer raced on.
Finally, I halted, exhausted, wiping sleet off my face with a sodden glove. It did not help. If anything, my face was wetter than before. And if my nose got any colder, it was definitely going to fall off.
Worst of all, I couldn’t see Boomer through the thickening snowflakes.
Then I heard him bark.
Arf-arf-arf-arf-arf-arf…
I headed in the direction of the sound. Before long, his little form loomed out of the fog. He sat placidly, regarding me with his head tilted.
“Don’t ever do that again.”
Boomer whirled around and trotted off again.
“Oh, come on,” I groaned. “Are you kidding me?”
This time, he went only a few feet before stopping to glance back. I followed.
I caught up to find him perched on the edge of a ravine, his tail wagging despite the miserable weather. Drops of water flew off his muzzle as he pawed at the ground.
Behind him, huddled on the floor of the windswept gully, were four dogs—a beagle, a silver-gray poodle with a scrap of patterned wool in its jaws, a black lab, and a border collie nuzzling them all to stay together.
On our way back to the parking lot, I retrieved the torn fabric from the poodle’s mouth. It looked like the remains of a hat. I tucked it into the pocket of my parka.
“Cranberry!” shrieked a woman’s voice.
The dog owners—who had been joined by two dozen other people in the fifteen minutes we’d been gone—were ecstatic when they saw our group scampering across the field. People whipped out their cell phones. Before long, Boomer and I were social media heroes.
After a round of high-fives, human-canine reunions, and heartfelt thank-you’s, I packed Boomer into the truck and promised him meatloaf.
Jeff had been leaning against his cruiser, legs crossed, watching the scene with bemusement. “Thanks,” he said after I closed the door on the terrier and walked toward him. “You saved the day. You saved me a lot of aggravation, too.”
“Oh, come on. I know you were worried about those dogs.”
“They’re back. So that’s good.”
“And Mickey?”
“Headed for the morgue.” Jeff frowned. “Coroner’s doing a full autopsy.”
“Does that mean he’s suspicious, too?”
Jeff gave me an enigmatic look. “You and Boomer must be worn out. And your clothes are sopping wet. Better head home. I’m afraid couples’ curling is off for tonight.” He straightened up, pushing off from the cruiser.
“Before I do that,” I said, pulling the gnawed wool fabric from my pocket and holding it out to him. “Look at this.”
Jeff gave it a curious look. “What’s that?”
“It’s a hat, I think. The poodle had it. Must have found it in the field.”
“So?”
“Don’t you think that’s suspicious? It could be Mickey’s.”
“It could be anybody’s.”
“Yes, but if it is Mickey’s—why would he let a dog run off with his hat?”
I could tell Jeff was trying not to laugh. “Are you suggesting that poodle is the killer?”
Maybe because I was tired and wet, and cold to the bone, his joke didn’t strike me as funny. Sudden tears stung the back of my eyes. Twisting the fabric between my fingers and staring at the ground, I said, “That’s ridiculous.”
“Verity.” Jeff drew me toward him. “I was only kidding.” He tucked a finger under my chin, gently raising my face to his. “I shouldn’t make jokes. Finding Mickey’s body was a shock for you. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Sniffing, I rubbed a damp glove across my nose. “Besides, I’m pretty sure it was the beagle that did it.”
Jeff smiled. Then he motioned toward the constable by the entrance. “Leave that thing with Fred on your way home. I doubt it has anything to do with Mickey Doig, but the forensics guys can take a look at it later.”
At Rose Cottage, I peeled off my boots, parka, and gloves, then dropped them on the floor, too tired to hang them up.
“Shower,” I said to Boomer, pointing to the bathroom. That filthy little animal was way past his best-before date. The fact he was soaking wet made for a smell in the cottage that was truly overwhelming. Whatever it took, Boomer was having a bath.
Surprisingly, he didn’t complain when I carried him into the bathroom. He was too tired.
Once I’d stripped off my clothes, I soaped the little dog and held him under a blast of warm water. When we emerged from the shower—red-faced, squeaky clean, and smelling of lavender—the bathroom mirror was steamed up and the floor soon ankle-deep in damp towels.
Boomer shook himself, drenching any portion of the room that wasn’t already soaked.
Later, padding about the kitchen in my favorite drop-drawered flannel sleepsuit, I heated up leftover pizza. “I hope you like pepperoni, Boomer. I’m too exhausted to make meatloaf.”
We polished it off in front of a roaring fire. Then Boomer curled up on the sofa, nestled in the last remaining dry towel. I huddled under a fleece throw, mulling things over. Two suspicious deaths in the same week, in the same village? There had to be a connection, I thought, munching on stale chocolate biscuits I’d found in the back of a cupboard.
After the cookies were gone, I got to my feet, remembering my parka, still lying on the floor. While I was hanging it up, I gasped as a sudden recollection hit me. I’d forgotten to drop off the battered hat on my way out of the conservation area. I bit my lip. Well. Since it was here…
Retrieving it from my parka pocket, I took it to the sofa for a closer look. It did look a bit like Mickey’s. His hat had been in one piece when I last saw it, so it was hard to tell. This one was nearly torn in two and missing its earflaps. Given Jeff’s lack of interest, I didn’t think it was worth getting dressed again to take it down to the station. I could give it to him later.
Parts of the hat felt strangely thick under my fingers. Turning it inside out, I found a hand-stitched felt pocket with a sheet of paper in it. Like the hat, the paper was ripped and torn.
Smoothing the pieces out on the coffee table revealed them as parts of a crossword puzzle. I noted with surprise that the clues resembled the ones posted on Shanice’s bulletin board at the bakery. There was a major difference, though.
On this puzzle, all the clues were filled in, including the ones that hadn’t been found yet.
Chapter Twenty
Afraid the sodden scraps of paper would tear if I kept handling them, I spread them out on the ottoman to dry in front of the fire. Then I retrieved the red shoebox from the bookcase for a closer look. My curiosity was kindled, but I’d promised not to interfere with Jeff’s probe into Mickey’s death and I didn’t intend to go back on my word. The hat and its mysterious puzzle could wait.
Looking over Mickey’s photos couldn’t hurt, though. Perhaps they would interest Henri after all. Mickey’s next of kin—if there was one—might welcome a small payment. I also wanted to confirm my hazy recollection of a photo that matched the one I took from Oskar’s house.
It didn’t take long to find it. A much younger, and thinner, Oskar York stood in front of the same—school? Hospital? Or was it just a random building? The possibilities were endless.
I flipped it over. Handwritten names on the back identified each person. None of the names, aside from Oskar’s, were familiar.
Staring at the picture, I had to admit nothing tied it to Oskar’s death. It was just one among dozens of old photos. Jeff believed Oskar’s death was an accident and I was wasting my time looking into it. I had no reason to disagree. Tucking the photo back into the shoebox, I set it aside.
But I had promised to investigate Henri’s mysterious wallet and those new crossword clues might help
. They were here. Seemed a shame to ignore them.
The scraps of paper had curled up while drying before the fire. Carefully, I slid them together until the full crossword was visible. I wrested one scrap away from the General, who had decided that batting crispy paper about was the most fun he’d had in weeks.
“And yet, you’ve never managed to catch a single mouse, even though the basement is full of them,” I scolded, getting down on my hands and knees to retrieve another piece from under the ottoman. “Why is that?”
The General meticulously licked his paw, ignoring me.
I studied the completed puzzle. If that hat was Mickey’s—and I had no way to tell—how did he find all the clues when the rest of the village was searching every snowbank and trash bin without success? What did he plan to do with them? Wait until the puzzle was nearly solved, and then swoop in with the last answer to claim the prize?
Assuming there was a prize. I had my doubts about that.
My next thought gave me a chill. What if this puzzle was the reason Mickey died? What if someone knew he had the answers, and killed him to get them?
Wow. Like Mickey would say—so harsh.
And now, those clues were mine. I rubbed my throat as a wave of anxiety swept over me. Was I in danger, too, since I had this list? I reached for my cell phone, intending to call Jeff.
By my side, Boomer stretched in his towel, eyes closed, and settled back in with a muffled woof. Outside, the low moan of the wind was the only sound. A log snapped in the fireplace, splintering in a shower of sparks.
I drew back my hand from the phone, realizing I was letting my anxiety get the better of me. Even if this was Mickey’s hat, no one knew I had it. Or about the list inside.
Besides, these clues proved the puzzle contest was a fraud. The thing to do was to go public so nobody else would be drawn into this ridiculous quest for riches. Safety in numbers, isn’t that what Sherlock Holmes always said? Or was that Harry Potter?
I pulled over my laptop and typed a group email to everyone whose name I’d copied from the bulletin board in the library.
Meet me at the 5X Bakery at ten AM for an important update about the crossword puzzle contest. I paused, reviewing my note, then added, It will be worth your while. Hands hovering over the keys, I pondered ways to make the invitation more enticing. Finally I decided to add, Free cookies.
After copying it to Emy with a plea to provide the “free cookies,” I hit send.
Then I went to bed, confident the next day would bring answers.
Shanice, almost beside herself with excitement, had lined up the bakery’s new chairs to form rows facing the easel, which sported a fresh piece of construction paper. Shiny new felt-tip pens waited nearby. The bakery’s tiny coat rack was overflowing, condensation misted the windows, and a low hum of conversation filled the room.
From behind the glass counter, Emy tilted her head, mouthing at me to, Start already.
Normally, I’d be too anxious to address a roomful of people, but today I felt up to the challenge. Maybe it was the laser pointer I held in my hand that gave me an air of unexpected authority. Boldly, I strode to the front. After taking a deep breath, I began.
“I have news about the contest. But first, let’s review. We have six answers so far—Us, Field, Ten, April, Amongst, and Park.”
I motioned to Shanice, who flipped over the board to display an enlarged crossword. It was several times bigger than the puzzle in the library. Which made it fully visible even in the back row, where Rebecca Butterfield sat beside an empty chair. I assumed her husband, Noah, was still out of town—until reclusive artist Irma O’Kay tried to sit there.
“Saved,” Rebecca blurted, plunking her designer tote bag onto the empty seat. Irma tossed her an irritated glance before moving up one row to sit beside fellow artists Zuly and Henri.
Henri was slumped over, holding his head. “Can we get on with it?” he muttered.
“We will. But before we start…” I glanced around at the assembled group. “Did all of you find a discarded wallet?”
Everyone in the room nodded.
“Did any of you try to find the original owner? Other than Henri, I mean?”
Several in the group exchanged puzzled glances.
“How would we do that, exactly?” Rebecca asked.
“Social media. Obviously,” gushed a young woman with dyed green hair, multiple piercings, and heavy black eyeliner. This must be Gloria, the part-time clerk from Lucky Lentil. “You can find anybody that way. I use it all the time.”
“Seriously?” Rebecca leaned back with a puff of exasperation. “You’d look a stranger up on the Internet? How would you know if it was the right ‘John Smith,’ or just somebody with the same name? Listen, don’t get me wrong—I’m perfectly willing to take a lost wallet to the owner’s home.” She paused, frowning. “Depending how far away it was. I mean, I’m not driving all the way to Strathcona just because somebody can’t keep track of their belongings. Okay. Fine. But what if there’s no money in the wallet? You’re setting yourself as the obvious suspect. What’s to stop the owner from accusing you of taking the cash?”
There was a general murmur of agreement.
“That could happen,” offered a young man in the second row—Willy Wilkes, who had introduced himself before the meeting as a friend of Mickey’s. He tossed his long, stringy hair in a gesture reminiscent of a heavy-metal rocker. Or My Little Pony.
Gloria’s snort of laughter cut through the gray mood. “Don’t be silly. Nobody would do that. You’re looking at it entirely wrong, Rebecca.”
Rebecca tossed her a look of disdain. “Really?”
“Here’s what I’d do. First, check the guy’s ID photo to see if he’s cute. If he is, call the 1-800 number on his credit card, tell them you’ve found his wallet and want to make arrangements for him to pick it up.”
The way her eyebrows arched, I knew there was more. It was dumb to ask, but I couldn’t help myself. “And then?”
“Shower, spritz a little scent, put on your slinkiest clothes—and wait by the door.” Gloria flopped back against her chair with a wide grin. “Par-tay!”
Rebecca stared at her, mouth agape. Beside the easel, Shanice frowned.
Willy’s wrinkled brow indicated he was having trouble with this. Finally, he raised his hand. “What if it’s not a dude?”
The young man sitting beside Willy guffawed so loudly Emy dropped one of the shortbreads she was arranging on a platter.
He leaned in and whispered to Willy, who flushed red.
Then they both burst into laughter. “Cool,” Willy chortled. “Didn’t think of that.”
I placed both hands on my hips. “Could we please get back on track?”
“What about this?” blurted Willy’s friend. “Wait till no one is home at the dude’s place, then break in and leave it on his nightstand. Won’t he be surprised when he wakes up?”
High-fives between Willy and his friend. “Cool,” Willy said.
Incredulously, I stared at them. “That could backfire in many ways.”
Willy lowered his arm. “Yeah. Verity’s right,” he said in a rare burst of tactical thinking. “Mickey’s policy when finding a wallet was always ‘pay yourself first.’ Then decide if you want to keep the credit cards, too. After that, you have two choices. Either, like, put the wallet back so the owner can find it—which Mickey said was a public service.”
His friend nodded woefully. “Mickey was a great guy.” They high-fived again.
Eying Willy suspiciously, I said, “What was the second choice?”
“Call the owner and negotiate a finder’s fee.”
The room fell silent, except for the tick-tocking of the black-cat clock on the wall, and munching noises from those lucky enough to have snared a shortbread before they sat down.
“Moving on,” I said. “The rest of the clues—”
“Verity?” Hannah, our resident librarian, shyly raised one tattooed arm. “Before
we return to the crossword, may I add something to the current discussion?”
“Go ahead,” I said, albeit reluctantly.
“I think you’re approaching this in the wrong way. For instance, I found a wallet last year in the trash bin outside the library. When I phoned the owner, guess what?” Hannah swiveled her gaze around, but no one appeared willing to speculate, so she continued. “He came down to the library the next day to bring us a big box of doughnuts from Tim Horton’s.” She sat back, crossing her arms with a self-satisfied air. “Karma.”
Rebecca raised her hand in the air. “Why were you digging around in the trash?”
“That’s not the point,” the librarian said huffily.
“I think it is the point. Did you handle any library books after that?” Rebecca glanced around the room, seeking support. “It could be a public health issue.”
Hannah flipped an arm over the back of her chair, twisting around to scowl at Rebecca. “People throw away perfectly good stuff. It’s bad for the environment to send it all to landfill.”
“I think you should be more worried about the patrons of the—”
“That’s an interesting subject,” I broke in. “But can we get back to—”
Henri straightened up, making his overloaded chair creak. “You’re all missing the point. How do you know someone didn’t drop the wallet deliberately?”
Heads turned to face him. Willy frowned, obviously trying to puzzle out why anyone would give away money.
Henri poked a finger in the air for emphasis. “They put a little cash in the wallet, and a fake ID, and wait for you to call. Then, once they’re at your door—bang!” He clapped his hand on the chair in front of him, making Gloria jump. “They whack you over the head and take everything you’ve got.” Henri bit his lip. He was becoming teary. “And if you make it out alive, count yourself lucky.” The last word came out as a strangled sob. He bent over with his arms on his knees, staring at the floor.