by Rickie Blair
“For what purpose?”
“The contest was supposed to stir up interest in our gallery opening. It was meant to get people curious, and talking, and trying to solve the clues, and then—” He shrugged. “We planned to reveal our opening show.”
“It was a publicity stunt?” I asked, aghast.
“That’s putting it a little coarsely. It was clever, we thought. Ingenious, really. Zuly, show Verity the poster.”
Zuly plucked a roll of paper from the floor, held it at arm’s length, and let it unfurl. The crossword puzzle—with all the answers filled in—ran at an angle across the top of the bright blue sheet. Seven answers were circled in red:
Us. Park. April. Ten. Killers. Gallery. Amongst.
Across the bottom, those circled words were repeated, but in a different order.
Killers Amongst Us
Park Gallery
April 10
My jaw dropped. The crossword was nothing more than an advertisement for the gallery’s opening show.
I sank into the nearest chair, staring at the poster in Zuly’s hands, trying to understand the connection between this guerrilla marketing campaign and a dead dog walker.
I cleared my throat. “How was Mickey involved?”
“He wasn’t, really,” Henri said. “We came up with this idea to plant clues in discarded wallets, because who can resist picking up a lost wallet? And that meant we needed a lot of wallets. Since Mickey’s always been good at sourcing stuff, we decided—”
“You asked Mickey Doig to steal wallets for you?” The note of surprise in my voice was genuine. “That’s outrageous.”
“No,” Zuly said, rolling up the poster and dropping it on the floor beside her chair. “We didn’t ask him to steal anything. How were we to know—”
“Your fearless leader here”—I pointed to Henri, my voice rising—“told me Mickey was a thief. You must have suspected what he was up to.”
“We paid him for the wallets,” Irma added helpfully.
I had no answer to that. While swiveling my gaze between them, the penny dropped. “You started the million-dollar prize rumor, didn’t you?”
Miserably, Henri twisted his hands together. “It seemed like a good move. We didn’t know people would take it so… seriously.”
“What was the theme of this show?”
“Famous murderers in history,” Irma said, looking pleased. “We did paintings and mixed media depicting notorious killers.”
I pointed to a covered canvas on a nearby pedestal. “Is that one of them?”
Irma perked up. “It’s mine. Would you like to see it?”
“Please.”
Irma rose to flick a cloth off the painting. A horrific, distended face with reddened, staring eyes and disheveled hair glared from the black background. Six women’s faces—several wearing ringlets and bonnets common to the Victorian era—were arranged in a semi-circle at the bottom.
“Is that Jack the Ripper and his victims?”
“Yes.” Irma’s delight that I’d readily identified her subject lit up her face. “Is it creepy enough, do you think?”
I regarded the crusty bloodstains, where it looked as if the paint had been applied with a putty knife. “It’s creepy, all right. Could you—cover it, please?”
“Sure. We have to keep it under wraps until the show, anyway.” Irma whisked the cloth back over her picture. “You won’t tell anyone, will you? About the paintings, I mean?”
Shivering briefly, I turned away from the canvas. “You can count on me to keep that under wraps. But why did you pick famous murderers as your theme? It’s so gruesome.”
“Verity, you’re behind the times,” Zuly said. “Horror movies and true-crime shows are all the rage. Don’t you ever watch Netflix?”
“Or go to the theater, for that matter,” Irma mused. “And there are books. Best sellers.”
“That’s right,” Zuly said. “Gore is everywhere. We simply took advantage of the zeitgeist.”
“The zeitgeist? Really?” I think I could be forgiven for once if my tone was cynical. The top-selling paintings at local galleries up to then had been muted street scenes and pastel watercolors. Killers Amongst Us seemed a radical departure.
A horrible notion hit me. “By zeitgeist, do you mean Leafy Hollow’s own history? Like the Black Widow case? She’s not one of your portraits, is she?”
Henri and Irma exchanged glances, then Henri gave an apologetic shrug. “It did seem too good to pass up.”
Slumping back into the chair, I lowered my head into my hands.
“We didn’t mean any harm, Verity. We were only trying to scare up publicity for the show—and the gallery,” Irma said.
I peeked out from under my hands. “But didn’t you realize people might take this the wrong way?
Her eyes were wide. “It never occurred to us people would think it was real. That they’d actually believe there were killers loose in the village.”
Given Leafy Hollow’s recent past, I thought this was disingenuous, but decided to let it pass.
“And since there is a killer…” Irma swallowed, glancing nervously around. “We hope our little contest didn’t make matters worse. What if we gave him ideas?”
She looked so contrite I couldn’t help lowering my hands to blurt out, “I’m sure that’s not the case.” I wasn’t sure, not at all, but it seemed much too late to mention my misgivings. “Shouldn’t you take this to the police?”
“Oh, no,” Zuly said. “We can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“They might think we know something about Oskar York’s murder. If it is murder.”
Irma gave Zuly’s arm a reassuring pat. “Verity, if you think it will help, we’ll go public about our marketing campaign.”
“I think you should. But there’s something I don’t understand. Why did you include the names of two village residents among the crossword answers? Didn’t you stop to think that might make them objects of suspicion? And even without Mickey’s death, it seems odd to include clues pointing to Noah Butterfield and Rick Armstrong.”
Zuly sucked in a breath. Irma nibbled her cuticle again. Henri sat dully, his mouth hanging open. Matisse rolled over onto his back, hoping for a tummy rub.
“Well?” I asked.
They shook their heads in unison.
“We have no idea where those clues came from,” Henri said. “We didn’t write them.”
“What do you mean?”
“Someone else added those clues to our puzzle. It wasn’t us.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Just explain it to me,” I said. “How could a stranger change the answers on your puzzle?”
Zuly retrieved the rolled-up poster, then spread it out on the floor. “They didn’t. This poster shows our original answers. See?” She pointed to four down. “The original clue was, ‘When winter is dead,’ and the answer was supposed to be ‘SPRING.’ Not ‘STRONG.’”
“And the clue for two down,” Zuly continued, “was supposed to be, ‘It enriches our lives.’ The answer was ART. Not ARM.”
I studied the artists’ poster. “How could that happen?”
“I told you. We have no idea.”
“And ‘BUTTER?”
“Should have been ‘BITTER.’ We only added those extra clues as filler. That way, the players wouldn’t figure out our real message right away.”
“That message being the name and date of your show?”
Zuly and Irma nodded miserably.
“We wanted to keep the contest going until everyone was talking about it,” Irma said. “You have to understand, Verity, it’s not easy to make a living as an artist. We’re always struggling. Especially Zuly. Her work deserves a wider audience.”
“Your artworks are striking,” I said. “I hope you sell lots of them. But you misled the entire village. I don’t think this guerrilla marketing campaign of yours will have the hoped-for result.”
That was putting i
t mildly, but as I took in their miserable expressions, I didn’t have the heart to detail the shortcomings of their “ingenious” marketing plan.
“We know,” Zuly said, sinking into a chair. Her face crumpled, tears threatening. Again.
Puffing air through my lips, I studied the original poster. No wonder Henri seemed confused at our bakery meeting when I filled in the answers from Mickey’s tattered page. That’s wrong, he’d insisted.
“So, you never intended to point suspicion at Noah Butterfield or Rick Armstrong?”
“Never. Verity, we prepared this long before Mickey died,” Irma said. “We can prove it, too. You can ask the company that printed the posters for us.” She pointed to a printer’s cardboard box in a corner of the room. “We have several hundred, right there. All useless, now.”
“And not paid for, either,” Henri morosely added, wringing his hands. “Verity, could you talk to Jeff for us? Explain we didn’t mean any harm?”
Why did everyone in the village think I had special influence with the police? Jeff was already touchy about the possibility of anyone suspecting he gave his girlfriend favorable treatment. I could only imagine the speeding ticket I’d get if I ever relaxed my guard and actually drove a little too quickly through the village. He’d probably ask the traffic cop to bump it up a few notches.
“You’ll have to talk to Jeff yourself. But there is a way to mitigate the damage.”
All three clustered around, their stares drilling in to me.
“Mickey was given the list before he died, so I think whoever added those alternative clues wanted to shed light on an earlier death—Oskar’s.”
“But Oskar’s death was an accident,” Irma said.
“I’m not so sure. Those magazines had been stacked in his kitchen for decades. What made them suddenly topple over?”
“Maybe Oskar tripped and fell against them,” Henri said.
“If he’d done that, he would have landed on top of the magazines, not under them.”
Henri winced. “I take your point.”
“I think somebody pushed them over on purpose.”
“Why would someone kill Oskar?” Zuly asked. “He was harmless.”
“Maybe not to everyone. We simply don’t know enough about him.”
“But if someone suspected Rick or Noah was a killer, why didn’t they go to the police?”
“They might have feared what would happen if they turned in a potential killer. Don’t forget—there’s no evidence Oskar’s death was murder. Going to the police with a vague accusation wouldn’t have led to an arrest. But the police might have dragged the accused down to the station for questioning. I wouldn’t want to be the person who caused that, would you?”
Zuly shuddered. “No.”
“So, they reported it anonymously by taking advantage of your marketing scheme. It’s a roundabout method, but feasible. With everybody talking about your crossword puzzle, it would guarantee attention for their claim.”
“See!” Zuly said triumphantly, bumping a fist into Henri’s shoulder. “I told you the contest was a good idea.”
At the look on my face, she winced. “Sorry.”
“But how would they know about it?” Henri asked.
“That’s the question. Who knew about your marketing campaign? Did you tell anyone?”
“We knew, naturally. So, there’s the three of us,” Irma said, counting on her fingers. “And Mickey—we had to take him into our confidence to get the wallets, but we never showed him the puzzle.”
“Or the posters,” Henri added.
“Did Mickey ask why you needed the wallets?”
“Several times. He was very curious. But we were adamant.”
“What about the printers?” I asked. “How many people there handled your poster?”
“Oh, we asked them not to tell anybody. We were quite firm about that. I’m sure they wouldn’t betray our confidence.”
“Yes, but—how many people knew? They didn’t print your posters in the dead of night, did they? Couldn’t someone else have seen it?”
Irma grimaced. “It’s a tiny company. Three people at best. And the receptionist. Four in all.”
For a hush-hush marketing campaign, these guerrillas had been anything but discreet. The field of potential wrongdoers was widening, which was not a good thing.
“That means at least eight people knew about your secret contest. Not to mention customers who might have wandered into the printer’s and potentially caught a glimpse of those posters. Any one of those people could have devised alternative clues and answers.”
Scanning the circle of faces, I said, “Which brings me back to my original question—why those two names in particular? Let’s start with the Butterfields—Noah and Rebecca. What was their connection to Oskar York?”
Henri grimaced. “Ah. Noah Butterfield. There’s a suspicious character. Something is definitely fishy with him.”
“It was Noah who suggested you approach Oskar for the funds you needed for the opening show, wasn’t it?”
Zuly looked surprised. “He did? Why didn’t you tell us, Henri?”
“Because there was no point. I didn’t have a chance to ask him before—Oskar-gate,” he said, muttering the last words.
Irma dug a finger into his shoulder. “Why did we need more money? You said everything was fine. What about that government grant you told us about?”
He winced. “We didn’t qualify.”
“Are you saying we can’t afford it? That the show is off?” Zuly took a step toward Henri.
“Can we get back to the topic at hand?” I asked, holding up my palm to stop her. “I know you’re concerned about the show, and I don’t blame you—but two people are dead.”
“Sorry, Verity. Continue.”
“Henri, why do you think something’s up with Noah?”
“He knew Oskar had money, for one thing.”
“And?”
“Isn’t that suspicious enough?”
“No. Noah’s an investment manager. He might have advised Oskar on his portfolio.”
Irma snorted. “What portfolio? That old man lived in a pigsty. Surely, if he had money, he would have cleaned up that house.”
“Not necessarily,” I said. “Hoarding is a mental health issue. He may not have been able to stop.” I regarded Irma intently. “You delivered meals to him. Did you see him often?”
“No. Only the once. He wasn’t one of my regulars. I filled in that day for someone else.”
“Who?”
“Sorry, can’t remember. It was months ago.” She wrinkled her brow, trying to think. “I can’t even recall what was on the menu.”
“Something easy to chew, no doubt,” Henri offered drily.
Zuly snickered.
“But—” Irma wagged a finger at me. “You’ll never guess who I saw coming out of Oskar’s house that day.”
“Noah Butterfield?”
“Right in one.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“No. I don’t think he even saw me. He walked out of the house carrying a briefcase, got into his car, and drove away before I had time to undo my seatbelt.” She shrugged. “I didn’t think anything of it, back then. It wasn’t any of my business.”
“Did you see any photos while you were in Oskar’s home?”
“There was a lot of stuff on the walls. Is that what you mean?”
“I’m thinking more, like, shoeboxes full of pictures. Or photo albums? Anything like that?”
Irma shrugged. “Honestly, I just delivered the food and left. Many of our clients love to talk—they’re lonely, and it’s the highlight of their day. But Oskar wasn’t like that. He wouldn’t let me come in the house at all, really. Not any farther than the front hall. And that had so much junk in it, you couldn’t see much else.”
I turned to Zuly. “Did you have any contact with Oskar?”
“Never met the man. Sorry.”
Henri stood up, stretching his bac
k. “We have to finish cleaning up, Verity. Is there anything else?”
“No. Except—you’ll tell Jeff about your marketing campaign, right?”
“Definitely.”
At the door, I turned around. “I do have one other question. Have any of you ever heard rumors that Oskar kept a lot of cash hidden in his house?”
Henri chuckled. “That’s a story the kids liked to tell. Like a local haunted house. That tale was especially popular at Halloween. Nobody actually believed it.”
Henri’s home—sorry, The Park Gallery—was only a few blocks from Noah Butterfield’s investment office, so I made that my next visit. Even though Rebecca refused to confirm Oskar was a client, if Noah had visited him with a briefcase, it seemed likely. And I still wanted to know who gave the order to clear out Oskar’s house and put his belongings in storage. In my horror at finding Mickey’s body, I’d completely forgotten to call Wilf Mullins, the lawyer. Noah was the next best thing. Particularly since I was more convinced than ever that he was involved.
I circled the block twice before a parking space opened. Main Street had been cleared, but piles of grimy snow clogged the end of each block. Turning off the engine, I glanced up to see the Butterfield’s office door open and Rebecca step out. Perfect. I wouldn’t need an excuse to talk to Noah. I could walk right into his office without interference from his wife.
Rebecca glanced up both sides of the street before running a hand down her throat and smiling. Either she enjoyed a hard, sleeting rain or she was looking forward to her next appointment. She shot a furtive glance over her shoulder at the office door before setting off down the block.
At least, her glance seemed furtive to me. But then, I was notorious for cynicism, apparently.
Once Rebecca was far enough away, I got out of the truck. I’d no sooner flipped up my parka hood and made it to the sidewalk than the office door opened again. This time, Noah Butterfield stepped out. He was bareheaded, and the edges of his unbuttoned camel coat flapped in the wind. Not only that, but despite the slush underfoot, he wore no galoshes. His Italian leather loafers were in for a surprise.