A Branch Too Far (The Leafy Hollow Mysteries Book 3)

by Rickie Blair

  The Wicked Wallflower

  The Officer Who Wasn’t a Gentleman

  The Rogue Not Taken

  Puzzled, I looked up. “Are these bird sightings?”

  Sue leaned an arm back over her chair to slam the book shut. I yanked my finger away just in time. “Don’t mess with my journal,” she said.

  “Sorry. I’ve never heard of a Wallflower bird. Is that a local species?”

  “Quiet, please,” she said, without taking her eye from the scope.

  “Sorry,” I repeated, lowering myself into the camp chair, careful not to make a sound. Sue pointed to a spare camouflage hat, and I slipped it on. The floppy brim partially obscured my view, but at least I wouldn’t spook any wildlife.

  We sat in silence, Sue with her eye to the scope, and me watching for signs of… well, anything. A gust of wind rustled branches outside. One thumped against the roof.

  “Sue, why do you like birds so much?”

  She pursed her lips, not looking at me. Finally she said, “They don’t judge you.”

  Before I could question her further, a trill of notes from outside the blind startled me. It sounded like the call on Sue’s voice mail. “Was that the finch?” I asked brightly, angling my neck to peer out the window.

  Sue gave me a weary glance. “Tree frog.”

  Another call, sounding like chitter-chitter-dee-eeeeeee. “Is that a—”

  “Raccoon.”

  Chitter-cheep-cheep. Before I could open my mouth, Sue barked, “Red squirrel.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest. I was only trying to help.

  “Blast. A red-tailed hawk.” Sue flopped back in her chair, away from the scope. She flipped off her hat, revealing her cropped brown hair, and tossed it onto the table. “The brambling won’t come here now. I’ll have to wait for that raptor to leave.” She burbled air through her lips with a disappointed look before sitting up straight and turning to me. “Not to be rude, but—why are you here?”

  “I have something to ask you. But I’m interested in birds, too, especially bramblers. I’ve never seen one of those.”

  She gave me a pitying glance. “Bramb-ling. And of course you haven’t. They’re not native to North America. They’re Eurasian.”

  I must have looked confused, because she added, “They get blown across the Bering Strait and end up in Alaska sometimes, but only a half-dozen have ever made it this far inland. That idiot who spotted it is probably wrong. Wouldn’t be the first time. Last year, he claimed to have seen a Crested Caracara. Ridiculous.”

  She flipped open the lid of a small cooler at her feet. After plucking out a plastic bottle, she held it out to me. “Water?”

  “Thanks.” I snapped it open and took a swig, smiling at Sue. Then I put it on the floor—not the windowsill where it might topple out and scare off the brambling. The brim of my hat flopped down, and I pushed it out of my eyes.

  Sue sipped her water, studying me. “I didn’t know you were interested in birds. You’ve never mentioned it.”

  “My husband and I did a lot of hiking, so we saw plenty of birds.”

  Sue took another swig. “Such as?”

  “Well, eagles and hawks and… others. Out West, mostly. Oh, and water birds. Lots of those.” I smiled brightly.

  Sue nodded. “Sure,” she said with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm.

  I glanced around. The blind was sturdily built. It even had a small wood stove connected to a chimney pipe that led through the wall. “Do you come here in winter?”

  She nodded. “See lots of good birds in winter. At night, too.”

  “How can you tell what they are? Night goggles?”

  “I identify them by their call.”

  “Don’t birds sleep at night?” I paused. “Except for owls.”

  Sue sighed. “Plenty of birds are active at night. Common nighthawks, black-crowned night heron, woodcocks, screech owls, killdeers, Eastern whip-poor-wills. Most of the boreal forest birds migrate at night, and people who are really good can pick out their calls, no problem.”

  “Don’t they all sound pretty much the same?”

  Sue gave another sigh and sipped her water.

  “Did you build this yourself?” I gestured around me.

  “Good heavens, no. I’m not a carpenter. A guy in the village does this kind of work for me. You should come by the house. He built me a deck, over a hundred feet long, that overlooks the valley. I see a lot of good birds from there. Leafy Hollow is on a flyway.”

  I nodded, still trying to appear knowledgeable. But my confusion over what a flyway might be was superseded by curiosity about Sue’s home. It sounded like a pricey place. Again, I wondered how she could afford it. I put that out of my mind. None of my business. More importantly, I’d promised Emy that I’d check out the Peak, and this chatter—however fascinating—wasn’t helping.

  “Sue, I was hoping you could show me the back trails at Pine Hill Peak. The ones that lead to other lookouts over the valley.”

  She shot me a quick glance. “How do you know about those?”

  “Emy told me, but she’s not certain how to reach them.”

  “They’ve been closed off for years. The conservation authority wanted that area to revert to the wild. Too many hikers. They were worried the edge might give way.”

  “Are the trails passable? You don’t need a hatchet or anything, do you?”

  Sue chuckled. “We’re not in the tropics. You need boots and heavy pants, though.” She pointed at my Wellies. “Those would do. And you have to watch for hornets.”

  “Yellow jackets?”

  “No. They’re usually harmless. I mean European hornets. Larger, blacker, and with a wicked temper. And they’re active at night, so they’re hard to kill.”

  “I’ll keep an eye out. So where—”

  “You haven’t told me why you want to go there.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It does if you disturb the birds.”

  “I’m not doing anything like that. Lucy Carmichael fell from—”

  “I heard. Shame.”

  “Yes, well, some of us think it may have been intentional.”

  Sue put down her water bottle. “Suicide?”

  “No, we were thinking more like…” I raised both hands and winced.

  “That’s ridiculous.” Sue gave a snort of derision, then got to her feet. “The trail begins a few hundred feet from Rose Cottage, actually. I’ll show you where it branches off, but then you’re on your own. I’m busy this afternoon.”

  “Birding?”

  “No,” she said bluntly. “The Society for the Protection of Leafy Hollow is meeting. There have been unsavory developments in the village lately.”

  “Oh.” I’d never heard of this Society, but I quickly added, “You’re very civic-minded.”

  Sue motioned for me to start down the ladder. Following, she muttered, “Somebody has to be.”

  Our path to the Peak wound upward under a treed canopy that dimmed the sunlight to flickering shadows. My rubber boots slipped on patches of mud from the night’s rain as I followed Sue across a series of wooden footbridges.

  A small, gray-and-white body trotted behind us. General Chang had left the cushioned comfort of his front-porch rocker to accompany me—despite my efforts to shoo him away.

  Sue regarded him blackly. “You didn’t say you were bringing a cat.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Does that thing kill birds?”

  “Oh, I don’t think so.”

  Sue looked unconvinced.

  I picked up the General and deposited him on the trail to face in the opposite direction. “Go back to Rose Cottage,” I said, then leaned down to whisper, “It’s not safe up here.”

  He gave me a one-eyed look of disgust, then sat placidly, meticulously licking a paw while we walked off.

  Eventually we reached a fork in the trail. On the left, our well-trodden path continued. On the right, a pile of fallen tree trunks and a naile
d sign, “Trail closed,” barred our way.

  Sue pointed. “That’s the beginning of the old network. Watch your step, and stay well back from the edge.” With a final wave, she turned to retrace our journey.

  I scrambled over the tree trunks and onto a barely discernible path beyond. After ten minutes of tripping over roots and rocks, and battling branches that scratched my face, I reached a rotting bridge that extended across a twenty-foot-wide gully. I set my feet on the first planks, judging their strength. A little wobbly, but they would hold my weight. I took another step.

  I’d been dimly aware of noises around me—the movements of small animals, the rustle of leaves, the sharp chatter of birds. Or maybe those were frogs. But a new sound caught me up short. It was a dull, throbbing undertone that had gradually grown in volume. I craned my neck to listen, trying to make it out. Was that—buzzing?

  Grabbing the bridge’s shaky railing, I bent to study the underside. A paper nest the size of a football clung to the far side. I raised my head to squint into the gloom ahead. Hornets were darting back and forth, their black bodies nearly invisible against the murky undergrowth.

  My jeans and cotton shirt would protect my arms and legs. Unless the wasps swarmed my head, I’d get across the bridge without being stung. These were Leafy Hollow hornets though. If they were as bloodthirsty as some other residents of this supposedly tranquil village, I might be in for a rough passage. Not to mention the problem of my return trip. I envisaged a battalion of agitated wasps in military dress, deployed in rows to bar my retreat, wings buzzing as they readied their final charge.

  Aunt Adeline would have known what to do. A childhood memory of her crisping grasshoppers in a frying pan before my saucer-sized eyes came to mind. “Insects are an excellent source of protein,” she told me while dishing a few onto my plate and squeezing chocolate sauce over them. “If you’re ever lost in the bush, a few juicy grubs could save your life.”

  I had not eaten grasshoppers since. They tasted like chicken, as I recalled, but with extremely tiny drumsticks.

  My aunt had also insisted they are more scared of you, Verity. Too bad I couldn’t recall her imparted knowledge about which insects to avoid. At least her Krav Maga lessons hadn’t gone to waste, although my self-defense skills wouldn’t be much use against these opponents.

  In the end, I simply made a run for it. My work boots thundered on the planks as I sprinted across the bridge. But if these hornets feared me, they were skilled at conquering it. Maybe they’d read The Ninja Guide To…

  “Ow!” I shrieked, slapping at my face. I squealed as another hornet jabbed my wrist while I raced up the path on the other side of the bridge, branches snapping me in the face.

  After a hundred feet, I halted, panting. I bent over with my hands on my knees, spitting out leaf bits. The red welt on my wrist didn’t look too bad—a glancing blow. My forehead, however, throbbed. Gingerly, I patted the lump rising over my eye.

  The phone in my pocket rang. And rang. I puffed out a breath and considered not answering, but thought better of it. It might be a client. Still stooped over with one hand on my knee, I clicked the button with my other thumb and raised the cellphone to my ear without looking at it.

  “Verity, I’m glad I caught you. The landlord still hasn’t received your sublet agreement. Haven’t you signed it yet? Maybe you forgot. I know how busy you are. You probably forgot. Do you want me to tell him—”

  I pulled the phone away from my ear and squinted at the call display. Yep. Patty Ferris, my best friend in Vancouver, was checking in with her usual impeccable timing. I grinned, then winced at the pain it caused. Keeping my face as immobile as possible, I placed the phone against my ear.

  “—and Clark said, stop calling her, she’s probably busy and what did I know about running a business anyway? And of course he’s right but still I knew you’d want to hear—”

  “Patty,” I broke in. “I’m on the road right now. Give me a minute to pull over.”

  Clutching the phone to my chest, I straightened up, stretched out my back with a groan, and trudged over to a fallen tree trunk. I sat, wiping the perspiration from my forehead with my sleeve—wincing when I hit the swollen bits—then raised the phone again.

  “It’s great to hear from you, Patty. What’s up?”

  “It’s your sublet agreement—it’s lost in the mail. Should I ask the landlord to send you another copy? It’s no trouble, because—”

  Patty kept talking, but I wasn’t listening. My attention was focused on an image of the envelope that lay on my aunt’s bureau in Rose Cottage. The sublet document had arrived weeks earlier. I only had to sign it and send it back to the landlord to relinquish my Vancouver apartment. And cut the last link to the West Coast city that had been my home for the past three years.

  So why didn’t I?

  “Verity? Are you listening?”

  Patty’s voice jolted me back to the present.

  “Yes, of course I am. I’m a bit busy at the moment though. You know. Work stuff.” I glanced to my left. Daylight lit up the path ahead. Had I finally reached the edge of the escarpment? “Patty, hang on…”

  I lowered the phone and walked toward the light.

  Before me stretched the billowy green waves of Pine Hill Valley, intersected by the streets and lampposts of Leafy Hollow. On one side, the blue-gray expanse of Lake Ontario melted into the horizon. Sunlight broke through haze from the morning’s downpour, glinting off a rainbow rising from the lake. Directly below, a train chugged along on a winding toy track. I drew in a lungful of rain-freshened air before looking at my feet.

  Despite the difficult trail, the spot where I stood had been worn down by dozens of hikers. I imagined sightseers leaning over the edge of this unofficial lookout, daring fate.

  The main lookout was on my right, fifty to one hundred feet away as the crow flies. I couldn’t see it through the trees, although its broad, flat shelf of unfenced shale was easily visible from the ground below.

  In my current spot, however, I was shielded by the dense foliage of surrounding trees and shrubs. To anyone looking up from the ground, I would be hidden from view. A knot formed in my belly. Someone could have pushed Lucy off here without being seen. I raised the phone to my ear.

  Patty was still talking. “…and I said—”

  “Patty, can I call you back? Tomorrow?”

  “Oh. Sure.” She sounded disappointed.

  I slid the phone into my pocket and rubbed my goose-bumped arms. Had Lucy fallen from here? There were lots of rocks and shrubs, even the trunks of ancient white cedars, to hit on the way down.

  I scanned the area, looking for clues. Several shrubs were flattened, as if they’d been trampled. Probably deer, settling in for the night. Although it seemed unlikely they would venture this close to the edge.

  Another sight caught my eye, and I jerked back in surprise. Rustic fenceposts stuck up along the edge of the escarpment, in some places only a foot or two from the rim. They must have been installed years earlier, when this trail was open to hikers.

  But that wasn’t the surprising part.

  Lorne and I didn’t build fences. We turned those clients over to my competitor, the blond beefcake Ryker Fields, who built beautiful fences, gazebos and decks. He frequently helped me out and I was glad to repay the favor.

  But I knew enough carpentry to see that this barrier was missing three crucial rails—the ones that should have spanned the gap of the makeshift lookout.

  Wrapping my arms around a nearby tree trunk, I leaned over to peer at the posts that remained. I suspected mischief-makers, not murderers, had broken off the railings. Where was the fun in tempting fate if you couldn’t actually fall?

  Then I made the mistake of looking down.

  My gut clenched and my breath caught in my throat. Yikes. It was so… far.

  I jerked back, clutching the trunk to my chest and squeezing my eyes closed.

  I’d never been afraid of heights. Crowds, encl
osed spaces, and bad-tempered insects, sure. But never heights. So, after a little deep breathing, I approached the edge again. My throat tightened and my fingers twitched. The vein in my neck thrummed. I hadn’t had an anxiety attack in weeks. Yet here I was, trembling at the prospect of standing on that precipice. Had I merely exchanged one irrational fear for another?

  I released the tree and staggered over to an outcropping of shale a few yards away. After slumping onto it, I bent over and waited for my breathing to slow. Three. Two. One.

  My “investigation” had been a bust. Far from gaining insight, I was more puzzled than ever. Lucy was afraid of heights. She never would have braved this trail. Not voluntarily.

  With a shudder, I studied the scrap of blue sky that marked the edge of the escarpment. To the unwary, it might signal a peaceful clearing in the woods. A welcome break from the suffocating foliage. You could almost see Bambi frolicking nearby, a butterfly landing on her nose. A weary hiker might approach this spot eagerly, unaware that it actually marked the edge of the cliff and a long, horrifying drop.

  But Lucy had lived in Leafy Hollow all her life. She would have known better. Besides, there had been no love lost between Lucy Carmichael and gentle woodland creatures.

  There was no time to ponder further. Lorne was waiting for me to tackle our jobs for the day. With a last glance over my shoulder, I stumbled back along the path.

  Mud had slathered my boots, my T-shirt was in tatters, my bruises throbbed, and my forehead… I halted, realizing my eyelid had swollen so much that my eye was nearly closed. I tapped it gingerly with a muddy finger, wishing I had a mirror to check the damage.

  At least I wasn’t anxious anymore. Either my physical injuries had shouldered out the emotional ones, or my worry that I had developed a fear of heights was unfounded. Maybe I wouldn’t have to reread The Ninja Guide. That would give me time to finish the Originals’ pick for Sunday’s meeting.

  But thoughts of the book club only triggered more speculation about how Lucy met her death. There was another possibility—one that made my stomach churn.

  What if she was dead before she fell?

  Chapter Five