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

by Rickie Blair

  Finally, the red-haired restaurateur stepped out and locked the door.

  He raised his head to scan the windows across the street. Marjorie wondered if he could see her through the curtain. Then he climbed into a copper-colored convertible, revved the engine a few times, and sped off. At the corner, his car turned and disappeared behind a building. She wondered idly if he was circling the block.

  She pulled the lace curtain back to study the street again. It was quiet, the empty parking meters flashing red. Two raccoons scampered across the pavement, their chattering audible even through the closed window. They disappeared up an alley, followed a few moments later by the clatter of an overturned bin.

  Marjorie twitched the lace back over the window. Footsteps were climbing the fire escape from the parking lot behind her building. A knock sounded on her door, a soft rat-a-tat-tat meant only for her. Her visitor obviously didn’t want to alert the neighbors.

  There was one other flat in the building, on the second floor underneath hers. A retired couple. Most of the time, the husband was drunk. Marjorie barely spoke to them, other than unavoidable chatter on the fire escape while the husband sucked in his gut so she could sidle past. She had immediately pegged the wife as a busybody. More than once, she’d caught the woman studying her face, as if she expected to find something concealed behind Marjorie’s eyes. At those times, Marjorie merely smiled and nodded.

  The rat-a-tat-tat sounded again.

  Marjorie thought about ignoring it, but that wasn’t an option. She would have to deal with this. Make a statement if necessary. Put an end to it.

  She crossed the room and pulled open the door to admit her visitor, then softly closed it, hearing it latch. She turned around, glaring.

  “I told you to stay away.”

  “That’s not fair. I helped you against my better judgment. You wouldn’t be here without me. And now you have to—”

  She cut off the tirade, catching a whiff of alcohol-laden breath as she leaned in. “You made a few calls. Everything else I did myself.” Marjorie gestured impatiently with a gnarled finger. “You don’t understand what I’ve been through. Don’t tell me what to do.”

  “Is that it? Your memoir?”

  She swiveled her head to follow her visitor’s fascinated gaze. Tiny scribbled script covered a stack of papers under the window. An expanding folder lay open in the middle, more papers spilling out of it. She walked over to slam the folder shut, and placed it on top of the stack, anchoring it.

  “None of your business,” she said.

  “I know it’s been hard—”

  “Hard?” She whirled around, eyes flashing. “Hard? Solitary confinement? A concrete room and a light on twenty-four hours a day?” She snorted. “You don’t know hard.”

  “I did what you asked. At great personal cost. You have no right to tell me—”

  A vicious slap echoed throughout the room. Marjorie pulled her hand away, her palm tingling.

  Her visitor gasped, eyes watering, and took a step back. “What was that for?”

  “You’ve been drinking.”

  “What if I have?”

  “You’re disgusting. Get out.”

  “No.”

  Marjorie’s nostrils flared as she took in her visitor’s belligerence—the crossed arms, the sneer. For a moment, she felt a thrill of fear. Ridiculous. She pushed away the unease as her visitor spoke.

  “You can’t toss me aside after what it cost me. You think you’re safe here? I’ll cause so much trouble, you’ll never be safe again.”

  “You forget what I’ve done for you.”

  Her visitor paused. “What you’ve done for me? You’re confused. Like before.”

  There it was again, a whiff of alcohol. Then, suddenly, a warm breath against her ear. She held up a hand to shield her face, turning away. Fingers dug into her arm.

  “You can’t remember, can you?”

  “I can.” She looked at the scribbled pages on the bureau.

  Her visitor turned sharply to follow her gaze.

  “I wrote it down,” she whispered. “I wrote it all down.” She yanked her arm away, thrust out her chin, and raised her voice. “I remember everything.”

  “The ravings of an old woman? Who would believe you?”

  The visitor strode to the bureau, shoved the bound volume aside, and scanned a handful of loose pages.

  Marjorie followed, plucking at the papers. “Give me those.”

  “This is gibberish.” The papers fluttered to the floor. “You’ve lost touch with reality. Keep this up, and you’ll be back inside. Soon. And this time, I won’t help you.”

  Marjorie gave a snort of fury and turned to face the window, her hands trembling.

  She jumped as the door slammed. Footsteps pounded down the fire escape. Marjorie twisted her head to look at the closed door, her lips pursed. Obviously, she would have to make an example of someone.

  You like to study killers, don’t you?

  And she knew just where to start.

  Chapter Ten

  It was an extraordinary book club meeting in Thérèse’s living room that Sunday evening—one that would go down in Originals history.

  As the dozen members gathered, choosing places to sit, I glanced at Thérèse. She stood at the entrance to her kitchen, staring into the distance while adjusting the flawless collar of her silk blouse—an uncharacteristic display of nerves. Touching clothing can signify inner turmoil, as I knew from Reading People for Fun and Profit.

  But a sign of what? Grief? Or guilt?

  Emy didn’t attend. Although an honorary member, she had special dispensation from her mother to skip the meetings because she rose at four a.m. to start her day at the bakery. For the rest of the Originals, attendance was mandatory.

  Not that Thérèse ever said so. As the village’s overworked chief librarian, volunteer literacy coach, and book club founder, her style and work ethic inspired us all. Nobody wanted to let her down. And now—well, we knew how hard Lucy’s death had been for her.

  Or perhaps I should say that most of us did.

  I watched Thérèse from my perch on the dining room chair nearest the door. Emy often chided me for sitting near the exit. She thought I should be more sociable. That was fine for her. Emy was an extrovert, well-liked in the village that had been her home since birth. Whereas I was… happy to sit by the door.

  Thérèse forced a smile and walked into the room. Her stiff posture and anxious expression softened as she mingled with her guests. She filled a wine glass here, chuckled at a joke there, and read out loud an excerpt from a held-open book. Warm smiles and nods greeted her passage.

  With my attention focused on Thérèse, my guard was down. So I was startled when Sue Unger dropped her hefty frame into the armchair beside me with an impact that shook the floor. She slipped off her hiking boots before stretching out her stocking feet and flopping her arms over the sides of the chair. One bare toe poked out of a striped sock.

  Sue raised her eyebrows at me. “Awful news, eh?” she asked in a conspiratorial whisper.

  I couldn’t shake the notion that Sue’s mid-thirties frame was inhabited by a much older, and ill-spirited, busybody. I leaned in, keeping my voice low. “I didn’t know her well, but I liked Lucy. It was a terrible shock.”

  Sue drew back. “Lucy?” She narrowed her eyes. “Yeah, that was a shock all right, but I meant”—she indicated our hostess with a flick of her eyes—“the rumor about Thérèse.”

  I must have looked confused, because Sue leaned in even closer and added, “About the bequest?” She swiveled her head to study Thérèse, but continued talking out of the side of her mouth. “Nobody believes it, of course. It’s all nonsense. Darned interesting though, don’t you think?”

  She turned her gaze on me, obviously expecting a response.

  “Perhaps,” I stammered. “I’m afraid I don’t know what—”

  My reply was cut short by a crash in the hallway. Thérèse whipped her hea
d around and then hurried through the doorway. Raised voices followed.

  “Sorry, Thérèse. That was clumsy of me,” a man said.

  “It’s all right, don’t…” Thérèse said. “No, please, don’t—”

  Sue chuckled. “That must be Derek. Probably knocked something over again.”

  “Ouch! Darn it! I’m so sorry.”

  “Please, Derek, leave it. You’re bleeding—”

  A muffled curse came from the hall. A few of the women in the living room snickered.

  Closing my eyes, I pictured Derek Talbot knocking over a vase or dropping a plate of cookies or putting his elbow through a picture. Despite his slight build, he seemed to take up a lot of room. No one knew why he joined a book club full of women although most suspected he was there for the fabulous baked goods. Since Emy didn’t have to attend the meetings, she was happy to provide the snacks.

  For my part, I suspected Derek was one of Thérèse’s former literacy students. Lorne had made such progress under her tutelage that he’d enrolled in community college courses for the fall. Thérèse and I were proud of him, but he was too embarrassed to tell Emy. I thought he should, but I kept out of it—an unusual display of discretion on my part. Jeff would have been proud.

  Derek appeared in the doorway with a dinner napkin wrapped around his hand. Thérèse swept past, holding a broom in one hand and a dustpan piled with broken china in the other.

  She indicated the bathroom down the hall with a nod of her head. “Hydrogen peroxide and Band-Aids. Now.” Pointing the broom handle at Sue, she said, “Can you help Derek, please?”

  Sue rose and headed for the hall, but not before bestowing a smirk on the rest of us. She would be cracking jokes all week about Derek’s latest misadventure.

  I jumped to my feet and put a hand on her arm to hold her back. “I’ll do it. I have first aid training.”

  That was a bit of a stretch. My aunt taught me the basics on our field trips when I was a child. But the only remedy that I could remember—how to fix a dislocated shoulder while ignoring the victim’s screams—would be overkill in this case. Too bad, really. I’d always wanted to try it.

  Sue dropped into her chair with a shrug. “Be my guest.”

  I followed Derek into the bathroom. He sat on the edge of the tub while I opened the medicine cabinet over the sink and pulled out a spray bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a box of bandages.

  “It’s only a scratch,” he objected.

  “Can I see it?”

  He shrugged, unwound the napkin from his hand, and held it out palm up. “Kind of the blind leading the lame, isn’t it?” he asked, giving my swollen eye a pointed glance.

  “Very funny. You’re lucky there’s no iodine in that cabinet.”

  Derek smiled. His chin was crooked, his eyes a watery gray, and his face pockmarked from teenage battles with acne. I’d always liked him. He made thoughtful comments on our books, even though many in the group failed to listen. Speaking up was difficult for someone so subdued, I guessed. Or maybe he felt the same way I did, and being the center of attention made him uncomfortable. That line of thinking gave me pause. Did I agree with Thérèse because she was right, or because it saved me from speaking up?

  I paused a moment, the bottle in my hand.

  Nah. Thérèse was always right.

  I sprayed Derek’s scratches with hydrogen peroxide and dabbed at them with a cotton pad. “What did you break, anyway?”

  “That blue-and-white vase in the hall.”

  “Oh. Thérèse likes that one. It belonged to her…” I glanced up, meeting his gaze. “I don’t know why I said that. It’s a vase. She can get another.”

  He looked away as I covered the gashes on his palm with crisscrossed bandages. “Some of these are days old,” I said, remembering Derek was a clerk at the hardware store. “Did you cut yourself at work?”

  He pulled his hand away with a grimace. “I’m always doing something stupid. Or hadn’t you heard?” Flexing his fingers, he stood up. “I dropped a paper bag of nails on the floor, and it burst. Then I tried to scoop them up with my hands. Dumb, like I said. Thank you for this.”

  “No problem.” The local hardware store was one of the few places that still sold nails by the pound, instead of in those hyper-irritating bubble-wrapped packages. Carson, the handyman who was repairing Rose Cottage, bought all his nails there. I smiled at Derek. “Next time, use a dustpan.”

  He nodded grimly and turned into the hall, his key chain jangling at his waist. I wondered why he wore it when he wasn’t at work. The disjointed head of a bobble doll dangled from the ring—a pink face with a receding hairline, thin lips, and goggle-rimmed glasses. Its truncated collar bore the initials TPB. With a chuckle, I recognized “Bubbles,” one of television’s Trailer Park Boys.

  I threw the soiled cotton into the trash and returned the hydrogen peroxide to the cabinet before following Derek.

  Thérèse had started the main event, a synopsis of our current book, Alias Grace by Margaret Atwood. She smiled at Derek as he took a seat at the edge of the group. He gave her an embarrassed nod in return.

  A spirited discussion followed, which grew more heated as the meeting wore on—and more wine bottles were opened. At the end of our debate, Thérèse rose to her feet and smiled weakly. There was no mistaking her subdued air.

  “A good discussion tonight, Originals. But before we break for refreshments, we have a piece of business to address.” Her lip trembled, and she took a shaky breath before continuing. “A sad business, I’m afraid. Someone must continue Lucy’s work as treasurer. Any volunteers?”

  She looked around expectantly.

  The room fell silent. Out in the kitchen, Thérèse’s ancient Frigidaire roared into life.

  Sue’s hand shot up. “I’ll do it.”

  Thérèse gave her a curious glance. “Really?”

  “Sure. I’ve got some ideas about how we organize our business affairs. I’d like the chance to implement them. Lucy did a good job, as far as it went. But new blood is always welcome.”

  On my chair beside Sue, I kept my gaze rooted to the floor, painfully conscious of the raised eyebrows around us. Lucy had been dead only two days. Sue was not known for diplomacy, but this was a new low.

  “Thank you,” Thérèse said stiffly. “I’ll download the records at… her house. I’ll see that you get them.”

  There was an awkward pause while Sue considered this statement with her brows drawn. “You don’t have a copy?”

  “I’m afraid not. Lucy kept it on her computer at home.”

  Murmurs rolled around the room.

  Sue cleared her throat, readying a fresh objection.

  “Hey,” said Hannah, Thérèse’s co-worker and assistant librarian at the Leafy Hollow Library. “I see some terrific goodies over there.” She pointed to the table in the dining area, laden with shortbreads, scones, and pastel-colored French macarons. “Race ya’.”

  Thérèse gave her a weak smile. “Thanks,” she silently mouthed.

  With an audible sigh of relief, the group rose and followed Hannah to the table.

  I stayed back, hoping to question Sue about the mysterious “bequest” she’d mentioned. After that, I intended to grill the group about Lucy’s fear of heights. The Originals loved to gossip over their desserts, so this was an ideal time to probe.

  I tapped Sue’s hand as she passed me, and she gave me an inquiring glance.

  After checking to make sure Thérèse couldn’t hear us—she was at the table in the next room, pouring tea and coffee—I leaned in, my voice low. “What were you talking about earlier? That bequest you mentioned?”

  “You haven’t heard? Lucy left her estate to Thérèse.”

  “That huge house of hers?” I sat up straight, shocked. Lucy had inherited her childhood home when her parents died in a car crash. She reveled in the heritage status of the Victorian-era mansion. I’d been in it only once, to borrow a book, but recalled rooms jammed with ant
iques. Lucy had an office on the second floor, but I didn’t see it. That was where she did the part-time accounting work that brought in enough money to pay for her continuous restorations and upgrades. Business must have been good, because cash never seemed to be a problem. Not only did Lucy drive an expensive Land Rover, she took a vacation every year to visit her cousin in Moose Jaw.

  My musings evaporated at Sue’s next comment.

  “The police asked Thérèse to come in for a chat.” Her eyebrows rose.

  “I don’t believe you,” I sputtered, trying to quell the sinking feeling in my gut. “That’s malicious gossip.”

  Sue’s lips curled in a smile. “Is it? Thérèse has no alibi for the morning Lucy was pushed off the Peak.”

  “That’s not true. I saw her myself at Emy’s bakery.”

  “That was later.”

  “And what do you mean, pushed? The police think it was suicide.”

  “That’s not what you told Jeff Katsuro.”

  I narrowed my eyes, assessing Sue’s smirk. “How do you know about—”

  A voice behind me called, “Verity!”

  I held up a finger to Sue—“Hold that thought”—and whirled around.

  Hannah, the assistant librarian, was gesturing wildly with one hand, her other gripping a plate piled high with cookies. “Get over here,” Hannah said, her plate tilting precariously. “We have questions.”

  Thérèse was no longer pouring tea, so I assumed she was in the kitchen getting refills. With a sigh, I walked over to the table and picked up a plate. Our gathering had taken a grim turn, but that was no reason to reject Emy’s lavender-lemon scones. Especially after what I went through to get the lavender. I picked up a scone and slathered on a spoonful of clotted cream. “What do you want to know?”

  “We heard you went up to the Peak in search of evidence,” Hannah said eagerly. “Sorry about your eye, by the way. It looks painful,” she added with a wince. “Anyhow… did you find anything?”