by Rickie Blair
Now all that hard work was ruined. Even the climbing roses along the front wall were singed black.
I felt deadened as well. What did I do to provoke this hateful act? Did the same person who killed Marjorie Rupert and Lucy Carmichael set fire to Rose Cottage? Did my insistence in probing those deaths anger someone?
A vision of the General lying limp and motionless on the lawn flashed across my mind. The scruffy tom would be fine. But worse things might happen if I didn’t back off. Why did I have to meddle, anyway? How many murders did one person need to get involved in? My stomach clenched as I remembered Jeff’s words. You get into too much trouble, Verity.
He was right. My actions had been foolhardy and provocative. If the arsonist’s intention was to scare me off, they succeeded. The police could probe Lucy’s death without my help. From now on, I would focus only on Coming Up Roses Landscaping, and finding my aunt.
But first, I had firefighters to thank.
A warm reception greeted me at the local fire hall—although I wasn’t sure if the grins and whistles were for me, or the stack of baked goods I brought along. I staggered in with an armload of lemon meringue pies, sausage rolls, and double-chocolate brownies.
Smiling firefighters in short-sleeved black T-shirts that showed off bulging muscles surrounded me. I felt like I’d stumbled into the pages of one of those fundraiser calendar shoots. Focus, Verity.
“This is a little thank you for all you’ve done,” I said. “I’m sorry I’ve been such a pest. And to prove it, I made a donation to the children’s hospital. Also—” I fished a receipt out of my bag and handed it to Captain Bob. “I ordered three pet oxygen masks for the department.”
He took the receipt with a grin. “Thanks. We’ll put them to good use. How’s your cat?”
“Doing great, thanks to you. You saved his life.”
“All part of the job. Although…” he said with a grin. “If he wants to show his gratitude by cleaning up our vermin problem…”
That elicited guffaws from his crew. “The only vermin around here are the ones attracted by those stinky lunches of yours, Bob,” a firefighter with Tracy embroidered on her T-shirt joked to general applause. The men on either side high-fived her while the captain rolled his eyes.
“I’d like to comply,” I said with a chuckle, “but I’m afraid the General is useless at pest control. Maybe I can round up a pinch-hitter,” I added, recalling the feral-cat colony down by the river. “I know a few crack mousers that might be willing to help out.”
“Mrrowww.”
I jerked back, startled, as an enormous white cat leapt onto a shelf beside my head.
“Meet Oscar,” the captain said. “Our own resident—and completely useless—mouser.”
The tom stretched his neck, then languidly scratched his chin with his hind leg, unfazed by the insult.
“I thought fire halls had Dalmatians,” I said.
Oscar turned curious blue eyes on me, no doubt expecting me to hand over a sausage roll.
One of the firefighters reached up to scratch under the tom’s chin. “No chance. Oscar would never allow a dog on the premises.”
After more banter, and an invitation to the fire hall’s community open house—which I promised to attend—I drove off, feeling good about one thing at least. The next kitty threatened by an arsonist had a better chance of survival now that the fire department was stocked up on tiny oxygen masks.
That left me free to concentrate on my other goal for the day—planting Fritz’s window boxes. Then I intended to withdraw from any and all murder probes. I didn’t care who dropped dead. As long as it wasn’t me.
Chapter Twenty-One
The next day, I stood on Rose Cottage’s ruined lawn and brushed a lock of hair from my forehead, watching a hired crew of three men repair the damage to the roof. Carson stood below, shouting instructions. The foreman harrumphed once or twice, but overall, the workers were impressed by Carson’s knowledge of cedar shingles and built-in eavestroughs.
There was a nip in the air, a welcome development after the annoying heat of the previous week. The change in the weather did not lessen my discomfort, though. I couldn’t shake the image of Marjorie Rupert’s body flung across the bed in her walkup apartment. It was a sight I could have done without.
I’d vowed not to do any more sleuthing, but it wasn’t that easy to put the two killings out of my mind. The previous night, tucked away in my tiny dormer room at The Stumble Inn, I revisited the murder scenes every time I closed my eyes. If only to give me something else to think about, I had pulled the second copy of Lucy’s spreadsheet from my purse. A more intelligent person would have ripped it up and thrown it into the trash. Unfortunately, I’ve never been a candidate for Mensa membership. So, I waded right in.
Emy and I had guessed most of the aliases, and she had dismissed them as persons unlikely to inspire a blackmail attempt. But the last two had been impossible to crack. I puzzled over those two most of the night, whacking my head twice on the slanted roof above my bed when I thought I’d found a clue. I finally gave up and stuffed the list back into my purse in frustration. The remainder of my restless night was spent counting cabbage roses in the wallpaper by the waning moonlight that streamed through the open window.
This morning, I had risen with fresh resolve, determined to squelch my curiosity and stop getting into trouble. Besides, I had other things to worry about. Patty and Clark were wearing out their welcome at Emy’s. Twice, I’d suggested we move them to the inn. But Emy insisted they stay on.
She was wavering, though. Patty’s decision to try out her recipes in Emy’s spotless bakery kitchen may have been the last straw. I winced at the memory.
Neither had heard my cheery “Hallo” when I innocently walked in on the latter part of that confrontation.
Emy was pointing a spatula at Patty. “Get out of my kitchen,” she said in a tone that cut through the tinkle of the front-door bell like a knife through lavender icing. Then, apparently rethinking her tone, she added, “Please?”
Patty tossed her ponytail and marched out—bearing aloft a platter of what turned out to be eucalyptus-scented panna cotta with mustard sauce.
I sighed as I remembered the ensuing scene as well as the chipotle-chocolate chip cookie I’d been forced to eat to keep the peace. The cookie was actually quite good. But while I was chewing on it, Clark had hollered plaintively down the stairs from Emy’s second-floor apartment: “Are you sure you can’t get SkySports?”
Tomorrow, I intended to pack up the Ferrises and cart them off, by force if necessary, to join me at The Stumble Inn, Leafy Hollow’s premier B&B.
I started the truck’s engine, shifted into reverse, checked the rearview mirror as I glided down the driveway—and slammed my foot on the brake.
Fritz was standing behind my aunt’s truck with a smirk on his face.
Forcing a smile, I climbed out. “Fritz? What are you doing here?”
“Heard you wanted to see me.” He sidled up beside me and stopped, way too close for comfort.
“No. I don’t.” I took a step back. “What made you think that?”
“Something about a bake-off? You needed a judge?”
Fudge. He’d been talking to Patty.
“Emy has a few items she wants you to sample. But I’m sure it can wait.” I motioned to the truck. “Sorry, I have to go.”
Instead of moving out of my way, he simply smoothed his mustache. It was like a nervous tic—or would have been, if Fritz had a single nerve in his body to tic.
“Why are you still here?” I asked.
“I heard you needed protection.” He ambled onto the grass to watch the work crew.
“Protection?” My resentment bubbled over. If it hadn’t been for Fritz’s insistence that his precious window boxes needed immediate attention, I would have arrived home in time to spot the fire. “Protection?” I repeated, walking over to grab his arm and force him around to face me. “It’s a little late for
that, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
I took a deep breath, suppressing the urge to go all Krav Maga on him—on anybody, frankly. My therapist in Vancouver would have blamed my “unresolved anger.” But if anything, the fact my accusation was unfounded only made me angrier. Funny how that works. I planted my hands on my hips.
“Where were you when someone tried to burn down my house?”
Fritz looked horrified. “You’re not blaming me for that?”
We locked eyes. The brown pupils behind those rimless glasses looked genuinely confused. I released Fritz’s arm and patted it. My fury was misplaced and we both knew it. “No, of course not,” I stammered. “I’m sorry.”
He brushed off his sleeve while keeping his eyes trained on me. “Apology accepted. You’re not entirely wrong, though.”
“Excuse me?”
“You were let down, Verity, but not by me. The entire village owes you an apology.”
I eyed him suspiciously. “You mean for all the bad jokes?”
“I mean—the police should have found your friend’s killer by now.” He smirked at me again. You think he’d know better. “You’ve been sleuthing, haven’t you?”
The Leafy Hollow gossip machine never ceased to amaze me. What else did Fritz know?
“Maybe.”
“What have you found out?”
“Um… I’m not sure I should—”
“Why hasn’t anyone been arrested?”
I gave him a good long look. “Did you have someone in mind?”
“Why ask me? You’re the one investigating. You must suspect someone.”
“I really don’t.”
“Okay. You don’t have to tell me.” He shrugged. “But I assure you, I’m here to help. In fact, Emy asked me to check up on you when we were discussing menu changes this morning.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. Emy hadn’t mentioned any of this to me. But I’d been distracted of late. Maybe I’d forgotten.
“Look out!” came a shout from overhead.
I ducked just in time to avoid being beaned by a shovelful of blackened shingles.
Carson walked over. “Better move out of the way, Verity,” he said ruefully. He shouted up at the roof, “Watch it, will ya?”
Fritz took my elbow and guided me onto the driveway. I yanked my arm away, massaging it to stress my dislike of being mauled.
“Did I hurt you?” he asked, eyebrows raised. “Sometimes I forget my own strength. It’s all that weightlifting I do.”
I really wanted to punch him. Instead, I said curtly, “I’m fine.” He looked hurt by my tone, so I backtracked a bit. “Sorry. I’m a little edgy today.”
Thérèse would have admired my use of euphemism.
Fritz narrowed his eyes. “Don’t let your irritation with me confuse the issue.”
“What issue?”
“You’re not fine. There’s a killer’s on the loose. Who’ll be next? You?”
I shuddered, remembering yet again the scene in Marjorie Rupert’s bedroom.
Fritz eyed me intently. “Did you know Sue Unger is missing?”
“What?” I swallowed hard, hoping my sudden gust of fear didn’t show on my face. “Who told you that?”
“It’s all over the village. I’m surprised that an experienced sleuth like you would be the last to know. Well, don’t worry,” he added with a mocking tone. “I’m sure the police will get around to it eventually.”
Would they, though? Suddenly, I wasn’t so confident. I had no intention of sharing that concern with Fritz, however. Turning back to the truck, I said over my shoulder, “I’m sure they will. Now, if you don’t mind—”
He placed a hand on my arm to stop me. I stared at it in a meaningful way.
Fritz stepped back with an apologetic expression—and both hands raised. “Sorry. But I’m serious, Verity. If you need help, you can count on me. I won’t let you down.” He lowered his hands with a snort of disgust. “Certainly that moronic Jeff Katsuro isn’t accomplishing much.”
“Excuse me,” I said coldly. “I have to go.”
After climbing into my aunt’s truck, I roared down the driveway, narrowly missing Fritz, who jumped out of the way at the last second. When I looked back, he was coughing at the dust churned up by the truck on the road’s unpaved shoulder.
I didn’t do that on purpose, honestly.
My wholly inappropriate delight at Fritz’s discomfort fizzled quickly. His lecture had reawakened my misgivings about the official investigation into Lucy’s death—or lack thereof. And now Sue was missing. What if…
I forced that thought away with a shudder.
Was it so wrong of a concerned citizen to seek explanations? I answered my own question with a resounding, Certainly not. In fact, it was our civic duty to help the police.
So long as they didn’t find out about it, of course.
Emy, Patty, and I sat around the table in 5X Bakery, brainstorming over a pot of tea and a platter of—I eyed the baked goods suspiciously, wondering if the yellow sugar cookies had been flavored with lemon or mustard.
“Fritz was only trying to help. And he has a point,” Emy said, bringing my attention back to the topic at hand. “There have been two deaths so far and not a single suspect. What have the police been doing?”
“They’re doing forensic tests on that whistle, aren’t they?” I asked.
“Yes, but on the day Marjorie was murdered, Sue was in full view all morning outside the hardware store. The police released Sue right after taking her statement. And Lucy was a friend of hers. Sue couldn’t have killed them.”
“I’m not saying she did. But no one’s seen her for two days, apparently. Where is she?”
“What if she’s dead, too?” Emy’s eyes widened. “What if a serial killer is picking us off one by one?”
“Oh, my gosh,” Patty squealed. Her hand flew to her throat. “A chill just went down my spine. Someone is walking on my grave.” She gave an exaggerated shudder. “Or maybe your grave, Verity. It’s hard to tell.”
I sagged my head in my hands. “Thanks, both of you. I feel so much better now.”
“The point is, we need to do something,” Emy said, refilling my tea cup. “Mom’s not out of trouble yet. This investigation needs a jump-start.”
“Like what?”
“On television, the killer always makes a mistake. That’s how the detective catches them. They wait for that one error and then… pounce.”
Patty chimed in, her voice low. “We can’t wait around for another person to die. What if it’s one of us?”
“Exactly.” Emy nodded gravely. “We need to force the issue.”
Slowly, I said, “I’m not liking the sound of this.”
“It wouldn’t take much. What if we circulate a rumor that someone spotted a figure standing behind Lucy before she toppled off the Peak?”
“Why didn’t this hypothetical witness come forward earlier?”
“Maybe they didn’t understand the significance of what they’d seen until now. Maybe they’ve been out of the country. Maybe—”
I held up a hand. “Okay, we could make something up. But how would it help your mother?”
“It would flush out the killer, don’t you see?” Emy placed a cookie on the table and tapped it with a finger. “Say this is the new witness. The murderer”—she tapped on another cookie—“will try to silence that witness.” She walked the second cookie over until it was touching the first. “Then the police”—Emy gathered a scone into her fist—“can pounce.”
She slammed the scone down on the killer cookie.
“That’s brilliant,” Patty said, studying the pile of crumbs.
I hastened to point out the obvious hole in this theory—besides the fact the witness cookie was not looking too good. “You’d need an actual informant. Otherwise, who would the killer be trying to silence?”
“That’s true,” Emy said, nodding thoughtfully at the
pulverized baked goods. “And it needs to be someone believable—someone who drives around town a lot during the day. Perhaps someone who chanced upon the scene right after Lucy’s fatal fall. Someone like…”
Emy and Patty swiveled their gazes to me.
“Oh,” I said, chuckling. “You’ve got to be kidding.” I crossed my arms, my laughter dying on my lips at the expressions on their faces. “No,” I said incredulously. “Not happening.”
They held their stares while the black cat tick-tocked on the wall. Then Emy sat back, shaking her head. “You’re right. It’s a ridiculous plan. Forget I mentioned it.”
Patty leaned in, her eyes shining. “No, it’s a great idea. I can do it. I’m a tourist. I could have been waltzing about town, getting into all kinds of trouble. It’s totally believable. Let me do it.”
Recognizing the expression that signaled Patty had found a new project—and knowing she wouldn’t let go—I slapped my hands on the table.
“Absolutely not. It’s too dangerous.”
Patty wasn’t even listening.
“I can wander up and down Main Street,” she continued. “Pop into a few stores, talk about what I saw…”
“No way.” I raised my hands in a I-give-up gesture. “I’ll do it.”
Emy screwed up her face. “I don’t know, Verity. I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”
“Now you have misgivings? You came up with this.”
“I know, but… here’s the thing,” Emy said, tapping her fingers nervously on the table. “If we go through with this, you must promise to never be alone. Always have somebody with you. Rose Cottage isn’t ready yet, right?”
“Correct.”
“So you’ll be fine at night, because there are plenty of people at the inn. But during the day, Lorne, me, Patty, or Fritz must always be with you. You have to promise not to go anywhere by yourself.” She pointed a finger at me. “Promise?”