by Rickie Blair
Picture Imperfect
The Leafy Hollow Mysteries, Book 7
Rickie Blair
PICTURE IMPERFECT
Copyright © 2019 by Rickie Blair.
Published in Canada in 2019 by Barkley Books.
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All rights reserved.
The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise stored in a retrieval system, without the express written consent of the publisher, is an infringement of the copyright law.
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
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ISBN-13: 978-1-988881-11-9
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at www.rickieblair.com
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Cover art by: www.coverkicks.com
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
Also by Rickie Blair
About the Author
Chapter One
Tapping a sharpened garden knife against her thigh, Rosie Parker scowled at her crushed flowers. Judging from the tire tread that chewed through the earth, her neighbor’s Hyundai sedan had mounted Rosie’s charming bricked curb and then lurched off, scattering bricks, before coming to rest in the middle of their shared drive—after knocking over Rosie’s recycling bin. As she glared at the strewn cans and bottles, her fingers twitched on the knife’s handle.
She had been trying for weeks to discuss the parking situation with Dakota, her young neighbor. Yesterday, she’d spotted the girl in a flimsy nightgown—no bra, as usual—rushing out with an overflowing bin to catch a garbage truck rumbling down the street. Rosie had barreled outside, hair wild and housecoat flapping, to try to catch her. Dakota eluded her, leaving Rosie to lift a finger to the wolf-whistling garbagemen.
This morning, she had been standing over the crushed foliage, tapping her knife and looking aggrieved, for at least ten minutes. Any normal person, Rosie believed, would have come out onto their front stoop by now to ask if something was wrong. But not Dakota.
Seconds ago, a curtain on the second floor had twitched, almost as if the girl didn’t want to be seen. Yet her grandmother’s old Hyundai was parked plumb in the middle of the driveway. The granddaughter must be in the house.
Still tapping her knife, Rosie realized she’d been too friendly. She should have made the rules clear right from the beginning. Like the fact—obvious to civilized human beings—that you can’t monopolize a shared driveway.
Instead, she had welcomed the young woman to the neighborhood. With Barb, her neighbor of twenty years, confined to the locked ward of a nursing home, Rosie had been glad to make the acquaintance of Barb’s granddaughter, newly arrived from out east.
Newfoundland, the girl had said.
Although, that was odd. Barb had always called Canada’s easternmost province—that foggy, windswept island in the northern Atlantic—The Rock. But that was when she still made sense, Rosie realized.
Pursing her lips, she stalked past two neighboring houses, pivoted, then stalked back, giving her neighbor’s windows another glance through narrowed eyes.
Parking spaces were hard to come by in this neighborhood of two-story houses with dented aluminum awnings in the southern Ontario city of Strathcona. If her driveway was blocked, Rosie had to circle the block to find a spot. At the moment, she couldn’t even do that, because her car was trapped behind the Hyundai.
Resolutely, she marched up the cracked sidewalk to Dakota’s front door. To her surprise, it was ajar.
“Anybody home?” she called, pushing the door open by several inches and sticking in her head. “Dakota?”
No answer. Rosie walked in, closing the door behind her while letting her gaze sweep around the narrow front hall. Grime caked the corners of the worn wooden steps leading to the second floor. As Rosie ran a disapproving finger along the dusty banister, a thump on the floor above drew her attention. It was followed by a shuffling sound, almost as if—
She grimaced. Dakota must be moving furniture.
Rosie hesitated, wondering whether to quietly back out. The last thing she wanted was to be roped into hauling a heavy armoire or bed around the place.
That was when she noticed a lighter rectangle in the wall paint in the exact shape of Barb’s grandfather clock. Frowning, she tiptoed over to the living room entrance. The Victorian parlor table and Tiffany stained-glass lamp were also missing. Dakota must be selling off her inheritance one piece at a time, she thought.
Before her grandmother was actually dead.
Rosie stood with her hands on her hips, studying the shiny oval on the floorboards where an Aubusson rug had once lain. No wonder Dakota had never invited her inside—she must have realized her grandmother’s neighbor would notice the gaps in the furnishings.
Not only that, but Rosie was convinced that Barb would have wanted some of these items to go to her long-time neighbor—like, say, the Italian silver cow creamer displayed on the mantelpiece. With a furtive glance over her shoulder, Rosie tucked it into the front pocket of her canvas gardening apron—after tsking at the dust that coated it.
A brightly colored brochure stood out among the objects on the mantel. She picked it up to read the cover.
Hemsworth’s Fine Art and Collectibles
Leafy Hollow, Ontario
Replacing the brochure on the mantel, Rosie glanced around with displeasure. Barb was past caring what her granddaughter was up to. But that didn’t make it right.
Satisfaction soon washed away her indignation. If Dakota was selling her grandmother’s possessions, the house itself would soon be on the auction block. Then she’d be rid of her troublesome young neighbor for good. And when the new neighbors moved in, she’d make the parking rules understood from day one.
Meanwhile, her car was still trapped.
With determination, she mounted the stairs to the second floor.
“Dakota? Are you here?” She paced down the hall and into the back bedroom. It was empty. A few steps farther, and she was in the master bedroom.
Rosie stepped back, puzzled.
Her neighbor lay on her stomach, on the floor beside the wrought iron bed, with one arm outstretched. At first, Rosie assumed Dakota had dropped something and was looking for it under the bed.
“Hello there,” she said.
The girl did not move.
Dropping her garden knife on the mattress, Rosie bent to shake the young woman’s shoulder. “Dakota?”
No answer.
She felt the girl’s wrist. No pulse.
Then she noticed the blood matted in Dakota’s hair.
Feeling si
ck, she rose, holding on to the bedpost for support. Get help, she thought, twisting toward the door.
Her chest convulsed with an agonizing thump that forced her back a step.
Rosie looked down to see the handle of her garden knife sticking out of her chest.
Puzzled, she lifted a finger to touch it. But before she could reach it, she pitched forward into darkness.
Chapter Two
TWO WEEKS LATER…
When the calls first started, I was delighted. Coming Up Roses Landscaping had never been so popular. If there were still such a thing as a hook, my phone would have been ringing right off it and landing, exhausted, on the floor. Leafy Hollow residents were clamoring for me to administer TLC to their troubled lawns and gardens. I even practiced a bashful wave that I could use to acknowledge their gratitude while tackling their overgrown flora.
At least, that’s what I imagined. Until the trickle of calls turned into a flood, far more than I could handle. And I realized they were coming from clients of Fields Landscaping, my main competitor. The tall, blond, and perpetually cheerful owner had always been the favorite choice of the village’s lawn-obsessed homeowners. What possibly could have turned them against him?
My name is Verity Hawkes—full-time gardener, part-time sleuth, and fairly recent resident of Leafy Hollow, a picturesque village nestled at the foot of the Niagara Escarpment in southern Ontario. After arriving as a twenty-eight-year-old widow a year earlier, it had taken me months to gain the villagers’ trust and rebuild the business I had acquired from my secretive aunt.
I couldn’t blame the residents. My occasional brushes with the law—and a handful of inexplicably dead bodies—may have had something to do with their reluctance. People can be so petty.
But Ryker Fields had been generous and welcoming, sending clients my way, doling out advice, even loaning me equipment. To be honest, I was flattered by the attentions of the six-foot-two blond Adonis with impressive pecs, even though I knew he flexed those pecs at every female within winking distance.
I certainly didn’t intend to thank him by poaching all his clients. So, I put in a call of my own to Ryker.
No answer.
By the third unanswered call, I started to worry. It wasn’t like Ryker to take a vacation without letting his clients know. What if he’d finally purchased that lakeside cottage he was always talking about, only to drown during a weekend visit?
With a shudder, I dismissed that thought. If Ryker had toppled into a lake, it could only have been while displaying his washboard abs and sexy grin from atop a racing speedboat. A spectacular crash like that would have made the news.
Stop jumping to conclusions, I told myself. What you need are facts.
So, when the next client to jump the Fields speedship called to enlist my services, I insisted on knowing the reason.
She was surprised. “I thought you knew. Ryker stopped showing up. My lawn hasn’t been cut for weeks and neither has my neighbor’s.” She paused, then added, “They’re going to call you, too.”
“Did Ryker explain why he fell behind?”
“He doesn’t answer his phone. I’ve left messages, but he never gets back to me. I only knew to call you because it’s on his voice mail. Call Verity Hawkes.”
“Is he ill?”
“I don’t know. Are you available or not? Our grass is so long Winston got lost in the backyard the other day.”
Since Winston was a Bernese Mountain Dog, I was fairly certain this was an exaggeration. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Please hurry. The dandelions are out of control.”
Sighing, I ended the call. It was my fourth promise that morning to take on additional work. My landscaping assistant, Lorne Lewins, was not going to be happy.
A sharp rap on Rose Cottage’s front door, accompanied by a flurry of barks, announced Lorne’s arrival. Usually, he texted me from the driveway. No point in getting the dog involved. But today, he must have gotten tired of waiting.
Arf-arf-arf. Arf-arf-arf. Arf-arf-arf.
Wincing, I headed for the door.
Boomer, the hyperactive terrier-cross I had inherited from one of those dead bodies, took advantage of every opportunity to prove his guard-dog credentials. Unlike those amateurish Bernese, Boomer would never allow long grass to get the upper paw. If necessary, he’d pummel it into submission with every fiber of his fourteen-pound body.
“I’ll be right there,” I called over the din.
In the tiny foyer, Boomer was bouncing up and down like a spring.
Arf-arf-arf. Arf-arf-arf. Arf-arf-arf.
I nudged him aside with my foot while opening the door. “Stop!” I demanded.
Boomer skidded to a halt, eying me with surprise.
I was even more surprised. That had never worked before.
Lorne grinned, bending to pat the terrier’s head while pulling a biscuit from his pocket. “Hiya, Boo-boo.”
Boomer snatched up the biscuit, managing to crunch furiously while simultaneously watching Lorne’s pocket for a possible top-up.
“Truck’s loaded,” Lorne said, straightening.
I glanced at my pickup parked in the driveway. Its Pepto-Bismol-pink doors were painted with clusters of oversized red roses. It always made me grin. My industrial-sized lawnmower was on board.
“Thanks for doing that,” I said, shooing Boomer back inside then locking the door. “Sorry I’m running late. I got four more calls from Ryker Fields’ clients this morning.”
“How many does that make?”
“I’ve lost count. Several dozen, though.”
Frowning, Lorne brushed a lock of tousled brown hair off his forehead. “Ryker should be careful. It’s cheaper to retain an existing client than gain a new one.”
I smiled at this truism from Lorne’s business-college studies. “Let’s take a detour past Ryker’s house. I’d like to check with him in person before snatching all his customers.”
We climbed into the truck and headed for the road that zig-zagged down the three-hundred-foot-high Escarpment hill and into the village. Dappled sunlight danced on the truck’s pink hood, filtered through the overhanging branches of chestnuts and maples. I rolled down the window to draw a deep breath of early-morning air. We still faced the hottest months of the summer with their parched gardens, but for now everything was green and fresh and lush. A pair of eastern bluebirds flitted across the road in front of us.
Ryker’s own truck was parked in the driveway of his suburban split-level home. The four-door shiny black pickup—with Fields Landscaping etched in green and gold on its doors—was normally polished to a mirror finish. Even his industrial mowers and the trailer he towed behind the truck were always spotless.
Not today. Someone had finger-painted Wash Me in the grime coating the truck’s back end. Not only that—one tire was flat. A sense of unease twisted my stomach. After a shared glance with Lorne, I headed for Ryker’s front door.
As I walked up the path to the house, a young woman stepped out, shutting the door behind her. Streaked blonde hair tumbled over her shoulders, her trendy blue jeans were torn in strips across the thighs, and her bow lips formed a pout. Most of the residents of Leafy Hollow were familiar to me, but I’d never seen this woman.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Verity Hawkes.” I extended a hand. “I was hoping to speak to Ryker. Is he home?”
“Oh,” she said, looking pained. Clasping her arms across her chest, she added, “I’m afraid Ryker’s not seeing anybody at the moment.”
I lowered my hand. “What do you mean, not seeing—”
“He’s not well,” she added hastily.
“I’m sorry to hear that. Has he seen a doctor?”
“It’s not that.” Biting her lip, she tossed a glance over her shoulder before leaning in, lowering her voice. “He’s…depressed.”
I was taken aback. I’d never known Ryker to be depressed. Puzzled, I shook my head. “I have to talk to him about h
is customers. Nothing personal. It would only take a moment.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.” Her expression was sorrowful, like a lion who had polished off the last of the leftover gazelle minutes before the arrival of a visiting, and hungry, pride.
I made to leave. Then the vertical blinds in Ryker’s front window twitched. A face flashed, then the blinds fell back.
“He’s right there.” I pointed to the window while surging forward. “I only need to talk to him for a minute.”
She gripped my arm to stop me. “I’ll give Ryker your message. Is there a number he can reach you at?”
“He knows my number. I told you, I’m Verity Hawkes. His clients are calling me. I’d like to know why.” Twisting my arm out of her grasp, I narrowed my eyes. “Who are you, by the way? If I’m allowed to ask.”
That was a bit snarky, but she deserved it.
“Didn’t I say? I’m Shelby—Ryker’s sister.”
I stared at her, dumbfounded. On the many occasions Ryker and I had lifted a beer together at the Tipsy Jay, the subject of a sister never came up. In fact, he said he was an only child, like me.
“Ryker doesn’t have a sister,” I said.
“Half-sister, if we’re splitting hairs.” She stepped back, holding up both hands. “Turns out our father”—she flexed her eyebrows—“got around.”
“Are you saying—”