by Rickie Blair
“That he had other children? That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“Ryker didn’t know?”
“None of us knew.”
“Then how—”
“It’s a long story,” she said with a shrug.
“I’ve got time.” Crossing my arms, I gave her what I hoped was a look that meant I wouldn’t back down. Amaze me, I thought.
And she did.
“You’ve heard of DNA testing?”
“Molecular biology? Naturally.” I lobbed glares at her while keeping one eye on the window blinds, hoping for another twitch.
“It’s always been a particular interest of mine. A while back, I paid for one of those online DNA tests. The company sent back my results along with an updated family tree. All Ryker’s relatives are on it. Including ones he never knew about. Like me.”
“You said relatives, plural. You and who else?”
“A cousin, right here in Leafy Hollow.” She spread her arms. “It’s exciting.”
Narrowing my eyes at her, I wondered why—if it was that exciting—Ryker was so depressed he couldn’t leave his house. As an only child, I’d always wished for a sister. Why would that discovery upset him?
“Then you’re not a Fields?”
“Oh, no. I’m a Wynne. Shelby Wynne.”
I assessed her appearance. Her eyes were deep blue, like Ryker’s, and there was a definite resemblance around the nose and mouth. “Are you here to…catch up?”
“Well…” She shrugged before pivoting to stand beside me, shoulder to shoulder, to join my scrutiny of the window blinds. “Of course, I’d be lying if I didn’t say the inheritance was also of interest.”
I gave her a sharp look. “What inheritance?”
She swiveled her head to face me, her eyebrows lifting in surprise. “Spirit of the North? Lawren Harris?”
At my blank look, she added, “Group of Seven?”
My earlier confusion was nothing compared to the fugue I found myself in now. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Our cousin? Perry Otis?”
“Still not—”
“Perry Otis was an old man who lived in the village. He was Ryker’s—excuse me, our—cousin. He died of a heart attack and left Ryker the painting. It’s quite famous, I understand.”
“Perry… Perry…” I puzzled it out. “Wait—did he live on Tulip Crescent? In that old brick farmhouse that was remodeled? The one you can’t see from the road because it’s set so far back?”
She nodded. “That’s the one.”
Now it made sense. I remembered Ryker grumbling about an elderly cousin who always expected his lawn cut and flower beds weeded without any money changing hands. But come to think of it, he did say this cousin had some painting he promised would be Ryker’s one day. I got the impression Ryker didn’t care about it much. Or know its value.
Unlike his half-sister.
“It’s worth a lot of money,” she confided. “High six figures, according to Nigel Hemsworth.”
My eyebrows lifted in astonishment. Nigel Hemsworth was the village’s art dealer. I’d often seen him behind the counter of Hemsworth’s Fine Art and Collectibles during the slow winter months, using artist’s chalk to color in mass-produced pen-and-ink drawings of local landmarks. His Village Scenes in Winter series—framed and signed—was particularly popular with tourists. Whenever he sold “the last one,” he’d pop another up in the shop’s window minutes after the buyer departed. Villagers turned a blind eye.
Nigel did have a keen eye for real art, though. His gallery was filled with pricy offerings that drew patrons from Strathcona and even farther, according to Emy Dionne.
Emy was my best friend—and Lorne’s beloved. She owned the 5X Bakery on Main Street, a few doors down from Hemsworth’s. Once, while munching on one of her prize-winning lavender-lemon scones, I had watched Nigel stroll along the sidewalk holding a large rectangle wrapped in brown paper. “Where does he get them all from?” I asked her.
“Estate sales, mostly,” she had replied. “That’s what I heard.”
But Ryker had never mentioned Nigel Hemsworth to me. I didn’t know they were even acquainted.
After a last glance at Ryker’s front window and its motionless blinds, I turned away. “I have to get going.”
“So long.” Shelby stayed at her post. “I’ll give Ryker your message.”
“One thing, though, if you don’t mind?”
She inclined her head, her pout even more pronounced.
I took that as permission to go ahead. “If Perry Otis has been dead for weeks, why hasn’t Ryker claimed that painting yet?”
She straightened her head, looking annoyed.
I met her gaze, wondering vaguely if a Krav Maga elbow strike would loosen her tongue. Probably not a good idea, I decided. Defensive purposes only, I heard my aunt warn.
“Everything’s stalled in probate,” Shelby said finally. “And now that there’s a new heir”—she scraped back her streaked blonde hair with one hand—“the lawyers have to start the process all over again.”
Nodding to show I understood—though I most definitely did not—I strolled back to my truck. Lorne was leaning against the cab, long legs crossed, humming softly under his breath. “Well?” he asked as I opened the driver’s door.
“You’re never going to believe this,” I muttered. While we drove away, I passed on Shelby’s story.
Lorne was suitably impressed. “Whoa. That’s intense.”
“It certainly is.” I was silent the rest of the way to our first appointment of the day, because I was busily mulling over Shelby’s parting words. Now that there’s a new heir…
If Perry left the painting to Ryker, why would Shelby think she was entitled to a share? There must be something unusual about Perry’s will. I was determined to find out what that strange feature might be. And whether it had anything to do with Ryker’s depression.
It was none of my business, of course. But when had that ever stopped me?
Chapter Three
“Verity—are you listening?”
“Huh?” I swiveled my head to face Lorne in the front seat. “Did you say something?”
Shaking his head, he shot me a grin. “The same thing I’ve been saying for the past two miles. If you take on any more of Ryker’s clients, we’re going to need help.”
I returned my attention to the gravel road we were bumping over. “Sorry. My mind was elsewhere. You’re right. Let’s put our heads together later to think of someone.”
My worries about how I’d manage extra clients had been knocked right out of my head by Shelby’s news. Mulling it over while driving to our first job of the day, I recalled that Thérèse Dionne—the village’s formidable chief librarian and Emy’s mother—had mentioned the demise of Perry Otis a few weeks earlier.
At the time, I was devouring my usual mid-morning scone and coffee at the 5X. The update on Perry Otis was part of Thérèse’s comprehensive weekly rundown of deaths in the village. If I didn’t know her, I might have found that a macabre interest. But Thérèse prided herself on keeping up with local events, and Emy liked to humor her. Normally, I paid no attention. The only reason I’d even paused in my appreciation of the Scone of the Day—a delectable bacon-toffee—was because I recognized, not Perry’s name, but the street address of his property—Tulip Crescent.
It’s one of the pitfalls of mowing lawns for a living. We tend to identify clients as “the two-acre with the pond,” or “that blasted hawthorn hedge,” or, in one lamentable instance, “Crabgrass Central.”
So, I had looked up with interest to ask, “Huge perennial borders, old pear orchard, empty paddock that formerly housed goats?”
Thérèse had eyed me curiously, then nodded before resuming her news bulletin.
I had filed it away for future reference. I’d often admired Perry’s hobby farm—as much of it as you could see from the road, at least—while mentally adding up the fees I could
charge to maintain it. If Ryker ever got tired of doing it for free, that is.
So, when the road sign for Tulip Crescent appeared ahead, I couldn’t resist.
“Time for another detour,” I told Lorne, swerving the Coming Up Roses truck onto Tulip Crescent with a spray of gravel. Lorne braced himself with a hand on the dashboard but said nothing. After months of working with me, he’d learned to zig when I zagged.
We followed Perry Otis’s curving driveway past rows of gnarled pear trees, a dilapidated wooden fence surrounding a deserted paddock, and up over a hill. Tulip Crescent had dropped out of sight behind us before we saw the house.
It was worth waiting for.
I halted the truck to take in the scene. “Ryker said his cousin remodeled an old farmhouse, but I never envisioned this.”
“Whoa,” Lorne said with his usual loquaciousness.
The three-story brick-and-limestone farmhouse had been lovingly restored, with new windows, cedar shake roof, and wraparound wooden porch. It would have been impressive all by itself.
But off to the right, a glass-walled addition added fifty feet to the frontage, with a massive stone fireplace and chimney at the far end. The addition was only one story but soared to a cathedral ceiling twenty feet high. Through its glass walls, we saw a huge harvest table inside, as well as a magnificent view of the rolling fields beyond.
The renovation didn’t end there. On the left side of the farmhouse, at the back corner, rose a blindingly white four-story octagonal structure that visually balanced the other addition. The architect must have intended it as an echo of an old-style grain silo—a tribute to an earlier era. Architects were fond of making statements like that. I doubted anything as mundane as corn had ever passed its threshold, though.
I pointed it out to Lorne. “What did Perry keep in there?”
“Dunno. He must have had a lot of cash to build this, though. Maybe there’s a vault inside.”
“What did he do for a living?”
Lorne shrugged. “He was really old, that’s all I know.”
“Speaking of old”—I executed a flawless three-point turn, then headed back to the road—“we’d better get going or Molly will wonder what happened to us.”
At the end of Perry’s driveway, I paused to read the For Sale sign I’d whooshed past without stopping on our way in. With surprise, I noted the realtor’s name.
Nigel Hemsworth, the village art dealer.
Retired schoolteacher Molly Maxwell was standing outside her aluminum-sided bungalow when we pulled up. No surprise there. In the fine weather, her shock of white hair was usually bent over one of the perennial borders, her arthritic hands ripping out any weeds that had the nerve to take root. As far as Molly was concerned, “taking it easy” was for other folks.
Unfortunately, her eyesight was so bad that she often pulled out the wrong plants. Her Coke-bottle glasses were the thickest I’d ever seen, but they didn’t seem to help much.
Today, her arthritic hands were planted on the hips of khaki pants that hung baggily on her rail-thin frame, and she was scowling down at the front flower bed.
“Uh-oh,” I said, turning off the engine and giving Lorne a quick glance.
While he unloaded the mower from the back of the truck, I trotted across the lawn, dreading what I’d find. Had Molly dug up the hydrangeas again?
She looked up, squinting through her glasses, as I approached. “Oh, Verity. It’s you.” She pointed to the flower bed. “Damn vandals. Look what they’ve done now.”
My heart sank as I followed her gnarled finger. The hydrangeas were fine. But the dozens of vincas and geraniums I’d planted so carefully a few days earlier had been yanked out of the ground and left to shrivel in the sun.
I bent to pick up a geranium and examine its dried roots. “Maybe we can save a few,” I said, straightening with the plant trailing from my hand. “How long have they been like this?”
Her lips twisted. “I don’t know. I was visiting my sister in Strathcona, and I haven’t been home for days. I found them this morning.” She hoisted a tattered plant onto the toe of her elastic-laced running shoe then held it out. It hung limply over her foot. “I think they’re goners, don’t you?”
I had to admit, it didn’t look good. I dropped the ruined geranium onto the grass. It was beyond me why anyone would vandalize an elderly woman’s garden. What really rankled was the fact they’d done it twice. It was only a week since the last time Molly’s flowers had been destroyed.
By someone other than her, that is.
“Why would anyone do this?” she asked, rocking on her running shoes while folding her arms and glaring at the damage. “Smart-arses.”
Lorne, who had come up silently on the grass behind me, snickered at this outburst. I whacked him with an elbow, and he stifled it.
“Are we replacing these?” he asked in an earnest tone.
“Is there any point?” Molly asked. Furiously, she unfurled her arms then inclined her head to the side yard. “That’s not all. Take a look at this.”
I followed her around the corner of the house, where a metal pipe rose from the ground to connect with the gas meter. My eyes widened.
Orange paint was sprayed over the meter and across the wall’s aluminum siding.
“Did this happen at the same time?”
“I guess.”
“What did your daughter and son-in-law say?”
“I haven’t told them.” Molly thinned her lips. “I can’t.”
Molly’s bungalow was on the outskirts of the village, where building lots were large. The nearest property line was a hundred feet away. Someone could easily skulk around in the middle of the night without being seen.
Molly had once confided to me over coffee in her kitchen that her children wanted her to move into the main village. “‘You could buy one of those nice condos, Mom,’” she had mimicked in a sing-song voice—followed by a healthy snort. “Nice, my arse. Those condos have no garden, no view, no nothing. And what about Marmalade?” She had pointed to the overweight orange tom splayed out on her kitchen floor, his tail languidly swishing as he kept his half-closed eyes fixed on the refrigerator door. “He’s so athletic. He’d never adjust to an indoor life.”
I was sure Marmalade would adjust just fine as long as Molly kept up a steady stream of his favorite home-cooked chicken snacks, but I had known better than to point that out.
Now, studying the orange paint, I said, “Maybe your kids are right, Molly. Maybe it’s time to move.”
She heaved a sigh. “The other day some busybody left a note in my mailbox, trying to convince me to list this old house.” Plunging her hand into the pocket of her fleece vest, she pulled out a business card and squinted at it through her glasses, brow furrowed, before handing it to me. “Do me a favor, Verity. Find out if they’re on the level? The amount they mentioned in the note seems too good to be true.”
Before thrusting it into my pocket, I scrutinized the gold printing on the heavy white card. Grace Anderson. It wasn’t a name I recognized.
“I’ll see what I can find out. Meanwhile, Molly”—I pointed to the graffiti—“this is getting out of hand. You need to call the police.”
“No.” Her tone was adamant. “Please, just replace these plants before the weekend. Bridget’s bringing the grandkids to visit on Saturday. I don’t want them to see this.”
“What about the paint? Won’t they see that?”
“They won’t come back here. Besides, those kids hardly ever look up from their phones.”
“I don’t feel right about this. There must be something—”
Lorne shook my arm. “Verity.”
I could tell he was itching to propose a course of action. I don’t know what I expected in the way of suggestions. A motion-activated floodlight? New locks? In hindsight, I should have known better. Instead, I walked right into it.
“Do you have an idea?” I asked.
“We can’t leave Molly on her own withou
t knowing who’s responsible for this,” he said.
“Well, sure. But I don’t see how—”
“We need to stake out the property overnight to see who turns up.”
I’d known Lorne long enough to realize his solemn expression hid a more frivolous motive—the man simply loved to do surveillance. According to Emy, Lorne had watched The Guns of Navarone so many times he knew the dialogue by heart. It took only the slightest suggestion of a reconnaissance mission for him to break out the balaclavas, eye black, and synchronized watches. Most of the time, it was a fairly harmless hobby.
Except when I got dragged into it.
“Is that really—”
“Oh, could you?” Molly clasped her hands in front of her chest. “I would appreciate it so much.”
How can you say no to an eighty-something woman sporting braces on both knees? But someone had to be the adult. I took a deep breath to summon my reserves. “I really don’t think—”
Molly clasped Lorne’s arm. “I’ll make sandwiches for your stakeout.”
He patted her hand. “Thanks.”
“Ham and cheese or egg salad?”
“Well—”
“Stop,” I said.
They turned to look at me.
“We can’t—”
“Verity,” Lorne said, puffing out his chest. “You don’t have to come. I can do this alone.”
Molly shot him a beatific smile while patting his arm. “Thanks, Lorne.”
I heaved a sigh. I know when I’m beat.
“Okay. I’ll replace the damaged flowers. Then…” I lifted my hands with a shrug and a sigh. “We’ll stake out the place.”
Later, while tossing dead vincas into a wheelbarrow, I berated Lorne. “What have you gotten us into this time? I don’t want to spend hours cramped and uncomfortable in Emy’s Fiat, wearing night goggles, waiting for plant rustlers to show up.”
Lorne glanced thoughtfully at our surroundings, a limp geranium trailing from his gloved hand. “Oh, we can’t use the Fiat.”
“What do you mean? My truck is too conspicuous.”
He swept an arm at the road. “There’s nowhere to hide a vehicle.” Narrowing his eyes, he assessed the scene. “There. That clump of bushes by the rhododendrons. That will be perfect.”