Picture Imperfect

by Rickie Blair

  Nigel glared after him. With a sour expression, he turned to the nearest observers, who hurriedly looked away. “Having fun?” he asked through clenched teeth before seeking out the nearest waiter, grabbing a wine glass, and downing it.

  Behind me, Emy sucked in a breath.

  “Do you know that man in the blue linen jacket?” I asked.

  “That’s Isaac Damien. He hasn’t been back to Leafy Hollow for years. Not since the court case.”

  My attention was instantly awakened. “What court case?”

  “Ask me later. Look—she’s back.”

  I turned my head. Shelby stood in the doorway, her gaze fixed on Spirit while she wolfed down a lobster crostini. We weren’t the only ones to notice her. From the other side of the room, Nigel jerked his head up, pinning Shelby with a murderous look.

  “Come on,” I said. “Let’s talk to her before Nigel throws her out.”

  Shelby had shoved a second crostini into her mouth and was busy chewing when we approached.

  “Shelby, hello—just the person I wanted to see,” I said cheerily.

  “Mmmfffph,” she replied, holding two fingers over her mouth.

  “I’d like to introduce my friend, Emy Dionne. Emy owns that wonderful bakery on Main Street.”

  Emy held out a hand. “Pleased to meet you. Ryker and I have been friends since high school. I’m delighted about the addition to his family. He must be thrilled.”

  Emy’s hand quivered in midair while Shelby stared at her. I knew that Emy’s gymnast physique allowed her to hold out that hand forever, if necessary.

  Eventually, Shelby surrendered. Shifting her wine glass to her left hand, she clasped Emy’s. “I’m afraid Ryker hasn’t mentioned your name,” she said coolly.

  “Well—” Emy notched up her smile a beam or two. “He’s been occupied.” She shook Shelby’s hand with a sympathetic look. “It must be hard for you, finding a long-lost brother and having to face…well, you know.” She shrugged sadly. “Verity and I were hoping to take you for a drink. The Tipsy Jay, on Main Street, is one of Ryker’s favorites. And it’s trivia night.” She smiled again. “Please say you’ll come. It’ll take your mind off things.”

  Shelby stared.

  After a moment’s silence, Emy added, with a rather desperate air, “Our treat.”

  Shelby shook her head. “I can’t leave Ryker alone that long.”

  “He could come, too,” I blurted. “Ryker’s terrific with sports trivia. That’s always been our weakest area. We could use his help.”

  With a forced smile, Shelby swept past us.

  “Our weakest area?” Emy hissed in my ear. “What were you thinking?”

  “Sorry,” I replied dejectedly. “We didn’t exactly hit it off, did we?”

  She waved a dismissive hand. “Let’s check out trivia night anyway. We could use the distraction. Why don’t you text Jeff to see if he’s available?”

  “He’s working tonight.” I sighed, remembering our last conversation.

  “Never mind.” Emy squeezed my arm. “Everything will work out for the best.”

  As we headed for the door, I glanced over my shoulder at Shelby, who was standing in front of the Lawren Harris painting. She sipped her wine without taking her eyes from the canvas. She appeared to be mesmerized by it.

  Chapter Eight

  Shelby Wynne froze as an owl hooted overhead. The branches above her swayed as the raptor swooped out of the spruce trees, silhouetted against the full moon. Something unseen chattered in response. A chill slithered down her back. How could a village this close to the highway shelter so much wildlife?

  With a shiver, she renewed her scrutiny—of Perry Otis’s farmhouse in general, and the open casement window above the kitchen counter in particular. Hours earlier, during the evening’s event, that window had been open. She had hoped no one would think to close it. They hadn’t. Even from across the lawn, she saw moonlight glinting off the open pane of glass.

  While roaming through the house, she had noticed something else about that window. It was not hooked up to the electronic security system, possibly because it was so small. Which made it ideal.

  The guests had left hours earlier, followed by the caterers. Nigel Hemsworth had been the last to leave the farmhouse, shutting off the lights before he drove away in his Mercedes convertible.

  Since then, she’d been arguing with herself. Perhaps this was a bad plan. But the alternative—waiting months for a bevy of high-priced lawyers to decide if she was entitled to a share of Ryker’s estate—was even less appealing. What if they said no?

  Whereas, if she took the painting now and squirreled it away—and she had the perfect hiding spot for it—Ryker would merely file an insurance claim. Which she would also share. Really, it was a win-win.

  And tonight was perfect for what she had in mind.

  So many people in and out of the house in the past twenty-four hours.

  So many suspects.

  So much blame to go around.

  It was a small window, true—but she was slim. She could manage it. She stepped out from under the spruce trees then walked across the lawn, her running shoes silent on the grass, until she was right under the window.

  There she paused, brow furrowed, reevaluating her goal.

  The window was eight feet above the ground. She’d forgotten to allow for the basement portion of the wall. Cursing under her breath, she cast about for something to stand on, then spotted a rain barrel under a downspout at the corner.

  It was half full. She grunted as she pushed it over, watching water course across the lawn. Once the barrel was empty, she dragged it back to the window, tipped it so that the base faced up, then positioned it directly under the window.

  Once that was done, she scrambled onto the top, balancing carefully to prevent the empty barrel from tipping, and reached for the window. She pulled the casement all the way open.

  It was more difficult than she’d expected to slide through on her belly. The edges of the window frame scraped gashes on her arms and legs, despite her yoga pants and hoodie. Worse, her thrashing legs tipped the barrel over halfway through the maneuver, leaving her bottom half hanging in midair.

  Twisting her head in a pointless attempt to see the toppled barrel, she cursed again.

  Too late to turn back. Inching forward, she squeezed through. Then, with a twist, she jackknifed her legs and swung them around.

  Sitting on the counter, she glanced through the double kitchen doors into the main portion of the house.

  She sucked in a breath. There it was—visible through the entrance to the Silo on the other side of the great room—the painting she’d come to claim. The spotlights were off now, but enough moonlight came through the skylight that she could pick out its gilt frame.

  Pride surged in her chest. Why shouldn’t she have the painting? It was all in the family.

  Turning her head, she evaluated the alarm keypad by the back door. It was flashing green, meaning she’d correctly assessed the setup. The open window she’d wiggled through was not part of the security system. No one knew she was here.

  She did not notice a blinking red light on the massive refrigerator across the room.

  That was her first mistake.

  Smiling, Shelby fingered the folded box cutter in her pocket. It was sharp—sharp enough to cut through canvas. Then she jumped off the counter, landing nimbly on both feet.

  That was her second.

  Searing, stabbing pain shot up her legs.

  For an instant, she froze, her breath caught in her throat. Then her shrieks echoed off the walls of the empty kitchen.

  After a few moments, Shelby realized she might have overreacted. She stopped screaming.

  She wiggled her left foot and gasped in pain. But this time, she realized the discomfort was not localized. Instead, it was spread across the soles of both feet. She tried to lift one foot off the floor.

  Nothing happened. It was stuck to the tiles.
<
br />   She tried the other foot. Same thing.

  The curses that echoed off the marble island and the slate backsplashes did not ease her pain, but they were creative. She had learned them from four foster brothers whose practical jokes made her childhood a misery. Like the plastic wrap stretched over the toilet in the middle of the night. The fake tarantula on her pillow. The candles with a firecracker inside. She could still hear their peals of laughter. It was her own fault, they said, because she was a sucker. A pushover. A dupe.

  Therefore, she knew what had just happened to her in Perry Otis’s kitchen.

  As a child, she’d been unable to combat cruel tricks. But she was older now. And nobody’s dupe.

  Gingerly, she pulled a penlight from her pocket, then directed the beam to the floor at her feet. A portion of tile about three feet square was darker than the rest.

  Hanging on to the counter with one hand, she slowly sank to the ground and reached out her other hand. The floor was spread with something so sticky that her fingers came away with a sucking noise—leaving a sliver of skin behind. Without thinking, she raised her traumatized fingers to her mouth to suck on them. Which left them stuck to her lips.

  She tugged her fingers from her mouth, tears springing to her eyes.

  Bloody hell. Somebody would pay for this.

  Rising, Shelby pulled up one foot as hard as she could, until her running shoe cleared the floor with a rebound that sent her hurtling backward, causing spasms of pain as her other foot yanked free.

  She lay on the ground, the penlight gripped in her hand, not moving for several moments. Then she turned the beam on the patch of floor she’d escaped. There was something else on the tiles—roofing nails, stuck in the glue with their sharp tips sticking upright.

  The floor under the counter window was covered with them—except for two size-six sections. Those missing tacks were stuck into the rubber soles of her running shoes.

  It took fifteen minutes to pry each tack loose with the blade of her boxcutter and drop them on the floor. Even though each wound was tiny, her feet were on fire. It was lucky she’d kept her shoes on. In stocking feet, she would have been in agony.

  Shelby stood, filling her lungs with determination, then limped through the kitchen door toward her objective. It would take more than dirty tricks to deter her from her goal.

  Whrrrrrr.

  At the sound of a siren outside, her head jerked around and her stomach turned over.

  Whrrrrrr.

  It was getting louder.

  Coming closer.

  It shut off, directly outside the farmhouse.

  Wildly, she glanced around, the penlight’s beam bouncing off the cabinets as she dashed for the counter, hopping from foot to foot.

  Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow.

  Flashing blue lights beamed through the foyer’s sidelights and reflected off the walls near the kitchen.

  Car doors slammed.

  Shelby leapt onto the kitchen counter and slid her head and arms, up to the shoulders, through the window.

  Then she remembered the missing rain barrel.

  In the driveway, another vehicle pulled up, and another door slammed.

  She shimmied through the window, gasping in pain as she forced her torso through. Then, bending from the waist with her palms flat against the brick wall below her, she dove for the ground.

  She landed with an oof of expelled breath and a sharp pain in one elbow. Within seconds, she was on her feet. A glance over her shoulder as she hopped for the cover of the spruce trees showed a third car pulling up beside the house.

  She ducked under the branches, headed for the path that led back to the village, bouncing from foot to foot, letting only her toes hit the ground.

  Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow.

  Shelby clenched her teeth as she traveled the spruce-needled path.

  This wasn’t over.

  On the wraparound porch of Perry Otis’s farmhouse, two policemen were discussing the nocturnal alarm with Nigel Hemsworth, whose pale blue convertible had pulled up on the street behind their cruiser.

  “Thanks for your quick response. I really appreciate it,” Nigel said, brandishing a jingling key chain. “I can take it from here.”

  “We should check the interior before we leave,” said one of the officers.

  “It’s not necessary. The front door’s closed and locked. It was a false alarm.”

  The cop shrugged. “Sorry. It’s routine.”

  “Of course.” Smiling, Nigel bent to the lock then opened the front door.

  While one officer waited on the porch, the other followed Nigel into the foyer, pausing to look around and say, “Nice house.”

  “It’s for sale—make us an offer,” Nigel countered.

  The officer only chuckled.

  Nigel led him through the great room, followed by a quick circuit of the Silo. “Nothing’s been disturbed,” he said.

  “Is this the picture everybody’s making such a fuss over?” the officer asked, peering at Spirit of the North.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Nigel made no move toward the light switch, which would have enabled a closer look. Instead, he gestured to the exit. “Shall we?”

  On their way out, Nigel paused by the kitchen door, his bulky frame blocking the officer’s view into that room. “Thanks again, officer. I’ll re-arm the alarm system before I leave.”

  Once the police cruisers had disappeared up the driveway and over the hill, Nigel retrieved the knapsack he’d dropped in the foyer. Pulling out a bottle of solvent and a roll of painter’s rags, he headed for the kitchen.

  An hour later, he packed up the last of his cleaning supplies then slung the knapsack over his shoulder. Turning on the outdoor lights, he went out the kitchen’s French doors onto the patio.

  After replacing the rain barrel by the side of the house, Nigel pulled a flashlight from his knapsack. He followed footprints in the sodden grass that led to a clump of spruce trees on the edge of the property. He shone his light toward the path behind them.

  It was deserted.

  He was alone, except for an owl that hooted as it whooshed out of the branches.

  At his feet, an object gleamed in the glare of the flashlight. He stooped to pick it up, then rose, balancing it on the palm of his hand.

  It was a boxcutter. The folding kind. Tightly closed.

  Grinning, he tossed it in the air, catching it on the way down, then stowed it in his knapsack before heading back into the house, rearming the alarm system, and leaving for home.

  Chapter Nine

  Jeff was asleep when I tiptoed out of Rose Cottage the next morning. He’d come home late the night before, and I didn’t want to disturb him. “Shhh,” I told Boomer as I let him out the kitchen door. “Jeff will walk you when he gets up. If you’re a good boy, you might even get bacon.”

  Boomer’s ears pricked up at the mention of his favorite treat, and he pawed excitedly at my leg. “Later,” I said. “Not now.” His ears sagged—until he caught sight of a cheeky squirrel. While he tore off in pursuit, I tugged my cardigan tighter and sucked in a deep breath of brisk morning air. In the distance, steam rose from the purple-hazed woodlands of Pine Hill Valley. At my feet, General Chang—the scruffy, one-eyed tomcat who’d insinuated himself into Rose Cottage days after my arrival—snaked around my legs, purring loudly. Thus far, it was a perfect day.

  Naturally, it couldn’t last.

  Ethan Neuhaus, one of Ryker’s employees, had asked to talk to me. He suggested the Tim Hortons donut shop on the highway, and I agreed to meet him there before my first job of the day. I had no idea what Ethan wanted, but I hoped he’d be able to shed some light on Ryker’s strange behavior. Such as why he refused to provide an alibi for the Strathcona murders.

  When I parked the Coming Up Roses truck in front of the restaurant’s plate glass window, Ethan was sitting inside, nursing a coffee. He wore a baseball cap, head hung low. On my way to the entrance, I tapped on the glass. Ethan looked up then ga
ve me a desultory wave.

  The Tim Hortons outlet was on a corner where two four-lane highways intersected a mile from the village. It was nestled in a commercial setup that included rows of gas pumps, parking for long-haul trucks, a car wash, and a crowded convenience store. Tim’s shared its glass-walled building with a hamburger outlet, whose industrial-sized vents blew the unmistakable smell of grease through the parking lot. Inside, brightly colored chairs were permanently attached to matching tables. They were not comfortable. The entire restaurant was designed to encourage rapid consumption and equally rapid departure. It seemed an odd choice for a first encounter—unless Ethan didn’t want our meeting witnessed by villagers.

  There were certainly none of those lined up at the Tim’s counter. Instead, the staff hustled to serve harried parents and their ice cream-coated children, tired truckers with tanned arms, and young men and women in sturdy hiking boots.

  I picked up a double-double coffee at the counter, then made my way over to Ethan and slid into a chair opposite him. Ethan was hunched over the table, his stubby, tanned fingers fiddling with an empty paper cup. There seemed to be something odd about his hands. I couldn’t quite make out what, other than his nails were broken and filthy. Obviously, this was a man who worked with his hands and didn’t much care what they looked like.

  Or maybe it was simply a sign he was unattached. Emy would never have let Lorne’s nails get to that state.

  “Hi,” I said.

  He merely grunted.

  While waiting for Ethan to get to the point, I studied his nails again, recalling Emy nagging Lorne to “drop by Zoe’s and get a manicure, for heaven’s sake.”

  “I can’t go in there,” he had replied. “That’s for girls.”

  “Girls?” The inflection in her voice had been unmistakable.

  “Women—I meant women,” Lorne blurted, with a side-eyed glance at me.

  In response, I had displayed my own, occasionally manicured fingers and blown on them to mimic nail polish drying.

  “Can’t I file them or something?” Lorne whined.