by Rickie Blair
“On what?” Emy asked. “The sidewalk?”
Lorne had tilted his head. “Would that work?”
Ethan brought me back to the present by flipping off his baseball cap and dropping it on the table. His hair was shorn so short it was barely more than a suggestion. Scars traced his scalp. He looked like a character in a prison-break movie. When he slapped his hand on the table, I realized what was odd—he was missing a finger.
“What happened to your finger?” I blurted.
He frowned. “Lost it when I was a kid.”
“How did that—”
“Kids at school thought it was hilarious. Stumpy, they used to call me. And worse.” He resumed fiddling with the empty coffee cup. “Nine Finger was one of their favorites.”
At my confused look, he added, “James Bond?”
Ohh— I nodded, then my face flushed hot. “It’s none of my business, really.”
“Forget it.” He pushed the cup away then straightened in his chair. “You must wonder why I wanted to talk to you.”
“To be honest, I wanted to talk to you, too. About Ryker.”
“Yeah. Figured. Thing is—with Ryker the way he is, I have no work. I can’t claim unemployment insurance, because I was never on the payroll. Ryker called me in when he needed extra help.” He spread his hands.
I tried not to stare at his fingers. “So, you’re looking for work?”
“More or less.”
I sat back, beaming. This was the perfect development. Lorne and I needed help with Ryker’s clients. Ethan knew those customers and their requirements. He was the perfect hire.
At least, that’s what I thought. Until he opened his mouth again.
“You shouldn’t have taken those clients without talking to me first. It wasn’t right.” After crushing his coffee cup in one hand, he sent it sailing across the room toward the garbage can with a single, fluid motion.
The cup bounced off the top of the bin then landed on the floor. Ethan paid no notice.
“What are you talking about?”
“I should have had first pick. How did you know I wasn’t going into business for myself?”
“Were you planning to do that?”
“Maybe. But I can’t now, can I?”
“Why not?”
His voice rose. “Because you poached all my customers, didn’t you?”
As two of the harried parents swiveled their heads toward us, my spine stiffened. Coming Up Roses’ bright pink landscaping truck was parked only yards away. I couldn’t risk becoming an object of gossip. Or an online video. When you’re running a business, the last thing you want is to be pegged as a shrew. Assertive men are considered forceful, whereas assertive women are called—well, we know.
I forced a smile.
“Ethan. I understand why you thought that. But Ryker recommended my business to his customers. It wasn’t my idea.”
“Ryker did that?”
Since the look of astonishment on his face appeared genuine, I tried to dial back my irritation. “Perhaps he didn’t know about your plans.” I hesitated, wondering how to elicit the information I wanted. “Have you discussed it with Ryker since—”
“Since those two women got themselves topped in Strathcona?”
I nodded, choosing to ignore his colorful language.
He extended grubby fingers to fiddle with the sugar packets stacked by his elbow. “He won’t talk to me.”
“You don’t know what’s going on, then? With Ryker, I mean?”
Dropping the packets with a sigh, he slumped back in his chair. “No. But somethin’s not right. I’ve never seen him the way he is now. I wouldn’t be surprised if he packed it in.”
A wave of unease swept over me. “You’re talking about the business, right?”
“No.” He shook his head. “I meant…” He drew a finger across his throat.
I shuddered. Ethan Neuhaus was quite the ray of sunshine. I couldn’t imagine working with him every day. “Ryker would never do that.”
“I dunno. I read somewhere that—”
“Can we not talk about this, please?”
“Suit yourself.”
Sipping my coffee, I glanced around the restaurant, trying to collect my thoughts. Ethan’s disclosure made me even more determined to find out what had driven Ryker to distraction. I placed my cup on the table then leaned in. “Did Ryker ever mention that woman in Strathcona? The one he was supposedly dating?”
Ethan snorted. “No supposedly about it. They were definitely getting it on.”
“Then he did talk about her?”
He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Not exactly. He never told me about her. But he was leaving work early a couple times a week, and I know that’s where he went. I saw her address in the office. I knew it was her that got killed, soon as I heard the news on the radio.”
“If Ryker never mentioned her, how did you see her address?”
“He sent her flowers one day and charged it to the biz. I saw the invoice.”
This sounded like the Ryker I knew. He never boasted about his conquests. Despite appearances, I liked to think he was searching for someone to settle down with. For a while, I imagined it might be me.
But Jeff had been wrong. I never encouraged Ryker. Other than a few shared meals—dinner at Anonymous, the village’s most notorious eatery, came to mind—I was oblivious to his interest. Since arriving in Leafy Hollow, I’d only ever had eyes for Jeff. Ryker knew I was a lost cause. It didn’t bother him. He was an optimist.
However… What if my rejection had contributed to his depression? Tapping my fingers on the table, I dismissed that thought as ridiculous. I recalled what I told Jeff.
Much as I’d like to believe I’m irresistible, you know that can’t be true. He’s hiding something.
Narrowing my eyes, I regarded Ethan. “Do you think they had an argument?”
He hesitated, then leaned his elbows on the table, resting his chin on his hands. “They sure did.”
I sat back, startled. “What about?”
“She dumped him, didn’t she?”
“Did she? How do you know?”
“Because that’s when it started—this depression thing. He came back from Strathcona one day and threw equipment around his garage, kicked the tires on the truck, swore a bit. He was pissed off.”
“When was this?”
“I can’t recall, exactly. It mighta been on the day of the murders.”
My stomach clenching, I pushed my coffee cup away. “Did you tell the police about this?”
He shrugged. “Maybe.” At the look on my face, he added, “I don’t want trouble with the cops. Why shouldn’t I answer their questions? I’m not the one with the criminal record.”
“Oh, come on. Ryker was a juvenile. It doesn’t count.”
He shrugged again.
I pursed my lips, mulling this over. Jeff was fond of quoting dialogue from The Godfather. As Michael Corleone liked to say, keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.
At least, I think it was Michael Corleone. It could just as easily have been Kermit.
In any event, it was clear Ethan bore hostility toward Ryker. I suspected jealousy was the root of it. Whatever the reason, I wanted to keep an eye on Ethan Neuhaus.
Picking up my empty cup, I rose to my feet. “All that aside, Lorne and I do need help. Are you available? Usual rates.”
“Sure. When do you want me to start?”
“Today would be good. Meet us at the Blakelys’ place, on Concession Road.” I raised a hand in caution. “But this arrangement lasts only as long as Ryker doesn’t need you. When he’s ready to resume work, I’ll return all his customers.” I paused. “And employees.”
Without waiting to check Ethan’s reaction, I pivoted, heading for the exit. On my way past the recycling bins, I plucked his crumpled cup from the floor. I dumped it and my own in the receptacle before walking out the door.
Chapter Ten
Lorne was not surprised to hear I’d hired Ethan.
“He’s a good worker,” he said while unloading the mower from the back of my pickup, then bending to check the oil.
“Then you don’t mind?”
He gave me a surprised look. “Why would I? We need the help, he’s experienced, he knows Ryker’s clients—what’s to mind?”
“Ethan can be a little…moody.”
“Doesn’t bother me.”
“That’s great, then, because he’ll be here shortly. Meanwhile, I’ll check in with our new clients to ask about any special requirements.”
Lorne swiped a rag along the dipstick before replacing it on the side of the mower. “Ask about Ryker, you mean.”
“If the topic comes up,” I replied stiffly. “Why not?”
Lorne only grinned.
At the sound of a noisy vehicle, we turned our heads to see a rusty Camaro pull in beside my truck. Ethan emerged. He had to slam the driver’s door twice to get it to stay closed. Then he headed in our direction.
I waved at him before turning to deliver one last instruction to Lorne. “Don’t let Ethan tell you what to do. You’re in charge.”
Lorne shot me a quick salute before wheeling the mower toward the lawn. I climbed back into my truck. As I drove past Ethan, he looked straight at me. Neither of us was smiling.
The first house I pulled up to was a yellow brick split-level. Massive flowerpots flanking the front door were spilling over with weeds—matching the ones in the perennial border.
I paused by the pots to take a closer look at the tiny white flowers, then puffed out a breath. Garlic mustard. Great. An invasive plant that would take over the entire yard if left to propagate. The darn things shot up practically overnight. I glanced apprehensively at the giant maple soaring overhead. Garlic mustard was toxic to trilliums and trout lilies, two of my favorite wildflowers, but it could also affect maple tree roots.
I rapped on the door.
It was wrenched open by a flustered woman in yoga pants and T-shirt. Her fingers curled around the edge of the door—ready, I assumed, to slam it in my face. “What is it? I’m busy.”
“Fern Ripley? I’m Verity Hawkes,” I said quickly. “You called me about lawn and garden help?”
Her gaze swerved to the pink truck in her driveway. Then her eyes widened, her mouth forming a perfect O. She flung open the door.
“I’m so sorry, Verity. Yes, I definitely did. I didn’t mean to be rude, it’s just that—”
“Mom,” came a plaintive cry from inside.
“In a minute,” Fern yelled over her shoulder. “Verity—please come in.”
With a fixed smile, I stepped gingerly over the knapsacks and running shoes scattered across the floor. Empty pizza boxes were jammed haphazardly into a blue recycling bin. Stacks of mail and flyers competed for space on the hall table with a pile of tangled keys and two opened bags of gummy candies.
Sighing, Fern tried to clear a path. “I’m afraid we’re in a bit of a state today. My eight-year-old is sick, and he’s cranky. I stayed home with him, but—”
Rrrrrrrr. Rrrrrrrr. Rrrrrrrr.
She paused, her attention riveted by a vibrating cell phone on the cluttered hall table. “Sorry. My office keeps calling. Can’t do without me, apparently.”
There was a definite hint of irritation in her statement.
Fern snatched up the phone. “What is it now? Uh-huh. Can’t you— All right. Leave it on my desk. I’ll be in tomorrow.” Clicking off the call, she slid the cell phone into her pocket before realizing her yoga pants had no pockets. “Damn,” she muttered, bending to retrieve it from the floor.
“Mom,” came the voice again. “Mom.”
“I’ll be there in a minute,” she called through clenched teeth. “Verity, could you take a look at the yard by yourself? Whatever you can do to help, we’d appreciate it.”
“Absolutely.” If I was going to get any questions answered, I’d better ask them quickly. “Has Ryker been cutting your lawn for long?”
She wrinkled her nose while contemplating my question. “I don’t recall. Couple of years, maybe? His crew usually comes by when no one’s at home. They leave a monthly bill in the mailbox.”
“So you don’t talk to him often?”
“Now that you mention it, I don’t think I’ve ever talked to him. Except when I hired him, and that was over the phone. Is he ill? Is that why you’re filling in?”
“Sort of.” Clearly, Fern Ripley was not keeping abreast of village developments.
“Mom.” The voice was growing more petulant.
Fern shrugged apologetically. “I’m coming,” she called. “Well—”
“I’ll take a look around outside and be on my way.”
“Thanks.” Fern opened the door, and I walked through.
“Wait.” She pointed to the weed-filled flowerpots. “Could you put something in those on your next visit?”
“Flowers?”
“Anything,” she gushed before closing the door.
My next visit was marked on my list as Mr. and Mrs. Terence Stamp. I did a double-take. That couldn’t really be the man’s name, could it? I paused, trying to remember the late-night movies I’d watched as a child. How old was the real Terence Stamp?
I pressed the buzzer. While waiting, I admired the cheerful gathering of plaster gnomes on the bungalow’s front porch. Their colorful knitted caps had tassel cords tied under their chins, and name tags were wired around their ample waists. I bent to read the nearest ones.
Happy.
Sleepy.
Bashful—
The frantic yipping of small dogs on the other side of the door announced the imminent arrival of the homeowner. The door opened to reveal three long-haired Chihuahuas, dancing on their hind legs and yelping boisterously. They wore knitted vests—pink, yellow, and blue—with their names blazoned in white popcorn stitch. Bella, Bubbles, and Barney.
They were prancing around a wizened, stooped little man with the biggest hearing aid I’d ever seen. Big enough to stream Netflix, I suspected. The dogs continued to yip while the man—Terence Stamp, I assumed—stared at me with watery eyes, his fingers quivering on the doorknob.
I extended a hand. “Hello. I’m Verity Hawkes, Coming Up Roses Landscaping.” I raised my voice to be heard over the Chihuahuas. “I’m filling in for Ryker Fields.”
His hand continued to quiver on the doorknob.
“Who is it, Terence?” came a reedy voice.
The door was pried out of his grip to reveal an equally small, and equally stooped, woman. She glared.
I hoped this wasn’t Grumpy.
“Shut up, you silly animals,” she snapped.
Instantly, Bella, Bubbles, and Barney sat, tongues lolling, staring at her with rapt attention. As a fellow dog owner, I recognized that expression. Time for treats?
I began my spiel again. “Hello. I’m Verity Hawkes. I’m filling in—”
“I heard you the first time.” The woman—Mrs. Terence Stamp, I presumed—pointed a thumb at her husband. “He’s the one with the hearing aid.” Turning, she trudged indoors.
Terence stepped clear of the doorway. Not knowing what else to do, I walked in.
The living room I found myself in was beige and cramped. I stared helplessly about. Nearly every surface was covered with dog beds, dog toys, and dog clothes—on top of knitted potholders stacked on knitted cushions that were in turn stacked on knitted throws.
“Terence, clear a spot for Miss Verity,” the woman called over her shoulder while disappearing through a door that led to the back of the house. The dogs scampered after her.
Terence bent slowly to lift an armful of yarn and pointy knitting needles from the sofa. After dropping it on the carpet, he lowered himself into an armchair, then nodded at the sofa to indicate I should sit.
Perched gingerly on its edge, I smiled at him, trying to work up an explanation for my presence that wouldn’t shock this elderly couple.
Don’t mention the murder case, I thought. Be discreet.
Mrs. Stamp tottered back into the room, the dogs prancing around her feet. She held two aluminum cans, one in each hand. “Dr. Pepper?” she asked, brushing aside a well-thumbed copy of TV Guide to place the beverage on the coffee table.
“No, thanks. I really don’t have time to—”
The whoosh of a can being opened was my only answer.
“Thanks,” I said weakly, accepting the drink, then taking a fizzy sip. “How refreshing.”
Bubbles and Barney jumped onto the sofa, one on either side of me, where they balanced expertly on stacks of half-knitted sweaters. They eyed my Dr. Pepper with interest.
Mrs. Stamp opened the second can and gave it to Terence, who accepted it with a quivering hand. After a cautious swallow, he placed it on the table beside him.
Sipping my drink, I wondered how to introduce the topic of Ryker’s difficulties. Before I could formulate my first question, my hostess broke in.
“Now,” she said, settling herself into a recliner, then pushing a button to activate the chair. As her slippered feet rose in the air, she pinned me with a penetrating gaze. “What kind of trouble has that scamp Ryker Fields gotten himself into this time? The paper says he murdered two women.”
I nearly spurt Dr. Pepper out my nose. “Does it?”
“Well, not exactly.” She tapped her own, much shinier, nose. “They’re playing it close to the vest. But that’s the tittle-tattle around the village.”
I thumped my can down on the coffee table with a clunk. “I don’t believe it,” I said stoutly. “Ryker would never—”
She gave a flap of her hand. “Don’t get your back up, hon. I don’t believe it either. I’ve known Ryker for years—knew his mother, in fact, before…” She hesitated. “Well, no need to go into that. The truth is, I’ve been waiting for you to come by to cut our lawn.”
I would not be able to cut the Stamps’ postage-sized grass with my industrial mower. It wouldn’t make it up the narrow path without taking out the marigolds lining either side. I’d have to use something else—manicure scissors, maybe.
“I’ll take care of it,” I said.