Picture Imperfect

by Rickie Blair

  “Terence likes to do it.” Mrs. Stamp nodded at her husband, who was warily negotiating a second sip of his Dr. Pepper. “We have a nice manual mower in the shed out back.” She lowered her voice. “But sometimes it’s too much for him.”

  “I understand.”

  “So—back to Ryker.” She tilted her head expectantly. “What’s the latest?”

  “To be honest, Mrs. Stamp—”

  Another flap of her hand. “Please, hon. Call me Pearl.”

  I nodded. “Pearl. To be honest, I was hoping to ask you about Ryker. Was he acting strangely the last time you saw him?”

  She pursed her lips. “Now that you mention it—he always drops in for a Dr. Pepper after he’s finished with our lawn. Last time, he seemed distracted. Didn’t even finish it. I thought to myself—” She tapped her nose again. “Financial problems.” She flexed non-existent eyebrows. “So I got out a little of my knitting money and offered to pay him.”

  “Don’t you usually pay him?”

  She shook her head. “Ryker never takes a penny. He bundles up the recycling for me, too. He refused payment that time as well. Then he left. Terence and I had no idea anything was wrong until we read that story in the paper.”

  She stared out the window, wrinkled fingers gripping the arms of the recliner. Bella jumped onto her lap, and Pearl absently caressed the dog’s fur. Bubbles and Barney were silent, heads tilted as they watched her from their knitted perches. The only sound in the room was the soft fizzing of the opened cans.

  Pearl shook her head vigorously before refocusing her gaze on me. “We’ll pay you, of course, Verity. Don’t worry about that.”

  I smiled, making a mental note not to take her money. “We can talk about it later.” I lifted my Dr. Pepper for a sip. “Why do you think Ryker’s a scamp?”

  “Oh, I meant it in a good way. It’s his effect on women. You must have noticed it—being such a good-looking young woman yourself, I mean.” She chuckled. “He can’t help flirting. Honestly, he even does it with me.”

  “Did you know he was mentioned in Perry Otis’s will? The man who lived in that renovated farmhouse on Tulip Crescent? He left Ryker a valuable painting by Lawren Harris.”

  Pearl nodded thoughtfully. “I heard about that. But it wasn’t just one painting. I heard Perry left Ryker his entire collection.”

  I recalled the dozens of paintings hanging on the walls at the open house. “Are they all as valuable as Spirit of the North?”

  “Oh, don’t ask me, dear. All I know is that Perry spent a lot of money over the years building that collection. It used to drive his wife to distraction, rest her soul. They never had any children, and he mortgaged their home to buy art in the early days. Once he struck it rich, it only got worse. He wanted to be considered a serious collector. A supporter of the arts, if you know what I mean.” Pearl rolled her eyes. “It really went to his head. It got so he barely acknowledged Terence and me if we met him in the village. Imagine.” She shook her head. “After knowing us for so many years.”

  “How did he strike it rich?”

  “I don’t really know. Always assumed it was a business thing.”

  “Where did he buy his artwork?”

  “Most of it right here in the village. At Nigel Hemsworth’s shop.”

  I mulled this over. “If Perry Otis was a serious collector, why did he leave his paintings to Ryker? He’s not interested in art. Why not leave those paintings to a museum or something?”

  “Well. I’m not one to gossip—”

  We both chuckled at this.

  “But I think Nigel encouraged it. He knew Ryker was a cousin of Perry’s, and there were no other relatives, so he suggested Perry leave the collection to him. I think”—Pearl leaned in, patting her nose—“that Nigel figured Ryker’s first move would be to sell the paintings, and he could swoop in and pick up the commission.”

  “That seems devious.”

  “Maybe so, but I wouldn’t put it past him.” She frowned. “Nigel would simply call that good business practice.” She glanced at her husband, who had slumped sideways in his chair. His mouth was open, and he was snoring. “Time for Terence’s nap.”

  Pearl walked me to the front door.

  “Drop in again, Verity. I hope you’ll keep me up to date on your investigation.”

  “I’m not investigating—”

  Another flap of her hand. “Of course you’re not.” She winked broadly before shutting the door.

  Chapter Eleven

  Saturday morning found me sitting at a pastry-laden table on the sidewalk outside the 5X, helping with Emy’s display at the Go for the Juggler street performers’ festival. As I took up my post under her gaily striped umbrella, I promised myself not to think about Ryker’s troubles. Unfortunately, my pledge to take a break from sleuthing didn’t last long.

  The day started well. Emy insisted I wear a black T-shirt with the logo, 5X Bakery—Where Diets Come to Die, printed in gold on the front. I added a bright pink button with my own logo, Coming Up Roses—We Aim to Weed, in a prominent position.

  Although “prominent” on my chest wasn’t saying much. I recalled the platinum blonde who snubbed me at Nigel’s open house. She would have made an excellent display board. I wondered again if she was the elusive Grace Anderson. The blonde had denied it, but that could have been a lie.

  Stop it, I thought. You’re here to help Emy.

  Main Street was closed to traffic for the day so that buskers could perform on the pavement. Gymnasts, jugglers, clowns, and musicians charmed their audiences—especially the children, who watched with rapt attention on their painted faces.

  The crowds ebbed and flowed, pressing in around the most popular performers. Normally, that many people milling about would have made me anxious, but I felt calm behind the shelter of the table. And business was brisk, which took my mind off my nerves. Emy always made a special effort for the festival, with one-of-a-kind offerings designed to draw in jaded customers. When she popped out of the bakery and caught me munching on a scone, her eyes twinkled. “Don’t eat all the profits,” she said before heading back indoors.

  I pulled a face behind her back. Is it my fault she made blueberry-maple scones with almond-coconut butter? I asked myself. No, I replied emphatically. I’m only human.

  At the other end of our table, Emy’s mother, the village’s chief librarian, Thérèse Dionne, set up a display of books, then taped a library poster to the nearest antique replica lamppost. Before leaving, she placed a copy of Michael Ondaatje’s In the Skin of a Lion on the table with a nod to me—a reminder that I had over one hundred pages to read before our next book club meeting.

  With a wan smile, I turned my head to watch a surprisingly limber gymnast perform in front of the bakery. My eyes widened as he popped a wireless tennis racquet over his head then squirmed through it down to his feet. I joined the enthusiastic applause.

  When the crowd scattered, I spotted the back of Ethan Neuhaus’s shaved head on the other side of the street. I wouldn’t have predicted that a day watching buskers and street musicians would have appealed to Ethan. Maybe I’d misjudged him. I eyed him curiously.

  An older man wearing a beige summer-weight suit, a cigar between his fingers, came up beside Ethan and jabbed his shoulder. I recognized him from his confrontation with Nigel at the open house. It was Isaac Damien.

  When Ethan turned and caught sight of Isaac, his habitual scowl deepened. I was too far away to hear their conversation, but it was not friendly. Even from a distance, I saw spit flying. Ethan shoved Isaac’s shoulder, forcing him back a step. I stiffened, fearing a fight. Two police officers had passed the bakery on foot fifteen minutes earlier, eating ice cream, but they’d be several blocks away by now. Checking out the cider booth for bylaw infractions, maybe.

  Isaac held up both hands in a conciliatory gesture before leaning in to say something else. Ethan stepped back, his face white and drawn. He was no longer scowling.

  Isaac
turned around to stalk away, shoving the cigar in his mouth. He didn’t seem to have many friends in the village. I wondered why he bothered to come back. Aunt Adeline might have an inkling. I made a mental note to ask her.

  The shrill wail of bagpipes filled the air.

  Isaac melted into the crowd moments before it parted to make room for a band of eight kilted men wearing enormous fur hats. They marched past, pipes skirling.

  Behind them came a pickup truck towing an antique steam engine. An overhead banner proclaimed, Wilfred Mullins for Mayor! Wilf’s assistant, the elegant gray-haired Harriet, was behind the wheel of the truck, serenely maneuvering it down the street.

  I waved, shouting “Harriet,” but she didn’t respond.

  Human mascots in beaver and moose costumes walked alongside the steam engine, tossing wrapped candies to the children and fridge magnets to the adults.

  I grabbed a few of the magnets to read the logos.

  We Need More Wilf

  Wilf’s a No-brainer.

  Wilf Mullins—He Does Things.

  I’m not a marketing expert, as Lorne would readily confirm, but these slogans seemed a little off to me. I glanced up to see Wilf leaning out of the steam engine’s window, waving at the crowd. Our tiny would-be mayor was a man of the people in rolled-up shirtsleeves, blue suit pants, and a straw panama hat, which he waved enthusiastically.

  The rap music blaring from the steam engine was loud enough to drown out even the bagpipes. No wonder Harriet hadn’t acknowledged me. She was probably wearing earplugs.

  I couldn’t quite make out the words, but it sounded suspiciously like a popular tune from an extremely well-known recording artist. Does Drake know about this? I wondered. The last three words—Vote for Wilf—were in a noticeably different voice from the rest.

  Wilf scanned the crowds, waving at anyone he recognized, anyone he didn’t recognize, and the odd lamppost.

  Verity! he mouthed when he saw me. I waved back.

  Then he was gone. The music faded, and the crowd filled back in.

  Returning to my post outside the bakery, chanting the catchy rap under my breath, I noticed two well-dressed women conferring over the library books. They each had one open in their hands, but they weren’t reading.

  One of the women had abundant strawberry-blonde hair, curled and partially pinned up in one of those fake I-just-rolled-out-of-bed dos.

  “Did you call him?” the other woman asked.

  “I tried. He wouldn’t talk to me,” replied Strawberry Blonde. She lowered her voice to a whisper. I couldn’t hear her next sentence.

  The intensity of their conversation intrigued me. I strolled to their end of the table, rearranging the baked goods as I went, eyes down.

  “Did he tell the police?” the second woman asked.

  I leaned in, trying to hear more. It wasn’t eavesdropping, not really. If people insist on holding personal conversations in the middle of the street, they have to expect to attract a little interest. I nudged a croissant back into line with latex-gloved fingers, trying to look as if I was too engrossed in my task to be interested in idle gossip.

  It hardly mattered, because these two were oblivious. Strawberry Blonde had abandoned all attempts to moderate her tone. She was really worked up.

  “I have no idea what he told them. Like I said, he won’t talk to me. I’m afraid to call again. What if they’re tapping the line?”

  “Can they do that on cell phones?”

  “I don’t know, do I? But I bet they can. What if he tells them about me? What will I say?”

  “Why would he?”

  “Oh, come on. I mean—murder? That’s a scary charge. Who knows what they’ll get out of him the next time they question him?”

  I was convinced they were talking about Ryker—who, as far as I knew, was the only village resident currently facing a possible murder charge. We’ve had more than our share of shady customers, though, so I might have been wrong. I edged closer to hear more.

  Cheering broke out behind me. I jerked my head around to see Wilf walking our way, flanked by a giant costumed moose holding a boom box blaring the campaign’s rap anthem. I suspected we’d be hearing a lot of that anthem over the next month. Unless the copyright lawyers stepped in.

  “Verity!” Wilf called over the music, striding up to my table. “How’s my favorite client today?” He clasped my hand in both of his then leaned in with a conspiratorial air. “I hope I can count on your support.” His grin was infectious as he intoned, “We-need-more-Wilf.”

  The moose lumbered off. Wilf continued to hold my hand, his head tilted, waiting for my response.

  “Of course I’ll vote for you, Wilf. Scone?”

  He released my hand with a cheerful pat. “Oh, not for me. The campaign trail is laden with calories, I’m afraid. I’d hate to have these pants altered again.”

  Turning to present his profile, he sucked in his gut while pressing a hand to his stomach and jutting out his chin. “Looking good, right?”

  “You bet, Wilf,” I replied.

  He winked, then strode off, arms pumping.

  I pivoted to face the library display at the end of our table.

  The two women were gone.

  Chapter Twelve

  While we were cleaning up after the festival, I described the two mystery women to Emy.

  “Let me see,” she said, pursing her lips in thought while wiping down the folding table with a dishcloth. “Strawberry blonde hair and expensive clothes?”

  I nodded. “Actually, her hair was pink.”

  “It could be Julia Vachon. Her hair changes all the time.” Emy paused, her hand resting on the dishcloth, frowning slightly as she stared into the distance. “She even went through a cornrow phase. The last time I saw her, though, she had blue streaks. But that look’s a little dated at the moment, so—”

  I cleared my throat. “Let’s not fixate on the hair. Is Julia a client of Ryker’s?”

  “Possibly. Lorne says Ryker has a lot of clients. A surprising number are women.”

  “That’s not surprising. Men like to buy riding mowers and do it themselves.”

  “Not the ones who travel constantly on business. They leave it to their wives. You should focus on Julia. I bet it was her.”

  I dumped a handful of crumpled paper napkins into the bin. “Because of the hair?”

  With a shrug, Emy resumed wiping down the table. “Because her husband’s out of town on business.” She raised an eyebrow. “A lot.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “An investment company. I don’t know the details. Maybe Lorne has an idea.”

  “I’ll ask him.”

  “It’s odd they would discuss Ryker’s case in full view of everyone like that,” Emy said.

  “There was a lot of noise and people milling about, what with the buskers and the parade and everything. Those women didn’t even notice me. I think they ducked in off the street thinking they could have a quiet word.”

  She smirked. “Not realizing they’d be overheard by the village’s crack investigator.”

  “Don’t call me that. I’m not a crack anything.”

  “You are, too. I’m glad you hired a helper for the summer, by the way, because I think you should take on more cases. Keep your hand in. You don’t want people forgetting about Hawkes Investigation Agency.”

  During the winter, Hawkes Investigation had accepted a few minor cases. Lost pets, missing trinkets, and a couple of identity thefts whose victims simply wanted someone else to do the paperwork. But I wasn’t committed enough to undertake the training required to open a serious investigation business.

  “The only case I’m interested in is Ryker’s. Which is completely voluntary. And off the record.”

  Emy wasn’t listening. She was thumbing through contacts on her phone. “Here.” She handed it to me, open at Julia Vachon.

  After reading it, I looked up in surprise. “This is one of Ryker’s clients. She phoned me t
he other day and asked me to drop by. I remember the address.”

  I copied Julia’s other details, including her head-and-shoulders photo, then handed Emy the phone.

  Emy arched her eyebrows as she took it from me. “Interesting, don’t you think?”

  “I certainly do. I’m going over there now to see if she’s home.” I hesitated. “Oh. I forgot. Lorne took the truck this morning to buy Molly more annuals at the nursery. Can I borrow your car?”

  Julia was on her knees in her front yard, weeding a bed of oversized begonias. Pinkish blonde locks tumbled out from under her sweeping straw hat. She wore latex gardening gloves, with rubber knee pads over her stretch capri pants. The professional-grade trowel in her hand was the most expensive make on the market. For someone who relied on a landscaping service to take care of her yard, she was very well-equipped.

  She looked up, holding the brim of her hat away from her eyes, as I parked Emy’s Fiat in the driveway. When I got out, Julia rose to her feet, stripping off her gloves and dropping them by the flower bed.

  Smiling, I extended a hand. “I’m Verity Hawkes. You called me?”

  She gave my hand a listless shake, then let it drop. “I did. We’re hoping you can take over lawn duties for us.”

  “From Ryker Fields?”

  “That’s right.”

  I turned away from her to study the begonias. “Those are lovely.”

  “Thanks. The lawn?”

  “The short answer is, yes, of course I can. But—” I swiveled to face her. “Could you tell me when you last saw Ryker? And did he seem—different?”

  Her face clouded. “Let’s go inside.”

  Shrugging, I followed her up stone stairs to a slate patio, then into the house. A blast of chilly air hit us when we crossed the threshold. I shivered. The air conditioning was turned up to gale force.

  Tossing her hat onto a hall table, Julia slipped out of her rubber clogs. “Would you like a drink, Verity?”

  I hesitated, hoping to avoid any more Dr. Pepper. “I’m good, thanks.”

  “Well, I need a vodka and tonic. Come into the back.”