Picture Imperfect

by Rickie Blair

  I leaned uneasily on the marble island of the Vachons’ all-white kitchen as Julia plonked ice cubes into a glass. She followed that with a generous measure of vodka and the barest splash of tonic, then took a long swallow.

  “Ahh. That’s better.” Placing the glass on the island, she turned her attention to me. “Ryker hasn’t been here for weeks. Can you fill in for him or not?”

  “I don’t know what he told you—”

  Something flared in her eyes, then was gone. She ran a finger across the marble. “He told me nothing. I know nothing.”

  I hesitated, eying her warily, then decided to take a leap. Crossing my arms on the counter and leaning over them conspiratorially, I asked, “Did the police talk to you?”

  Her eyes widened. “Not yet.” Nervously, she picked up her glass to take another long swallow. She replaced it on the island, wiping the condensation off her fingers onto her capri pants before adding casually, “Did you talk to the police?” Without waiting for my reply, she added, “I guess you did, since you and Jeff Katsuro are…” She swallowed hard. “An item.”

  “How did you know about Jeff?”

  “Ryker told me.”

  “When did you talk to him last?”

  She darted a look at me. “Why do you keep asking?”

  “No reason. I only thought maybe he told you why he’s…” Frantically, I tried to come up with a reason for my question. “Not cutting your grass anymore,” I offered.

  She frowned. “No. What did you tell the police?”

  I hesitated, mulling over the consequences of lying to her. It was worth the chance. I was certain she wouldn’t repeat any of it. “I told them nothing. Ryker’s a good friend of mine. I’m not going to make trouble for him—or his friends.”

  She pulled out a leather stool and slumped onto it with a sigh of relief.

  “You’re friends with him, too, Julia. Very good friends.”

  She pulled a face. “I’d rather it didn’t get out.”

  “Why not?”

  She looked surprised. “Why do you think?”

  “Because your husband doesn’t know. And you’d like to keep it that way.”

  “Look,” she said. “I can’t help Ryker.”

  “How often do you see him?”

  “I don’t anymore. Not since he met that…woman in Strathcona.” She spit out the word woman as if implying something much different.

  “The one who’s dead?”

  She nodded curtly. “She had dangerous friends, obviously.”

  “Why obviously?”

  Julia merely snorted.

  “How did you get involved in the first place?”

  “My husband’s often away on business. I asked Ryker to come in for a drink one afternoon after he cut our lawn. It got to be a regular thing, then—it became more than a drink. We used to meet at that motel on the highway.”

  “The Sleepy Time?”

  “That’s the one.”

  This was a stroke of luck, because I happened to know two residents of that notorious place who would happily tell me anything they knew about Julia and Ryker’s trysts.

  Actually, I knew three residents, but the rooster was unlikely to divulge anything useful.

  Julia straightened on the stool, reaching for her glass. “Ryker was really taken in by that bitch. He said we were over—that he didn’t want to mess around anymore.”

  Another surprise. Was I right about Ryker wanting to settle down?

  Watching carefully to gauge her reaction, I asked, “Is it possible this conversation took place around the time those women were killed?”

  She took another sip of her drink and carefully set the glass on the island before replying. “I don’t recall.”

  “Julia, you have—”

  “Hey,” she said. “I’m not proud of what I did, but it was only a bit of fun. There’s no reason to upset my husband.”

  “Ryker could go to prison for life,” I said coldly. “That won’t be much fun.”

  She shrugged. “Well, that’s a shame. But if he got himself involved with someone who caused him grief, how is that my fault?” She drained her glass, then rose to put it into the dishwasher, closing the door with a decisive click before turning to face me. “Ryker cut our grass every Tuesday. Is that doable for you?”

  At my nod of agreement, she escorted me to the front door.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I drove my truck into the Sleepy Time Motel’s parking lot then immediately slammed on the brakes, hitting them so hard my aunt’s Peace medallion hanging from the rearview mirror smacked against the windshield. If it hadn’t been for the seatbelt holding me back, I would have, too.

  A blur of brown-and-white feathers topped with a red cockscomb darted across the pavement in front of me, followed by a gaunt, middle-aged man with wild hair and a huge nose. His plaid shirt was folded up to the elbows and tucked into saggy-assed blue jeans.

  Halting briefly, he waved a gnarled hand. “Verity,” he acknowledged before racing after the rooster, who had darted behind the low-slung motel.

  “Carson,” I replied automatically, even though he couldn’t hear me.

  Carson Breuer, the handyman who was restoring Rose Cottage, had taken his pop-up tent trailer to Key West for the winter, along with the rooster I’d rescued from one of those shady characters I was always running into. Although Reuben was technically my pet, I’d long since granted ownership to Carson, who always carried sunflower seeds in his pocket for his avian friend.

  When they returned from Key West, Jeff politely suggested that Carson—whose trailer had been set up in my driveway all the previous summer—might consider seeking new accommodations. Jeff even offered to help with the search.

  Not necessary, said Carson, insisting he’d already found “a sweet place” of his own.

  Which turned out to be the most notorious motel in Leafy Hollow.

  Another middle-aged man, this one lean, muscular, and exasperated, burst around the corner of the motel to run after Carson. My father skidded to a stop in front of my truck. “It’s up there,” he yelled, pointing to the roof of the motel.

  Carson pivoted sharply to look up, shading his eyes with one hand. I did the same. Reuben was strutting along the roof’s shallow ridge, puffing up his chest and extending his scrawny neck. I realized he was getting ready to—

  Cock-a-doodle-doo.

  Frank turned his vivid blue eyes from scrutinizing the roof to scrutinizing me. Then he walked over to my window, which I rolled down.

  “Verity,” he said.

  “Hi, Dad. How’re you doing?”

  “Git down from there, ya stupid bird,” Carson hollered.

  With a flutter of brown wings, Reuben sailed off the roof to land a few feet from Carson.

  “I’m fine,” Frank said. “Nice of you to drop by.”

  “I thought we should talk. You know, after—”

  Carson dove for the rooster, missing it by inches.

  Startled, Reuben fluttered briefly in the air before landing again. Then he tilted his head, stepping haltingly on bony legs, searching the gravel for caterpillars.

  Carson tiptoed up behind him.

  Frank held up a hand to stop me from talking. “I know what you’re going to say. And you’re right, at the police station the other day I was—”

  “I don’t want to argue, Dad, but—”

  “—completely out of line. Won’t happen again. Your personal life is none of my business.”

  “—I simply can’t have you talking to Jeff like that. Wait. What?” I stared at him. “Did you just apologize?”

  “Yes,” he said with a sheepish shrug. “I’m sorry.”

  I realized the rest of my rehearsed speech—in which I told him that sure, maybe I didn’t know my own mind, but that was no reason for him to muddy the waters with his cockeyed version of parental concern—was now redundant. Too bad. I’d been proud of that speech.

  Oh, well. There was every chance
I’d get to use it again.

  “Gotcha,” Carson said, straightening up with Reuben clasped under one arm, his scrawny feet hanging down. The rooster bobbed his head—whether at me, or Carson, or out of chagrin at missing out on the caterpillars, it was impossible to tell.

  Carson strode up to my truck, his split and blackened fingernails stroking Reuben’s feathers. “Thanks, neighbor,” he said to Frank, as if they were old friends.

  Which made sense. Although Frank Thorne had been gone from the village for twenty years, for history buff Carson that was a blink of the eye. His knowledge of Ontario’s architectural heritage—and his extremely reasonable rates—had made him the perfect choice to restore Rose Cottage.

  “No problem,” said my father with a nod, casually twisting his fingers on the sideview mirror of my truck. I recognized the actions of a former smoker uncertain what to do with his hands.

  Carson turned his attention to me. “I’ve been meaning to drop by, Verity. Gonna get a start on repointing the last of the fieldstone.”

  “That would be great,” I said.

  Carson mixed the replacement mortar himself. Something about hydraulic lime being better than modern mortar for the cottage’s old fieldstone. I didn’t really understand it, but fortunately, an occasional puzzled nod was the only input he required from the homeowner.

  “You know…” He shifted the squirming rooster to his other arm. “Old workers’ cottages like yours often had board-and-batten annexes. We could add one at the back. A replica, like. Be more room inside.”

  “It’s a good idea, Carson, but I could never afford that.”

  He seemed taken aback by this. “What about that cop you’ve got living up there? Couldn’t he—”

  “Whoa, whoa,” said my dad. “We’re not talking about that, remember?”

  “Right, right,” Carson muttered. “I forgot.”

  “That cop’s name is Jeff,” I pointed out, suppressing a grin.

  “Jeff. I knew that. Jeff. Nice guy. Well. Gotta get this bird back.” Pivoting on one foot, Carson walked to the rear of the parking lot, which faced a shrub-covered ravine. His trailer was set up overlooking the ravine, with a card table, two folding camp chairs, and a beer cooler arranged under its sagging patio shade.

  “I thought Carson rented a room,” I said, turning to my dad.

  Frank shrugged. “He did. But he prefers his trailer.”

  We watched as Carson tucked Reuben into a makeshift board-and-wire coop, then threw in some seeds before latching the door. Stooping, he disappeared into the trailer.

  “Is he okay in there?” I asked.

  “Oh, yeah. It’s…cozy.”

  Carson reemerged with a pack of cigarettes in one hand and a beer in the other, then settled himself into a camp chair. After striking a match on its side, he lit a cigarette in his cupped hand, puffed appreciatively a few times, then leaned back to enjoy the sunset.

  Frank and I exchanged glances.

  “See? He’s fine.” My dad relinquished the sideview mirror. “Would you like something to eat? Birdie brought me lasagna yesterday.” He gestured to his suite, Number 7. It qualified as a “suite,” apparently, because it had a mini-fridge and a microwave.

  “Who’s Birdie?”

  He pulled a face. “Birdie Tanner. The new desk clerk. She’s always checking up on my room. Do I have enough towels, how’s the air conditioning—you know. She seems to have taken a fancy to me.”

  I grinned. “Like Katia?” Tipsy Jay pub owner Katia Oldani was also taken with Frank. She’d given him so many free meals, refusing to accept payment, that he was embarrassed to set foot in the place. I enjoyed teasing him about it.

  “Please don’t bring that up,” he said.

  “Sorry.” I smirked, indicating that I wasn’t sorry at all. “No to the lasagna, thanks. I have to get home. But I do have something to ask you.” Pulling out my phone, I scrolled through my contacts until I found the one I’d copied from Emy. “Do you recognize this woman?” I showed him Julia Vachon’s picture.

  Frank took the phone from me to peer at the screen before handing it back. “Number 9,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone, tilting his head at the motel unit two doors down from his.

  “Did she meet Ryker Fields here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that why you were at the police station, to tell Jeff about it?”

  My dad looked uncomfortable.

  “Never mind,” I said. “How often did they meet?”

  He narrowed one eye. “Are you sure you want to know?”

  “Dad. We talked about this. I’m an adult, remember?”

  “Yeah. I’m starting to get the idea. They were here a couple of times a week, I think.”

  “Could one of those times have been the day those women were killed in Strathcona?”

  Frank heaved a sigh. “Verity, I wasn’t following the guy. I noticed him here a few times, with that woman”—he gestured at my phone—“but I couldn’t tell you exactly when. Birdie might know. Although…” He frowned. “Birdie doesn’t always write everything down.”

  I wasn’t surprised at that, since this wasn’t my first time tracking a suspect to the Sleepy Time Motel. The place was popular with passing road warriors, exhausted vacationers, and prom-night partiers, but most of the year it relied on short-term bookings. Very short term. Apparently, Carson and my dad were able to sleep through just about anything.

  On a hunch, I pulled up a photo on my phone of Nigel Hemsworth from his art shop website, then showed it to my dad. “Ever seen this guy?”

  He peered at it, brow furrowed. “He looks kinda familiar.”

  “Then he’s been here?”

  Frank shook his head. “Not sure. I’ve seen his face, but I dunno if it was here. You could ask Birdie.”

  “Is Birdie here now?”

  “’Fraid not. Should be back soon, though.”

  “I’ll come back later. Let me know if you need anything in the meantime.”

  “Really?”

  “Nah.” I grinned. “I’m just saying that.”

  He rolled his eyes.

  I started the truck and headed home, dreading my solo dinner—frozen pizza, reheated in the microwave. Hopefully there was beer in our fridge.

  Chapter Fourteen

  When I opened Rose Cottage’s front door and walked in, an intoxicating aroma of roasting meat wafted toward me.

  “Hi, sweetheart,” Jeff called. “I’m in the kitchen.”

  Yes! I mouthed, thumbs up. Then I did a happy dance in the foyer, Boomer prancing beside me. Jeff, with his consummate cooking skills, would not be reheating pizza.

  With Boomer leaping in excitement because, well, meat, I walked through the cottage to the back. It was a short trip. Maybe Carson was right. Maybe I should consider adding a—what did he call it? A board-and-batten annex. I made a note to look that up on Google later.

  The General watched my progress from his usual spot on the back of the sofa, tail gently swishing. “Mrack?”

  I stopped to stroke his back. He nuzzled his head against my hand, purring. General Chang had been more affectionate since Wonder Dog’s arrival. Either it was Boomer’s enthusiastic nature rubbing off on him, or the aging warrior had simply decided to pick up his game in the face of new competition. I don’t know why he bothered. The scruffy old one-eyed tom already had Jeff and me wrapped around his paw.

  In the kitchen, I leaned against the doorframe to watch Jeff chop onions. He was wearing jeans and a faded black T-shirt, his dark head bent in concentration over the task. His muscular forearms worked the knife as expertly as a cooking-show chef. I marveled at his technique. If I tried to chop onions that fast, I might lose a finger.

  Which reminded me of Ethan Neuhaus. Was it a good idea to hire him?

  I put that out of my mind for now.

  “Hi, yourself,” I said, rising on tiptoe to kiss Jeff’s cheek while steering clear of the knife. “I didn’t expect to find you at home. You’
re working strange hours this week.”

  “Too many people on vacation. I’m filling in all over the place.” He swept the onions off the chopping board and into a waiting pan, where they sizzled and popped. Wiping a drop of sweat off his forehead with the back of his wrist, he gestured to the table with the knife. “Sit down. Dinner’s nearly ready. I’m just finishing up the wine reduction.”

  Casting my mind back over Jeff’s patient explanations about other gourmet meals he’d created, I tried to remember what a wine reduction was. Something to do with sauces, I recalled. My taste buds tingled in anticipation. “That smells great.”

  He smiled before turning to the stove to give the pan a stir.

  “Nice work on the onions,” I added.

  “These are shallots.”

  “I knew that.”

  Jeff sloshed some wine into the pan. Stirring with one hand, he gestured with the bottle in his other. “Hold out your glass.”

  I grabbed a wine glass from the table, then accepted a healthy pour of red. “I’m glad you’re here,” I said. “Because—”

  “We need to talk?” Replacing the wine bottle on the counter, he raised an eyebrow.

  I noticed there was another, drained, glass by his elbow.

  “Something like that.” I took a swallow of wine then replaced my glass on the table. My hand trembled slightly.

  Jeff slid the saucepan off the heat, wiped his hands on his jeans, and held out his arms. “C’mere.”

  In one step, I had wrapped my arms around him and lowered my head against his chest. Closing my eyes, I willed the world away. Difficult clients, friends facing murder raps, even puzzling root vegetables—all gone.

  Jeff dropped a kiss on my head, then tilted my chin up with his hand. “I’m sorry if I was difficult yesterday.”

  His black eyes searched mine, triggering a full-body shiver. How could I have said no to this man? What was I thinking?

  “When I asked you to marry me, I didn’t expect you to say no,” he continued. “I guess I didn’t take it well.”

  “Sorry,” I said dejectedly.

  “Don’t apologize. I understand.” Jeff narrowed one eye. “Unless it was your way of letting me down easy.”