Picture Imperfect

by Rickie Blair

  “Never,” I blurted, tightening my hold on his chest. “I only want to wait a bit.”

  “That’s good.” Gingerly, he peeled one of my hands from his back. “But I think I just felt a rib crack.” He clasped my hand to his chest, smiling down at me. “I love you.”

  “Me, too,” I said with a fervent sigh. “Love you, I mean.” Lowering my head against his chest again, I relaxed into his arms, vowing never to leave that spot.

  Until the alarm on the stove started to beep.

  “Ooh,” I said, taking a step back and giving the oven an interested glance. “Is that the roast?”

  Grinning, Jeff pulled on oven mitts, then took a tantalizing tenderloin from the oven. After placing it on a carving board, he slid off the gloves and placed them alongside. “That has to rest for fifteen minutes. Meanwhile—” Picking up the wine bottle, he topped up my glass and refilled his own before gesturing to the table. “Let’s talk. For real, I mean.”

  We sat opposite each other at the vintage melamine table. Jeff slid his chair back to stretch out his long legs, then hooked one arm over the chair back, lifting his wine with his other hand. “So?” he asked, gazing intently at me over the rim of his glass. “How long are we waiting?”

  I felt a familiar twist of anxiety in my stomach. “Is there a deadline?”

  “No, except—with all those lemon cupcakes at Emy’s, I’m not certain how much longer I can fit into my old tux.”

  Jeff smiled in that just kidding way I knew so well, but his words had triggered visions of another wedding, in a crowded room at Vancouver city hall. Matthew had not worn a tux, nor I a gown. But I still remembered the scent of the gardenias and tea roses I’d carried. As well as the joy of that day.

  And the sorrow that followed.

  Pushing my glass away, I sunk my head into my hands. “We’re tempting fate.”

  “Verity, it’s not going to happen again. It can’t. I mean, what are the odds?”

  “I know,” I said in a small voice, looking down at the table. “But…”

  “I feel guilty too, you know.”

  I looked up in surprise. Jeff was fiddling with his wine glass, not looking at me. “But Wendy and Matthew will always be a part of our lives.” He took another swallow of wine.

  Jeff’s wife Wendy had died in a hit-and-run accident six years earlier, at the age of 26. I’d been instrumental in determining who was to blame, and Jeff had been grateful. He still carried her picture in his wallet, but he rarely mentioned her.

  And I still carried a photo of Matthew, my sweetly goofy husband, in my wallet.

  “Grief and joy can coexist,” Jeff said, raising his eyes to mine. “I think you know that.”

  “I do want to marry you,” I whispered, close to tears. “More than anything. I hope you know that.”

  He sipped his wine, watching my face, then put the glass down. “But?”

  I heaved a sigh. “But I don’t want to walk down the aisle with my stomach in knots, practicing my breathing exercises.”

  “There doesn’t have to be an aisle. If it’s the crowd that worries you, we can go to city hall. Just you and me.”

  “No,” I said firmly. “I did that before. This time, I want a bridesmaid and a cake and a band and everything.” I hesitated. “Although, maybe I won’t wear white.”

  Jeff snickered. “Sorry. Couldn’t help myself.”

  Leaning over the table, I gave his arm a swat.

  “Seriously, though.” He wrinkled his brow. “If it’s not the wedding, and it’s not me, then why—”

  “I know it’s ridiculous. I know that. But I need to stop thinking about…what could go wrong.”

  Jeff leaned back in his chair and gave me a long look, fiddling with the stem of his wine glass.

  “Please,” I said. “Say something.”

  He smiled softly. “You’re right. Something could go wrong. We’re taking a leap. But it’s worth it. Even if I knew our marriage would absolutely, positively end in disaster, I’d still want to take that step. I love you, Verity. I can’t imagine life without you.” He dropped his hand from the glass and straightened. “I want to stand up in public and tell the world.”

  My mouth fell open in amazement. I had never heard such a long speech from Jeff. My heart ached with the desire to jump to my feet, shout, “Yes! Yes!” and leap into his arms.

  So why wasn’t I?

  He studied my face, then smiled again. “Let’s talk about something else. How’s the investigation going?”

  “Wait a minute—are you saying you don’t mind me looking into Ryker’s case?”

  He shrugged. “I was too harsh at the station. Your father has a way of getting under my skin.”

  “Ha,” I said loudly. “Join the crowd.” After a twinge of remorse, I reconsidered. “He means well.”

  “I know. And you were right about Ryker. He could be innocent.”

  I narrowed one eye. “That’s not a ringing endorsement.”

  “Best I can do for the moment, I’m afraid.”

  “Then you’ll help me?”

  Jeff raised a warning hand. “I didn’t say that. But I won’t discourage you, either. And if I hear anything useful…” He pulled a face. “I guess I’ll let you know.” He rose to his feet to select a carving knife from his elaborate knife block. “Meanwhile, if the worst happens—and I’m not saying it will—are you able to take on Ryker’s clients?”

  “All of them? I don’t know. I’ve hired Ethan Neuhaus to help out.”

  Jeff gave me a lifted eyebrow glance at the mention of Ethan’s name, but said nothing.

  Morosely, I studied Boomer, who was quivering with anticipation, his gaze fixed on the roast. Every day was an adventure for the little terrier. I wished I could say the same. “To be honest, Jeff, I’m not sure I want to cut lawns forever.”

  “You could switch to landscaping. Designing gardens, that sort of thing.” Pulling over a platter, he laid out slices of tenderloin. “Hire people to do the lawns.”

  “I guess.”

  “I take it you’d rather expand your investigation agency?”

  “I think…I would.”

  He shrugged. “At least it’s safer than tracking murderers. Or whatever your aunt’s been up to all these years.”

  “Adeline’s work always sounded interesting.”

  Jeff lifted his gaze from the meat to fix it on me. “But dangerous.” He transferred the platter to the kitchen table, Boomer a step behind him. While opening the oven to take out the baked potatoes, he pointed to the fridge. “Can you get the salad?”

  I opened the fridge door. “When I say goodbye to you every morning, I have no idea if you’ll be coming home that night.”

  He frowned. “You’re exaggerating.”

  I placed the salad bowl on the table. “You can’t object to me doing the odd chancy thing when you risk your life every day.”

  Jeff slid the sauce pan back onto the burner, then flicked it on. “I’m trained for the work I do. And I’m armed. It’s not the same.”

  “I know, but… It’s the principle of the thing.”

  He tilted his head quizzically. “You want me to accept your job change—in principle?”

  “Yes. I think I do. At least until it’s actually a fact.”

  He shrugged. “I can do that.”

  “Pinky swear?”

  He smiled, then held out his finger. “Sure.”

  We linked fingers briefly.

  “Now,” Jeff said. “Let’s have dinner.”

  Boomer barked in agreement.

  With my cell phone alarm vibrating silently under my pillow, I slid out of bed at 2 a.m.—after disentangling myself from Jeff’s arm—then tiptoed to the door in the darkened room. I paused only long enough to pick up the clothing I’d left ready on a chair.

  As I reached for the door handle, Jeff stirred and rolled over, leaving a bare arm dangling out.

  I hesitated, then tiptoed over to tuck it back under the bla
nket.

  “Hmmfffphh?” he mumbled.

  I froze. How could I explain where I was going in the middle of the night? Bending to his ear, I whispered, “Bathroom. Go back to sleep.”

  “Hmmfffphh.” He rolled over in the other direction. This time, his arm narrowly missed General Chang, who had wriggled his way between the pillows and was settling in for a good snooze. The General cracked open his eye, then gave a leisurely feline stretch. It would take a lot more than a roaming arm to roust him from bed in the middle of the night.

  Whereas I had an appointment to keep.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Nigel Hemsworth settled into a mid-century swivel chair in the antiques showroom of his Main Street shop. If he tilted his head, he could see through the door into his art gallery at the front as well as a sliver of the window with Fine Art and Collectibles etched in gold. The art gallery was empty, as usual. He turned his attention to the man sitting opposite.

  “What do you expect me to do?”

  Isaac Damien blew out a puff of smoke, then leisurely tapped his cigar on an ashtray of blue glass, his gold signet ring glinting under an overhead light. “I expect you to take care of it. Someone has to clean that place out.”

  Nigel gritted his teeth, fingering the chair’s leather arms. “Why do I have to do it?”

  “Because you’re the only one who can do it.”

  “What about our deal?”

  “I told you—it died with Perry. We have to end this.”

  Nigel’s frustration mounted like a trapped creature struggling to escape. He tried to hold it back. Tried to keep his tone friendly. “I don’t understand why—”

  “You never do,” Isaac snapped. “That’s how you got us into this mess in the first place.” He clamped the cigar back between his teeth. The tip glowed red as he puffed.

  Nigel fought back the anger rising in his throat. Sanctimonious bastard. “It’s not my fault.”

  Isaac lowered his cigar to glare at him, ignoring the ash dangling from its end. “What? That she’s dead?”

  “I had nothing to do with that.”

  Isaac gave a snort. “So you said.” He took another pull of the cigar, spewing smoke into the air.

  Nigel waved a hand in front of his face, coughing loudly. “Put that thing out. It’s bad for the art.”

  Scowling, Isaac stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray.

  “Not there. Take it outside.”

  Chuckling, Isaac continued to grind the cigar into the blue Murano glass. “What’s this thing for, then?”

  “You’re not supposed to use it. It’s from the Stork Club in New York. Early twenties.”

  Isaac chuckled again. “People still buy this crap?”

  Nigel’s blood boiled. “It’s not cr—”

  Isaac rose to his feet, brushing cigar ash from his jacket. “Come on. Who do you think you’re talking to?”

  Nigel winced as the ash hit the Aubusson. His left eye twitched as Isaac trod over the ash on his way to the door, grinding it into the carpet.

  “You have work to do,” Isaac said over his shoulder. “I don’t want to hear from you until it’s over. I’ll let myself out.”

  Nigel waited for the jangle of the bell and the sound of the front door closing. Then he got to his feet to reach for the carpet sweeper.

  Once that was done—followed by a quick swipe of the ashtray and a flick of the overhead fan to disperse the lingering cigar smoke—he walked to the front door to snap on the double locks and arm the security system for the night.

  After shutting off the showroom lights, he turned to survey his sanctuary. He liked to linger after closing up, with only the soft illumination of streetlamps through the front window to pick out the artwork on the walls. Nigel and his treasures. He smiled with satisfaction, his confrontation with Isaac temporarily forgotten.

  The shop was divided into three sections. The art gallery made up the first third, and an open doorway led into the antiques showroom that made up the middle, where Isaac and he had been sitting. From there, a door led to a narrow hallway that divided the back third of the building into a locked storeroom on the left and a closed staircase on the right. At the end of the hallway, an exterior door led to parking spaces out back.

  The staircase led to Nigel’s apartment on the second floor. A thick porterhouse was waiting in the fridge, ready for grilling on the barbecue tethered to a gas line that ran from the kitchen to his balcony. His mouth watered in anticipation.

  Then his nose wrinkled briefly as a faint whiff of cigar smoke reached it, puncturing the spell and bringing everything back.

  Sanctimonious bastard.

  With a shake of his head, he strode through the showrooms to the locked storeroom, where he kept the real treasures—the ones reserved for serious collectors. Too many people objected to items with slightly tricky provenances. Serious collectors didn’t care about petty details. What did it matter where something came from, if it was rare and beautiful? And if Nigel added a few dollars to the price to make up for his trouble in procuring it, his clients didn’t care about that, either.

  He stepped into the dark hallway at the back of the shop, closing the door behind him. A flick of the light switch did nothing. Damn bulb must be out again. He glanced up at the ceiling with dislike. He’d have to haul the stepladder out of the storeroom tomorrow.

  Well, he didn’t need a light. He’d been working in this shop for decades. He could walk the few paces to the staircase in utter darkness, no problem. He even knew exactly how many paces—twenty-two.

  He reached the staircase door and placed his hand on its familiar metal doorknob.

  Zzzzzzt!

  Nigel was lifted off his feet before falling onto the floor’s wooden boards with a thud that jarred every one of his bones.

  After seemingly endless moments when he couldn’t breathe and felt certain his lungs would explode, he finally rasped in a harsh breath. And another.

  Then he lay on the floor, collecting his thoughts.

  Son of a…

  He knew exactly what had happened. With large enough batteries and a bit of copper wire, you can electrically charge anything metal—like a doorknob.

  It was a good trick, he had to admit. Although, in his day, he never would have used that much current.

  After a little more deep breathing, and a lot more cursing, Nigel staggered to his feet. He nudged open the wooden door with his foot, then stumbled up the stairs to his apartment, cradling his burned hand.

  This wasn’t over.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Lorne insisted we park hundreds of yards from Molly Maxwell’s vandalized plants before trudging up the country road to her house. He also insisted we take care not to be seen. We accomplished this by crawling through shrubbery along the side of the road.

  “Is this really necessary?” I objected, brushing a scratchy branch out of my face. “There’s nobody here to see us.”

  “Someone could come along and blow the whole operation,” Lorne replied over his shoulder.

  “Right,” I muttered. “And that would be bad because—”

  “Keep up, you two,” Lorne called.

  Emy crashed about in the undergrowth behind me. “Coming,” she croaked in a feeble voice.

  As team leader, Lorne was wearing a massive backpack. It was far bigger than we needed for the shortbreads and thermos of tea Emy had packed for us—even considering the big bag of crunchy “party mix” I added at the last moment.

  That backpack was huge—big enough to hold a dead body. Where did that horrid thought come from? I wondered, briefly distracted.

  Thwack! A prickly branch took advantage of my moment’s inattention to slap me in the face. Bloody flora. “Are we there yet?” I called.

  “Stop,” Lorne replied.

  I halted instantly, like a well-trained infantry soldier.

  Emy ran into me, sending me thudding into Lorne’s backpack. It was like hitting a wall.

  “Oof,�
�� I said, my face squashed against the canvas backpack.

  “Sorry,” Emy hissed. “Are we there yet?”

  Ducking my head to see around Lorne, I scanned the area. Molly’s bungalow loomed ahead of us. The new pink and white begonias I’d planted in her garden glowed in the light of the full moon.

  “All clear,” Lorne said in clipped tones before stepping onto the lawn and heaving the backpack off his shoulders. He zipped it open.

  “Thanks,” I said, reaching out a hand. “I could use a cup of tea.”

  But instead of the thermos, Lorne extracted three metal sticks, painted black, followed by a huge roll of something that looked like nubby brown-and-green-patterned fabric.

  He slapped the sticks onto my open palm. “Could you open these for me?”

  “Sure.” I stared at them.

  Lorne was unrolling the fabric on the grass. “Twist them in the middle and pull them out to their full length,” he instructed over his shoulder.

  I tried to follow those instructions. “Ouch.”

  “Mind the sharp end,” he added.

  “Too late,” I muttered through gritted teeth while sucking blood from the cut on my finger. “What’s this for, anyway?”

  “Camouflage,” he replied without looking up.

  Emy and I extended all three stakes to their full four-foot length. “Now what?”

  “Stick the sharp ends in the ground there, there—and there,” Lorne said, pointing.

  When we were done, the stakes formed a line opposite Molly’s garden. Lorne snapped the unrolled fabric to the first stick, top to bottom, then extended it over the middle stick and drew it to the third, snapping it into place.

  He stepped back to assess his handiwork. “Cool, eh?”

  Emy and I joined him in admiring the newly erected screen.

  “You can’t even see it,” I marveled. “It fades right into the bushes.”

  “Camo netting,” Lorne said. “Found it online. Same-day delivery, too.”

  Within moments, we were hunkered down behind the mottled screen. We could see Molly’s garden through the netting, but we couldn’t be seen from there. I poked a finger through one of the rubber fabric’s tiny holes. “This is amazing.”