by Rickie Blair
“Nigel, tell me—why do you think Shelby and Ryker are in such a hurry to get rid of that painting? It seems to me it would be best to offer it for sale at a well-publicized auction, so serious collectors could bid on it. It’s a Group of Seven—those can’t come up for sale often.”
“You are correct. However, I happen to have been privy to the actual contents of Perry’s will. He wanted that painting to stay here in Leafy Hollow. Not be swept off to get lost among some eccentric collector’s hoard, where no one would ever see it.” He looked back at the gallery, lost in thought. “Perry always loved painting. He did many of his own oils over the years, but unfortunately…” He shrugged, returning his attention to the paperwork. “None of them were salable.”
“The buyer of Spirit of the North has to be someone from the village? That seems unrealistic, given its likely value.”
He puffed out his chest. “There are serious contenders in Leafy Hollow, Verity. We’re not all paupers. I assume you haven’t been here long enough to realize that.”
Determined not to rise to his bait, I asked the obvious question. “Why didn’t Shelby and Ryker know about this stipulation?”
“It wasn’t part of the original will. Perry made his wishes known to me quite recently, in a letter. He intended to amend his will to reflect those wishes. Sadly”—Nigel spread his hands with a sorrowful expression—“there wasn’t time.”
“Where is that letter now?”
“With the lawyers. Now, Verity, I really must—”
“If the painting has to stay in the village, it seems even odder that Shelby should be in such a hurry to sell it.”
“As I said, I had to explain a few things to her. However…” He leaned in. “I suspect a close examination of Mr. Fields’ finances would reveal things he’d prefer not be widely known.”
“How did you—”
Nigel gave me an incongruous wink. “I’ve heard things.”
“Are you suggesting Ryker has debts? That he needs money?”
Nigel gave a half-hearted shrug. “I’m suggesting nothing. I leave all such observations to the police.” He glanced at his watch, then looked up at me with a raised eyebrow.
“Sorry,” I said. “I’m going.”
My knowledge of wills was a little weak. Luckily, I knew someone who could fill in the gaps—mayoral candidate Wilfred Mullins, who also happened to be my lawyer. I strolled a few doors along Main Street to his office.
After stepping into his royal-blue waiting room, I halted in confusion. Instead of the usual Muzak from the overhead speakers, I heard—
Whannnuaaaa.
Eeep, eeep, eeep.
Whannnuaaaa.
I entered, letting the door close behind me, then approached the reception desk, where Harriet was typing furiously. “Why are you playing whale song?” I asked, pointing to the speakers overhead.
Whannnuaaaa.
Whannnuaaaa.
Eeep, eeep, eeep.
No reply. Harriet was wearing earplugs. I tapped on the edge of the desk to get her attention.
“Harriet?”
She glanced up, recognized me, and removed one plug. “Verity. Go right in. Leafy Hollow Councilor Wilfred Mullins is available to village residents at all times.”
“Really? Since when?”
Whannnuaaaa.
Whannnuaaaa.
Harriet winced, casting her gaze to the ceiling speakers. “A little bit of that goes a long way.”
Before she could insert the earplug again, I said, “Wait. Why the—” I pointed to the speakers.
Harriet raised an eyebrow.
I answered my own question. “Wilf’s gone green, hasn’t he? For the campaign.”
Harriet put the earplug back in and resumed typing.
Whannnuaaaa.
Whannnuaaaa.
Eeep, eeep, eeep.
I pushed open the door to Wilf’s inner sanctum, then closed it behind me, shutting out the marine melody. Here, all was quiet—except for the steady tap, tap, tap of Wilf’s sausage-shaped pen on his desk. He was leaning back in his electric executive chair with the pen in his hand, contemplating the roll-down screen on the opposite wall.
Formerly, the screen had displayed the drawings for Wilf’s scheme—now abandoned—to build the Cameron Wurst Waterpark near the rendering plant on the village’s outskirts. Cameron Wurst, the original backer of the plan, was a sausage maker in Strathcona. Hence the pen.
Today, however, the screen displayed a three-month calendar whose individual days were heavily marked with colored ink. A banner along the top read Wilfred Mullins for Mayor—Timeline. Underneath Timeline, someone—most likely Harriet—had added in black marker:
Deadlines & Problems
Problems had been crossed out and replaced with Opportunities in a cribbed hand that looked like Wilf’s.
The last day on the calendar—election day—was marked with a huge red star and the notation, Victory Party. Rent arena.
“Wilf?” I said, approaching the desk.
He straightened up, then hit a switch that lowered his chair a notch. “Verity. Nice of you to drop in.”
“I know you’re busy, but I need a little legal guidance. It won’t take long.”
“Sit down. I’m always available to my constituents.” He rested a thoughtful hand under his chin. “Shoot.”
“Well.” I slid into a leather armchair. “It’s about wills.”
Wilf nodded with a smile. “This takes me back.”
I knew he was referring to our first meeting in his office, when I asked him about my aunt. Wilf had advised me to have her declared legally dead. I’d long since forgiven him, though.
“What I want to know is—if someone told someone else, before their death, that they meant to change their will, but they didn’t get around to it in time, would their comment be considered legally binding?”
Wilf stared at me for a moment.
“That might be problematic,” he said slowly. “Can you be more specific?”
“Did Nigel Hemsworth ever talk to you about Perry Otis’s will?”
Wilf’s eyebrows rose. “He may have. I couldn’t repeat that conversation.”
“Because Nigel’s a client?”
Wilf’s reply to this was even slower. “No. He’s not. He was…attempting to procure legal advice without actually paying for it, I think.”
“So you can tell me.”
“No, Verity.” Wilf waved an arm. “It would be unseemly. Perhaps even a tad unethical.”
“But not illegal,” I pointed out.
He gave me an uneasy glance. “This is about Ryker Fields, isn’t it?”
“Are you going to tell me or not?”
He leaned back, studying the Timeline with a faraway look in his eyes. “Nigel has a convertible, you know. One of the only ones in the village. We wanted to use it for the parade.”
“At Go for the Juggler?”
“Yes. But Nigel claimed he was going to be out of town that day and needed the convertible himself.”
I recalled the pale blue Mercedes I’d seen parked behind Nigel’s shop. “But I saw him at the festival. He was haranguing somebody at the Million Mime March booth.”
“He was?”
“Yes. And it wasn’t fair, really. It’s not as if they could answer him back.”
Pursing his lips, Wilf lounged in his chair, tapping again with the sausage. Tap, tap, tap. He straightened.
“You know, Verity, democracy is built on the backs of volunteers.”
“Is it?” My brow wrinkled.
“Yes. Civic duty, that’s the ticket. And Nigel simply doesn’t have any.” Dropping the pen, he leaned in. “He told me a woman had contacted him, claiming to be Ryker’s long-lost sister, and that she intended to claim a share of the inheritance. The weird thing is that Perry’s will apparently stipulated the children of Ryker’s father, not just Ryker. I hadn’t known that.”
I nodded, since I had known that. “But the chan
ge to Perry’s will?”
“Ah.” Wilf gave a knowing nod. “When Nigel spoke to me, it was merely a what if. What if Perry had given him specific instructions, in person but not in writing, regarding the inheritance? Would that be legal?”
“What did you tell him?”
“Same as I told you. Problematic.”
“It would be hearsay if it got to court, and therefore not admissible, right?”
“Most likely. Unless he could offer corroborating evidence.”
“Like a letter.”
“Exactly.”
“Is that all he told you?”
“Yes. When I mentioned—very diplomatically—that I normally charged for that type of advice, he clammed up.”
Rising to my feet, I turned to the door. “Thanks, Wilf. I owe you one.”
“Well…” He fingered his chin again in a statesman-like manner. “Perhaps you could hand out a few pamphlets?”
How hard could that be? “Sure,” I said enthusiastically.
On my way out, I was mulling over Wilf’s revelation about Nigel when Harriet spoke, causing me to double back.
“Verity.”
The top of her gray-haired head was peeking out from behind a cardboard box on her desk. The box hadn’t been there when I came in.
I craned my neck to see over the top. “Yes?”
“Don’t forget your pamphlets.” Harriet tapped the box before turning to her computer screen to resume her typing.
My mouth fell open when I peered into the box. It was packed with shiny leaflets. I picked one up.
We Need More Wilf.
A notation on the bottom read, Printed on recycled paper. I replaced the pamphlet in the box, then closed the flaps.
I tapped on the desk. “Harriet?”
She removed an earplug.
I pointed to the leaflets. “How many are in there?”
Returning her attention to the keyboard, she said, “The usual. Two thousand.”
Whannnuaaaa.
Whannnuaaaa.
Eeep, eeep, eeep.
Picking up the box with a sigh, I closed the door behind me.
Chapter Twenty
I was mulling over my meetings with Nigel and Wilf as I got back in my truck to drive up the Escarpment road to the plateau above. While I was in Nigel’s shop, my father had texted, asking me to drop by the motel.
It’s an emergency, his text said.
Which meant—I knew from experience—there was no real rush. I ignored it for the time being. I was hot on the trail of a clue, and I needed to check in with my aunt.
But first… I reached for my phone to text Jeff. While I was talking to Wilf, I realized there was something about my discussion with Ryker that didn’t add up. It was probably nothing, but it couldn’t hurt to check.
Sure, Jeff replied. I’ll look into it.
Then I headed up the hill to Lilac Lane and my aunt’s new home. Hopefully, she could enlighten me on Nigel’s reputation. According to Emy’s mother, Nigel had been a practical joker in his youth. The man I talked to did not radiate any kind of humor. Of course, he was older now, with his carefree youth—if it had been carefree—decades behind him. But Aunt Adeline would have known Nigel when he was young. I could count on her for the truth. My outspoken aunt never pulled a punch.
I found Adeline and her partner, Gideon Picard, in matching lounge chairs behind their cottage, which neighbored mine on Lilac Lane. There was a pitcher of lemonade on a low wooden table between them, alongside a plate that bore only crumbs. Possibly it had been loaded with Gideon’s famous club sandwiches. I turned to him to ask about replacements, then halted.
Something was different. Something was—I gasped—gone.
Gideon’s gray samurai topknot had been replaced by a buzz cut that rivaled Ethan Neuhaus’s prison-break do. His matching gray mustache and goatee were also MIA.
“Gideon—what happened to your hair?”
He raised a wiry hand to pat his skull. “Gone.”
“Why?”
“Because,” my aunt said casually, “I told him I had no intention of living with an old hippie, and the man-bun had to go.”
“What about the beard?”
“Ditto.”
“But… But…” Squaring my jaw, I turned to Gideon. “You don’t have to do everything she says.”
Grinning, he slid a hand over his head. “I kinda like it. Less work.”
I had never been entirely clear about the relationship Adeline and Gideon had shared over the years, and I wasn’t about to question it now. I knew they’d both worked for a shadowy sub-government entity known as Control many years earlier. Some people believed Gideon was at one time a double agent. I didn’t believe that, or even care, because he’d done everything he could to save my aunt when she had gone missing and the police had insisted she must be dead. Which was the reason I was in Leafy Hollow in the first place.
It was all too complicated for me. I preferred to dwell in the present.
With a gesture at his octagonal, blue-tinted glasses, I asked, “Those are staying, right?”
My aunt sniffed and looked away.
Gideon winked.
“Thirsty?” Adeline asked, picking up the pitcher and pouring me a glass.
“Thanks.” I took it from her, then sat on a bench under the shade of a grape arbor whose leaves rustled in the breeze. “I am, a little.”
I took a long swallow of the lemonade, then choked.
Adeline jumped up to slap me on the back.
“I’m okay,” I croaked, putting the glass on the table. “That lemonade is a little…strong.”
“Oh, that’s not lemonade,” my aunt said. “It’s a vodka martini.”
Suspiciously, I eyed the lemon slices floating in my glass.
“Well,” she added. “It’s more like a lemon-tini.”
“Yes,” Gideon said. This time, I noticed a barely perceptible slur. He’d also not risen to greet me, which was unusual.
“How many have you had?” I asked him.
“Too many,” he said with a groan. “She said it was lemonade. I just thought it was…tart.”
“Honestly, you two,” my aunt chided. “One would think you’d never had a drink before.” Raising her own glass, she took a healthy swallow, then replaced it on the table. “So. Verity. I’m always happy to see you, but I can tell something’s on your mind. What is it?”
I ran a finger down the side of my glass while deciding whether to take another sip. My thirst won out, and I lifted the glass without looking at my aunt. “Is it that obvious?”
“You’ve come to ask me about Ryker Fields’ case, haven’t you?”
I put my glass down. “What do you know about it?”
She shrugged. “Nothing, really. It’s the talk of the village, so I’ve heard all about it, but I don’t know the truth of the situation. You know how people love to gossip.”
“Actually, I wanted to ask you about someone else—Nigel Hemsworth. Did you know him, back in the day?”
“The art dealer, right? The one who’s looking after Perry Otis’s estate?”
“That’s him. Emy heard that his business reputation is questionable. She thinks he might be taking advantage of Ryker.”
“What does that have to do with the murder case?”
“Nothing. But it’s a coincidence, don’t you think?”
Adeline nodded thoughtfully. She put her glass down, then straightened in the chair. “I’ll tell you what I know about Nigel, though I’m not sure it will help.”
“Please.” I took a cautious sip of my drink.
“I knew him in high school. Also after that, but only sporadically. You know that when I was in my twenties I worked for a group headquartered in Toronto.”
I nodded. I’d had run-ins with my aunt’s former employer, the mysterious body known as Control. They claimed to be a loosely aligned group of public relations specialists, but their black-ops marketing campaigns had a way of turning d
eadly. They had put my aunt’s life in danger more than once. At one point, they even tried to recruit me.
I had politely rebuffed that attempt.
Well, not all that politely, since I smashed two of their computer monitors in a rage. Served them right, I insisted at the time.
What I didn’t admit was that their covert operations sounded rather exciting.
“You mean Control,” I said.
“Not exactly. Its predecessor. They kept me pretty busy, and I didn’t get back to Leafy Hollow for over a decade. When I did, I looked up the old crowd, including Nigel and Perry Otis.”
“You knew Perry, too?”
Nodding, Adeline refreshed her drink. Gideon merely groaned when she offered him a refill. After replacing the pitcher on the table, she took a sip, then put down her glass.
I waited impatiently.
“Nigel had changed. I remembered him as a practical joker, always ready with a prank. The teachers were forever trying to rein him in. But when I saw him all those years later, he’d become so serious.”
“What kind of pranks?”
“Minor things—jokes, really. Snakes in a drawer. Salt in the sugar bowls. Hiding alarm clocks set to go off during lectures. Taping air horns under chairs, so when someone sat down—”
“That would be annoying.”
“Definitely. But nobody got hurt. Until Nigel went away to university. Apparently, he thought his penchant for practical jokes would make him, if not popular, at least notorious.” My aunt sighed, shaking her head. “It did.”
“What happened?”
“He oiled a staircase, thinking it would be funny to watch people tumble down it. But one of the students cracked his skull and went into a coma.”
“Do you remember the student’s name?”
“Sorry, no. I didn’t go to university, remember? I only heard about this second-hand. It was distressing for everyone, of course. Nigel was expelled.”
“Rightfully so.”
“I suppose. But he always insisted it wasn’t his fault. He said another student planned the stunt, and he went along with it without realizing the danger. Nigel was never charged. The police said it was a tragic accident stemming from an ill-advised prank.”
“What did you think?”