by Rickie Blair
As the door swung shut behind her, I did a double take. She was wearing leggings, a T-shirt whose sleeves hung over the back of her hands, and a scarf tied under her chin so tightly no hair was visible. It would have been odd, except her face showed signs of a vicious sunburn. She probably wants to avoid any more skin damage, I thought.
As Emy prepared her order, Shelby shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
“Is your foot any better?” I asked.
“What are you talking about?”
“Your gardening injury,” I said, pointing. “Or was it your ankle?”
“I’m fine,” she blurted.
“How’s Ryker?”
From the expression on her face, I fully expected to have none of your business thrown back in mine. Instead, she managed a smile. Then, over her shoulder, she said, “He’s fine. It’s a long journey.”
“It’s a—what?”
“Grief. It’s a long journey.”
Behind the counter, Emy froze.
I knew what she was thinking—that I was still traveling that road myself and might take offense. But I wasn’t about to let some woman who wasn’t smart enough to come in out of the sun ruin my day with her pop psychology.
So I ignored Shelby. “Emy, can I have a lemon cupcake to go?”
She smiled, sliding the pastry into a paper bag. “For Jeff?”
“Yeah. You know how he loves them.”
“What about my turkey-brie?” Shelby snapped.
“Almost done,” Emy replied pleasantly, returning to the sandwich. “Shelby, how long are you staying with Ryker?”
“What do you mean? Why shouldn’t I stay with my brother?”
“Well, sure, but when you were here the other day, you mentioned finding a place of your own. I suggested that rooming house on Clarence Avenue as a stopgap.” After wrapping the sandwich, she handed it to Shelby. “Any luck?”
Shelby pulled a bill from the pocket of her hoodie then dropped it on the counter. “Keep the change. No, that place was full up.” She swiveled, heading for the exit.
“See you later,” I called as the door swung shut with another jangle of the bell. “Give my best to your brother.”
When I turned back to the counter, Emy was shaking her head. “That’s some sunburn. Poor girl.”
“I noticed. She didn’t have that when I saw her the other day at Ryker’s. Thanks, by the way, for delaying her that morning.”
“It was fine. We had a nice chat.”
“What about?”
“This and that. Nothing interesting. Although, come to think of it—” Emy snapped her fingers. “We talked about Perry Otis’s farmhouse and how beautiful it was. Shelby mentioned that the second floor of the main house is also stunning. Something about an Italian marble bathroom.”
I mulled this over. “I never saw the second floor. Did you?”
“No. There was a red velvet rope strung across the staircase. Like the one in front of the Lawren Harris painting. Nobody was supposed to go up there. There was even a sign, No Admittance.”
“You’re right,” I said, recalling the scene. “So when did Shelby see that fancy bathroom?”
Emy shrugged. “Maybe Nigel gave her a special viewing, since she’s one of Perry’s heirs.”
“When would he have done that?”
We locked glances.
“Last night,” we said in unison.
Emy puffed out a breath. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
Reluctantly, I shook my head. “It doesn’t make sense. It’s far more likely Shelby toured the second floor during the open house. She was checking every room, which is why Nigel kept such a close eye on her. I wouldn’t be surprised if she simply ducked under that rope and scooted upstairs when no one was looking.”
Emy nodded. “I’m sure you’re right. It was a dumb idea.”
“Not at all,” I insisted. “Because it tells us something else. The booby trap—if that’s what it was—couldn’t have been there during the open house, or Shelby would have triggered it when she went upstairs.”
Which begged another question. Who had become so incensed with Nigel in the past three days that they’d slice off his ear?
Chapter Twenty-Seven
As I sat in my truck, waiting for Ethan Neuhaus to show up at the next job on our afternoon list, I revisited an earlier problem.
Who was Grace Anderson? And why did she want Molly Maxwell’s house?
Common sense told me Molly’s home was in a prime location on a coveted lot and that realtors often made cold calls. But common sense could be wrong.
Which was why I needed to speak to Ethan.
His beat-up Camaro pulled up with the roar of an untamed muffler, and Ethan emerged. After waving briefly, he went around to the back of my truck. I followed.
“You still want me to do this place on my own?” Ethan asked, opening the truck’s back door then easing the lawnmower down the ramp.
“Is that a problem?”
“Not at all. I’ll text Lorne when I’m done, and he can pick up the mower.” Ethan bent to switch on the motor. It roared into life.
Crossing my arms, I stood in front of the machine.
Ethan shut off the engine. Straightening, he gave me an irritated look. “Are you getting out of the way, or what?”
“In a minute. There’s something I’d like to check first.”
Pivoting, I walked over to his Camaro and opened the trunk.
Ethan gave a start, then darted toward me. “What are you doing?”
I hoisted a half-empty bag of bonemeal from the floor of the trunk and held it up. “What’s this?”
He scowled. “What does it look like? Bonemeal.”
“I don’t use it. I think I told you that.”
“That’s from…last season.”
I lifted my eyebrows.
“Ryker still uses it.”
“No, he doesn’t. In fact, I stopped using bonemeal on his recommendation. It attracts too many animals.” I dropped the bag by my feet with a thud. “Care to explain?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” he said sullenly.
“Let me make it clearer, then. Why did you top-dress Molly Maxwell’s flower borders with bonemeal?”
“I didn’t.”
I scuffed the bag at my feet.
“I told you, that stuff is left over from last season.”
“It’s a fresh bag, Ethan. It hasn’t been sitting in the trunk of your car all winter.”
He uttered a curse under his breath and looked away, his lips moving silently.
I took a step toward him with my hands up. “I’m not angry. I just want the truth. In some ways, you did Molly a favor. Maybe now she’ll take her children’s concerns more seriously.”
“Yeah,” he said, looking down at his feet. “Silver lining, eh?”
“Maybe. But that’s not the reason you did it. I want to know why.”
He continued to look down, pressing his lips together.
A breeze lifted a strand of my hair. I brushed it off my face.
Finally, he looked up. “It was a mistake.”
“Were you trying to ruin my business?”
“No,” he blurted. “I only wanted to keep Ryker’s clients from jumping ship.”
“So you could keep them for yourself?”
He lifted his chin. “Maybe.”
I studied Ethan’s sullen face, his aging Camaro, his battered hands. The chances he could procure enough funds to buy or lease the equipment needed to run a lawn service company were not good. Not to mention the business smarts I was pretty sure he didn’t have. Ethan was a hard worker, yet job after job had fallen through for him. There had to be a reason. Recalling his tussle with Isaac Damien at the Go for the Juggler festival, I suspected it had something to do with the company he kept. I took a deep breath.
“I don’t believe you. There must be some other reason. Did you destroy those plants for fun?”
�
�No,” he blurted. Grimacing, he ran a hand over his shorn skull. “I need this job,” he muttered, not looking at me.
“I’m not firing you, Ethan. I only want to know what happened.”
He puffed out a breath, his hand still clamped on his head.
I took a leap. “Did Isaac Damien put you up to it?”
He dropped his hand and turned a wide-eyed look on me. “Who told you that?”
“I’ll take that as a yes. So you did it for money.”
He frowned. “Not exactly. Isaac…knows things. I had no choice.”
“What things?”
He shook his head. “Can’t tell you.”
“But why Molly’s flowers? It’s so petty. Was it a joke?”
“He wanted to scare her into selling.”
“By ruining her garden?”
“Yeah. It didn’t work. The old girl’s too tough. She’s not the scare-easy type.”
“Is that why Isaac argued with you at the festival?”
Ethan nodded morosely. “He said I screwed it up, and he wanted me to do more. When I showed up the second time, somebody had already spray-painted the house. Lucky break, I thought. I figured I’d scatter the bonemeal, get out of there, and tell Isaac I did the paint, too.” He scowled. “I didn’t know you lot were gonna get involved.” He hesitated, fixing me with an intense stare. “Are you gonna turn me in?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether you tell me the rest. For instance—who’s Grace Anderson?”
Chuckling grimly, Ethan plunged a hand into the pocket of his jeans to pull out a creased and filthy business card. He handed it to me.
Grace Anderson, I read.
I waved the card at him. “What does this mean?”
“It means she doesn’t exist. Damien had those cards printed up. It’s a fake name. He said the old lady—”
“Molly.”
“—yeah, Molly. He said she’d recognize his name. She knew Isaac from years ago, supposedly. He had me drop one of those cards at her house, with a letter promising a really good deal if she sold.”
“Why does he want her house so badly? Isaac’s not a developer.”
“He doesn’t want the house. He wants something that’s inside the house.”
“What?”
“I dunno.”
“Didn’t you ask?”
He gave a snort of disgust.
“All right. Never mind.” I turned to walk back to the truck.
“Hey,” he said. “You promised not to fire me if I told you the truth.”
Pursing my lips, I studied him for a long moment. “I promised not to turn you in. It’s not quite the same thing.”
“Figures.” He issued another snort. “I knew you’d cut me loose sooner or later.”
“Why would I?”
He shrugged. “I’m not one of those clean-cut guys who grins like an idiot and says please and thank you all the time.”
I had to smile at his depiction of Lorne. “Listen, Ethan. Lorne is nearly through his business studies. He doesn’t want to mow lawns forever. I’ll need help even after Ryker returns to work.”
If he does, I thought, and immediately felt disloyal.
“You wouldn’t wanna hire me,” Ethan said flatly. “Not after this.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself.” I studied his sullen face while he shuffled from foot to foot. Ethan was a good worker. He showed up on time, and he did the job. Being diplomatic with customers was not his strong suit, but that was my responsibility anyway.
“You’re hired. For now. But I’ll be keeping an eye on you. Any more sabotage and I’ll report you.”
He nodded, looking relieved. “What are you going to do about Isaac?”
“I haven’t decided yet. Although he does owe me for twelve flats of flowers and the time it took to plant them.”
“You can’t tell him I told you.”
“I wasn’t planning on it. But—why not?”
“I can’t be on the wrong side of Isaac Damien.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it. I have a feeling he’ll be heading back to Europe before long.” I paused, thinking it over. Or somewhere much less hospitable.
My aunt and I only had the gym for an hour, so we got right to work. Adeline was an old friend of Leafy Hollow’s high school principal. I suspected he had a crush on her and that’s why he let us use the smaller of the school’s two gyms once a week for free. Behind the gym’s closed metal doors, we heard students shuffling back and forth in the halls, laughing, calling to each other, and slamming lockers shut.
I practiced a few stretches in my shorts and T-shirt before our warmup. Adeline insisted on jumping jacks, sit-ups, pushups, and planks at every session, despite my protests of overkill.
Then we squared off on mats laid on the basketball court, our stances neutral, our feet bare. I tensed my knees.
On the wall above us, a clock ticked over loudly in its wire cage. Then a bell blared throughout the building, and the noise in the halls gradually faded.
We sparred diligently for fifteen minutes, until a sheen of sweat stood out on our faces.
“You know,” I said, confidently parrying another blow from my aunt. “I’ve been thinking I don’t really need any more Krav Maga training.”
Thwump.
I hit the mat, victim of a sneaky leg sweep.
After executing a backward roll, I jumped lightly to my feet to resume my stance. “You’re going to be sorry for that,” I promised.
Adeline merely smiled. “Pay attention, then.”
I got her back with a hip throw.
“Nice work,” she said, before staggering to her feet. She bent over, breathing heavily.
“Are you okay?” I stepped nearer. And walked right into an elbow strike. When would I ever learn?
“You know what?” I asked while lying on the floor, contemplating the ceiling’s cracked acoustic tiles.
“What?” Adeline called from six feet away. She was too shrewd to come within striking distance of my foot.
“Nigel Hemsworth sells stolen paintings.” I paused. “Well, one, anyway.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, it’s true.”
“Break,” she called, then padded over on bare feet, extending a hand to help me up. “You better explain that.”
I told her what the team had witnessed at the Sleepy Time Motel. Adeline listened with rapt attention.
“Should we report it to the police?” I asked.
“You promised Cayenne you wouldn’t.”
“I know. But I haven’t heard back from her. Maybe she never had any intention of helping me. It could have been a decoy to get me off her back. The longer I wait before reporting that sale, the more questions the police will ask me.”
“As well as Frank,” she pointed out.
“There’s that,” I said. “What should I do?”
She shrugged. “I tend to agree with her.”
“Really? Won’t I get in trouble if this comes out?”
“How? You only had her word for it that the painting was stolen.”
“Why would she lie?”
“Who knows? I’m sure she can fabricate a good story, though. Anyway, since the painting’s been returned, who’s going to file a complaint?”
Behind me, a metal door cranked open. I turned to see Gideon’s newly shorn head peeking in.
“You almost done?” he asked.
“C’mon in and sit down.” Adeline waved a hand. “We won’t be long.”
The door closed behind him. As he headed for the narrow rows of bleachers, I returned my attention to Adeline. “Remember telling me about Isaac Damien? How he’s been in Europe for years?”
She nodded. “What about him?”
“I think I’ve found another link between him and Nigel Hemsworth.” I told her about Ethan’s confession and the dusty business card from Hemsworth’s Art and Collectibles I saw in Molly’s house.
When I was done, Adeline frowned. “That’s a tenuous connection.” She rubbed a hand over her mouth, looking serious. “Verity, when I suggested earlier that you might be indulging in wishful thinking, this is the kind of thing I meant. Whatever unethical dealings those two are involved in, it’s a far cry from murder. And it has nothing to do with Ryker.”
“Yes, but—”
I froze.
It was no more than a whisper, but I knew the sound of bare feet treading on vinyl when I heard it. Dropping to my knees, I swiveled to execute a flawless single-leg takedown.
Thwack.
Gideon hit the mat with a thud. He lay on his back, not moving.
We bent over his spread-eagled body.
“Problems?” Adeline asked.
“I’m fine,” he wheezed. “Just getting my breath back.”
Adeline and I shared a glance, then repaired to the bleachers, where we hung towels around our necks. Wiping our faces, we regarded my fallen adversary.
“You’ve got to stop setting him up like that. I never fall for it.” I narrowed my eyes, evaluating Gideon’s prone form. “Should we call for help?”
“He’ll be all right. It takes a little longer to spring back at his age.”
“He shouldn’t be doing this,” I said accusingly. I did not know Gideon’s exact age, but I suspected he was too old for combat training.
“Try telling him that.”
“You shouldn’t either, come to that.”
She sniffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not even seventy yet. Prime of life.”
Wisely, I decided not to contest this assertion, and only nodded in agreement. However, I was unable to ignore her next statement.
“Control’s been in touch.”
I gaped at her. Alarm bells went off in my head at the mere mention of the mysterious black-ops marketing group known as Control. They once forced me into a dangerous mission by implying my aunt’s life lay in the balance—which, unfortunately, it did. After that ended successfully, they promised never to contact me again. And Adeline vowed she’d retired for good.
“Why did they contact you? To top up your pension plan?” I asked hopefully.
“Not exactly.”
“Then what?”
“There’s been a bit of bother. An offensive that—”