by Rickie Blair
“I know.”
“How could I have been so stupid?”
Should I answer that? I wondered. Opting to take the high road, I countered with, “You’re not stupid. Although, following Shelby here was not the wisest course.”
He managed a crooked grin. “Look who’s talking.”
“Touché.” I struggled against the tape. “We have to get out of here. Shelby has a can of turpentine, and I don’t think she’s planning to use it to lift stains out of the carpet.”
“How can we? The door’s locked, and our hands are bound.”
Rising to my unsteady feet, I backed up to the wall, slid down it until I was on the floor, then butt-hopped over to the door. “If we coordinate our movements, we can kick it in.” I hesitated. “Or out, in this case. Anyway, something’s bound to give.”
I hoped it wouldn’t be my knees.
A rap on the door caused me to jerk back.
“Everything okay in there?” Shelby called. “Are you two comfortable?”
“We’re fine, you bitch,” I yelled. “Let us out.”
“I’m so glad,” she replied in a pleasant tone. “I only wanted to tell you it’s going to get a little warm in here.” Even through the closed door, I heard her chuckles.
Then her footsteps, walking away.
“Come on, Ryker,” I said, lining up my feet. “We’re running out of time.”
Shelby Wynne’s triumph was almost complete as she placed the turpentine can by the front door.
It had all gone according to plan. Too easy, really.
Then, with a scowl, she patted the remaining patch of paint in her hair. You made him pay, though, didn’t you? She grinned at the memory.
Fingering the match box in her pocket, she reviewed her next moves.
First, she’d stow the painting in the Mercedes. Police and emergency services were dealing with the explosion in Leafy Hollow. She had time to take the whole thing, frame and all. No need to slice out the canvas with a box cutter.
Then she’d return to splash around the turpentine and toss a lit match from the doorway.
It would be days—weeks even—before anyone realized Spirit of the North wasn’t among the ashes. By that time, she and the painting would be thousands of miles away.
It didn’t have to be this way, she thought, her mouth turning up in a pout. Dakota could have been by her side to enjoy their victory. A spasm of pain gripped her chest. It subsided almost as rapidly. With determination, she pivoted on one foot then marched into the Silo.
The painting came away easily. A slight yank upward, and it was off the wall. She hoisted it in front of her, admiring the brush strokes, feeling a surge of joy. At last.
Before she could turn away, she froze at the sound of a soft click in the wall where the painting had hung.
It was the last sound she ever heard.
We had finally started to make progress on the closet door. “A few more kicks and it’ll give,” I promised Ryker. “Now, heave!”
But as we raised our bound feet to slam on the solid wood, the whole house shook. A BOOM hit us like a blow. We rolled back onto the floor and lay there, limbs tangled.
Cripes. Not again. I desperately wanted to cradle my throbbing head in my hands, but of course they were still tied behind me.
“What was that?” Ryker asked.
Sniffing the air, I blurted, “Is that smoke?”
We exchanged panicked glances, then resumed our attack on the door with increased fury. The frame around the lock cracked and then splintered.
One more kick and the door flew open.
We tumbled out.
I expected to see flames, but there were none. Above our heads, smoke swirled into an industrial-strength ceiling fan.
On the other side of the foyer, Shelby’s turpentine can had fallen over. Thankfully, it was still unopened. That old cap must have rusted in place.
Ryker hopped on bound feet in the direction of the exit, his hands still taped behind him. “We have to get out of here.”
“I agree, but…where’s Shelby? Did she take the painting?”
“Forget about Shelby.” He hopped twice more, then switched to shuffling. I’d seen ancient tortoises with more vroom.
I watched him impatiently. At the rate he was moving, we’d still be here in a week’s time. “No, wait. We have to cut this tape off first.”
Hoping to find a knife, I hopped into the great room. And halted.
“Wow,” I said, then cleared my throat against the dust swirling through the air. “Look at this.”
Ryker hopped over. It took quite a while.
“Shit,” he said, shaking his head.
Most of the paintings had fallen off the walls. The few still hanging were lopsided. Shards of broken window glass lay in clumps on the floor. A flower vase had smashed on a coffee table, strewing petals everywhere. Water dripped off the suede sofas.
“Why would Shelby blow this place up?” Ryker asked.
“I don’t know.”
He glanced around, looking worried. “Speaking of Shelby—where is she?”
My curiosity got the better of me. Yes, we should have made for the exit. But I rationalized it this way—if Shelby was still in the farmhouse, we’d be easy pickings whether we were outside or inside, so long as our limbs were tied together. Might as well take a look.
I hopped to the entrance of the Silo.
For endless moments I stared, mouth slack, unable to take in what I was seeing.
“Oh, my God,” I said in a small voice. “Ryker. Get over here.”
He shuffled over, then gasped at the scene in front of us. We exchanged horrified glances.
On the floor of the Silo, Shelby lay on her back, not moving. Only the bottom half of her body was visible. The rest of her was underneath Spirit of the North.
At least, I assume that’s what lay on top of her, given that her outstretched fingers were still gripping bits of its carved wooden frame. The painting itself was completely destroyed, shredded into countless fragments by thousands of nails that also littered the floor.
Painting, nails, and Shelby were soaked in blood.
“Oh, no,” I said, as the room swirled around me. “I’m going to be sick.”
After several minutes slumped against the nearest wall, I eventually struggled back to my feet. Then I hopped into the great room, wiping my mouth on the shoulder of my shirt.
Ryker shuffled after me. “Where are you going?”
“To the kitchen. We have to get this tape off.”
In the massive kitchen, we stared with longing at a magnetic knife strip on the wall. A paring knife at one end looked like a good bet. Leaning on the counter, I tried to knock it loose with my nose.
“No, don’t,” Ryker said. “You’ll cut yourself when it falls off. Use one of those.” He jerked his chin at a ceramic holder full of wooden spoons.
I grabbed a spoon between my teeth, returned to the knife rack, and in one fell swoop knocked off two paring knives, a chef’s knife, a bread slicer, and something that might have been a lemon zester. Hard to tell without Jeff’s input.
“Good thing you used the spoon,” Ryker said, evaluating my haul. “You could have lost an ear.”
“Lost an ear,” I gasped. “Lost…an ear.”
I doubled over, gripped by hysterical laughter. I couldn’t stop. I had to lean against the counter to stop myself from toppling over. I tried to catch my breath. I tried to stop guffawing. But I couldn’t do it. Whether it was the tension of facing imminent death or the horrific scene in the Silo that triggered my meltdown, I was out of control.
My howls of laughter echoed off the walls.
Eventually, I sank to the floor with my back against the cupboard, still tittering. After a concluding series of hiccups, I wiped my face against my shoulder.
Ryker regarded me skeptically. “Are you done?”
“Sorry,” I said, inching my way up the cupboard to stand upright.
&n
bsp; “Don’t mention it. Now, could we—” He jerked his head at the paring knives.
“Yes.” I bent over, using my nose to move one to the counter’s edge. “Grab the handle.”
While Ryker held the knife steady behind his back, I slid the tape on my wrists over the blade. After three passes, the tape gave way. Sighing in relief, I rubbed my wrists. Then I cut the tape on Ryker’s wrists.
While he grabbed the other paring knife to work on his ankles, I flopped to the floor to free my own feet. Once that was done, I wobbled my way to the sink, hanging on to the counters as I went, and splashed water on my face.
Resting my hands on the sink, I looked out the window, admiring the field of yellow canola swaying in the breeze against the row of trees in the distance. Two turkey vultures soared overhead on their massive wings, silhouetted against fluffy clouds. It was such a peaceful setting. No one would ever guess that inside Perry Otis’s farmhouse was a scene so brutal—
Cripes. We still hadn’t called 9-1-1.
I reached for my phone, then remembered Shelby had it. Along with the keys to Emy’s Fiat.
“Is there anything to eat?” Ryker asked, depositing his knife on the countertop.
“How can you even think about food?”
“I haven’t eaten since yesterday,” he whined, looking sheepish. At least, I think he was sheepish. It was hard to tell, what with the red stripe across the bottom half of his face from the duct tape, the dried blood on his head, and a swollen eye that was developing into a first-class shiner. Now that the tape was off his legs, I noticed he was limping.
“Give me your phone.” I held out a hand.
“Can’t. Shelby took it.”
We turned our faces toward the door that led to the great room and from there into the Silo. We exchanged glances.
I shook my head. “I’m not going in there to look for our phones. You’ll have to do it.”
With a grimace, Ryker turned to the door, moving slowly. Again.
“No, wait—we can’t,” I blurted. “It’s a crime scene. There must be a phone in here somewhere.”
“A land line?”
“Maybe.” Helplessly, I glanced around. My gaze fell on the massive stainless-steel refrigerator on the far wall. I recalled my tour of the kitchen, when Emy had said, The appliances are all hooked up to the Internet…
“We don’t need a phone.” After shambling across the room, I pressed my finger to the fridge door. A screen sprang to life.
“Call 9-1-1,” I said loudly.
“Calling…” said a metallic voice.
After I’d relayed our situation, I opened a set of French doors, then staggered onto the patio, where I sank into the nearest chaise. I pressed a palm to my forehead to shield my eyes from the sun. My head was throbbing viciously and my stomach was queasy.
Ryker followed, standing in the doorway. “I think you just set off the burglar alarm.”
Twisting my neck, I stared at him with my mouth open.
“Right. Doesn’t matter.” He slumped into the chaise beside me. For a long moment, we both stared at the canola.
“While we’re waiting,” he said. “Do you think there’s any food?”
The sun was too bright anyway, and my sunglasses were in my purse, which I assumed was with Shelby in the… Never mind. Groaning, I rose to my feet.
“Let’s check the freezer. There’s bound to be canapés left over from the open house. Nigel wasn’t the type to throw food away. Besides, I need an ice pack.”
We were slumped on stainless steel stools at the kitchen island—Ryker devouring a plate of defrosted lobster crostini, and me holding a bag of ice to my head—when the wail of multiple sirens announced the arrival of emergency crews.
The first thing the police did was arrest Ryker.
They ignored my protests.
“Never mind, Verity,” he said, holding out his wrists for the handcuffs. “We’ll sort it out at the station.”
Three ambulance attendants—after determining there was nothing they could do for Shelby—hovered over me. “You might have a concussion,” said one briskly, while another checked my blood pressure. “We need to get you to hospital.”
The third offered moral support. “Let me know if you feel faint,” she said. “Do you want to put your head between your knees?”
Since that would have meant loosening my grip on the ice pack, I declined. “I’m fine. Really.”
Then Jeff burst through the door looking worried—his usual reaction to finding me at a crime scene.
“I’m okay,” I called. “Honestly. Don’t worry.”
Leaning over with a hand on my shoulder, he peered at the lump on my head. Sighing, I inhaled the familiar scent of coffee, strong mints, and Old Spice.
“It doesn’t look like you’re okay. Are you taking her in?” he asked the attendants.
All three nodded. “She should be checked for concussion.”
“I’m not going anywhere except the police station,” I said, sliding off the stool. “We have to spring Ryker.”
Jeff overrode my decision. “If you insist on doing things like this, I insist on proper medical attention. Otherwise—” He didn’t actually shake a finger at me, but he came close.
At the hospital, I breezed through the vision test and CT scan—all of it old hat, since this wasn’t my first concussion scare—then insisted on going to the station.
Jeff insisted we go home. “You can give your statement to an officer there,” he said.
Then his phone rang.
After a brief conversation, he slid the phone back into his pocket. “They want to see you at the station, Verity. Something’s…come up.” He looked puzzled.
Chapter Thirty-One
As soon as we entered the police station lobby, Cayenne Cole strolled over to us, smiling languidly.
I was taken aback. “What are you doing here?”
After giving Jeff a leisurely head-to-toes appraisal, Cayenne turned her attention to me. “I came to back up your story.”
“My story? It’s not a story. It’s the— Hang on. How did you know I was here?”
“Adeline called me.”
I was incredulous. “My aunt called you?”
“Great woman. Such an inspiration.”
“You know my aunt?”
“You’re repeating yourself, Verity. Of course I know Adeline.”
I stared, uncomprehending. “She’s never mentioned you.”
“I’m hurt.”
From the twist in her lip, I could tell she was anything but.
“When I didn’t hear back from you, I thought you’d decided not to help me,” I said.
“You doubted my word?”
“Well, my friend Emy did refer to you as Dragon Lady after we met at the open house.”
Cayenne beamed. “Dragon Lady. I like that. Now, who’s calling the shots here?” She gave Jeff an appreciative glance. “Is it you?”
I stepped between them.
A beefy, mustachioed man came charging toward us, hand outstretched. After introducing himself as the officer in charge, he ushered us into a conference room.
A dozen people were crowded inside. Some were local cops, but not all. Narrowing my eyes at the badge on a nearby chest, I read the words Interpol Liaison.
Someone pulled out a chair halfway down the table. I sat.
With Jeff standing behind me, I recounted my visit to the farmhouse, followed by what I’d learned about Nigel Hemsworth. After reflecting, I decided to leave my father out of it. Birdie still didn’t know about that hole in the closet.
Pens scribbled in notebooks, lips pursed, and eyes narrowed. The door opened, and a young constable walked in with two trays of coffee. He handed them around.
Jeff paused my arm when I motioned for one. “No caffeine for you,” he said. “Not for forty-eight hours.”
So he was listening at the hospital. Sighing, I withdrew my hand.
“Thank you, Verity, for walking
us through it,” said the mustachioed officer. “That must have been a difficult ordeal for you.”
Jeff squeezed my shoulders. He knew better than anyone what it cost me to appear so calm. My stomach was churning. I wouldn’t be able to stay in that room much longer. Not with everyone’s eyes on me. But there was one question I really wanted answered.
“Why would anyone destroy Spirit of the North?”
“I think I can explain that,” came a voice from the back of the room.
Cayenne, who had been perched on a table, got to her feet. All eyes swerved to her as she stepped forward.
“Ms. Cole,” said the officer in charge. “Thank you for agreeing to come in today and clear up a few things for us.”
“Happy to be of assistance,” she said. “As for Verity’s question, it’s complicated. I believe the answer lies with Nigel Hemsworth’s original backers. The silent partners who bankrolled his business—Perry Otis and Isaac Damien.”
“We know they were friends,” I said. “How is that significant?”
“Ah. That’s the interesting part. In his youth, Perry Otis loved to paint.”
“Yes. But Nigel told me Perry’s work wasn’t any good.”
Cayenne chuckled. “He was right.” She paused, wrinkling her nose. “Although, some of the frames are exquisite. Solid wood, hand-carved. They’re worth a few bucks.”
“Then what—”
“It’s his other work that was valuable.”
“What other work?”
“The paintings in the Silo.”
“They weren’t painted by Perry. They’re all by famous artists, people like…” My jaw dropped, along with the penny. “They’re forgeries, aren’t they?”
She nodded. “Perry’s garage is full of old painting equipment. Easels, palettes, oil paint tubes—most of it decades old. I had a look in there yesterday.”
One of the local cops frowned. “Did you have a warrant?”
Cayenne tapped a finger on her chin. “Hmm. Let me think.”
“Never mind that,” I broke in impatiently. “How did you figure it out?”
“We have you to thank for that, Verity,” Cayenne said.