by Rickie Blair
And there was something else—to my astonishment, I realized I wanted to see him again. He was my father, after all. There had even been a time when I called this man Daddy.
Shaking my head vigorously to banish that thought, I pulled my chenille robe tightly around my neck with one hand and wrenched open the door with the other.
Frank stood on the porch, his hand raised to knock again. His gaze caught mine, and his mouth opened.
I held up a hand to stop him before he could speak.
Narrowing my eyes, I evaluated his attire. He had on the same inadequate field coat, jeans, and denim shirt. His ungloved hands were chapped and red. I considered thumping him. But then a chilly gust of wind whistled through the porch, lifting a strand of my hair. It was too cold for martial arts al fresco.
My sigh was audible. “Come in.”
As I closed the door behind him, Frank stamped his feet on the mat. I assessed his footwear with irritation. Cowboy boots. The man was a walking cliché. I was willing to bet that leather was crocodile. “Where’s your bush hat?” I asked.
“Left it home. Didn’t want to scare the children.”
I rolled my eyes at his pathetic comeback. “How long have you been saving that one?”
He shrugged, unbuttoning his field coat with one hand. “May I?” He pantomimed taking his coat off.
“Put it on that peg.” Turning away, I added over my shoulder, “Coffee?”
“Wouldn’t say no.” After hanging up his coat, Frank walked into the living room—cowboy boots still on his feet. Given the probable state of his socks, it was likely a blessing.
“Wait here.” I headed for the bedroom to change my clothes, Boomer trotting after me.
With his back to me, Frank was assessing the knickknacks on the mantel. He seemed riveted by a miniature replica of the starship Enterprise—a memento of my childhood, carefully repaired after an enemy attack decades earlier.
I ducked into the bedroom, closing the door behind me.
Then I paused, my back against the door, contemplating the new wardrobe units Jeff had recently assembled with a key wrench and a fair bit of cursing. What did one wear for an unexpected reunion with their deadbeat dad? Grimly, I shook my head. Too late to rent a Little Orphan Annie outfit.
I decided on yoga pants, a T-shirt, and a pullover. Boomer hopped onto the bed, then settled in to watch as I tossed one sweater after another onto the duvet. They all seemed so… bland.
The bedroom door cracked open. “Verity? Where is—”
“Eeek.” I shrieked like a teenage girl, clasping a sweater to my chest. “Get out of here.”
From the bed, Boomer issued a low, throaty growl.
“Hey,” I said, impressed. “Nice work, Boomer.” He wagged his tail.
“Sorry.” The door clicked shut. “I just wanted to know where the photos are,” came his muffled voice.
Photos? I thought. “I’ll be there in a minute. Hang on.”
When I emerged from the bedroom wearing a vintage pullover that would have been new during the Enterprise’s first five-year mission, Frank was on the sofa, hunched over a photo album on his lap.
“Found it,” he said without looking up.
I stared at the album, mystified. “Is that Mom’s?”
“Yes.” He flipped another page.
“Where did you get it?”
“Behind the bookcase.” He pointed to the dining nook.
I swiveled my head to stare at the bookcase, feeling spooked. How had he found something I hadn’t even known was there?
When I swiveled back, he was tapping a finger on the photos and smiling. “Remember our trip to Niagara Falls? When you were—let’s see, you must have been five.” Sliding the album across the coffee table, he rotated it to face me.
I sat gingerly on the edge of the armchair to peer at the picture of a grinning young girl with untidy brunette hair, holding an ice cream cone and clasping the hand of a rakishly handsome man. Frank’s swagger—and remarkable blue eyes—came across even in a still photo. Mom must have held the camera, I thought.
He tapped again on the page. “You dropped your cone and wouldn’t stop crying until I bought you another. Chocolate—that was your favorite.”
Impatiently, I pushed the album—and the remembrance—away. “Enough of the walk down memory lane. What were you talking about at the bakery last night?”
He ignored my question. “I’m staying at that place on the highway. It’s called…” He narrowed his eyes, trying to remember, before nodding. “The Sleepy Time Motel. Kind of a dump, actually.”
Since I was familiar with the Sleepy Time from a previous investigation, I knew that even a one-star rating would be generous. But that was Frank’s problem, not mine.
I pointed to the sofa. “That does not convert into a bed for unwanted guests.”
“I wasn’t wrangling for a bunk. Just working up to my story.”
“It’s not riveting so far.”
“Give me a chance. It gets better.”
I harrumphed.
Frank shook his head. “Don’t take after that woman, Verity. You’re better than that.”
Sputtering, I rose to my feet and jabbed the air with my finger. “If you think you can come in here and insult Aunt Adeline, who was a second mother to me while you were halfway around the world cavorting with whoever, you can just—”
“Wait, wait.” He held up his hands in a gesture of apology. “I didn’t mean to insult anybody. Sometimes, I don’t say the right thing.”
“Sometimes?”
“A lot of the time, okay? I’ve never been a smooth talker. Sometimes I rub people the wrong way. Your mother and I argued a lot about my… choice of words.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“You never heard us, is why.” He gestured at my armchair. “Sit down.” When I didn’t move, he added, “Please?”
Heaving a sigh, I slumped into the chair and ran my fingers along the arms’ nubby fabric. “Get on with it, then.”
“Speaking of insults—cavorting with whoever?” He raised his eyebrows.
I regarded him steadily before replying. “You’re right. I should have said—whomever.” I raised my own eyebrows.
His lips twitched in a half-smile. “All the Hawkes girls were the same. Picky.” Lowering his head, he turned another page of the photo album.
“Leave it,” I said, suddenly irritated.
He slapped the cover shut, then slid the book to one side. With his hand resting on it, he asked, “Why did you change your name?”
“I didn’t change anything. I decided to use the name of the person who raised me. And that wasn’t you.”
My mother had kept her maiden name when she married. But I was known as Verity Thorne—until, as a teenager, I insisted on dropping my father’s hated last name.
His intense blue eyes drilled into mine. For a long moment, neither of us spoke. Finally, he said flatly, “You want to know why I’m here.”
“I do.”
Vaguely, he surveyed the room. “Did you mention coffee?”
With another sigh—this time, of exasperation—I got to my feet and headed for the kitchen. After filling a mug from the carafe, I warmed it in the microwave. Good enough.
I plunked his mug on the coffee table. “Sorry, I’m fresh out of meat pies.” And took mine to the armchair, where I curled up with my legs under me.
“Ha-ha.” Frank picked up the mug and took a sip. “Thanks. The brew at Sleepy Time was pretty weak.” He placed the mug back on the table. “Non-existent, actually.”
“You could have gone to the Tim Hortons up the road.”
“Afraid I’d miss you.”
“What difference would it make?” I checked the mantel clock. “You’ve been here for twenty minutes, and you haven’t told me anything that couldn’t have waited. Forever, in fact.”
“It’s here. In Rose Cottage.”
My gut clenched with unease, and I put my mug
down. “What’s here?”
“I wasn’t sure,” he said. “Not until I found the photo album. Obviously, nobody’s been over this house to check Claire’s hiding places. It must still be here.”
My brain was working overtime to make sense of this. “What is? The mysterious bequest you claim Mom left you? It’s an object?”
“It’s not money. I know that much.”
“How?”
“Because if Claire had any extra money, she would have spent it on you.”
My gut twisted a bit more. Finally, something with a seed of truth in it.
“What is it, then?”
“I told you—I don’t know.”
“Then why is it so important you find it?”
“Isn’t that obvious?”
“Not to me.”
Dropping his head, he ran a hand across the photo album. “Claire was my wife. I loved her. If there’s something she meant for me to have, I want to have it.”
I pondered this explanation briefly before discarding it. “Mom’s been dead for ten years. You only showed up yesterday. If this object—whatever it is—was important to you, why did you wait this long to claim it?”
“I didn’t know about it.”
“Then how did you find out about it?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“I suppose you also can’t tell me why it’s a matter of life and death?”
“You suppose correctly.”
I narrowed my eyes.
Frank sipped his coffee, peering at me over the rim of his mug. He settled the cup on the table. “Let me take a quick look through the cottage. I’m sure I can find it. Then I’ll be out of your hair. Or…” He shot me a lopsided grin. “We could catch up. Make up for lost time. I’d like that.”
When he paused, the grin faded. “How about it, Ettie?” he asked softly.
I jerked with a start at hearing that name. Ettie. It had been his nickname for me. Blurred memories drifted before my eyes. Games of checkers next to a fire. Ice cream cones dripping in the heat. Lectures about internal combustion engines delivered from under the hood of a partially restored, cherry-red T-Bird in our garage.
Those images were quickly replaced by other memories. Mom crying. Me walking to school alone. And a garage empty of everything but an oil slick on the floor.
For a moment, I couldn’t speak. Then, “Why did you leave?” I blurted.
Even under his tan, I saw the blood drain from his face. Finally, he said, “Your mother and I decided it was for the best.”
“You’re lying,” I whispered.
In moments of crisis, I often suffered anxiety attacks. A vein in my neck throbbed, my breath became short, and dizziness overwhelmed me. When it was really bad, I felt as if I was smothering.
This could have been one of those moments. Yet, I was remarkably calm. Maybe it was the reminders of Jeff’s comforting presence—like the bowling shoes, size twelve, lined up in the front hall, his copy of the latest Jack Reacher next to the armchair, or the half-filled carafe of coffee in the kitchen. Whatever the reason, I got to my feet with composure. “Time for you to go, Frank.” In case he didn’t get the message, I took his coat from its peg and held it out. My hand didn’t even shake.
He rose from the sofa, then walked slowly toward me. “I’m sorry if I upset you. But I have to search the cottage, Verity. I can do it without you here, if that would be easier.”
I shook my head, amazed at his nerve. “You’ll do no such thing.” Shoving the coat against his chest, I opened the front door.
Frank eased into his field coat, leaving it unbuttoned. “I have to find it. It’s a matter of—”
“Life and death? Please.”
He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it abruptly.
When he brushed past me on the way out, I averted my face. I was reasonably certain he wouldn’t chance a fatherly peck on the cheek, but I wanted to make sure. I didn’t want to break his arm. Too much paperwork down at the station.
On the porch, he turned for a last word.
Holding up a hand, I said, “I don’t want to hear it,” and slammed the door.
I stayed there, my forehead against the wood, taking deep breaths, until I heard his car start up and drive away.
Then I marched over to the bookcase.
With a grunt, I eased it away from the wall. The corners creaked and the bottom edge scratched the floor—matching, I saw, similar scratches I’d never noticed before.
Dust caked the back, except for a rectangular patch the same size as the photo album. Two pieces of torn and tangled duct tape hung from the upper edges. I fingered the sticky tape, feeling uneasy. I’d lived in Rose Cottage for nearly a year since returning from Vancouver—and yet, I hadn’t known that album was there. Frank found it within minutes. What else did he know?
I have to search the cottage, Verity.
I was more convinced than ever his story was a fabrication. Mom didn’t leave him anything. Even if she didn’t want to share the knowledge of a dubious bequest with a child, there was no reason to keep it from a beloved sister. Despite Adeline’s opinion of Frank, she would never disregard her sister’s wishes. Whatever this object was, Claire could have given it to Adeline for safekeeping and asked her to pass it along if Frank ever showed up.
Which meant that whatever he was seeking, it wasn’t a bequest from the woman he abandoned twenty years earlier. It was far more likely that something of value was hidden in Rose Cottage—great value, judging from his insistence on finding it.
The cottage did have one secret. In the basement, a hidden electronic panel had connected Aunt Adeline with her former employer—the shadowy black-ops marketing group known as “Control.” My fearless aunt spent decades working for Control in countries all over the world. But the panel had been permanently deactivated after our reunion the previous summer. Aunt Adeline promised me she was retired, and I believed her.
Pacing the floor, I tried to put myself in Frank’s boots. He seemed sure he could find this mysterious object in minutes. But I’d been over every inch of Rose Cottage—well, not the back of the bookcase, but most everywhere else, except—
Thoughtfully, I gazed at the ceiling. The attic was unfinished, with rough-hewn beams and no floorboards. If I were going to hide something, that was where I’d put it.
I checked my watch. There was plenty of time to climb through the ceiling hatch and search the attic before Jeff came home.
But before I could retrieve the stepladder from the basement, I was interrupted by the arrival of the mail carrier, a jovial, red-cheeked man named Quincy who drove a tiny red-and-white postal van.
Boomer raced to the front window to plant his paws on the sill. Arf-arf-arf-arf-arf-arf.
I opened the door to find Quincy depositing envelopes into the wooden post box on the porch. His wide face beamed when he saw me. A newly acquired tan testified to his recent vacation.
“Good morning, Verity. Lovely day, isn’t it?” He plucked out the mail, reaching over to hand it to me.
Arf-arf-arf-arf-arf-arf. The little terrier pranced about our legs.
“And Boomer—did you miss me?” Quincy reached into his pocket for a biscuit. Boomer snatched the treat—fortunately, Quincy was skilled at pulling his fingers back in the nick of time—and crunched noisily.
“By the way, Verity, one of the stand-ins who took over my route didn’t realize you’re no longer using that old mailbox at the side of the garage.” He pointed to the thick stack of mail in my hand. “I’m afraid some of those letters have been sitting there for weeks.”
“No harm done,” I said. “Thanks for letting me know.”
Quincy headed back to his van.
Minutes later, I was about to drop the envelopes on the kitchen table when I noticed a colorful postcard peeking out from the middle of the stack. Sifting through the pile, I pulled out a photo of a tranquil beach scene. I turned the card over, expecting to see the spidery script of my vacation
ing handyman, Carson. But the message contained only a list of meaningless numbers.
I checked the directions, wondering if the substitute mail carrier had left me someone else’s mail. The address—on Lilac Lane—was correct. But the postcard wasn’t addressed to me, or even to Jeff.
It was addressed to my mother.
Claire Hawkes.
Chapter Four
I stood in the kitchen, unable to move, staring at the postcard in my hand. Had it been junk mail, I would have dismissed it as the product of some company’s out-of-date mailing list.
But there was a handwritten message.
hello, claire. surprised to hear from me?
Followed by meaningless numbers.
There was no signature. And no return address.
After I slumped into a chair at the table, I propped the postcard against the sugar bowl to study it, tapping my fingers on either side. The numbers might be a code. I leaned in to count them. Fourteen numerals in all, with a hyphen in the middle.
I knew lots of simple codes—thanks to my mother, who used to drill me on word games and puzzles. It was a favorite pastime of mine as a child. But the answer to this one eluded me. There were no obvious repeats, for instance, and no recognizable pattern. To decipher it I’d need the key—a key presumably known only to a woman who’d been dead for a decade.
I held the card up to examine it more closely. According to the postmark, it had been mailed weeks earlier. Which meant it had been dropped into my unused mailbox before the arrival of my father.
I placed the card flat on the table to trace a finger along the row of numerals. Was the postcard’s arrival a coincidence? A joke, maybe? Or worse—a warning? A chill slid down my spine.
I shook my head forcefully, willing that thought away. Just because I’d been involved in a few murder cases didn’t mean there was a secret lurking behind every tree—or postcard. Jeff would say I was jumping to conclusions. And he would be right.
Instead, I forced myself to consider simpler explanations. For instance, my mother loved board games and puzzles. The postcard could simply be a long-overdue move in a contest, conducted by mail, with a former acquaintance.
