by Rickie Blair
“Why did she give up on her dream?”
Adeline brushed her hands along the table edge without meeting my eyes. “Life happens.”
“You mean—babies happen. She gave it up because of me, didn’t she?”
“No!” Adeline leaned over the table to take both of my hands in hers. “Your mother loved you, Verity. You know that. It would have been difficult to pursue a career like that with a baby—so, yes, she stayed home with you. But she wanted to. And besides, Frank…” Her voice trailed off, and I pulled my hands away.
“He was against it, wasn’t he?”
“Well…”
I stared at her, remembering. When Mom and I spent hours together on word puzzles and crosswords, my auto-mechanic dad was often left out. Memories of raised voices crossed my mind, and I sucked in a breath. “Did my father know about Mom’s friend?”
Adeline gave me a sharp look. “You’re reading too much into a casual photo.”
“Am I? Why did she hide it in the attic?”
“It’s possible she didn’t want Frank to see it, but that doesn’t mean anything. He was a jealous man. Your mother did nothing to justify that.”
I studied her face. Adeline appeared to be telling the truth. But she had lied to me about Frank’s attempts to contact me. Was she also shielding me from uncomfortable truths about my mother’s past?
Boomer, who had been watching us from the floor, whimpered, nosing at my leg. I stood, snapped on his lead, and turned to the exit without a word.
At the front door, Adeline squeezed my arm. “Forget that photo, Verity.”
I forced a smile. “Good advice.”
As the door closed behind me, I zipped my jacket with determination. And I will forget it. Right after I take it to the university to find Mom’s friend.
Chapter Five
Perhaps if Frank Thorne hadn’t been deep in thought, mulling over his next move, he would have realized his rental car was being followed through Leafy Hollow. He was worrying about more important things—like where Claire hid that damned thing. It was true he wasn’t exactly sure where it was. But he knew more about it than he’d let on.
During the twenty-seven-hour flight from Darwin to Toronto—with wearying stops in Melbourne and Los Angeles, followed by a two-hour drive to the village that nestled into a curve of the Niagara Escarpment—he’d realized he couldn’t tell Verity the truth. Not after all these years.
He hadn’t counted on Adeline putting her nose in, though. With a snort of disgust, he halted briefly at a stop sign before driving too quickly through the intersection.
Adeline Hawkes. That woman had more secrets than the CIA. Why couldn’t she let him have just one? He recalled her thinly veiled threat from the previous day.
Stay away. From Verity.
No, he couldn’t tell Adeline, either.
The black pickup was half a block behind him when Frank finally became suspicious. There was an SUV and a delivery van between them, but he knew a tail when he saw one. The truck kept its position for several more blocks. It might have been a coincidence, but he didn’t intend to hang around to find out.
At the intersection known in the village as the banking district—four bank branches, one on each corner—he slowed, watching the yellow light, then swerved to the left the instant the yellow changed to red.
At the next corner, he glanced back. The SUV and the delivery van had stopped at the red light. His line of sight to the pickup was blocked by the bank on the corner, but it must be lined up behind them. Grinning, he turned left at the stop sign and continued back the way he had come. There was more than one route to his destination.
Congratulating himself on the maneuver, he approached the next stop sign, intending to turn onto a road that led up the Escarpment to Rose Cottage.
As he passed an alley in the middle of the block, he caught a flash of black on his left. He twisted his head around without slowing his car. Damn it.
Stamping his feet on the gas, he gunned the engine, planning to run the stop sign at the corner. He wasn’t worried. The chances that ignoring a stop sign in sleepy Leafy Hollow would have consequences were low enough to be worth the risk. Up ahead, a car entered the intersection.
Frank zoomed around it with a cheery wave. A horn blared.
He glanced in the mirror again. No sign of the black pickup. Which meant he hadn’t seen it in the alley, after all.
He wasn’t usually that jumpy. Must be the damn weather. After living in Darwin, Australia’s Northern Territory—where 75F was considered a brisk winter day—for twenty years, he’d lost his Canadian tolerance for the cold. Reaching over, he clicked the car’s heater up a notch. He could buy a parka, but with any luck, he’d be on the way home before he’d get to wear it. Home. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. Odd he thought of a country halfway around the world as home.
After another glance in the mirror, he relaxed and slowed the car, covering the next six blocks at a leisurely pace. No reason to draw attention to himself.
With a one-handed twist of the wheel, he turned onto the last side street before the Escarpment road. And abruptly hit the brakes.
A black pickup commanded the middle of the street, facing him, its exhaust fumes billowing through the frigid air.
Frank shifted into reverse, then tapped the accelerator hard before glancing in the rearview mirror. He halted the rental with a shriek of tires.
A black sedan had pulled in behind him, blocking his escape route.
Revving the engine, Frank calculated the angle required to back around the second car, mount the sidewalk, and come down on the other side. It would be a tight squeeze. Or—he could drive over the sidewalk, abandon his vehicle, and set off at a run through the nearest backyards. That would involve scaling a few fences, but his pursuers wouldn’t run after him. They wouldn’t want to risk a parade of camera-wielding villagers uploading to YouTube.
Before he could act, the driver’s door of the pickup opened. A tall dark-haired man with a grim expression stepped out and stalked toward him.
Frank’s hands tensed on the steering wheel.
Then he realized who it was. Damn it. His heart rate slowed, but his irritation level rose by a factor of ten. Scowling, he slammed the heel of his hand against the wheel.
But by the time Jeff Katsuro stood beside his car, Frank had lowered the window and adopted a big smile and a friendly tone.
“Jeff. Nice to see you again. And so soon.”
“You ran a stop sign.”
Frank adopted a practiced expression of surprise. “Are you sure?”
“May I see your license, please?” Jeff held out a hand while nodding at the second vehicle. After a brisk wave from the driver, the black sedan did a three-point turn and drove off.
Frank watched it go in the rearview mirror while fumbling for his wallet. Silently fuming, he handed it over.
Jeff thumbed through the ID. “This is an Australian license.”
“Valid in Ontario, last time I checked.”
“I’m not so sure about that. I may have to ask you to accompany me to the station.”
“Oh, come on,” Frank blurted. “You know damn well—”
Jeff raised an eyebrow.
“Sorry,” Frank mumbled. “Look, I get it. You’re checking up on me. No hard feelings. Just return my ID and I’ll be on my way.”
Jeff extracted the driver’s license before returning the wallet. “Wait here.”
In his rearview mirror, Frank morosely watched Jeff return to his pickup truck, climb inside, and speak into a handheld radio. Apprehension twisted Frank’s gut, which was his usual reaction to interaction with the authorities, but in this case—probably justified. What did Jeff know about him? If he was willing to tail his girlfriend’s father, what else might he be willing to do?
The pickup’s door opened, and Jeff stepped out again. A yellow traffic ticket fluttered in his hand as he ambled back to the rental car. Frank detected no change
in Jeff’s expression. He suspected that years of being a detective had honed the man’s ability to conceal his feelings.
This time, instead of leaning over the driver’s window, Jeff moved to the other side, opened the passenger door, and got in.
Frank stared. He’d had enough conversations with cops over the years to be concerned by this change in procedure. And none of those cops had been dating his daughter.
Jeff handed back his ID, followed by the ticket.
Frank accepted both wordlessly.
“I’ve been following you for the past hour,” Jeff said. “Some of which you spent at a lawyer’s office. Why were you there?”
Frank tucked the ID into his wallet. “Wilf Mullins is an old friend of mine.”
“I doubt that.”
“You can ask him.”
“I will. But I’d rather hear it from you.”
Frank tossed his wallet onto the dashboard, where it thudded against the windshield. “I’m sure Verity—or her interfering aunt—have already told you. I’m here to collect a bequest my wife left me. Once I have it, I’ll leave.”
“And never return, supposedly?”
“That’s right.”
Jeff sat silently for a moment, staring out the window. “There’s a lie in there somewhere, Thorne. I’m just not sure where.”
“That’s an unfriendly attitude. After all, we could be family one day.”
Jeff shot him a cold look. “If you think I’ll cut you a break because—”
“I only meant that maybe Verity wants to reconnect with her father. Have you asked her?”
“I ran your priors. You’ve got a history.”
“I’m flattered you cared enough to check up on me.” Not looking at Jeff, he ran his hand over the steering wheel. “Did you… tell Verity any of this?”
Jeff thinned his lips before replying. “I think that should come from you.”
Frank nodded. “Thanks.”
“Let’s be clear, Thorne. The only reason I’m not escorting you to the Strathcona airport right now is because you’ve never been convicted of any violent crimes. You’re a cheat, obviously, but not a dangerous one.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Which leaves my original question. What are you doing here?”
Frank clamped his hands on the steering wheel and leaned forward, thinking it over. He could use someone on his side—someone with skills, preferably. And Jeff more than fit the bill. “Verity’s in danger,” he mumbled before straightening and glancing at his passenger.
The flush on Jeff’s chiseled cheekbones was unmistakable. “I need more than that.”
Frank reached for his wallet, then leaned forward to tuck it into his back pocket. “My former associates found out I had a daughter. I don’t know how. But they consider her a pressure point. I tried to tell them I haven’t seen her in years and couldn’t care less what happens to her. They didn’t believe me.”
“Tell me who they are.”
“I can’t.”
Jeff’s eyes flashed. He gripped Frank’s arm. “Tell me.”
“I can’t, because I don’t know. That’s the truth.”
“Can you guess?”
Frank heaved a sigh. “There’s a long list of suspects.”
“What do they want? Money?”
Frank yanked his arm free. “Originally, yes. But when they realized I didn’t have any, they switched demands. Now they want me to find an object Claire hid from them years ago.” He held up a hand. “And before you ask, I don’t know what it is.”
“Then how can you find it?”
“They said I’d know it when I saw it.” He raised both hands. “I swear. To protect Verity, I have to find this object and return it to them. That’s all.”
Jeff glared. “And if you don’t?”
An involuntary shiver slid down his spine. “They’ll come after me.”
“So it’s your own hide you’re worried about.”
Frank shrugged. “Look. This thing, whatever it is, is in Rose Cottage, I’m positive. If you could just talk Verity into letting me—”
Jeff opened the passenger door and stepped out. Leaning down, he said, “I have a better idea. You look like the perfect bait to me. Why don’t we let these mysterious associates come after you? Then I can arrest them.”
“After I’m dead?”
“If necessary.” Jeff slammed the door. Without another glance, he strode away.
Chapter Six
I locked Boomer in the kitchen and climbed into my Pepto-Bismol pink Coming Up Roses pickup for the drive to Strathcona University. As transport trucks rumbled past me on the highway, I tried to come up with convincing grounds for my visit. My mother had been dead for ten years—what reason could I give for asking about her now?
By the time I reached the off ramp that led to the campus, I had the perfect excuse. I planned to say I recently discovered my mother’s unfinished memoirs and wanted to check a few facts before publishing it. Academics loved tales of lost manuscripts. And fact-checking was their bread and butter. They’d welcome my curiosity about the past.
That’s what I told myself, anyway.
I parked in the main university lot after handing the attendant a twenty-dollar deposit. Obviously, I wasn’t in Leafy Hollow anymore, where a one-dollar loonie bought an hour’s parking.
The century-old brick buildings that surrounded the university’s tree-lined inner courtyard were in turn ringed by the glass walls and steel supports of more modern structures. The Social Sciences faculty was housed in a massive raw-concrete building. Its windowless walls towered over me as I mounted the front steps.
White pegboard letters in the lobby showed that anthropology began on the third floor. The elevator bell dinged, and I stepped in. Two young women with towering stacks of books in their arms moved aside to make room.
We all got out on three. The students took a hard left, but I halted. Ahead lay a domed atrium with a lofty glass ceiling. Numbered doors stretched to my left and right, extending around the atrium’s outer circle. A metal railing edged its waist-high glass wall, the only thing keeping visitors from plunging three floors to the masses of potted greenery below. Nervously, I edged closer to the back wall. Heights had never been my strong suit.
One of the young students glanced over her shoulder. “Are you lost?”
“I’m afraid so. Can you tell me where reception is?”
She pointed to the hall behind me. “Down there, around the corner, through the red double doors. A16.” She smiled. “It’s confusing, I know.”
With a brief wave of thanks, I turned, repeating her instructions under my breath. Once I found the door for A16, I pushed it open. A warren of chest-high cubicles filled the space beyond.
Lost again. I’d seen TV sci-fi serials easier to fathom than the layout of this building.
I wandered about for a bit. Eventually, a harried woman hunched over a keyboard lifted her head. I made eye contact before she could look away.
“Yes?” she asked curtly.
“Hi. I’m looking for information about faculty members.”
“It’s on the website.” She bent over, and her fingers clacked rapidly on the keyboard.
“It lists current faculty only. The man I’m searching for worked here twenty years ago.”
“We can’t give out personal information.”
“My mother was a student, and—”
The woman stopped typing long enough to point to the far wall. “You’ll have to talk to Irina Lasher, the faculty administrator.” She resumed typing.
“Thanks,” I said to the back of her head.
She tossed me an offhand wave without turning around.
Glass offices spanned the far wall, most no bigger than the cubicles. The largest held an executive desk, two leather armchairs, and four black filing cabinets. irina lasher, administrator, department of anthropology was etched in gold on its glass door. It was slightly ajar, so I poked m
y head through and tapped on the frame.
A middle-aged woman in a silk shirt and dangling silver chain was scowling at her computer screen. “I told him that. He says it’s not acceptable. He—”
“We can’t alter the budget at this late date,” a voice broke in from a speakerphone on her desk. “He knows that.”
I tapped again on the doorframe.
The woman—Irina Lasher, I assumed—scowled when she saw me. Leaning over the speakerphone, she said, “Hold that thought, Emily,” before she pushed back her chair. “Can I help you?”
I entered the room and held out a hand. “My name is Verity Hawkes. I’m looking for information about my mother. She was a grad student in this faculty twenty years ago.”
Irina’s eyebrows rose. “Emily, I’ll call you back.” After clicking off the phone, she indicated a leather armchair. “Sit down.”
I sat in the nearest armchair, dropping my shoulder bag on the carpet.
Irina got up to close the door. Leaning against it with her hands behind her, she stared intently at me. “You said your name was—”
“Verity Hawkes.”
“Remarkable.” She pushed off from the door, walked around her desk, and sat down.
“My mother’s name was—”
“Claire Hawkes. I know. It’s amazing how much you resemble her.” She stared at me with enough intensity to raise hairs on the nape of my neck. “What can I help you with?”
“I’m looking for information about my mother’s time here. I understand she pursued a degree in archaeology, but later she changed her mind.”
Irina fiddled with a pen on her desk before replying. “Why now?”
I took a deep breath, wishing I’d rehearsed this part while in the truck. What if she asked for details? “I’m working on my mother’s manuscript. Her... memoirs, I guess you could call it. And I was hoping to check a few facts.”
Irina dropped the pen. “Memoirs? That seems a trifle ambitious for your mother. What kind of memoirs, exactly?”
“You know—to do with her time at the university. The anthropology department, mostly.”
