The Grave Truth

by Rickie Blair

  With a smile and hesitant nod, she began to leave.

  “And close the door.”

  “Of course.” She hesitated on the sill. “Do you need anything else?”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  She pulled the door shut behind her.

  He whirled on Roy. “What are you on about? Hawks? As in—birds?”

  “Technically, raptors. But not a bird—a woman. The Hawkes woman. With an E.”

  Nelson gave a snort of derision. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  “Your father never mentioned her?”

  “No. Why would he refer to this woman on his deathbed? Were they—” He screwed up his face, envisioning another lawsuit. “Intimate?”

  “It had to do with a scandal at the university involving one of your father’s consultants. Her name came up—Claire Hawkes. She was caught up in it somehow.”

  Nelson pondered this revelation. Would this woman try to squeeze a bequest from the old man’s will? After dropping his scribbled note into the drawer, he rose to his feet while closing it. “We’d better find her.”

  “We can’t. She’s been dead for years.”

  Nelson halted, one hand on the drawer handle. “How do you know?”

  “Priscilla likes to read the obituaries to me over breakfast. She’s done it for years. One day, that name came up. I recognized it right away, although I didn’t tell her. Priscilla felt bad because this Hawkes woman was so young.”

  “If she’s dead, how did Eugene expect us to talk to her?” He slammed the drawer shut. “See? I told you—he was raving. It’s all nonsense.”

  “Maybe.” Roy’s eyebrows drew together. “But it’s damned odd.”

  Nelson strolled over to open a cupboard door on the paneled wall, revealing a mirror. Stretching his neck, he adjusted his tie before brushing an errant strand of gray hair into place. “You knew the old man better than I did. Should we look into it?” He pulled a black cashmere coat from its hanger, shrugged it on, and turned to face his uncle. An ivory silk scarf trailed from his hand as he evaluated Roy’s expression.

  “I’m sure it’s nothing.” Roy shook his head. “A coincidence, that’s all.”

  “Let’s forget it, then.” After flinging the scarf around his neck, he picked up the overcoat Roy had left on an armchair and held it out to him. “Time to go.”

  In the elevator, Nelson pulled out his cell to tap a text to his assistant.

  claire hawkes. leafy hollow.

  A beep signaled a return text.

  the usual?

  He tapped a reply.

  yes. family, friends, history. get it all.

  The elevator bell dinged, and the doors opened. Replacing the phone in the inside pocket of his suit jacket, Nelson followed his uncle into the lobby.

  Chapter Eight

  I drew in a deep breath of the tantalizing aromas of chocolate, lemon, and freshly baked scones before approaching the counter in the 5X, where Emy was re-stocking a cookie tray while talking to a customer.

  “Emy, I’d like to apologize for our family scene in the bakery the other day. I was shocked to see my father. And then Adeline—”

  Emy caught my eye, then cast a warning side-eye at her customer, a young woman wearing huge glasses and bright red lipstick. Her form-fitting cardigan in the same color topped a patterned dress and flat shoes. Mid-century hipster, I thought. Not often seen in the 5X.

  “No need to apologize,” Emy said. “He shows up like that… what else could you do?”

  The young woman was listening intently.

  “Great. No harm done, then.” I craned my neck to check out the latest offerings. “Are those scones—”

  “Cranberry-lemon? They are indeed.”

  Grinning, I held up two fingers. “I’ll take deux to go. Jeff loves those.”

  While Emy busied herself preparing my order, she nodded at her customer. “Verity, I’d like you to meet an old friend of mine. Verity Hawkes—meet Tracy Palmer.”

  “Hello,” I said, extending my hand.

  Tracy shook my hand, her smile warm and lively. “Hello yourself,” she said in a lilting voice. “Always nice to meet a friend of a friend.”

  “Where do you—”

  “Know each other from?” Tracy’s smile grew even wider. “We’re old school chums, aren’t we, Emy?”

  “All-girls Catholic high school,” Emy said, dropping my scones into a paper bag. “Tracy was our valedictorian.”

  “Ah. An over-achiever?”

  “Not me,” Tracy said. “Unless you meant smoking behind the bleachers. I worked up to a pack-a-day habit putting up with those nuns.” She turned to Emy. “Remember Sister Agatha? She used to join us, puffing like crazy.”

  We laughed.

  Tracy raised both hands, eyes wide over a gentle smirk. “Of course, I’ve quit since.”

  “You didn’t tell me what you’re doing in Leafy Hollow,” Emy said. “I haven’t seen you in ages.”

  “I know! I never seem to get out of the city. It’s been so busy at work. And since the funeral, it’s been one battle after another…” She shook her head sadly. “You know what my family’s like, Emy. I’m afraid they’re as dysfunctional as ever. Seth and I—Seth’s my cousin—had to get out of there. That’s why we went for a long drive. Then Seth got the munchies. And I saw a sign for Leafy Hollow and thought—scones! And here we are.”

  “The funeral?” I asked.

  “Tracy’s grandfather passed away recently,” Emy said.

  “Oh. I’m so sorry.”

  “He was sick a long time.” Tracy waved a hand before blinking quickly.

  For a moment, no one spoke. Then, “Your takeout order’s ready,” Emy said in a cheery voice, pushing a brown paper bag across the counter toward Tracy. “Are you sure you won’t change your mind and eat it here? Coffee’s on me.”

  “No, thanks. We’ve been gone too long already.” On the street, a car horn sounded. Tracy leaned around to look out the window. “That must be Seth. He’s so impatient.” She shook her head. “He insisted on bringing one of his weightlifting buddies with him—and the guy is such a Neanderthal. You can’t imagine what the conversation has been like.” Puffing out a breath, she turned to face us. “You must call me so we can get together for lunch. Please? I could really use some friendly banter. I’ve got business cards here somewhere.” She rummaged about in her handbag before handing us both one.

  I stared at mine, surprised. “You work at Palmerston Corp.?”

  Tracy winced. “Yes. I’m one of those Palmers, I’m afraid.”

  “I didn’t mean anything by that, sorry. It’s just—I came across the name only yesterday. In the anthropology department of Strathcona University.”

  “Huh.” Her brow furrowed. “I think my grandfather sponsored a few things there, but I’m hazy on the details. It was before my time.” She gazed at me intently. “Do you have an interest in anthropology, Verity?”

  “Not exactly, but…” I wondered how much to divulge. “It was an interesting exhibit, the one that Palmerston sponsored. About the Neutral Confederacy.”

  “Then you are interested in that stuff!” She grabbed my arm enthusiastically. “You know what? You should come to the office. I’ll show you my grandfather’s personal collection. We’re packing it away for storage this week, which means you must come soon. Promise you’ll come? Both of you?”

  “I’m sorry,” Emy said. “The bakery is too busy this week for me to get away.”

  “But I’d be delighted,” I said with a grin.

  Once Tracy had left—with a brisk wave and a trilled “Later!”—I turned to see Emy sliding the filled cookie tray onto a display shelf.

  “You never mentioned you knew those Palmers,” I said, mimicking Tracy. Marveling at my luck, I rocked back on my heels with a grin. After my visit to the university, I pondered how to find out more about Palmerston Corp.’s relationship with Randall Dignam. And all the time I had an inside
source, right here in the 5X. Who knew?

  “They’re a big deal in Strathcona,” Emy said. “Land developers.” She turned to pick up another tray from the counter behind her.

  “Were you and Tracy close?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t remember Tracy being close with anybody at school. She was a little—”

  “Full of herself?”

  Emy nodded. “Hey—see what you think of these Anzac biscuits. They’re popular in Australia, apparently. I thought your father might like them.”

  Bending, I peered at the lightly browned disks. “What’s in them?”

  “Oats, coconut, butter—”

  “Hmm. Too good for the likes of Frank.”

  Emy regarded me with a pinched expression.

  “I’m sorry.” I gestured at the cookies. “It was kind of you.”

  “Have one.” She smiled. “I want your opinion.”

  The cookie produced a satisfying crunch when I bit into it. Chewy and sweet, yet rich with buttery flavor. “These are delicious.” I took another bite. “Thank you, Emy.”

  “It’s what I do.”

  “I didn’t mean the cookies.”

  She tapped my arm lightly before sliding the tray under the glass counter. “Now, bring me up to date. What were you doing at the university?”

  Over a steaming mug of coffee, a pickled tuna sandwich, and two more cookies, I related my conversation with Frank, my discovery in Rose Cottage’s attic, and my inquiries at the university.

  “Wow.” Emy’s eyes widened. “Looks like Hawkes Investigation Agency is back in business.”

  I winced. “After the crossword case went south, I sort of promised Jeff I wouldn’t do any more of that.”

  “No, you didn’t.” Her astonishment was obvious. “Not in so many words.” She lowered her voice. “Besides, this is different. It’s not an actual case, because it’s all in the family. You have every right to research your mother’s history. I don’t understand why Adeline is so set against it.”

  “I don’t think she is. She told me the man in the photo was probably a university colleague. And since I didn’t show her the actual photo, it’s not surprising she couldn’t identify him.”

  “Fair enough. Does Jeff know anything about the original investigation?”

  “I haven’t asked yet. But he did tell me something else.” I related my father’s mysterious visit to Wilf Mullins.

  “How does Frank know Wilf?”

  “I don’t know.” I handed her my empty mug, and Emy put it in the sink. “But I’m headed over there now to find out.”

  Her eyes sparkled. “Come right back and tell me what Wilf said.”

  Wilf’s office was a few doors away on Main Street. A sign in its plate-glass window proclaimed wilfred mullins, ll.b—followed by a list of legal services starting with ‘wills and estate planning’. A second sign said wilfred mullins, leafy hollow councilor, with services including ‘fish and game licenses’.

  There were no placards to show he’d launched his race for mayor. Perhaps those plans were on hold, because Wilf was a lover of excess. Once he began his campaign, there’d be no shortage of signs. Probably even a brass band marching down Main Street.

  I pushed open the door. “Hello?” My voice echoed through the empty reception area. The royal-blue chairs, walls, and carpeting were as resplendent as ever, but no one else was present to admire them. “Anybody here?”

  The straight-backed typist’s chair behind the reception desk was unoccupied. Wilf’s assistant—the elegant, gray-haired Harriet—was nowhere in sight.

  Muffled voices issued from behind the paneled door of Wilf’s inner sanctum. Straining my ears, I heard a woman’s voice. It wasn’t Harriet’s. I decided to take a seat and wait for Wilf’s visitor—or visitors—to leave. But I had barely thrown my coat over a chair and sat before the voices began to rise in volume.

  “That’s not what I said, damn it,” Wilf shouted.

  That was followed by high-pitched words delivered in such an unusual accent I couldn’t make them out.

  “Stop it,” Wilf yelled. Then, “Don’t you dare. Don’t you—”

  I jumped to my feet.

  “Nooo,” Wilf screamed. That was followed by a crash—and a thump that could have been a body falling to the floor. With a racing heart, I wrenched open Wilf’s office door, ready to tackle his assailant.

  Wilf was on the floor, extricating himself from a toppled chair.

  “Are you even listening?” he sputtered, rising to his feet. His face was bright red, but he appeared unhurt. Whirling on one foot, he caught sight of me in the doorway. “Verity! See what I have to deal with?” He raised his hands in frustration.

  “I did not understand that, Will-fred,” a woman’s voice said. It had an electronic edge. “You want me to orr-dure Han-dell? A cee-dee?”

  Wilf’s facial hue surged to near purple. “Shut up,” he yelled.

  Puzzled, I glanced around. Wilf’s electric chair was lowered and silent behind his desk, his phone’s handset was on its cradle, and the three armchairs in front of his desk were empty—including the one now on the floor. The roll-down wall chart with an artist’s rendering of the Cameron Wurst Water Park—one of Wilf’s money-making schemes that had yet to bear fruit, other than the complimentary boxes of Cameron Wurst salami his clients received every December—showed signs of wear. A few of the smiling sausages were dancing on one leg. But those indignities were not recent.

  And there was no one else in the room.

  “I will orr-dure chess-nuts,” said the same electronic voice.

  For a moment, I was baffled. What the—?

  Then I saw it—a small metal column flashing red on the edge of Wilf’s desk.

  Wilf slapped a hand against his forehead. “That’s not at all what I said.”

  “I will orr-dure wall-nuts. With shells? Or can-deed?” the voice asked.

  “Forget the nuts,” Wilf yelled.

  “Is that four—”

  “Alicia,” I broke in loudly. “Turn off.”

  A melodious chime filled the air. Followed by silence.

  Wilf slumped into his chair with an explosive sigh. After a flick of his fingertip on the controls, the motor activated, and my shorter-than-four-feet lawyer rose slowly.

  I settled into a leather armchair to wait.

  “Thanks, Verity,” he said, once his face was level with mine. He pointed an accusatory finger at the metal column. “That thing is more trouble than it’s worth.”

  “You have to train it to understand your voice. Like a dog.”

  That hadn’t worked with Boomer, but I still had hope.

  Wilf scrutinized the contraption suspiciously. “Easier said than done.” By the time he returned his attention to me, his usual boisterous grin was back. “Enough with the electronic gadgets. I like them, as you know.” He fondly tapped the arm of his Ferrari-like chair. “But my mind is on other things today.”

  “Where’s Harriet? Out for lunch?”

  A black expression replaced his grin. “Harriet is on vacation. Hence.” He pointed to the metal column. “That thing. Harriet said it would be a huge help.”

  I noticed his stress of the word Harriet. The vacation of his longtime legal assistant appeared to be a sore point. “Will she be back soon?”

  “Not for a—” His voice rose, but he soon regained control. “Month. A whole month.”

  I couldn’t recall Harriet ever abandoning her post. “She must be overdue for a break. Did she leave the country?”

  Wilf’s voice was even. “She went to Bermuda.”

  “It’s nice there.”

  “Apparently.” After another sigh, he regarded the gadget sullenly. “I think Alicia…” He pointed a sullen finger at it. “Must be Harriet’s ploy to get a raise.”

  “You could hire a temp until she gets back.”

  “A temp? At their ridiculous rates? Why not get two?” he asked sarcastically.

  “Yes,
Will-fred,” came an electronic voice, “I will orr-dure two crates of hemp.”

  “No,” we both shouted. “Don’t do that.”

  “That was an error,” Wilf yelled, waving his hands.

  “Yes, Will-fred. I will change the orr-dure to come by air.”

  “I don’t want any,” he shouted.

  “I understand. I will send the orr-dure to An-dy. In Ber-moo-da.”

  Wilf looked perplexed. “Who’s Andy?”

  “There will be a three thou-sand six-ty three-dol-lar charge on your cre-dit card, Will-fred.”

  “Wait—what? Who’s Andy?”

  “I must tell you, Will-fred,” continued the voice, “marry-wanna is not legal in Ber-moo-da. There may be a prob-lem.”

  Wilf slumped in his chair, mumbling something inaudible that sounded suspiciously like Andy is cruisin’ for a bruisin’.

  “I did not understand that, Will-fred. Shall I post bail for An-dy?”

  Wilf gave me a beseeching look.

  After I dropped to my hands and knees, I crawled under the desk and yanked Alicia’s cord from the wall socket. I wasn’t sure if that would turn it off, but I had to do something. Settling back into my chair, I raised my eyebrows.

  Wilf sighed heavily. “I know what you’re thinking, and you’re right. Harriet deserves a raise.”

  “Maybe you could buy her a little thank-you gift. A shawl is always nice.”

  Glowering at my shawl mention, Wilf pointed to Alicia. “That thing doesn’t get me coffee, either. Except in five-hundred-pound crates.”

  “I’ll pop into the 5X and get you something.” I started to push off from my chair.

  Wilf raised a hand in protest. “Sit down, Verity. I’m perfectly capable of getting my own. Harriet has a coffee machine in the back, although I’m not entirely sure how it works. Or if there’s any cream in that mini-fridge of hers.” Straightening up, he gave me an expectant look. “But why are you here? Problems?”

  “There’s a situation I’d like your input on.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “My father, Frank Thorne, is back in Leafy Hollow.”

  Wilf nodded gravely, but he gave no sign he knew of my father’s presence in the village. “And?”