by Rickie Blair
I eyed the twenty-dollar bill in his hand, my brief moment of excitement already evaporating. Now the villagers would not only comb the area for wallets, they’d check every twenty-dollar bill before they spent it. I envisioned long lineups at local cash registers—including the one at the 5X Bakery. Emy might regret Shanice’s embrace of Leafy Hollow’s latest obsession. Far from downplaying the contest craze, I’d made it worse by finding another clue.
“I haven’t solved anything,” I insisted. “This is as much of a mystery as ever.”
From his mat in the corner, Matisse stirred and sat up. It was possible he expected a treat since a kitchen drawer had been opened—not once, but twice. He gave a gentle yip.
“Sorry, boy.” After pulling a biscuit from a dachshund-shaped cookie jar on the counter, Henri tossed it over. “You deserve a reward, considering you discovered this clue.”
“What?”
He laughed. “I didn’t tell you, but Matisse found the wallet.”
“But you said—”
“I may have embellished that tale a bit. Truth is I felt kind of dumb for not seeing it there before. But the weather has been frightful. So, I opened the door and let Matisse pee outside. My neighbors are a bit touchy about that, but I figured nobody would notice, what with the snow and all. And when he cocked his leg, I saw—”
“Wait a minute.” I gripped the billfold gingerly between thumb and forefinger while holding it as far away from me as possible. “Are you telling me Matisse peed on this?”
Henri pursed his lips, contemplating the wallet. “I wiped it off.”
“Great. Do you at least have a plastic bag?”
Once the wallet and its contents were ensconced in a baggie, and I’d washed my hands, I retrieved my parka. While zipping it up, I asked, “What exactly do you want me to do?”
“I want you to find out who dropped that wallet in my front yard.”
“Does it matter? It’s just another clue in this ridiculous contest.”
“Maybe, but I don’t like the idea of strangers tossing things onto my property. Especially with the gallery’s official opening coming up. I think you should investigate. Besides—” He leaned in closer. “The crossword puzzle at the library includes a rather ominous reference.”
“You mean—killers amongst us?”
“Exactly. And now that we know this wallet is connected, I’m even more worried.”
Henri’s note of caution struck me as completely justified. Having been too close for comfort to more than one killer, this village mania hit too close to home for me. “You agree with me, then, that the contest could be a fraud?”
Henri’s eyebrow rose in surprise. “Certainly not. I think it’s perfectly genuine.”
“Then why do you want me to look into it?”
“I just told you.”
“I’m not sure what I can do.” With a sigh, I turned to the stairs.
“Well, for starters—could you post my clue on your way past the library?”
I paused with my hand on the newel post to look back over my shoulder. “Under your name? But you said you were worried about all this.”
“I am. But that’s no reason to turn down a million dollars.”
Chapter Five
The parking lot at Pine Hill Peak was deserted when Mickey backed his battered van into a carefully chosen spot. The pet owners who hired Mickey’s Dog Care to exercise their dogs would be surprised to learn its daily operation involved very little exercise—for Mickey, at least. He regarded that as a colossal waste of time. Why walk animals that were perfectly capable of walking themselves?
But he liked to keep one eye on the road, in case anyone driving by might wonder why he was sitting in the van while the dogs were doing, well, whatever dogs do when left to their own devices. His standard cover story—that he ran out of bags and came back to the van for more—wouldn’t work if someone found him napping. If he selected his vantage point just right, he could hear oncoming vehicles before the drivers spotted him.
Unfortunately, his favorite spot hadn’t been plowed since the last storm. The van’s carriage crunched, rocking, as it traversed the hard-packed snow. From the driver’s seat, Mickey urged the vehicle on. Then, with one foot on the brake, he assessed his sight lines to the road. Satisfied, he leaned over the passenger’s seat to prop open the far door.
“Everybody out,” he called.
A black lab, silver-gray standard poodle, and border collie scrabbled over the permanently reclined passenger seat, jostling energetically to be the first to make a break for it. Once free, they bolted into the parking lot. Within seconds, they’d made their way into the field beyond.
Mickey glanced in the rearview mirror.
The final member of his regulars, a chunky beagle, stared back at him, her deep brown eyes imploring Mickey to reconsider. The embroidered slogan on her gray fleece hoodie read, My big brother is a wolf.
“You, too, Pixi. Move it.”
Pixi whimpered, implying she was too nervous to brave the great outdoors.
Mickey sighed. He was itching to go over the contents of Oskar’s red shoebox. He had no time to indulge a spoiled mutt.
Technically, Pixi wasn’t a mutt. Her owners had explained her pedigree at great length when they hired Mickey. He had nodded solemnly throughout their presentation, although his thoughts soon strayed to other pedigrees. Ones that might lead to a windfall at the track.
But mutt or purebred, Pixi had to exit the van so he could concentrate on the afternoon’s money-making ventures. After opening the glovebox, he rummaged about until his fingers closed on a desiccated dog biscuit covered in lint. He tossed it out the open passenger door.
“Get it,” he warbled in his best approximation of a dog trainer he’d watched once on TV, back when he was hoping to pick up a few tips. He had quickly abandoned that research. Way too much pointless exercise.
The beagle scrambled out of the van. After snapping up the treat, she trotted over to check out the other dogs’ activity in the field. Mickey watched her suspiciously. He could never decide whether Pixi was timid or smart.
After closing the door to keep the heat in—frost had already iced the back window even though the engine was running—he retrieved a half-smoked joint from his shirt pocket and lit it. A little dope would steady his nerves. He took a long drag, then leaned back against the seat with his eyes closed before exhaling.
It had been two days since he found Old Man York’s body, and no one had reported the death. Which meant that, technically at least, Mickey was still on the hook. But he’d been over and over it in his mind, and he couldn’t think of anything that pointed to him.
Once, in the middle of the night, he bolted upright in his friend Willy’s basement, heart pounding, awakened by the fear that he left fingerprints on the old man’s slipper. Lying there, listening to the furnace whoosh on and the overhead vents creak, he realized that, yes, there might be fingerprints. But those were easily explained, because he’d been to York’s house before. Many times. With a sigh of relief, he’d gone back to sleep.
But the arrival of morning had not lessened his anxiety, because the old man’s death brought another problem into stark focus—Mickey’s regrettable lack of funds. Without access to York’s belongings, he had no new items to sell. He couldn’t risk passing on the gold watch and brooch. Not yet, anyway. What if he was being watched? He didn’t think he was, but what if he was wrong? Yesterday, while he was parked at the conservation area, several vehicles had driven by on the usually deserted road. He could have sworn the same gray sedan went by twice. That was just nerves, though. Gray sedans were everywhere.
He puffed a few more times on the joint before deciding he was being paranoid. If no one had found York’s body yet, how could anybody be under suspicion, never mind Mickey? Nobody was following him, either. That was a—what had that medical guy called it? A delusion. Drug-induced, the guy had claimed, but that was nonsense. It was more likely brought on b
y old Uma always watching him and complaining under her breath. Who wouldn’t have delusions if they had to deal with that all the time?
As for the financial embarrassment issue, he might have a solution for that. Before Cranberry pulled her ill-timed stunt at the library, those artists had been talking about a new gallery. Wouldn’t a gallery need photographs? Village history and so forth? Sucking on the last of the roach before stubbing it out between his fingers, he mulled this over. Sadly, there was bad blood between him and those artists. He’d need a go-between. The perfect person had been right there in the library, yucking it up with those annoying artistic types—Verity Hawkes, the village’s self-styled private eye. She claimed to be a landscaper, but he could see through that smokescreen.
He would drop in on Verity at his earliest convenience. Later today, possibly.
Flicking the joint into the ashtray, he retrieved the red shoebox from under the driver’s seat and flipped off the lid.
Photos. Photos. More photos. He shuffled through the contents quickly until he reached the bottom. A printed paper appeared promising. When he unfolded it to take a closer look, his mood darkened. It was a crossword puzzle. A dumb old crossword puzzle that Oskar probably copied from—wait. Why would the old man bother copying a crossword?
He rubbed his forehead with both hands, trying to think, then examined the puzzle again. Obviously, his lack of sleep was catching up with him. He yawned, shook his head, and refocused on the paper. Several clues reminded him of the puzzle posted in the library. His finger traced through the tiny boxes.
Killers.
Amongst.
Us.
Yes—it was the same. But in this version of the puzzle, all the clues were listed, and all the answers filled in. What a find! If Mickey had the answers, what was to prevent him from winning the contest? It was worth a million bucks, according to those busybodies at the library.
He leaned back, yawning. He really was getting sleepy.
Closing his eyes, he wiggled slightly, trying to get comfortable. Before long, snores echoed off the van’s metal walls.
Scritch-scritch-scritch.
Mickey twisted restlessly in his seat. “Stop,” he muttered.
Scritch-scritch-scritch.
Groggily, he opened one eye. “Stop it.”
Scritch-scritch-scritch.
In the passenger window, the flapping ears and sad brown eyes of a beagle appeared. Disappeared. Reappeared.
Mickey flopped over on the seat to push open the door, yawning so heavily the joints in his jaw cracked. Chilly air flooded in. He massaged the sides of his face and straightened up. With a wince, he realized his head was aching, too.
Pixi the beagle clambered inside, followed shortly by the black lab and the silver poodle, with the border collie bringing up the rear by nipping at their heels. The dogs lined up expectantly in the back of the van.
Mickey got out to stretch his legs, stamping his feet to ease the tingling. While there, he swiveled to face the snowbank. The van’s tailpipe was neatly shoved into the ice.
Get a load of that, he thought admiringly. Couldn’t do that again if he tried.
He got back into the van and pulled out of the parking spot, the vehicle’s rear end crunching as the tailpipe pulled free of the snow.
Chapter Six
Even though I’d promised to investigate the origin of the crossword clue on Henri’s twenty-dollar bill, it would have to wait. I had a more pressing appointment—in my kitchen, preparing a surprise dinner for Jeff. It was our four-month anniversary, and I planned to mark it with his favorite dishes.
Not only that, but I wanted to make Emy eat her words. We talked about this, Verity. Ha! Wait until she saw the photo of my finished spread. She’d soon change her assessment of my culinary skills. The bakery’s loss was Jeff’s gain.
To be honest, he was a far better cook than me. His lasagna was to die for.
I glanced at the clock in the pickup’s dash. Assuming Leafy Hollow’s criminals took the afternoon off, Jeff would arrive for dinner at six. That gave me two hours to make meatloaf, scalloped potatoes, roasted daikon—I’d never eaten Japanese radish, but it was home cooking to Jeff—and apple pie. Plenty of time. I’d have to pick up ice cream, though. And chocolate sauce—in case my first attempt at piecrust was less than perfect and I had to ditch the pie.
Just thinking about that pastry made me nervous. I wasn’t sure why I considered it important to prepare a perfect meal. Jeff was never less than complimentary about my cooking. And it was such a girly thing to do—so unlike me. One of Jeff’s former dates—a blonde in four-inch heels—flashed before my eyes. I bet she knew how to make piecrust.
Oh, my gosh. I drew in a breath. Was I… jealous?
I thumped my hand against the wheel.
Think about something else, Verity.
Instead of recipes, I reviewed my plan to interview the other crossword clue finders. The list I’d copied from the bulletin board was a good start. I didn’t recognize the names, but Emy would. First thing in the morning, I’d go by the bakery and enlist her help. With any luck, Shanice would have set up the duplicate board and lured the clue holders into the bakery. That was a cheerful thought, since it meant I could begin my first official investigation with a coconut-lemon scone and a mug of piping-hot coffee.
I considered buying a laser pointer at the office-goods store in the morning. Too officious? Maybe, but it couldn’t hurt. A package of sticky notes wouldn’t go amiss, either. Not to mention a yellow highlighter, a box of 2B pencils, and a sharpener. I should make a list.
After my stop at the convenience store for ice cream, where I waited in line at the cash register behind four lottery-ticket buyers—honestly, the biggest mystery in Leafy Hollow was why no one ever won the lottery, given the number of tickets sold—I took a shortcut, so I could skip Main Street on my way to Rose Cottage. Normally that detour shaved several minutes off my journey, but today a police cruiser blocked the route.
Halting my truck, I peered through the windshield for the cause of the holdup. I glanced at the dashboard clock. My convenience store visit had taken ten minutes longer than expected. Should I reverse and take my chances with Main Street’s flashing pedestrian crossings? If the seniors’ Sit & Fit class had just ended, I might be there a while.
The cruiser’s driver was directing traffic up a side street. After turning off the engine, I slid out of the cab and strolled over to the constable. No harm in asking for details.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
Two more cruisers and an ambulance were parked outside a house with dented aluminum siding in the middle of the block. Another officer was unspooling yellow caution tape across the front yard, threading it over the rusted legs of a wheelbarrow sticking out from the snow.
I let out a low whistle, because I knew whose house this was. Everyone did. It was notorious, according to Hannah, the Leafy Hollow librarian.
“Has something happened to Oskar York?”
The constable’s frown was grim. “I can’t say.”
I recognized him—and his expression. Fred was a member of Jeff’s darts team. Many times, I’d seen the same display of grim determination over missiles poised for flight at The Tipsy Jay.
I flashed my most winsome smile. “Come on, Fred. You can tell me.”
He lowered his voice. “Okay, Verity. But this is between us.”
I crossed my heart in a gesture of solidarity.
“They found him dead this morning.”
“Heart attack?”
Fred winced. “Crushed.”
My indrawn breath was immediate. “Crushed? That’s horrible.” I’d never been in Oskar York’s house—or even met him—but from all descriptions, it was jammed with stuff. Mountains of it, apparently, some reaching to the ceiling. Irma O’Kay, the reclusive artist, had once told me she delivered Meals on Wheels to Oskar. We had been lined up at the grocer’s cash register, and Irma must have recognized a fellow introver
t. Or maybe she was just anxious to get out of there. Anyway, she babbled on about claustrophobic tunnels that snaked between towers of magazines and newspapers, boxes of clothing, tangled bric-a-brac, and flattened plastic bottles. What had she called his house? A death trap.
I narrowed one eye. “Are you saying something fell on him?”
Fred nodded glumly.
“When did this happen?”
“We were called in this morning, but his body had been there for several days.”
I glanced over Fred’s head. Since I was five-ten, and he was one of the force’s shorter constables, it wasn’t hard. With a sinking heart, I saw Jeff’s cruiser parked across the street from Oskar’s house. “Will the detectives have to work late?”
“I doubt it. It’s going to be classified as an accident—Oh. Don’t repeat that.”
“Never.” I crossed my heart again.
“The scene’s been photographed.” He shrugged. “But I expect we’ll maintain a presence on the street until it’s cleared up.”
“Which could take days.”
He nodded.
That meant dinner was still on. I felt bad about Fred’s enforced guard duty, not to mention Oskar’s horrible death, but none of that changed my dinner plans. An unexpected encounter with a dead person would make my stomach heave—and had, in the past—but it took a lot to turn seasoned police officers off their grub.
I got back into the truck, abandoned my detour for the usual route—no sign of the senior fitness enthusiasts, fortunately—and arrived at Rose Cottage fifteen minutes later. The trees that lined Lilac Lane were heavy with ice. I’d never seen the branches of the magnificent chestnut a few doors from Rose Cottage lean so low. Several were brushing the power line strung underneath.
While staring at the sagging branches in my rearview mirror, I wheeled the truck into my driveway. I had to slam on the brakes to avoid running into a battered white van parked in my usual spot—Mickey’s Dog Care, according to the faded sign on its side.
