by Rickie Blair
“How long have they been doing that?”
She shrugged. “Years. It’s never been a problem. And honestly, I don’t believe they would do something like this.”
Lorne pursed his lips. “Somebody did.”
“We need to talk to them,” I said.
“No,” Emy said firmly. “Please? Leave it alone. Now, shoo—I have to get back to work.”
Lorne turned to the door. I followed. Out of the side of his mouth, he said, “We have to help her.”
“I know,” I whispered. “I have an idea—”
“I can see you two, you know,” Emy called as she wiped down the counter. “You’re up to something.”
Indignantly, I sniffed. “Can’t I chat with a friend without you thinking we’re planning a reconnaissance mission?”
“No. Because usually you are planning a reconnaissance mission.”
“That’s… not true.” I refrained from mentioning two such missions—one involved a roasted chicken—that had gone terribly wrong. But those debacles could be chalked up to inexperience. Surely by now we had the protocol down pat.
Emy turned her raised eyebrows on Lorne, knowing he would never lie to her.
He shrugged apologetically. “We were talking about curling.”
I regarded my assistant with newly appreciative eyes. Curling was a passion of his, but one Emy didn’t share—so this was an excellent bluff on his part. Emy barely knew a bonspiel from a butter knife.
She twisted a fist at her hip. “Okay, I’ll bite. What about curling?” she asked.
“You know, babe. I told you. The rink has a couples’ night every week, and I thought—”
Emy resumed wiping the counter after tossing him an incredulous glance. “Not a chance.”
“Forget I mentioned it.” Lorne assumed an appropriately humbled air. “Although—Verity and Jeff are going.”
Giving him a thumbs-up behind my back, I muttered, “Nice save.”
Dropping her cleaning cloth into the sink, Emy straightened up, astonishment widening her eyes. “Really?”
I nodded enthusiastically. “We sure are.”
“That’s okay, babe,” Lorne said. “I’ll just watch from the stands.”
Emy bit her lip. “I’m sorry, hon. If it means that much to you, of course I’ll come. With Shanice helping out, I have time. I warn you, though—I’m not much of a curler.”
That was an understatement. With the Dionnes’ extended family being curling fanatics, Emy had had her fill of the sport. She went out of her way to avoid it. Only for Lorne would she brave the slippery ice and noisy catcalls of the curling rink.
“I’m not wearing those ridiculous pants, though,” she added.
Simpering, I made a heart shape with my thumbs and forefingers. “Not even the ones with the pink hearts?”
Emy gave me a cautionary glance. “You. Stop.” While we watched, she bustled around—rearranging the baked-goods trays, lining up the coffee cups, dusting the top of the spotless coffeemaker. Emy halted, turning to give us a suspicious stare. “Are you still here?”
Lorne and I exchanged glances, zipped up our parkas, and headed for the door. Once out of view of the bakery’s front window, we huddled together, eyes narrowed to keep out the stinging wind.
“We need to talk to those delivery guys,” I said.
“Agreed. But we don’t know their names.”
“We know where to find them.”
“Aha. Undercover work.” Lorne grinned. “I like your thinking.”
Silently, we exchanged a high-five.
Chapter Ten
Mickey tugged on his earflaps to keep out the biting wind while he sized up the promising crowd outside the pet-food store. He’d been out of the van for only five minutes, and already his day was looking up. His regulars wrapped themselves around his legs, wrestling and mock growling at each other. He ignored them. His attention was focused on the three women talking on the sidewalk outside the shop.
The tallest woman, who wore a bright orange coat buttoned up to her scarf-wrapped neck and gray cropped hair, held the loose leash of a small cinnamon poodle.
The second woman, who was much younger and chunkier, and dressed in form-fitting ski pants and bulging jacket, held the taut leash of an equally chunky bulldog.
A Jack Russell terrier hopped on two legs to paw at the side of the third woman—a stylish matron in a puffy down coat, cross-body bag, and huge sunglasses. She brushed the dog away with a muttered “Stop it.” Her protests had no effect.
Having run into this woman before, Mickey knew her Jack Russell—inexplicably named Darling—was a natural troublemaker.
All he needed now was a diversion. And Leafy Hollow delivered.
A tall, well-groomed man in a camel overcoat, brown fedora, and galoshes stepped out of the pet-food shop onto the sidewalk. His leather-gloved hands jerked anxiously on the leash of a boxer that wasn’t moving rapidly enough for its impatient owner.
Mickey recognized Noah Butterfield, the village’s investment adviser, and his nervous boxer Axel. He turned his head to hurry the dog along, without slowing his own stride. With Noah’s attention on Axel’s dawdling, it was obvious to Mickey what would happen next.
Noah and his dog stepped right into the center of the women’s group.
The Jack Russell whirled to snarl and snap at the boxer, whose jowls flapped as he jerked back in surprise. The chunky beagle started baying, as only a beagle could. His owner tried to silence him, but a sudden rearguard action by the little cinnamon poodle caught the beagle unprepared and he went down with a yelp.
Mickey plunged forward, yanking on the leashes of his own charges. Within seconds, Pixi the beagle and her friends—the border collie, silver-gray standard poodle, and black lab—were haunches deep in the melee, their leashes wrapped around multiple pairs of human legs.
Shrieks and curses echoed off the brick storefronts.
“Get out of the way!”
“Get off me!”
“Get that monster off my dog!”
“Eeeeek—”
The orange-coated woman toppled backward, propelled by a leap from the panicked boxer. Mickey shoved Noah Butterfield, Axel’s owner, out of the way with both hands to catch the woman just in time.
“Thanks,” she said gratefully as he helped her to her feet.
The little cinnamon poodle nuzzled her leg while eying the other dogs with disdain.
“No problem,” Mickey said. “That guy was moving so fast he walked right into you.” He jerked a thumb toward Noah, who had freed himself from the group with a quick sorry-sorry and was dashing away along the sidewalk, Axel trotting after him.
The woman gave a snort of disgust as she tracked Noah’s rapidly departing back with her flashing eyes. “People should be more careful.”
Mickey solemnly nodded. “They certainly should.”
The second woman was patiently explaining to her terrier the need to “behave yourself when Mommy’s talking to her friends.” Unconcerned, he cocked his leg on the nearest lamppost.
Mickey bent to untangle the leashes of his own pack. Smiling, he straightened his hat and patted his earflaps back into place. “So long as everybody’s all right, I’ll be on my way.” With a brisk wave, he strolled off in the opposite direction from Noah Butterfield.
Once around the corner, he jerked on the leashes and turned into the alley that led to his parked van. Pleased, he patted the pocket of his ragged parka. He’d wait until the parking lot at the Pine Hill conservation area before checking his haul.
Best be out of sight before Butterfield reached into his pocket to pay a bill.
With the dogs romping in a field—which field, Mickey wasn’t sure—he resumed his scrutiny of the recently acquired calfskin wallet, flipping it over to examine both sides of the hand-stitched item. Nice workmanship. Always a good sign.
The interior didn’t disappoint, either. Mickey extracted five credit cards, six hundred dollars in cash, a
Tim Horton’s gift card with a colorful iced doughnut on the front, and a booklet of car-wash coupons—a nice bonus, since the van hadn’t been washed in over a year.
There was also a brochure for a cruise, which he spread out on the steering wheel. Mickey’s brows arched in envy at the price. Nice for those who could afford it.
A folded piece of notebook paper fluttered into his lap when he turned the page. Mickey read it with considerable interest. It appeared to be notes for a personal conversation.
Tell her it has to be the last time. That it was a good time, fun maybe? probably better to say it meant a lot—but we both knew it couldn’t last. Should have met earlier, etc. If she cries, say something mushy.
Mickey chuckled. How about that Noah Butterfield, eh? Not so straitlaced after all.
He tucked the note into his pocket, followed by the cards, cash, and coupons. The driver’s license he tossed onto a discard pile—after guffawing at its photo. After pocketing the government health card—he had a client who’d pay good money for that—Mickey dropped the empty billfold into a manila envelope and tucked it under the driver’s seat. Normally he’d dump it into in a trash can, but recently he’d had reason to collect empty wallets. Never turn down cash, was his motto. It hadn’t failed him yet.
Chapter Eleven
Lucky Lentil was only a block from Emy’s bakery, so I decided to make Rick Armstrong my first interrogation. Or friendly chat, depending on who was asking.
Leaning into the wind on my way there, I tried to puzzle out who in Leafy Hollow might want to destroy Eco Edibles. Its companion business, the 5X Bakery, was the village’s favorite destination for all things sweet. Of course, Emy used butter at the 5X. Fake buttercream would have elicited a shudder of horror from her. Also, her famous maple-bacon butter tarts contained farm-raised bacon. But in Eco Edibles, meat and dairy were banned. Customers could order soy milk, almond milk, coconut milk, even hemp milk—but never cow’s milk or butter. Emy wouldn’t store it in the vegan shop’s cooler, either.
I’d been called a cynic occasionally, but two facts were obvious. Those nasty rumors started after the opening of the village’s newest restaurant, Lucky Lentil. Its proprietor could be involved.
That might be unfair, I thought. No—I chided myself—it was definitely unfair. I had absolutely no proof that anyone at Lucky Lentil was involved.
Not yet, anyway.
I stopped on the other side of Main Street, across from the Lentil, to study the posters in the window. No Animals Harmed boasted one hand-lettered sign. Its edges were decorated with cutout pictures of wide-eyed sheep, cows, and small children holding angelic fowl under their arms. Obviously, they’d never met my rooster, Reuben.
The previous restaurant in this location had been an upscale place, complete with an indoor fountain, pricey “tasting menu,” and Irish linen napkins. Unfortunately, someone intimately connected with that eatery wouldn’t be back in the village for a while. Twenty-five years, in fact. I hoped the menu behind bars was up to their standards, but I doubted it.
The four-foot-wide window boxes that graced the front entrance, however, remained. The flowers were long gone, replaced with foot-high mounds of snow, but spring would eventually come—or so I’d been told. Coming Up Roses had filled those window boxes in the past. I could drop in to offer my services and welcome Rick Armstrong to Leafy Hollow. All while checking for evidence that the new restaurateur might have it in for Eco Edibles.
To be honest, I had no idea how to determine that, but it couldn’t hurt to check him out. Maybe he’d unwittingly give the game away—he wouldn’t know Emy and I were friends. I could ask a few leading questions and see what happened.
While I pondered my next move, the restaurant door opened and a woman stepped out. Her outfit caught my attention. A bitter wind tore at her hair, but this woman wasn’t even wearing a coat. Or boots. She had on four-inch heels, a trim pencil skirt, and a bulky mohair pullover. When she turned her head, blonde curls whipped back from her face, revealing earrings gaudy enough to reflect the single ray of sunlight breaking through the clouded sky.
Behind her, the door remained open. A square-jawed man wearing a white chef’s apron, one hand on the door handle, leaned out to beckon her back with a crook of his finger.
After a quick glance at the street, as if to check if anyone was watching, she complied with a smile, lifting her face for a kiss. It wasn’t passionate exactly—how could it be, with the wind threatening to knock her over?—but it wasn’t one of those peck-peck smooch-smooch fake kisses, either. These two shared something.
Mentally, I reviewed the timeline. Lucky Lentil had been open for only two weeks. Either the proprietor was a fast worker or—more likely—he knew this woman before arriving in the village. Thing was, I knew her, too—at least, her face was familiar. Wracking my brain, I tried to remember where I’d seen her before. The library? Bertram’s grocery?
My confusion soon cleared up. As the aproned man tugged the door closed against the wind, she darted across the street, disappearing into the office of investment adviser Noah Butterfield. No wonder she hadn’t bothered with a coat and boots. It was a three-second dash, at best. Although, one had to admire the fact she did it in heels. I would have been sprawled on the sidewalk.
But it sparked the question—why was Rebecca Butterfield, Noah’s wife, kissing the proprietor of Lucky Lentil?
The Lentil was snug and cozy, a welcome respite from the miserable weather outside. While stamping my boots on the entrance mat, I scanned the interior. The earlier restaurant’s pretentious decor was gone. A wainscoting of weathered barnwood warmed the walls, and the mismatched tables and chairs were obviously secondhand. Sorry—reclaimed.
I made my way to the counter, where multicolored signs proclaimed—Order Here, No Plastic Cutlery, and Please Recycle. Hand-lettered arrows directed attention to blue recycling bins along the back wall. Lucky Lentil must order its felt markers from Costco.
The square-jawed man behind the counter turned vivid blue eyes in my direction. “Why, hello.” His sensual baritone conveyed surprise that such a beautiful creature would grace his establishment, and how lucky for him that I had. “Here for lunch?”
Ignoring his blatant overture, I scanned the day’s specials on the chalkboard. “The soup looks good.”
“It’s delicious. Black bean pineapple with chili. One of our best sellers. And particularly suited to our current weather.” He nodded at the front windows. Between the recycling signs and the bulletins from a local cycling group that papered the glass, the snowy street was barely visible.
“Brrr.” I shivered. “You’re not kidding. I’ll have the pineapple-chili soup, thanks.”
While he ladled the steaming broth into a bowl, I began my interrogation.
“You must be Rick Armstrong.”
“Correct.”
“Have you lived in Leafy Hollow long?”
“Nope. Just arrived. It’s a wonderful place. Great people.” He winked.
“You should see it in the summer. The view from the Peak is famous.”
“I intend to.” He smiled while placing my bowl on a pressed-cardboard tray. “Crackers?”
“Sure.”
“Gluten-free?”
“Not necessary, but—okay. Also,” I pointed to the soup, formulating a white lie, “I’m lactose-intolerant, so…”
“No dairy products here.” He gave me an amused glance while tucking crackers under the edge of the bowl.
“Just checking. No butter, either?”
“Never.” He chuckled while adding my bill to the tray. “We’re totally vegan.”
“Great,” I enthused. “I’m sure you’ll be busy. There’s only one other vegan takeout in the village.”
He leaned in conspiratorially while handing over my lunch. “If you can call it vegan.”
My grip tightened on the tray, but I kept my tone light. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing.” He grinned broadly
, those blue eyes riveted on mine, instantly disarming my suspicions. Rick was quite the accomplished flirt.
“No, really. What do you mean?” I asked.
“A true vegan might find it distasteful, sharing space with a bakery that buys bacon in bulk. Not to mention all those dairy products. I’ve heard…” He straightened up. “It’s not for me to say.”
Rick Armstrong had heard the rumors. Had he also started them? I decided to change tack before I lost my temper and gave it all away.
“I run a small business myself.” I pulled out my wallet, counted out enough change to pay my bill, added a hefty tip, and handed over a business card.
Verity Hawkes
Coming Up Roses Landscaping
Lawn Care, Seasonal Cleanup, Garden Design
Rick read the card carefully before looking up. “No snow removal?”
“No,” I answered firmly, before adding, “But we do window boxes. In fact, the previous occupant hired me to fill the ones out front. I can email you a picture if you like.”
“Can you provide organic?”
“Absolutely.”
Rick tucked my card into the breast pocket of his bamboo shirt and patted it with another blinding smile. Then he reached beside the cash register to retrieve his own card. He handed it over. “I look forward to hearing from you.”
As I took it, Rick held on to it longer than necessary while gazing directly into my eyes. This from a guy who had been kissing someone else’s wife not ten minutes earlier.
I wrested the card from his grasp. “Would it be a lot of trouble to change my order to takeout?”
“Not at all.” His lips curled up disarmingly as he continued gazing into my eyes. “Verity.”
I felt as if I’d just been to the optometrist’s. I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and assume he treated all his customers this way.
