Snowed Under

by Rickie Blair

  While Rick transferred my soup to a cardboard bowl, then tucked it and my crackers into a paper bag, I remembered that one of the clues posted on the library’s bulletin board had been attributed to the restaurant.

  “Did you find one of those wallets with a clue in it that everybody’s talking about?”

  He cocked his head, seeming puzzled. “No. Why do you ask?”

  “I heard about it at the library.”

  “Oh. That might have been Gloria.” He pointed to a photo of a young woman taped to the wall under a banner that read—Lucky Lentil Employee of the Month. “She works for me part time, and I asked her to mention the Lentil any time she could. Word of mouth is important, you know.” He nodded sagely, business owner to business owner. I ignored that, too.

  I peered at the picture. Gloria had dyed green hair, multiple piercings, heavy black eyeliner, and a thumb raised up in front of her grinning face.

  “How many employees do you have?”

  “One.”

  I nodded. “I see. And Gloria found a wallet?”

  “She did mention something like that.”

  “Do you know where she found it?”

  “Sorry, no.” He handed me the paper bag. “We have a five-percent discount if you bring your own containers.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  “Also”—he reached behind the counter—“tell your friends.” Rick handed me a dozen bonus cards, each reading—Lucky Lentil, February Special—Ten Percent Off.

  “I sure will.”

  I took my soup back to the truck, where I ate it—with the motor on to heat the cab—while watching Noah Butterfield’s office. The crackers were dry and tasteless, but the black bean-pineapple soup was delicious, with just a hint of tang. Rick’s food was good enough that he didn’t have to resort to name-calling—or flirtation—to entice customers. Maybe I’d been wrong about him.

  After carefully wrapping my containers for the recycling bins, I pulled out the list I’d copied in the library—with Emy’s comments in the margins—to study. Halfway down, I found the name I was looking for.

  Rebecca Butterfield.

  Might as well check her out while I was here.

  When I pushed open the front door of Butterfield Investment Advisers, Rebecca, red cheeked from her dash across the street, looked up from behind the reception desk. With a smile, she rose to greet me, stepping from behind a gurgling fish tank to extend her hand.

  “Verity. We haven’t seen you in a while.”

  “That’s because I don’t have enough money to hire an investment adviser.” Since that statement was painfully true, my attempted wry chuckle came out more like a strangled cry for help. Clearing my throat, I added hopefully, “Yet.”

  “I’m sure Noah could help you with that.”

  “Maybe he could. Is he here?”

  “Not today, I’m afraid.”

  Rebecca’s suddenly furrowed brow, plus her glance over her shoulder at Noah’s office down the hall, seemed strange. Noah never missed a day’s work—at least according to Emy’s mom, the formidable Thérèse Dionne.

  “Is he ill?”

  “No. He’s fine.” She rubbed her hands together, but offered no explanation for her husband’s absence.

  “I won’t keep you, then. It’s just… I’ve been doing a little sleuthing for a friend—”

  “You’re good at that.” Rebecca nodded, apparently welcoming the change in topic.

  I chuckled nervously. “I don’t know about that. Anyway, I heard you found one of those wallets with the clues.”

  “I did. It was fun. I posted it at the library.”

  “That’s where I saw it, actually. Do you mind telling me where you found it?”

  “I’ll show you.” Rebecca led me to the front window, where she pointed at a sandwich board advertising the village’s secondhand record shop. In a nod to the inclement weather, the sandwich board was strapped to the nearest lamppost, three feet off the ground. I wondered if the village council had seen that sign. They were proud of the replica antique lampposts that dotted Main Street. The only allowable embellishments were hanging summer baskets of asparagus ferns and flowers. Oh, and the Christmas wreaths that magically appeared after Halloween.

  “The wallet was jammed between the two halves of that sign,” Rebecca said. “It was right at eye level, so it was easy to spot.”

  “When was this?”

  She scrunched up one eye, thinking. “Couple of days ago, I think. Not long, anyway. I took it to the library the same day.” Her face brightened. “Did I win anything?”

  “I’m not involved in the contest, sorry. I’m only curious. Does Noah have an opinion about it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Does he find the contest a bit—suspicious? It could be a fraud.”

  Rebecca took a step back with a jerk of her neck. “Verity. How did you get to be so cynical?”

  Finding several dead bodies might have something to do with that, I thought, but kept that sentiment to myself.

  “I’m not cynical. Really, I’m not. It’s just odd. Who started this contest? And why?”

  Rebecca shrugged. “Does it matter?”

  “It might. Do you still have the wallet?”

  Stepping behind the reception desk, she rooted through several cubbyholes before extracting a tattered brown billfold and handing it over.

  Turning it over it my hands, I said, “This is pretty beat up.”

  “There wasn’t anything in it except a scrap of paper with the clue written on it. I don’t think anybody was using it as an actual wallet, do you?”

  “Doesn’t look like it.” I handed it back. “Did you see who put it there?”

  “No. And the wallet itself wasn’t obvious unless you looked right at it. But I’m in and out of here so often, for lunch and so forth, that I naturally noticed it.”

  “Have you tried the new restaurant across the street?”

  “Do you mean the vegan place?”

  “Uh-huh. I had their soup. It was good.”

  She nodded thoughtfully. “I’ve been meaning to go over to welcome them to the neighborhood. Noah thinks we should offer them our services.”

  “You’ve never been inside?”

  She shook her head. “Never.”

  Baffled by this obvious falsehood, I moved on. So far, my reconnaissance mission had been futile. “A Lucky Lentil employee found a wallet, too.”

  “Really?” Rebecca, who had turned her head to gaze indifferently out the window, didn’t seem interested. The wind had picked up. The restaurant was barely visible through the swirling snow.

  Scouring my brain for something to keep her talking, I hit upon the death of Oskar York. I’d seen Oskar coming out of the Butterfields’ office once, months earlier. Even though I’d never met him, his shuffling, overweight bulk and thatch of unruly white hair had been instantly recognizable. Judging from the descriptions of the inside of his home, he wasn’t wealthy enough to need investment advice. Maybe he and Noah were friends.

  I rearranged my face into what I hoped was an expression of sorrow. “Sad news about Oskar York, isn’t it?”

  This topic definitely caught Rebecca’s attention. She jerked her head back to face me. “Did you know him?”

  “No, but I heard about the investigation.”

  Rebecca narrowed her eyes. “The police told Noah there was no need for an investigation. It was an accidental death.”

  I paused to analyze this sentence. Why would the police talk to Noah Butterfield about the death of the village’s most notorious—and penniless—hoarder? Unless Noah knew him?

  “Was Oskar one of Noah’s clients?”

  “I can’t discuss our clients.” Rebecca’s attitude turned even frostier.

  “Sorry. Only, it sounded as if your husband was advising him.” I locked gazes with her. “Was he?”

  “I can’t answer that. Our clients insist on their privacy.”

  “So Oska
r was a client?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But if he was—”

  “I can’t talk about our clients.”

  I inclined my head. “Even the dead ones?”

  Rebecca’s eyebrows rose.

  “I meant no disrespect,” I hastily added.

  She said nothing, but her expression was clear. I gestured weakly at the door. “Maybe I should get going.”

  “Maybe you should.”

  Turning to the entrance, I plunged a hand into my parka pocket to retrieve my gloves. My fingers closed on Rick’s discount cards. “Oh, wait.” I turned to face her with one in my outstretched hand. “Next time you visit Lucky Lentil, you can get ten percent off.” Regarding her intently, I tried to gauge her response. I wasn’t disappointed.

  Rebecca gawked at me, but didn’t take the card. “What do you mean—next time? I told you, I’ve never been there.”

  “Sorry. I forgot.” I dropped the card on the reception desk before turning to leave. At the door, I shot her a backhand wave and added, “Say hi to Noah for me,” before stepping out and raising my parka’s hood against the biting wind.

  I’m not cynical, really. But I have been a little petty at times.

  My bit of snark did nothing to raise my spirits. The day’s “sleuthing” had been a waste of time. I didn’t know who planted the wallets, or how to solve the crossword puzzle. Nor did I know why someone wrote a clue on a twenty-dollar bill and left it outside Henri Vartan’s house.

  Returning Henri’s wallet seemed the logical next step. Another visit would allow me to scour the rest of his yard. Also, he may have recalled a vital clue that would shed light on his case. If it even was a case. Jeff’s comment came to mind.

  Do you have any idea how many wallets are turned in every week?

  I climbed into my adorable pink pickup. As I started the engine, my mind swirled with questions. Such as—when did Rebecca Butterfield get so cozy with the village’s newest arrival?

  And where was her husband?

  Chapter Twelve

  After pulling up outside Henri’s house, I leaned over to pull his mystery wallet from the glovebox. Ruefully, I slipped it into my parka pocket, ready for the handover. My first case was a bust. I had nothing to report to my client, and no idea what to try next.

  But Jeff always stressed the importance of “grunt work” to the constables who helped with his cases. I shouldn’t give up so easily. At the least, I could interview anyone who’d found a mystery clue. Maybe that way, I could solve the puzzle. If I worked out the rest of the answers, it might become clear who planted the wallets—and why. It was worth a try.

  I got out of the truck and slammed the door. Verity Hawkes, intrepid investigator of lost wallets, missing keys, and overdue books, was on the job.

  My boots crunched on the unshoveled snow—I shook my head in sympathy—that led to Henri’s eggplant-painted door. I kept my head down so I wouldn’t slip on the ice. Big mistake.

  As I climbed the three stone steps that led to the entrance, the door flung open. I jerked my head up to see a figure in a hooded parka with a navy scarf over his face barrel down the steps, vaulting them two a time. Before I could react, he crashed into me.

  With a strangled “Oomph,” I flew backward, landing with a thud on my rear end in a snowbank. The more I flailed, the deeper I sank into the crusty snow. Eventually, I gave up struggling and flopped back, blinking snowflakes off my eyelids as I stared at the gray sky.

  “Verity? Is that you?”

  I managed a pitiful squeak. “Yeah. It’s me.”

  Henri’s round, red-cheeked face hung over me, his mouth agape. “Are you all right?”

  “I think so.” I flexed my fingers and toes. Nothing broken, at least. I wrenched one arm free and thrust it into the air. “Can you help me up?”

  Grabbing my hand, Henri pulled.

  My torso broke free with a loud crunching sound, and I struggled to my feet.

  “Who the heck was that?” I asked, brushing snow from my arms and legs as I glanced around. My attacker was nowhere in sight. “He could have killed me.”

  “I have no idea, believe me,” Henri said, massaging the side of his head.

  “Is that blood?”

  Henri lifted his fingers from his scalp, staring at them as if hypnotized. “I think it is.” He raised his astonished eyes to mine. He was not wearing a coat. Or boots.

  “Let’s go,” I said, firmly taking his arm and directing him to the door. “It’s freezing out here. You can tell me the whole story inside.”

  While limping up Henri’s front steps, I grimaced. Snow was working its way inside my boots and between my frozen toes. “I wrenched my knee when that thug knocked me over.”

  Henri pushed open the front door. “Wait till you see this.” He closed the door behind us.

  I halted in the foyer, stunned into silence.

  The plastic sheets across the opening to the gallery hung in slashed ribbons. Easels were toppled, and an open tin of paint dribbled onto a drop cloth.

  “When did this happen?”

  “A few minutes ago.” He heaved a sigh. “I was just about to check the second floor to see if they damaged anything up there.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  I slipped off my wet boots. We plodded up the stairs, my soggy feet leaving prints on the wooden steps.

  At the top, we gasped. Every cupboard door and drawer in the kitchen gaped open, and crockery and utensils were strewn across the floor. Down the hall in Henri’s bedroom, bedclothes were heaped on the floor and the bare mattress was flung against the wall.

  In the living room, we chose our steps carefully. Almost every book in the room was now on the floor. Henri bent to retrieve a massive illustrated volume on Truth or Dare in Twentieth Century Art. “This was a gift,” he said, forlornly looking around for a place to put it.

  I took it from his hands and slid it onto the nearest shelf. Then I flipped over an upturned armchair and patted its back. “Sit here and tell me what happened. Did you phone the police?”

  He slumped into the chair. “Yes. Once I woke up.”

  “Were you sleeping?”

  “No.” He dropped his forehead onto his hands, elbows resting on his knees, fingers raking his hair. “I must have blacked out after he—ouch.” Henri pulled his hands away from his head, staring in shock at his sticky fingers.

  Fumbling in my parka pockets, I pulled out a tissue and bent over to check his scalp. “It doesn’t look too bad. A flesh wound. I bet it hurts, though.” I dabbed at it with the tissue. “You need to go to emergency to have that checked, especially if you blacked out. They should observe you for a concussion, at least. What did that guy whack you with?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Tell me what happened, from the beginning.”

  “I went out to Bertram’s, to get a little air—”

  “In a snowstorm?”

  Henri was not the type who exercised every day without fail, weather be damned. In fact, I’d spotted him more than once sitting on a park bench on a beautiful summer day, bemoaning the heat. A threatened snow flurry should have had him running for cover.

  “It’s not that bad,” he said. “Besides, they always have those nice cheese danishes mid-week.”

  I raised my eyebrows, but he merely waved a hand.

  “I wasn’t gone more than an hour. I left Matisse at home, because the salt on the sidewalks always stings his—” Henri’s eyes widened in horror, and a strangled cry came from his throat. “No-no-no…” He leapt to his feet, flinging me and the tissue aside. “Where’s Matisse?”

  I followed as he bolted downstairs.

  “Watch the water on the stairs,” I yelled. Too late.

  The thump-thump of his body hitting wood was my answer.

  On the first-floor landing, I grabbed Henri’s arm to help him up.

  “Matisse,” he moaned.

  “Listen,” I said. “Is that—w
himpering?”

  We cocked our heads. Henri darted to the cupboard under the stairs, then flung open the door.

  The little dachshund bounded out, excitably scrabbling into his owner’s arms.

  “Mattie,” Henri shrieked in a voice that must have been audible on Main Street, a block away. “I was so worried.”

  Tucking the dog against his chest, Henri went back upstairs, practically cooing at the dog.

  I followed. “So, what happened? You came home and surprised an intruder, is that it?”

  “I must have,” Henri said over his shoulder, putting Matisse down on the linoleum. “I didn’t see anybody. I came in, turned around to lock the door, and then—something hit me on the back of the head. When I opened my eyes, I was on the floor and the front door was wide open. When I got up to close it, I saw you in the snowbank.”

  After a fruitless search for the cookie jar on the trashed kitchen counter, Henri patted all of his pockets in turn until he found a dog biscuit.

  Matisse snapped it up. He seemed none the worse for his stay in the closet.

  “So, I stepped outside to see if you were all right,” Henri continued. “Are you all right, Verity? How’s your knee? I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault. And my knee is fine.” I gave it a trial bend. “See? But your house is in shambles. What do you think this guy was looking for?”

  “I couldn’t say. We don’t have anything valuable, other than the art, and he didn’t take any of that.”

  “It was a man?”

  “I guess so.”

  “You didn’t see him?”

  “No. I have to sit down.” With a flutter of his hands, Henri plunked onto the nearest kitchen chair, breathing heavily.

  I bent over with my hands on my knees, watching his face. “Breathe. You’ll be fine. The police will be here soon.”

  After a few moments, his breathing slowed, and he looked up with a hand resting on his chest. “But why are you here, Verity? News on my case?”

  “I’m afraid not. Sorry.” Sliding the mysterious wallet out of my pocket, I handed it over. “I brought this back.”

  “Thanks.” He placed it on the table, where it nearly disappeared in the clutter. Henri pointed at the wallet. “The intruder couldn’t have been looking for that, could he?”