Snowed Under

by Rickie Blair

  “Well?” Emy asked.

  With all of us talking at once, it took ten minutes to fully explain.

  Finally, Emy handed Shanice back her phone, her demeanor tense. “I’m going upstairs. When I come back down here in an hour, I want all of this”—she swept a hand to indicate the remaining mess—“gone.”

  “We were only trying to help,” I said, helplessly.

  “I asked you and Lorne to leave it alone. Once this story gets out—” Emy raised a hand to curb the rebuttal rising on my lips. “Oh, yes, Verity. It will get out. This is Leafy Hollow, don’t forget. Then, those rumors about Eco Edibles will really take off.” She swiveled on one slippered foot before disappearing through the connecting door and up the stairs to her apartment.

  Lorne slumped on to the stool, face crumpled in devastation.

  “She’ll get over it,” I said hopefully, feeling totally inadequate to the task of cheering him up.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The flimsy papers rustled in his fingers as Mickey Doig lined up cigarette wrappers on the threadbare sofa, counting them under his breath. Hopefully he could sell enough joints to tide him over until his more ambitious scheme bore fruit.

  In the far corner of the basement, behind the furnace, a clothes dryer rattled and bumped, almost drowning out the television that faced the sofa. Uma was doing laundry. She’d be back down with another load before long, so he should hurry. After tugging a plastic bag from behind a cushion, he untwisted its tie and placed it beside a stack of dirty plates on the packing crate beside the sofa. He sprinkled a mound of dried weed onto each paper, glancing up at the TV when a new contestant walked out to face The Dragons.

  The reality-show panel of investors frowned as the latest arrival explained his sure-fire business plan for “foreign driving gloves. You can wear them on either hand, depending on whether you’re driving on the right-hand side of the road or the left side.”

  The panel fell silent. Ominous music blared on the show’s soundtrack. Mickey was unable to tell whether the panelists were stunned by the brilliance of this idea, or simply stunned. “Wait—what?” one of them finally asked.

  Mickey returned to his task.

  He wasn’t thrilled to be sleeping in the basement of his friend’s house. But Willy had offered, and Mickey accepted. He knew that Uma Wilkes, Willy’s mother, wouldn’t approve, but he’d already settled in before she learned of the new arrangement. He’s got nowhere else to go, Willy told her. Which was true—until Mickey landed a job, his finances would be under pressure. And since a job wasn’t really his style, he’d be here for a while.

  Not forever, though. He had plans.

  After rolling and licking each paper in turn, he lined up the joints with a surge of pride. Then he pulled off his woolen hat and dropped it on the sofa, scratched his head vigorously, and parted his hair with his fingers. Once that was completed to his satisfaction, he pulled a folded page from the hat’s inner pocket. While the clothes dryer rumbled on, he studied the list of crossword clues he’d found in Old Man York’s shoebox. Quick to realize the list gave him a leg up in the competition, he had removed it from the box before giving the photos to Verity Hawkes for resale.

  Ever since, he’d been trying to work out why the old man had a copy of the solved puzzle. Eventually, he decided the contest must have been York’s idea from the start—a way to distribute his hidden riches. It seemed a crazy way to give away money, but there was no denying that Oskar York was a crazy guy.

  The crossword answers made no sense to Mickey, but that seemed appropriate, given their source. It didn’t matter, anyway. All he had to do was wait for the appropriate moment and then “solve” the final clue in the puzzle. Wouldn’t Leafy Hollow be surprised?

  Snickering, he fingered the half-dozen photos he’d also saved from the box, fanning them out on a sofa cushion and turning them over one by one. He didn’t recognize most of the people in any of the photos. Except for one. He held that picture under the cheap metal floor lamp by the sofa for a better look.

  Oskar York had been much younger when the photo had been taken. Mickey had never seen a smile like that on the old man’s face. Mostly, Oskar only scowled and complained during Mickey’s visits. Once, he’d demanded that Mickey go next door and, “tell them to stop running around in their skivvies.”

  The old man had never been sociable. So, who were the people in the picture with him? Mickey tapped his fingers on the photo before tucking it back into his hat.

  Come to think of it, why hadn’t he heard back from Verity about the other pictures? Just because that blowhard Henri Vartan was laid up—he chuckled at the image—was no reason to delay a potentially sweet deal.

  The dryer’s buzzer beeped, making him jump.

  Seconds later, Uma Wilkes, her trim figure clad in running shoes, yoga pants, and a navy Maple Leafs hoodie, descended the stairs with a laundry basket perched on her hip.

  Mickey scrambled to a sitting position while flipping the edge of the afghan over the newly rolled joints. He eyed Uma appreciatively. More than once, he’d fantasized about what was under those yoga pants. She was a little older, sure, but experience was a good thing, right? She’d probably be interested in hot young stuff such as himself, given the opportunity.

  “How ya doing, Mrs. Wilkes?”

  Uma halted mid-step with a look of disgust. “Mickey,” she said tersely, before continuing down the stairs and into the laundry room behind the furnace.

  Mickey sniffed. Doesn’t know what she’s missing, he thought. He resumed his study of the crossword. Given the looming legalization of marijuana, he needed a new source of income. But it would take way more capital than he had to crack the hard-drugs market. How much did those loony librarians say this contest was worth? A million? He twisted his lips, contemplating this potential windfall.

  The dryer started up again with a rumble. Moments later, Uma passed him on her way upstairs.

  Mickey shot her a friendly wave, which she ignored.

  The door at the top of the stairs opened, and footsteps much louder than Uma’s rumbled down. Willy Wilkes took two steps at a time as he descended, barely avoiding the dangling laces of his turquoise Adidas. When he turned sideways to sidle past his mother on her way up, she grabbed his arm. Uma jerked her head at Mickey, who was intently watching the Dragons humiliate the driving-gloves guy and pointedly ignoring the pair on the staircase.

  “How long is he staying?” Uma’s query was conveyed at a volume that might have been meant as a stage whisper—if the listeners were deaf, which Mickey definitely wasn’t. In fact, he was proud of his excellent hearing. If he’d wanted to, he could have been one of those whisperer guys.

  Willy glanced guiltily at Mickey. “I dunno.”

  Uma switched the laundry basket to her other hip with a flourish of irritation and marched up the stairs, adding over her shoulder, “Find out.” The door at the top closed with a hollow thud.

  Willy thundered down the rest of the steps, managing to reach the bottom without tripping over his laces. He hustled over to the sofa to exchange a complicated handshake with his friend.

  Mickey gave him a hurt look. “Your mom is like, really cold, dude.”

  Willy shrugged. “No worries. Yeah. Cool. Aren’t you supposed to be walking dogs today?”

  “Came back to fill a few orders. Didn’t know old Uma was home, sorry.” After flipping the edge of the afghan, he selected a joint and handed it to Willy. “Your cut.”

  Willy’s face fell. “One? Come on, man—like, I gave you fifty bucks.”

  “It takes money to make money, dude.”

  “I know, but—”

  “Willy—”

  “Stop calling me that.”

  “Dude. It’s your name. What’s wrong with it?” Chuckling, Mickey carefully inspected the other joints before selecting the largest. “Hardly anybody calls you Wee Willy anymore.”

  His friend slumped onto the other end of the sofa, petulantly twi
rling his unlit joint between his fingers. “Most guys call me Viper.”

  “They do not.” At Willy’s truculent expression, Mickey amended his comment to, “Whatever.” Sliding the joint between his lips, he pulled a lighter from his pocket and flicked it on.

  Frantically, Willy waved his hands. “Not here, dude. Mom’s been like”—he adopted a strident falsetto—“‘What’s with all that smoke in the basement?’ And I’m like, ‘Nothing,’ and she’s like, ‘Are you smokin’ weed down there?’”

  Mickey shrugged. “Your mom should chill. It’s legal now.”

  “Almost.”

  Mickey shrugged.

  “Seriously, dude, she wants you to leave. For real this time.”

  The joint between his lips flapped as Mickey pointed to the TV. “I’m going to be on that show.”

  “Dragon’s Den? Like, seriously?”

  “Yeah. The producer loved my idea for spray-on underwear.” Mickey tilted his head to indicate the rumbling dryer. “No more laundry, eh?” He pulled the unlit joint from his mouth, then dropped it into a plastic bag. After adding the others, he tucked the bag behind the sofa cushion.

  “How do you get it off?”

  “Peel it. Easy.”

  “Cool.”

  Mickey nodded gravely. “I know.”

  While Willy babbled on about his own business plans, Mickey feigned interest. But really, he was trying to decide what to do about those photos in his hat. Because while he’d been mulling it over, he realized someone in those pictures looked familiar.

  Which was weird. Because if they were friendly with Old Man York, why hadn’t they come forward when his body was found? Why were they pretending not to know him?

  He sucked in a breath as another notion hit him. What if this other person had been in York’s kitchen when that mountain of junk fell on him—the first time? What if that “accident” had been deliberate?

  “Lend me your phone, Willy.” Mickey extended his hand.

  Willy shot him a look of annoyance. “No way. Last time, Mom was all”—he switched to falsetto again—“‘What are these extra charges on our phone bill? Have you been watching porn again? We talked about this.’”

  Mickey flashed his fingers in a gimme motion. “I need to send a text.”

  Scowling, Willy handed over his phone. “One text. Like, one.”

  Mickey keyed in a message.

  Guess what I found in the old man’s house?

  And hit Send.

  It took only moments for the phone to beep. After reading the message, Mickey sent a reply.

  Smiling, he handed the phone back to Willy. Things were looking up. And—bonus—old Uma would finally realize that Mickey Rules. And show him a little respect.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I never saw it coming.

  One moment, Boomer and I were strolling along the woodland path behind Rose Cottage, admiring the snow-covered spruce trees glistening in the sunshine and the vivid red cardinals flitting from branch to branch.

  The next, I was face down in a snowdrift, struggling to breathe, with an unfriendly knee in my back and one arm pinned behind me.

  From my Krav Maga training, I knew it was better to flee than fight. But sometimes there was no choice.

  First, the feint.

  I stopped struggling, forcing my body to relax. The moment the pressure on my back eased, I shoved against the ground with my unpinned arm and flipped over.

  Even with one hand behind my back, I was able to knee my attacker in the groin. He barely had time for a muttered oath before I followed that up by slamming the heel of my palm into his nose.

  Then I was on my feet, ready to run.

  “Blast,” came a muffled voice from the figure bent over beside me. Red drops stained the snow at his feet. “I told you this was a bad idea.”

  “No, it was a good idea. You’re just too old and too slow,” a woman said.

  I recognized that voice.

  With both hands planted on my hips, I abandoned my planned flight and swiveled around on one foot to scowl at the pair who stood before me.

  My next-door neighbor Gideon Picard, a hand clapped to his bloody nose and a parka hood pulled over his gray topknot, glared accusingly at me through his blue-tinted octagonal glasses.

  “Sorry about that, Gideon. But you surprised me.”

  “You could have broken my nose,” he said with a distinctly nasal tone.

  “No. My aim was off.”

  The woman beside him was Aunt Adeline. She tilted her bare head, with its pixie-cut streaked gray hair, in amusement. One finger was looped under Boomer’s collar, holding him in place.

  The terrier was looking up at her with undisguised awe.

  Figured. Even animals fell under my aunt’s spell.

  I scanned her winter outfit. The fur-trimmed parka, leggings, and snow boots were pure white. “Is that your Alpine disguise?” I asked. “Because we’re about a thousand miles from any mountains.”

  Her gold-flecked gray eyes twinkled. “Don’t you be smart with me, young lady.” Aunt Adeline smiled sweetly at me while handing her companion a crumpled tissue.

  Gideon held it to his nose with his head tilted back, muttering under his breath.

  “Excellent work, by the way,” my aunt enthused. “Glad to see you haven’t lost your edge, Verity. Although—” She narrowed her eyes. “You should have noticed we’ve been tracking you for half a mile.”

  “How could I hear footsteps in the snow?” I pointed to the fresh dusting of white that covered the path I’d taken through the woods on my way back to Rose Cottage. Hang on—why was I making excuses? “Tell me why you were trailing me.”

  Aunt Adeline looked surprised. “To keep your skills sharp, of course. There’s no telling when you might have to defend yourself. Snow is no excuse. Villains don’t take the winter off. Also”— she gave Gideon a pointed look—“you’re not the only one who’s slowing down. Someone needs to hit the gym more often.”

  Gideon, having known my aunt for decades, did not waste his breath on objections.

  I, on the other hand, was indignant. “I have not been slowing down. You try cutting lawns and clearing brush for a living, then see whether you’re fit or not.” I straightened up to my full height, glaring down at her.

  “I didn’t mean you, Verity.” My aunt bestowed the same benign smile on me she’d been using since my childhood. “Of course, you’re fit.”

  Gideon emitted a strangled cry of protest.

  Adeline ignored him. “We only want to keep you on your toes. Especially since the attack on Henri Vartan. Have the police uncovered any motive?”

  I eyed her suspiciously. “How would I know?”

  The corners of my aunt’s mouth twitched, but she said nothing.

  “Jeff does not share details of police investigations with outside parties, and that includes me.”

  My aunt raised her hands in a conciliatory gesture that didn’t fool me for a minute. “I’m not fishing.” Her voice lowered a register to her most serious tone. “You have to be careful, that’s all I’m saying. Promise me you’ll be careful, and I’ll back off.”

  My irritation vanished, and I held out both hands with a muttered, “Aww.”

  I wrapped her in a hug, inhaling the comforting, familiar aroma of lavender tinged with a whiff of cheroot. After fearing my aunt was dead, I was not used to the pleasure of having her back in my life—and in one piece. It had been months since our reunion at Niagara Falls and the tumultuous case that brought us together. But I could not forget the overwhelming joy of seeing her face again, and of being given a second chance to mend our relationship.

  I’d recently dropped by the cottage she shared with Gideon, hoping to catch a movie while seated in the Star Trek command center that spanned their living room. When my aunt and her partner greeted me at the door, I was stunned to see they both sported bruises, and Gideon was using a cane. He’d tried to tuck it behind the captain’s chair, so I would
n’t see it.

  They attributed their injuries to a cross-country skiing mishap. I was fairly sure that was a lie, but what could I do? My aunt had promised me they were retired from their “freelance security work,” and I had to take her at her word.

  So, actually, it was a relief to know the only person she was currently tracking was me. It felt good to have someone worry about me, to be honest. Someone else, that was. Jeff also considered it his job to repel any and all potential attackers. Between Aunt Adeline and my new beau, I feared for any villains who might have me in their sights.

  “You’re bored, aren’t you?” I asked before releasing my aunt with a grin.

  “A little.”

  “How about we do some sparring next week? We can go to the gym.”

  She returned my grin. “Excellent idea.” Leaning in, she whispered loudly, “Let’s leave the men at home. That way, we can get in a good workout without worrying about hurting them.”

  Behind us, Gideon snorted.

  “Only if you promise to stop ambushing me,” I said.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  We set out for Rose Cottage, Boomer bounding ahead and racing back, over and over. Occasionally he left the path to chase a squirrel, only giving up when he was chest deep in snow.

  Adeline smiled at his antics. “Silly dog,” she said. “Are you keeping it?”

  “Dunno. Maybe.”

  At a fork in the trail, Gideon turned toward their house. “Are you coming?” he asked my aunt.

  “You go on. I’m going to walk Verity home first.” She slid an arm under mine.

  Home. I was still getting used to that. For decades, Rose Cottage had been my aunt’s—until she insisted on giving it to me and moving in with Gideon.

  “How are the gardening plans going? Have you thought any more about that recirculating brook?” she asked.

  “I’ve been working on something else. Not garden-related.”

  She squeezed my arm gleefully. “I know. Emy told me all about it when I dropped by the bakery. How’s it coming? The case, I mean?”