by Rickie Blair
Tossing her black hair over her shoulder, Zuly gave his back a consoling pat.
For several moments, no one spoke.
Then, “Shortbread?” Emy asked, bending beside Henri with a plate of his favorite bacon-toffees.
Henri raised his head, sniffed, and reached for a cookie. “Maybe just one.”
At the front of the room, I cleared my throat. “Let’s get back to the clues—” I switched on the laser pointer. Nothing happened. Shanice took it from me, fiddled a bit, and handed it back in working order. “Thank you.” I aimed the pointer. “Let’s review the ones we already know—or think we know. First, eight down. ‘Violent individuals.’ Any ideas?”
Rebecca’s hand shot up. “Killers.”
Shanice uncapped her felt pen, then wrote KILLERS on the puzzle in bold black letters.
I pointed to eleven across. “‘Betwixt and between.’ The answer, as we know, is…”
Rebecca again. “Amongst.”
I pointed to three across—‘Like-minded persons?’”
“Us,” blurted Rebecca, not bothering to raise her hand this time. Hannah shot her a furious glance.
I flicked the pointer from word to word, until the written phrase sank in.
Killers Amongst Us.
“Cool,” Willy said.
“Indeed. There are three other answers we knew. One down: ‘Month of showers.’”
“April,” said several voices at once.
“Nine across—‘Ruminants’ home’.”
“Field.”
“And seven down—‘How many toes?’ Obviously, the answer is Ten.”
Shanice pointed to TEN, APRIL, and FIELD on the puzzle.
“But two more clues were found recently. Two down: ‘Prepare for battle?’”
“Arm,” Rebecca called out in a singsong voice.
Shanice wrote it on the puzzle.
“And four down—‘Opposite of weak.’
This time, the librarian beat Rebecca to the punch. “Strong,” she called, flashing a look of triumph at the investment adviser’s wife.
Henri tilted his head to one side as if he was puzzled by the two most recent clues written on the puzzle, ARM and STRONG.
“Questions?” I asked, looking directly at him.
After a glance at Irma, whose gaze was riveted to the board, Henri shook his head.
I circled the board rapidly with the pointer, enjoying the gadget. Maybe I should pick one up for home use. “I’ve been suspicious of this contest from the start. To put it bluntly, I think it’s a fraud.”
Loud murmurs from the participants.
“Verity, you’re such a cynic,” Hannah said.
I rolled my eyes. Again with the cynic. I preferred to think of myself as a pragmatist.
Zuly puffed out a breath. “That’s ridiculous. What makes you think it’s a fraud?”
“Because I have all the answers. Right here.” From my pocket, I pulled out a copy of Mickey’s tattered paper—I’d given Jeff the original that morning—and held it up.
Mouths dropped open.
“Where did you get that?” Irma asked.
Willy added helpfully, “Yeah. What she said.”
“You all know that Mickey Doig is dead. This list”—I brandished the paper—“was in his possession when he died.”
Technically, it was in the possession of a silver-gray poodle, but—basically true.
“Cool,” Willy said. “Mickey was onto something after all.”
“What do you mean?”
“He said he was coming into money.”
“Did he tell you how?”
Willy shook his head with a hangdog expression. “Wish he’d given me that list.”
“The point is, Willy, if Mickey knew all the answers to the puzzle, other people did, too. Which is why I’m convinced it’s a hoax.” When no one replied, I added, “A fraud.”
Hannah raised her hand, her brows knitted. “But that can’t be. What about the prize? The million dollars?”
“There is no prize,” I said.
My pronouncement was greeted with stunned silence.
“Hang on,” Gloria said, her multiple lip rings quivering in indignation. “What do you mean—no prize? We have all the answers. We can claim the million bucks.”
“No. That’s Mickey’s money,” Willy said.
“Mickey’s dead,” Rebecca pointed out from the back row.
Willy leapt to his feet, gesturing at the puzzle and shouting. “Then it should go to his friends.”
Gloria sprang up to argue with him.
Irma and Zuly exchanged glances, then scooted their chairs out of the way.
Everyone began talking at once, their voices getting louder until the hum reverberated off the windows. Behind the counter, Emy covered her ears.
“Stop,” I shouted, stepping on to a chair. “Stop.”
The room fell silent.
I took a deep breath. “There. Is. No. Prize.”
The combatants slumped into their seats, scowling.
“Are you… certain?” Gloria asked with a petulant air.
I climbed down before answering. “Yes.”
Muttering broke out.
“Does anyone have proof this rumored prize exists?” I asked.
“We’ve all heard about it,” Hannah said, searching the onlookers’ faces for support.
“That’s right,” Gloria added.
“Who told you about it?” I asked.
Hannah tilted her head as if deep in thought. “I heard it from a library patron. I don’t remember who, exactly.”
“I heard it at the Lentil,” Gloria said. “One of the customers. It was… it was…” She shrugged. “I don’t remember their name.”
“Henri, where did you hear about it?” I asked.
He and Irma huddled together for a moment, then Henri said triumphantly, “At the Leafy Hollow Farmers’ Market. From the guy who sells designer turnips.”
“Designer turnips?”
“Yes. They’re different colors.”
“Oh, I’ve seen those,” Hannah said, raising her hand. “Does he have the carrots, too?”
During this discussion, Willy had shuffled to the front, running shoes flapping. He pointed to the board, looking bereft. “There’s no million dollars?”
“No,” I said firmly.
“Really?”
I sighed.
Not bothering to raise her hand, Rebecca snapped, “So far, Verity, you’ve told us about these new clues, but you haven’t shown them to us. I’d like proof.”
There was a general murmur of agreement.
Willy brightened. “Cool.”
I circled the crossword with my pointer. “Shanice, would you do the honors?”
“Ready.” She stood by, pen poised, to fill in the remaining questions and answers.
“Ten across,” I said. “Picture museum? Answer: Gallery.”
The felt pen squeaked across the cardboard.
“And the last clue, six across. Shortbread ingredient? Answer—”
Shanice was already writing it in. BUTTER.
Henri pointed to the board. “No. That’s wrong.”
“Butter? No, that’s correct,” Emy said from behind the counter, with a wry smile that might have been a wince.
“Which gives us the completed puzzle.” I flourished the pointer again.
All eyes faced front.
Irma poked Zuly with her elbow, giving her a quizzical glance, but Zuly merely shrugged.
Hannah peered at the board, her eyebrows knitted once more. “But some of those clues are names. Of people who live right here in the village.”
Gloria narrowed her eyes at the puzzle. “What do you mean?”
“Look.” Hannah strode up to the puzzle to poke at it with her finger. “Two down and eleven across spell ARM-STRONG. And six and nine across spell BUTTER-FIELD.” She turned to face the room. “Rick Armstrong. And Noah Butterfield.”
Then, in case a
nyone had missed it, Hannah pointed in turn to three other words on the puzzle: KILLERS. AMONGST. US.
The ensuing collective intake of breath sucked most of the air out of the room. Followed seconds later by an explosion of voices all speaking at once.
“Whoa, that’s—”
“Holy cow.”
“No, it can’t be—”
“Cool.”
The front door swung open with a sudden jangle of the overhead bell.
The chattering ceased as wide-eyed faces turned to the entrance.
A trim man in a tailored suit and camel overcoat, his brown hair combed back under a fedora, tugged the door shut against the whistling wind. Noah Butterfield turned, stamping his feet on the mat. “Am I too late?” he asked, doffing his hat to shake off snowflakes.
No one said a word.
Until Rebecca rose to her feet, jabbing a finger in the air. “Where the devil have you been?”
Chapter Twenty-One
Once Rebecca and Noah started their shouting match, Emy and I tried to clear the bakery. It wasn’t easy. After pushing a few people out the front door myself, I turned back to find Gloria filming the battling Butterfields on her cell phone.
Stepping between her and the combatants, I signaled desperately to Emy, who threw up her arms in the universally accepted motion for, “I give up,” and flounced back behind the counter.
“Do you think I don’t know what you’ve been up to?” Rebecca screamed at her husband.
“Now wait,” I said as calmly as I could. “This isn’t the place to—”
“How dare you lecture me?” Noah shouted. “What about Paris?”
“What about Paris? I was there with my girlfriends. We saw the Louvre.”
“Liar.”
“Ooh, this is good,” Gloria muttered, ducking back around me with her phone raised.
I snatched it away from her, held it over my head, and warded her off with my other hand. “Stop that. You’re not helping.”
“Give that back.” She hopped up and down, trying to reach it. “This video’s bound to go viral.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Rebecca jam one arm into her coat and sweep out the door with the rest of the coat flapping behind her.
“Wait,” Noah called, grabbing his fedora off the floor and following her.
Holding the cell phone above Gloria’s head, I hit the delete button and waited until it was finished before handing the phone back to Lucky Lentil’s Employee of the Month.
“Oh, come on,” Gloria cried in frustration, checking the screen. “What did you do that for?”
“You’ll thank me later.”
Gloria gave a snort of disapproval before storming out.
Emy, Shanice, and I surveyed the toppled chairs and scattered shortbreads.
“Do you still think Hawkes Investigation Agency is a good idea?” I asked Emy.
She pursed her lips. “It might need a little fine-tuning.”
With the revelation that the “million-dollar” crossword puzzle implicated two villagers in murder, my next interrogation subject was obvious. But first, I had pets to placate.
Back at Rose Cottage, I took Boomer for a quick walk and then shut him in the kitchen, double-checking the latch to make sure he couldn’t get out. Then I carried General Chang’s dinner to my bedroom. I’d replaced the usual kibble with a tin of salmon—his favorite. I placed the bowl on my chipped wooden dresser, picked up the General, and plonked him down in front of it.
The ornery old tom was not impressed. “Mrack.” The indifference in his tone was unmistakable. He sat with his nose in the air, intently interested in the play of light on the opposite wall.
“Fine,” I said evenly. Hiding a smile, I headed out. After six months with the one-eyed warrior, I’d learned not to feel guilty. I knew he’d have his nose into that salmon the moment the door closed behind me.
A fleeting flashback and a stab of anxiety halted me in my tracks as I walked up to Henri’s front door. I stepped over to the side—out of the path of any crazed attackers who might burst out that door—before continuing.
After my raps with the dachshund knocker, the door swept open to be held at arm’s length by Zuly Sundae. She gave me a cool and appraising glance. Apparently, I had not been forgiven for dashing the villagers’ million-dollar hopes.
“Visitor,” Zuly yelled over her shoulder. With a toss of her jet-black hair, she stalked off, leaving the door gaping open to the blustery weather.
I stepped over the threshold, then quietly closed the door. After slipping off my parka, I hung it from the newel post in the hall. Turning, I saw Henri in the doorway to the living room—more properly called ‘The Gallery’ now, I reminded myself. The torn plastic strips were gone.
Matisse stood beside him, quivering slightly on his mini-dachshund legs.
“Hello, Verity,” Henri said with a dispirited air. “The girls are helping me clean up. Come on in.” I followed him into the gallery, where he settled into an armchair.
Irma O’Kay looked up from the floor, where she knelt over one of her paintings. Thin strands of mousy hair drooped over her pallid face and pale blue eyes. Whatever colors nature had neglected to bestow on Irma’s person, she’d made up for in her art. The rich blues and reds and oranges of the canvas seemed to vibrate in the pale winter light coming through the windows.
“Verity. Hi. We’re taking the opportunity to re-organize.” She held out a hand stained with residues of dried paint, and I bent over to shake it. “Thanks for helping Henri when he was attacked. What a horror.” She grimaced, then glanced at Zuly, who was studying canvases stacked against the wall, flipping them over one by one, pointedly ignoring us.
“It was a shock for everybody,” I said, trying to dissipate the tension in the room. “How are you feeling, Henri?”
Shrugging, he averted his gaze. Irma tossed him a glance, smiling wanly before returning her gaze to the artwork.
“But that’s not why I’m here.” I took a deep breath, wondering how to best word my concerns. I could be wrong, after all. “I noticed at the bakery that you didn’t seem as surprised as the others that the contest was a hoax.”
All three exchanged quick glances. Noted, I thought.
“I didn’t want to mention it during the meeting, but the police believe Mickey was murdered. It wasn’t an accident. Henri—you didn’t really like Mickey, did you?”
Zuly straightened up, letting the artwork slap back against the wall, and stared at me, openmouthed. Irma rose to her feet, brushing hair from her eyes and nervously smoothing her paint-splotched smock.
“What do you mean?” Henri blustered. “I hardly knew the man.”
“You told me he was a two-bit crook and a scoundrel.”
Henri clasped a hand against his chest in shock. “Did I? That doesn’t sound like me.” He turned to “the girls” for confirmation. They shook their heads, eyes wide.
“Yes, you did. The day of your attack.”
“That’s easily explained,” Zuly said. “Henri was delirious after that blow to his head. He wasn’t talking sense.”
“I think there’s more to it than that. And I’m glad you’re all here, because I have something to show you. It has a bearing on your case, Henri.”
He fluttered his hands. “I think we should forget about that, Verity.”
“Forget about the wallet? You asked me to investigate it.”
“It was only a silly contest. And now that we know there’s no prize…” He absently pinched the fabric on the arm of the chair. “We should drop it.”
“I think there’s a connection between the contest and Mickey’s murder.”
One of the women drew in a sharp breath. When I turned to them, they were both studying the floor. I pulled out my copy of the tattered list of clues. “Let’s start with this.” I handed it to Irma, who was closest.
She took it hesitantly, scanning the contents. With a puzzled look, she passed it to Zuly.
&nbs
p; After a quick glance, and a tightening of her lips, Zuly passed it to Henri.
“You already told us Mickey had all the clues. Why are you showing us this?”
“I was hoping to jog your memory. Mickey was determined to solve that crossword. Obviously, he was successful. But he didn’t do it alone. The question is—who gave him those final clues and answers?”
Irma worried a cuticle between her teeth. Zuly bit her lip.
“I think those clues are the reason he’s dead,” I said.
The room went silent.
Matisse flopped onto the floor. Outside, a car whooshed past on the street, spraying melted ice from its hubcaps. An avalanche of waterlogged snow slid off the roof, landing with a thud that made us all jump.
“You know something—what is it?” I asked.
Irma gnawed at her finger. Zuly glared. Henri leaned over with his bandaged head in his hands, the rumpled crossword sticking out from between his fingers.
I bent over to slide it from his grasp.
“We didn’t mean anything by it,” Irma said, her voice tremulous.
“Irma,” Zuly warned.
“It’s too late, Zuly. It’s all going to come out. Verity’s right. There’s a connection.”
“You don’t know that,” Zuly said.
“How do you explain that, then?” Irma pointed a wavering finger at the crossword puzzle in my hand.
From his chair, Henri groaned. He flopped back, sighing heavily. “It’s true, Zuly. We have to admit it. There’s no choice.”
With my brow furrowed, I glanced from one to the other. I was confused. My accusation of “a connection” between the contest and Mickey’s death had been a bluff. I didn’t expect a response like this. It appeared my attempt to shake loose information was about to be spectacularly successful. I drew up to my full height, waving the paper. “Will one of you please tell me what’s going on?”
Both women eyed Henri.
He straightened in the chair, his hands gripping the upholstered arms. “It was a guerrilla marketing campaign.”
I stared, trying to take this in. “It was—what?”
“Guerrilla marketing.” He rattled out the definition in a singsong tone. “Unconventional but low-cost marketing techniques designed to obtain maximum exposure for a new product.”
