by Rickie Blair
I watched in astonishment as Noah scurried from one doorway to another, headed in the same direction as his wife, tucking into storefronts from time to time. He was following her.
I didn’t need Lorne on hand to identify this as a clandestine maneuver. Longingly, I thought of the cell phone in my pocket. Too bad I hadn’t enlisted Lorne’s help. As an enthusiastic reconnaissance operative, he’d be disappointed he missed this opportunity to hone his skills.
But I knew what he’d say. If Noah was following Rebecca, then I should follow Noah. Flipping my hood back down to ensure visibility, I set off in pursuit.
Rebecca turned right at the end of the block, crossed over at the banking district—which was how Leafy Hollow villagers referred to the intersection with a bank branch on each corner—and continued down a side street.
Noah followed, taking care not to be seen.
I followed him, but without worrying about being spotted myself. No one in this strange procession was paying any attention to me.
At the next corner, Rebecca turned right again. She was heading back toward the Butterfields’ office, but one block south. Mid-block, she paused, glanced around again—Noah hastily ducked behind a cedar hedge—and then walked up the alley that led to a parking lot behind the storefronts.
The offices and stores on this block of Main Street had back entrances accessible from the side street. It looked like Rebecca was headed for the back entrance to Lucky Lentil.
If my gloves hadn’t been sopping wet, I would have slapped my forehead. I’d assumed that ‘Butter’ and ‘Field’ in the crossword puzzle referred to Noah Butterfield. It could just as easily have meant Rebecca Butterfield. And if Rebecca was linked to Rick Armstrong, that might be why he was named in the puzzle, too.
Further, if Oskar really was a client of Noah’s, then Rebecca, as Noah’s office manager and assistant, would know all about Oskar’s account, including how much cash he had. And possibly, where he kept it.
If I could figure that out, Noah could, too. Was that why he was following his wife?
Mentally, I added that to the questions I intended to ask him the moment this reconnaissance mission ended.
Rebecca stopped short, staring at something.
Noah jerked back out of the way—splashing into a three-inch-deep puddle of slush. I winced at the state of his shoes.
Mimicking their movements, I also stopped. As wind whipped through my hair, I flipped up my hood. Since there was no place for me to hide, I gazed at the sky, feigning an implausible search for rare birds.
The back door to the restaurant popped open. Rick Armstrong—wearing an apron over his sweater and khakis, his vivid blue eyes discernible even at this distance—stepped out.
Rebecca waved, but he wasn’t looking in her direction. Before she could call out to him, the driver’s door opened on a car parked in the lot behind the restaurant. A woman emerged.
For the second time that day, I gawked.
Shanice’s afro puff bobbed as she waved merrily at Rick. He hurried over to her. Grinning broadly, he threw his arms around her in an affable embrace. Then he delivered the coup de grâce—an even more affable squeeze of her bum.
Even over the wind, I heard Rebecca’s muttered curse.
This was not going to end well. I moved closer, angling for a better vantage point.
For a moment, Rebecca stood, dumbstruck. Then, “You son of a—,” she screamed, running straight at Rick with her handbag swinging.
He released Shanice, stepped back in alarm, and put up his hands.
Rebecca got in multiple whacks with that bag. It was a heavy tote, one of those leather carryalls popular with celebrities the previous season.
Rick tried ineffectively to shield his head. “No, no. I can explain,” he gasped between blows.
I can explain? When had that ever worked?
I bit my lip, wincing, as Rebecca’s tote bag connected with Rick’s face. That had to hurt. Should I step in before the village’s new restaurateur had to be taken to hospital?
Fortunately, I didn’t have to decide, because Shanice took that as a perfect opportunity to step in herself. Possibly she felt guilty. I promised myself to find out later, when I grilled her about her fondness for her boss’s competitor. My heart burned for Emy over the injustice of this betrayal. To think I’d believed Shanice’s completely implausible story about butter sculptures.
“Stop—Rebecca, stop,” she shrieked, grabbing for the tote bag.
The two women tugged on the bag, one at either end.
Then Rebecca raised a foot, driving the sole straight into Shanice’s stomach. Shanice toppled backward, into the nearest snowbank, where she sat—stuck, struggling, and shrieking.
I slapped a hand against my cheek in admiration at Rebecca’s move. Then I made a mental note to tell Adeline I’d found a new sparring partner.
Rebecca renewed her attack on Rick, who was struggling to escape through the restaurant’s back door. “Ow, ow,” he cried, trying to block the smacks. “Rebecca, stop it, for pity’s sake.”
In all the excitement, I’d forgotten about Noah. He picked that moment to barrel into the fray.
“What the hell is going on?” he roared as he ran toward the combatants.
Horrified, Rebecca froze, her tote bag arrested in mid-thwack.
Rick stood motionless, his mouth hanging open.
“Help,” Shanice called feebly from the snowbank.
Noah surged forward. “I said, what the—”
It was unclear to me whether he intended to rescue Shanice, argue with his wife, or punch Rick. And I never found out, because that was the precise moment when Noah’s Italian leather gave up its one-sided battle with the elements. His feet slid out from under him, and he toppled head-first into Shanice’s snowbank.
By the time we’d freed Noah and Shanice and I’d corralled everybody into the restaurant, the worst of their collective rage had cooled. Shaking my head, I took in the pitiful scene.
Rick, wincing, held an ice pack to one cheek. Shanice brushed snow off her jacket while darting guilty glances at me. Noah scowled and paced, ignoring the wet footprints he was leaving on the floor. As far away from him as possible, Rebecca sullenly assessed the damage to her tote bag.
It was hard to know where to start.
Turning to Shanice, I said, “I think you owe Emy an apology.”
“What do you mean?” Her stricken gaze implored me to explain.
I flexed my eyebrows. “About the reviews?”
“No, no. You’re wrong, Verity. The only reason I put up with his—” she flailed her arms to indicate the bruised restaurateur, “ridiculous advances was to find out if he was behind those reviews. I’d never betray Emy.”
From behind his ice bag, Rick shot her an incredulous look. “Ridiculous?” he asked. “Ridiculous? Is that what you think of me? And what reviews are you talking about?”
Rebecca slammed her tote bag on to the nearest table. “You are ridiculous,” she said loudly, crossing her arms and glaring at Rick. “This woman is young enough to be your daughter. It’s all so embarrassing. You’re embarrassing.”
“Oh, really, Rebecca? That’s not what you said last—”
Noah cleared his throat, and we turned in his direction.
He was staring out the front window, not looking at anyone in the room. “He’s not the only one who’s ridiculous,” Noah said. Then he pushed open the front door and stepped out, his shoes squelching. The door swung shut behind him.
I waggled a finger at Shanice. “Later,” I said. “You better get back to the bakery.” Then I hurried to follow Noah. From experience, I knew that when people were in shock, they were much more likely to answer impertinent questions.
Chapter Twenty-Three
When I pushed open the door to Noah’s office, his dripping overcoat was hanging from the coat rack and he was slipping off his ruined shoes.
He raised his head, his expression blank. “Verity. I’
m sorry you had to see that.”
“I’m sorry you had to go through it.”
“Yeah. It’s possible I deserved it.” He picked up his shoes and tossed them, one after the other, into the trash bin behind Rebecca’s desk on the other side of the room. They landed with a thunk against the metal sides.
“Nice shots,” I said.
Noah chuckled weakly, holding out his hand for my coat. “At least I can do one thing right. Come on back to my office, and I’ll make us some coffee.” After adding my parka to the coat rack, he glanced at the front door. “I think we’ll be alone for a while.”
He padded on his stocking feet down the hallway, leaving damp footprints on the Berber carpet. I followed.
Noah settled himself into the executive chair behind his desk. “High school basketball,” he said.
“Excuse me?” I said in a leather armchair facing his desk.
“I played forward on our team. Slam dunks were my specialty.”
“Oh. Right.”
“In fact, that’s where I met Rebecca.” He swiveled his chair to face the opposite wall, then lifted one leg onto the opposite knee to massage his wet foot. “She was a cheerleader—did you know that?”
Shaking my head, I said, “No, but I’m not surprised.”
He shot me a sharp look, switching legs to knead the other foot.
“I meant because she’s so attractive and so—” A vision of Rebecca knocking Shanice into the snowbank came to mind. “Athletic.”
A smile flickered on his face as he lowered his foot to the floor and stared at the wall. It was obvious he was picturing something other than its Stock Markets of the World chart.
“She was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. I was smitten.” He sighed. “Young love. We assumed it would last forever. And it nearly did. But sometimes… you take your eye off the ball and the whole game goes south.”
I wasn’t sure if we were talking about sports again, but before I could ask, Noah swiveled back to face me, suddenly all business.
“Rebecca said you came in for investment advice while I was away.”
“I did. Yes. But not for financial advice.”
He gave me a half-smile. “I figured that.”
Ignoring his condescending tone, I rambled on. “Actually, Noah, I was hoping to ask you a few questions about Oskar York. Did you know him?”
“Everybody knew Oskar. He lived in Leafy Hollow for decades.”
“Yes, he did. But I don’t think everybody knew him. Not well, at least. He rarely left his house. And he had mental health problems, didn’t he?” My voice rose in pitch along with my anxiety, but I wasn’t able to modulate either one. I shouldn’t be asking Noah about Oskar York.
In fact, I fully expected the next words out of his mouth to be, “None of your business.”
He surprised me.
“I thought of Oskar as a friend. Whether he considered me as one—I really don’t know. I tried to convince him to get help.” He picked up a pen, rolling it under his fingers along the desktop. “He wasn’t always like that, you know.”
“A recluse? Or a hoarder?”
“Either. He was a schoolteacher at one time, but not here in the village. He did write a book about Leafy Hollow, I believe.”
“What happened?”
Noah shrugged. “I don’t think anybody knows. How can you predict something like that? He must have had… latent tendencies.” He picked up the pen and slapped it down on the wooden surface. “I think Oskar regretted a choice he’d made in the past. I never had any idea what it was, though. He made a few vague allusions, and never brought it up again.”
“Sounds like you talked to him quite a bit. Was he a client?”
Another sharp look. “A client? Oskar had no money. That house was rented. And he was years behind on his rent.” He shook his head. “I really shouldn’t tell you that, but since he’s dead…” He shrugged.
“Did the owner of the house order the removal of Oskar’s possessions? I went by there the other day, and workmen were bundling everything into a van.”
“Yes. He was within his rights to clear the house, as long as he didn’t destroy anything.”
I recalled the indifferent way the workmen treated those objects. “How would you know if anything was damaged? Did Oskar have any relatives to check it over? Heirs, I mean?”
“None that I know of—and nothing to leave them if he had.”
“You’ve been in that house.”
“Several times.”
“And never saw anything of value?”
At that, he smiled. “I’ve heard the village stories about hidden riches. But they’re just that—stories. If Oskar had anything valuable, he sold it long ago.”
“How could he sell it, if he never went out?”
Noah rubbed a hand across his jaw, regarding me as he weighed his next words. He lowered his hand onto the desk to fiddle again with the pen. “There was someone else who visited him fairly often. I suspect that person assisted with those… sales. I don’t know for sure.”
In the hall, the office’s front door opened with a rush of air and noise. Vehicles swooshed past on the sloppy road. The door closed, shutting out the sound.
“Anybody in?” a man’s voice called.
Noah rose to his feet. “One minute,” he called, then turned to face me. “My next appointment is here, Verity, so—” He extended a hand to the door.
I stood up. “One more question, please. Who was this person who visited Oskar regularly?”
“I can’t say.”
“Was it Mickey Doig? I believe he walked Oskar’s dog occasionally. And now—they’re both dead.”
Noah stopped short of the door, eyebrows flying up. “They’re both dead? What does that mean? Seriously, Verity, that’s fairly—”
“Cynical?”
“Exactly.”
“Do you know of anyone who might have wanted Oskar dead? Or Mickey, for that matter?”
“No,” he said sharply. “No one.”
“Noah? Are you there?” came the man’s voice from the hall. Judging by the rise in volume, Noah’s next appointment was getting impatient.
“One minute. Be right there,” Noah called. “Verity, I have to go.” He turned to the door, then swiveled back to face me. “Look, it’s a coincidence, that’s all. Mickey knew a lot of people. He even walked our boxer, Axel, from time to time. And he did walk Oskar’s dog. But Mickey wasn’t reliable. And there were rumors about his other activities.” Noah grimaced. “Whatever happened to Mickey Doig, it was likely self-inflicted. As in—his own fault.”
I found that a bit severe, but kept that opinion to myself.
“Noah?” The voice had become downright petulant.
Noah strode down the hall. I followed.
“Why don’t you ask Mickey’s friend—Willy Wilkes?” he said over his shoulder. “Maybe he knows something. Larry—great to see you. Come on in.” Noah slapped the tweed-jacketed back of a burly man wearing a bow tie, whose unzipped snow boots flapped open as he walked.
It wasn’t until I was outside on the sidewalk that I remembered the other question I’d meant to ask Noah Butterfield. Where, exactly, did he disappear to for two days?
Willy Wilkes had given me his address at the bakery meeting. During our brief talk, there had been no mention of a job, or school, or anywhere his presence would be required on a daily basis. I figured there was a good chance he’d be home.
A row of precisely pruned yews marched along the driveway of the Wilkes’ two-story yellow brick house, in a suburb not far from the village center. Someone had brushed the shrubs free of snow and swept every trace of it from the walkway. I assumed that someone had not been Willy.
“Mrs. Wilkes?” I asked the woman in trim yoga pants and navy sweater who answered the door. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail, her skin clear, and her gray eyes piercing. This was a woman who would not appreciate having her time wasted, I suspected.
At
her quick nod, I said, “I’m Verity Hawkes. I was hoping to talk to Willy.”
“You’re Adeline’s niece.” She held out her hand for a quick shake.
“Correct.”
“Come in.” Uma did not offer to take my parka, or show any curiosity about why I was there. She merely pointed to the stairs off the front hall that led to the basement. “He’s down there.”
“Mrs. Wilkes?” I asked before she walked away. “Did Mickey Doig ever stay here?”
She rolled her eyes to the ceiling, issuing an exasperated puff of air. “What a pain in the backside that kid was.”
“You’re not sorry he’s gone, then?”
“He was a bad influence on Willy.” After wrinkling her forehead, she added briskly, “I’m sorry he died.” Then she turned back toward the aroma of roasted chicken wafting from the kitchen.
In the unfinished basement, Willy was sprawled on a sofa, his long legs planted on the floor, playing a video game on a big-screen television. Halo, it looked like. A lot of gunfire, anyway.
“Willy?”
He grunted. “Verity. Oh, man—look at that!”
“Can we talk?”
He shot me an annoyed glance. “Now?”
“I’m here now, so that would be good.”
More gunfire. Followed by an explosion that lit up the screen.
Willy muttered a curse before flinging the controller onto the sofa beside him. “What’s up?”
I gestured to the armchair. “Can I sit down?”
“Cool. I go by Viper.”
Taking this as an invitation, I settled into the chair. “I’m sorry—what?”
“My name.” He grinned. “Viper.”
“Oh. Is that new?”
“Nah. Been using it for ages. So?” He shrugged. “What can I do for you?”
“It’s about Mickey.”
Willy—sorry, Viper—slumped, grin fading. “I’m really bummed about that. He was a good guy.”
“He stayed with you, right?”
“Right here in this room, in fact.”
After glancing around at the cluttered surroundings, I pointed to a metal bookcase filled with tattered board games, action-movie DVDs, and cardboard boxes stuffed to overflowing with old clothes.
