by Rickie Blair
“Get any closer and you’ll leave nose prints on that glass.” She walked behind the counter, put the scone on a plate, and handed it to me, followed by a cup and saucer. “Tea’s coming up.”
“Your lavender and lemons are in the truck. I’ll go get them.”
“Don’t worry about it. Plenty of time.” Emy gave an uneasy glance at the black-cat clock on the wall, watching its tail flick back and forth. “I wonder where Lorne is,” she said before filling the kettle for tea.
I sat at the table, nibbling at my scone and watching Emy bustle behind the counter. “Your mother’s taking this hard.”
Emy blew out a breath while she measured loose tea into the pot. “Lucy was a founding member of the Originals, so they’ve been close friends for decades. But it’s not just that. Mom’s had something on her mind for weeks. Something to do with the club.” She poured boiling water into the teapot, then added a comment that took my breath away. “Lucy didn’t fall. It wasn’t an accident.”
She raised her head, and we locked glances.
“Are you saying it was suicide?”
“That’s what the police think.”
I sat back, dumbfounded. Lucy had been withdrawn and a little cranky, but I never got the impression that she was depressed.
Emy glanced at the pass-through door that connected her other shop—a vegan takeout—to the bakery. She snugged the teapot into a crocheted cozy and brought it to the table, sitting opposite me. “It wasn’t suicide, either. Tea?”
“What, then?” I held out my cup, and she filled it.
Emy poured tea into her own cup before settling the pot onto a trivet and fixing me with a solemn expression.
I dropped the scone back onto my plate. “You’re not suggesting that she was—”
“Pushed?” Emy asked, calmly lifting the teacup to her lips.
I slumped back, shocked. “Who would do that? Lucy was annoying, yes, but nobody gets murdered for jumping the queue at one-hour flash sales.”
Emy put down her cup, looking grim. “So, what was she doing up there? It’s not safe to wander near that precipice. And you’re right—Lucy was terrified of heights.”
Nodding in agreement, I buttered the last morsel of scone and popped it into my mouth.
“She wouldn’t even get on a Ferris wheel. Verity, we have to investigate.”
“Wait… wha—?” I asked, my speech hampered by scone. “Is there buttermilk in this icing?” I asked in a muffled voice, pointing at my cheek.
“Don’t change the subject. We have to find out the truth.”
Swallowing, I shot her a warning glance. “Don’t even think about it. You know what happened the last time.” I tapped up the crumbs from my plate and licked them off my finger.
“You nailed a murderer. It was epic. People are still talking about it.” Emy indicated my empty plate. “Butter tart?” she asked.
I gave her an indignant stare. “Stop plying me with baked goods. Epic? Have you forgotten I landed in the hospital?”
“Don’t exaggerate. You were only there for observation.”
That point was debatable. I was still prone to headaches from a minor concussion sustained in my face-off with a killer. It would be a waste of time to remind Emy of that, though. The Dionne clan was nothing if not persistent. I’d learned that the hard way, after being expected to speed-read all 864 pages of Anna Karenina.
Fortunately, Emy had come to my rescue with the DVD.
“Mom is devastated,” she continued. “She thinks it’s her fault—that she should have noticed Lucy was depressed. With your talent for investigating, you could set her mind at ease.”
“It’s not a talent I want to pursue. You know that. I was in the right place at the wrong time, that’s all. And I promised Jeff—I mean, local law enforcement—that I wouldn’t meddle in any more murder cases.”
Besides, this might not even be a murder. I considered Lucy Carmichael as unlikely to take her own life, but it wasn’t possible to know someone else’s mind. After the death of my husband Matthew in Vancouver, I suffered through black nights that could have… I pushed those memories away. “I agree it seems suspicious. But I fail to see what we’re supposed to do about it. Did you share your doubts with Jeff? What did he say?”
Emy’s face expressed disgust. “Suicide. Or an accident. He hasn’t decided which.”
“I’m sure he’ll get to the bottom of it.”
She pursed her lips, looking dubious.
I did not share those doubts. Jeff Katsuro was no slouch—either in the investigative department or the all-around manly division. I sighed, recalling how well he filled out a uniform. His dark, brooding good looks had attracted me from the day I arrived in the village. At one point, I even thought it was mutual. Until I spotted him escorting a blonde in four-inch heels out of the local steak joint.
“Speaking of Jeff…” Emy’s eyebrows rose. “Any developments?”
I hoisted my teacup with a nonchalant air. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
It was Emy’s turn to lean back, looking incredulous. “You give up too easily.”
“Hm-mmm. Could we talk about something else?”
She was right. But the thought of starting over—or worse, being rejected—coiled like a snake in my stomach, waiting to strike. The vein in my neck—the one that always warned of panic attacks—throbbed at the thought. I pawed at it with a surge of exasperation.
Emy relented. “Forget I mentioned it. Any news on your aunt?”
“Of a sort.”
She leaned in, her attention riveted. “Did you hear from that… thing in the basement?”
“This morning. While I was trimming the lavender.”
“Did you tell it we drove to Niagara Falls and found nothing?” Emy demanded.
I nodded.
“What did it want this time?”
“It told me to stand by. That something is coming up. In a week or two.”
“Can’t you just shut that thing off?”
“Not if I want to find my aunt.”
Emy fingered the silver locket at her throat—a one-month anniversary gift from Lorne. She tucked the locket under her T-shirt. “You’re more patient than me.”
We looked up as the door bell tinkled.
Lorne walked in, brushing tangled brown locks from his forehead, his work boots clumping on the floor. Emy beamed and raised a hand as he bent his strapping, five-foot-ten frame to drop a kiss on her head.
He didn’t even notice me.
I cleared my throat. “Hi, Lorne.”
“Oh, Verity,” he said brightly, twining his fingers through Emy’s. “Sorry I’m late. I had a doctor’s appointment. Routine,” he said in response to Emy’s look of alarm.
“Good, because we’ve got a full slate today,” I said.
I’d been cutting lawns and trimming hedges since I arrived in Leafy Hollow. To date, only one client had ended up dead. So, customer service had definitely improved. But reviving my aunt’s landscape business was more work than I’d expected.
Emy jumped up to fill a plate with goodies and pour a glass of milk.
Lorne accepted them with a grin. “Thanks.” He tucked into a flaky sausage roll.
“Lorne,” Emy said. “Verity needs you to fill in for her while she looks into a possible case.”
My jaw dropped. “I’m doing what now?”
Lorne raised an eyebrow at me while he chewed. “No problem,” he said, reaching for his milk. “What case?”
“Lucy Carmichael fell off Pine Hill Peak this morning,” I said, eying Emy suspiciously.
He paused, the glass poised in his hand. “Is she…”
“Dead? I’m afraid so.”
Lorne replaced the glass, and squeezed Emy’s arm consolingly. “I’m sorry. That’s a terrible accident.”
“It wasn’t an accident.” Emy said. “She was murdered.”
Uh-oh. I had been hoping to get out of there before anyone mentio
ned the “M” word.
“You don’t know that for certain,” I countered.
“It’s not unusual for people to fall off the escarpment,” Lorne said, running a hand up Emy’s arm. “It happens every year.”
“I know that.” A smile tugged at her lips as she batted away his hand. “But they’re generally drunk.”
Lorne narrowed his eyes. “Could Lucy have been—”
“No!” Emy blurted. “What a notion.”
“Although it’s hard to imagine why anybody would walk that close to the edge,” I said.
With a shrug, Lorne renewed his attack on the sausage roll. “Emy, remember the climbing team in high school?”
She darted him a wary glance. “What about it?”
He chewed and swallowed. “People are always climbing those cliffs.”
“It’s illegal, isn’t it?”
“That’s why they do it at night.”
I leaned into their circle of two. “Are you talking about the type of climbing that involves ropes and hooks?”
Lorne nodded.
“People do that after dark? Really?”
“It’s kind of a dare thing.”
Emy pointed a finger at him. “You told me that climbing equipment in your parents’ garage wasn’t yours.”
Lorne looked uneasy. “Did I?”
“Sometimes, I think you don’t trust me.”
Lorne grinned. “Well, if you weren’t such a nag…”
“A nag?” She gave him a playful tap. “That’s rich, coming from a…”
Their banter faded into the background as I focused on the mechanics. If Leafy Hollow residents routinely pitched over the escarpment—often enough that it didn’t raise eyebrows—that made it an ideal murder method. There were no weapons to get rid of. No footprints, either, given that the trails were often slick with rain and furrowed by the hundreds of feet that tromped the path to the lookout every summer weekend. All a killer had to do was make sure no one was watching.
My troublesome curiosity was piqued. I closed my eyes, seeing pinpoints of color against the lookout’s white rock. And watching them move ever closer to the edge.
“And besides…” Emy continued.
I snapped my eyes open. “Lucy’s body was directly under the Peak.”
Emy and Lorne turned puzzled expressions on me.
“So?” Emy asked.
“You can see the main lookout from Main Street. There’s always someone up there hiking or sightseeing. Somebody should have seen her fall. Or heard her scream. But the woman who found Lucy’s body said there was no one around.”
“So?”
“So—what if Lucy fell from somewhere else? With all those tree branches and rocks on the way down, her body could have bounced around before it reached the ground.” I winced at the image that produced. “She might have landed fifty feet from the point where she toppled over. Maybe more.”
Emy narrowed her eyes to picture the scene. “When you’re on the Peak, if you walk fifty feet to the right from the main lookout…” Her eyes widened, and she seized my arm excitedly. “That section is completely blocked by trees. If someone was standing there, you wouldn’t see them from the ground.”
“Exactly.”
Lorne whistled. “Far out.”
We gaped at him.
“What?” He shoved a second sausage roll into his mouth and looked at us, chewing.
With a brief shake of her head, Emy returned her attention to me. “That’s brilliant. You have a sixth sense for this, Verity.”
I nodded self-consciously, inwardly crediting my rapid scan in the checkout line of Go Deeper: Psychic Breakthroughs That Stick.
“Does this mean you’ll investigate? Please?”
“I don’t know, Emy. It’s only a theory.”
“Please? We have to help my mom.”
I recalled Thérèse’s distracted behavior. Emy’s mother raised her alone after her father disappeared when she was an infant. I knew what that was like. Our deadbeat dads were something we had in common. A connection. My own mother was beyond my help. But I might be able to spare Thérèse further pain.
“Okay. The path to the Peak’s not far from Rose Cottage. I’ll take a quick look tomorrow morning.” I raised a warning hand. “But that’s all.”
Emy clasped her hands in excitement. “Thank you. I know you’ll figure it out.”
Lorne, his mouth full of sausage roll, gave me a thumbs-up.
“There are a lot of trails there,” I said. “How will I know which ones lead to the edge? Other than the main one, I mean?”
Emy looked thoughtful. “Some of those older trails are grown in, and a few are blocked off. I bet Sue Unger can tell you where they are.”
“Sue…?”
“You know her. She’s a book club member. Always wearing binoculars?”
“Right.” I snapped my fingers. “The birder.”
“That’s the one. Or”—Emy paused dramatically before pointing a finger at me—“you could ask Jeff. Casual-like.”
I gave her a stony look. “No.”
She held up her hands in a gesture of resignation while I rose to my feet.
“We have work to do, Lorne.”
He scrambled upright, dropped another kiss on Emy’s head, and joined me at the entrance.
Outside, I gazed up at Pine Hill Peak. The first hundred feet down from the rim was a jagged wall of limestone. No one who plunged over that could survive.
It was odd nobody saw anything. And even odder that Lucy, with her fear of heights, had ventured that close to the edge. I narrowed my eyes, studying the cliffs.
Unless a close friend lured her there.
Chapter Four
Standing over the kitchen sink, I gulped a quick coffee before heading out early the following morning. Dressed in jeans, rubber boots, and an old shirt of Matthew’s, I trudged through the bush behind Sue Unger’s home. Sue was in her mid-thirties, with no apparent source of income. Yet, she owned twenty acres of land bordering the Pine Hill Conservation Area. It was one mystery I didn’t intend to probe. Our fellow book club member was notoriously irritable.
My attempts to reach Sue by phone had failed. After one ring, her line went to voice mail, filling my ears with trilled bird song. The notes barely faded before her curt, “That was a Fringilla montifringilla. If you’ve seen it, contact the Rare Bird Alert immediately. For everything else, leave a message.”
I didn’t bother. If Sue wasn’t answering her phone, she was out birding. So, I had pulled on my Wellies, knowing I’d have to tramp around outside to find her.
A layer of spongy leaf mold muffled my footsteps as I plodded along, brushing aside branches soggy from an early morning rain and trying to avoid tripping on tree roots. The warm, moist air was rich with the pungent scent of rotting vegetation and the occasional sweet note of honeysuckle. Shafts of sunlight pierced the soaring canopy above my head.
Twice, I twisted around with a shiver of apprehension when twigs snapped behind me, but saw no one. If there was a killer on the loose, he wasn’t following me.
Eventually, the forest gave way to a small clearing shaded by a wooden structure, about eight-by-twelve feet, perched twenty feet up in a massive pine.
I leaned my head back to study Sue’s bird blind. Cut branches covered the blind’s shingled roof and draped over its eaves. A shutter was propped up over a rectangular window that faced the conservation area. A ladder led from the ground to an opening in the floor.
“Sue? Are you up there?”
No answer.
I raised my voice. “Sue?”
A white face appeared in the opening. “Shh! What’s the matter with you?” She looked puzzled when she realized who it was. “Verity? What do you want?”
“I need your help,” I called.
“Shh. Not so loud. Come up, then.” Her face disappeared.
The rickety ladder did not inspire confidence. Holding the rails with both hands, I trod cautious
ly on the first rung, bouncing a bit. It seemed sturdy enough, so I climbed—trying not to look down.
At the top, I stuck my head through the opening. A pair of large feet in sturdy hiking boots met me, and I craned my neck to see more. Sue was sitting in a chair that faced the open window. Her fleshy hands gripped a black scope, mounted on a tripod, that was aimed at the woods. A camouflage hat shaded her face.
“Emy said you could lead me to—”
“Do you have to make so much noise? Get up here and close the hatch.”
Hoisting myself into the small room, I flipped shut the wooden door that lay against the wall. There was a small bench nearby, and I dragged it over to cover the opening. With a final thump of my foot on the hatch to make sure it was closed, I looked up.
Sue was shaking her head. She motioned to a fold-up camp chair beside her before turning her attention back to the scope. “Sit, and for Pete’s sake, keep quiet. There’s supposed to be a Fringilla montifringilla about, and I intend to see it.” She flashed me a sideways glance. If you haven’t already scared it away.”
“A fritter… what?”
“A brambling.” Seeing I was none the wiser, she added, “Brambling is its common name. It’s a type of finch.”
I nodded and peered out the window, trying to look knowledgable. Black ash and sugar maples, spruce and cedar, sassafras and tulip trees jostled for space. Despite squinting intensely at their foliage, I couldn’t make out a single bird.
Instead, I turned my attention to a shelf on the back wall. Three pairs of binoculars were lined up under a topographical map of the conservation area marked with colored pins. On a shelf underneath, a huge leather book lay open, like the ones at hotel check-in desks.
I leaned in to read the headings along the top of the open page:
Species Name.
Weather.
Date.
Behavior.
I paused on that one, wondering what constituted wayward avian behavior. The entries included comments on tail bobs, head cocks, and wing stretches. It sounded like an aerobics class. Or a Justin Bieber video.
As I flipped through the pages, a loose paper caught my attention—a list of names with numbers beside them. I scanned the entries.
