A Branch Too Far (The Leafy Hollow Mysteries Book 3)

by Rickie Blair

  While walking back along the trail, I decided to share my theory with Jeff. Perhaps it would convince him to take another look at Lucy’s case.

  Slogging along, I fine-tuned that plan. Explaining this to Jeff while looking like a battered prize fighter might detract from the point I was trying to make. He already thought I was a klutz, which was unfair. Yes, I’d once been attacked by a rooster I was trying to catch, and fallen into the river while eluding a coyote, and scraped the skin from my palms by sliding down a drainpipe. But mishaps like those could happen to anybody.

  It was probably the bowling ball I dropped on his foot that sealed his opinion.

  No matter. My theory was too important to withhold from local law enforcement. Still, it couldn’t hurt to clean up a little before I passed it on.

  Unfortunately, by the time I made it to the truck and called Lorne to warn him I would be late, my eye was swollen shut. I peered at it in the mirror on the back of my visor before sliding my sunglasses on with a wince of pain.

  Half an hour later, as my feet crunched over the gravel driveway of Rose Cottage, the village’s most notorious handyman waved his pocket flask at me from the camp stool beside his pop-up tent-trailer. Carson Breuer had been living in my driveway since undertaking a leisurely restoration of Rose Cottage shortly after I arrived.

  “Welcome back,” he said. “Just takin’ a break.” The fingernails on his gnarled hand were split and blackened, and spidery veins crisscrossed his enormous nose.

  I waved, shielding my swollen eye with my other hand as I headed for the porch.

  Despite appearances, Carson’s knowledge of historic structures far exceeded mine—or most people’s. He had immediately identified my aunt’s home as a mid-nineteenth century worker’s cottage with post-and-beam construction, split fieldstone walls, and a gable roof. Usually, I nodded at his suggestions and tried to look knowledgeable. Today, though, for the umpteenth time I wondered where Carson… freshened up, since he never intruded on Rose Cottage with requests to use the indoor facilities.

  I made a mental note to check the lawn for dead spots.

  General Chang was stretched out on the faded cushion of a wicker rocker on the porch. His head and one paw dangled languidly over the front. The General swished his tail half-heartedly in my direction, obviously unconcerned about his owner’s injuries.

  Owner. I chuckled at that. The battered, one-eyed tom who’d insinuated himself into Rose Cottage two days after I arrived was owned by nobody. I had convinced him to respond to his new name, however. He clearly considered being named after an infamous Star Trek villain to be an honor. Either that, or he recognized me as the procurer of his favorite liver treats.

  I preferred to believe the former. I’ve always been a dreamer.

  The General closed his eye and stretched farther until he was nearly half off the cushion.

  My adopted rooster was avidly watching him from the porch railing. On my way up the steps, I ruffled Reuben’s feathers, averting my eyes from the droppings in the flower bed below. At least he and General Chang got along now.

  Although, since Chang seemed incapable of catching even the smallest mouse, he was far too lazy to take on a rooster. Especially one with a beak as sharp as Reuben’s. I winced, remembering an earlier fowl encounter. My swollen eyelid throbbed in sympathetic protest.

  Reuben stretched his throat and puffed out his chest.

  I covered my ears, knowing what was coming.

  Cock-a-doodle-doo.

  Before Reuben could reload for another blast, I closed the door behind me and headed for the shower.

  After I’d changed into fresh clothes, pressed a cold compress to my eye, and taken an antihistamine for the swelling, I was forty minutes late picking up Lorne. He’d happily spent the time with Emy at her bakery, but we had seven appointments to get through before dark. We couldn’t afford any more delays.

  So when I saw people bearing placards milling about in front of the bakery, and the flashing lights of a police car, I uttered a mild curse under my breath. I turned up the narrow lane in the center of the block, intending to park in the lot behind the bakery. But cars jammed that lot, unusual for a weekday morning. More lined the lane, despite the No Parking signs.

  I found a spot three blocks away and jogged back to Main Street. As I approached, shouts grew louder. A ragged line of a dozen protesters were marching back and forth across the street, chanting:

  “Killers. Not. Welcome. Here.”

  My mouth gaped. Sue Unger was leading the protest. She brought a referee whistle to her lips and blew. The marchers halted, shuffling their feet, as a car drove past. The vehicle’s occupants appeared puzzled by the absence of a pickup hockey game that would have explained the unofficial street blocking.

  The line reformed.

  “Killers. Not. Welcome. Here.”

  I shook my head. Leafy Hollow had seen more than its share of killers, to be sure, but that hardly required a demonstration. It wasn’t like the village was advertising on Craigslist for them.

  “There she is,” screamed the blue-haired, teenaged clerk I’d seen at the grocer’s. She pointed to a third-floor window above the hardware store.

  The group surged into the street, causing an SUV and a delivery truck to screech to a halt. The SUV driver held up her hands over the steering wheel in exasperation, then slapped the horn, producing a loud beep-beep. None of the protesters moved.

  I followed the girl’s gesturing finger. On the third floor above, a middle-aged black-haired woman held back a lace curtain from an open window to peer at the street. Her lips were set in a straight line. She looked inoffensive for having sparked such a commotion.

  That window and the two-room apartment behind it were well-known to me. I’d spent an anxious half-hour there once, before departing hastily through the skylight. I wondered if the new occupant knew her home was last inhabited by someone who’d been bludgeoned to death with a crowbar.

  Across the street, a uniformed police officer stepped off the curb to hold up a cautionary hand to the SUV driver.

  I assessed the cop. Tall and lean, with chiseled features and straight black hair—yep, it was Jeff. I sighed. Traffic control was not his responsibility, but he must have been passing through the village and noticed the commotion.

  The front door of the hardware store swung open, and a skinny young man marched out. The logo of a national chain stretched across the dark gray apron that was tied tightly over his khakis and folded shirt sleeves. A frown further twisted the crooked chin of Derek Talbot, a clerk at the store and a member of the Originals book club.

  He headed Jeff’s way, ducking under the placards. “Can’t you make this lot move along?”

  “Good morning, Derek. I’ll try to get them off the road.”

  Derek jingled the elaborate key chain that hung from his belt while he watched the protest with brows drawn. “Could you at least keep them from accosting the customers?”

  Jeff rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. “No one’s been accosted, Derek.”

  “Not yet.”

  Above us, the curtain twitched and dropped back over the window. The black-haired woman continued to watch through the lace. The demonstrators fell back, mumbling among themselves, to re-form their line.

  It was a good time to make my move. I darted between two marchers, trying to avoid the placards blocking my path. At the last minute a sign swung out and whacked my hornet-stung forehead, causing a jolt of pain. Instinctively, I shoved it away—right into the face of its holder.

  This elicited a loud, “Ow!”

  “Sorry,” I said. “But your sign—”

  “She hit me.” The blue-haired teen pointed an accusing finger. She looked close to tears. The silver rings along her upper lip quivered.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you behind your sign. I didn’t mean to—”

  The others gathered around, muttering.

  “That’s Verity Hawkes,” a protester said. />
  The others swung their heads in my direction before turning back to her with puzzled expressions.

  “You know, the snooping gardener?”

  “Oh, right,” the others said in unison, turning chilly stares on me.

  Sue thrust out her chin. “Tell me, Verity, are you in favor of murderers moving in? You like to study killers, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I made another attempt. “Let me through, please.”

  The protesters joined ranks. As they surrounded me in a claustrophobic crush, my breathing quickened. If somebody didn’t make a hole soon, I couldn’t speak to the consequences. My fists tightened by my sides.

  “Wait. Give Verity a flyer.” Sue inclined her head at the man who stood beside her. He fumbled through his messenger bag and handed me a lurid sheet of red paper, printed in a dripping-dagger font:

  Keep Black Widow Killer

  out of Leafy Hollow

  I took the page and squinted at the fuzzy photo in its center. I’d never heard of the “Black Widow Killer.” Nor did I care.

  “Nothing to do with me.” I tried to hand Sue the flyer. “Can I go through now?”

  Sue ignored my outstretched hand. “Three husbands, all dead.” She flashed three fingers. “Three. Who’s next? And now,” she said, shoving her referee whistle in my face, “she’s out on parole. After only eight years. It’s a travesty.”

  I stuffed the flyer into my pocket as insight dawned. “Don’t tell me—this is the Society for the Protection of Leafy Hollow, isn’t it?”

  “I’m the founder,” Sue said. “You should come to our meetings.”

  “No thanks.” I clasped a hand to my chest, trying to breathe, and searched again for an exit. “If this woman is on parole, there must be a good reason,” I said. “The courts—”

  “The courts are wrong.”

  I recognized that tone, because I’d heard it about myself. Not all Leafy Hollow residents were welcoming when I first arrived. Given that I was a murder suspect at the time, that wasn’t surprising. Still, I knew from personal experience that rushing to judgment could be wrong. I took a deep breath, determined not to respond.

  One of the protesters stepped closer and poked a finger into my shoulder.

  I flinched and pulled back. “Get out of my way,” I muttered.

  My eye throbbed and itched, my stomach rumbled—reminding me I’d had nothing but coffee for breakfast—and at that moment, my phone thrummed with a text. Probably Lorne, wondering where I was. I was cranky, okay?

  Still, I wasn’t proud of what I did next.

  I shoved her.

  It’s not a Krav Maga move, The Shove. But I didn’t want to risk anything more effective. A hearty push is usually enough. Unless you miscalculate and your opponent trips. And then pitches against the next person in the line, who also goes over, landing against the next person who… Think of ten-pin bowling with pins that fight back.

  Also screaming. Lots of screaming.

  Jeff frowned under his peaked cap and started in our direction.

  Before he could reach us, someone gripped my arm above the elbow. A woman’s voice trilled in my ear.

  “Time to go, Verity. Quick march.”

  What the… I glanced over to see the flawless makeup and blunt-cut bob of Thérèse Dionne.

  “Thérèse? What are you—”

  She didn’t listen. Nor did she release her death grip on my elbow. Instead, she beamed at the protesters and waved expansively with her other hand. “Let us through, please,” she said. “Please? My goodness, what a crowd.”

  The group parted, looking ashamed of themselves. Thérèse had that effect on people. Or perhaps they were cowed by her classically understated French manicure. Someone had just been to the nail salon. Unfortunately, several of those freshly lacquered nails were poking into my arm.

  Thérèse was generally soft-spoken, even when negotiating overdue book fines that stretched back to the last century. Yet today, my arm stung under her forceful grasp. It was totally out of character.

  I was so shocked, in fact, I hardly noticed the protestors fall away as Thérèse marched me into Emy’s bakery.

  Chapter Six

  Thérèse steered me into the 5X Bakery. The chanting receded as the door closed behind us.

  Emy stood behind the counter, glaring. “What the heck were you doing out there?”

  “Me?” I answered, checking my arm for puncture wounds. “What was I doing? Is that what you’re asking?” An incredulous look crossed my face.

  Emy placed her arms on her hips. “Isn’t it bad enough those people are scaring off customers without you aggravating them?”

  I opened my mouth to protest. Lorne was leaning against the far wall, shaking his head at me with one of his don’t-go-there smirks. I closed my mouth.

  “Now ladies,” Thérèse said with a tone of forced jollity. “Let’s not argue.”

  Emy and I stared at her. In the silence that followed, chants of “Killers. Not. Welcome. Here,” competed with the tick-tock of the black cat on the wall. Its tail swung back and forth. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. After every fifth tock, its round eyes slowly blinked.

  I waited for an apology. If not from Emy, then maybe Thérèse. Anybody would do.

  Emy found her voice first. “I’m sorry, Verity. That chanting is making me crazy. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.” She leaned over the counter, sighing heavily. Her expression changed to one of horror when she saw my eye. “Crackers—what happened to your face?”

  Tentatively, I touched my eyebrow and winced. “It’s nothing. A hornet stung me at the Peak.”

  Emy darted out from behind the counter. “Sit down,” she said, ushering me to the table in the back and pulling out a chair. “I’ll get a cold compress for that, and you’ll need a cup of tea. Mom, can I get you a cup?” she asked over her shoulder.

  “No thanks, Emy. I’m needed at the library. Another time.”

  Thérèse walked out, pausing with her hand on the door handle long enough to deliver a weak smile. The chanting rose again when she opened the door, then dissipated when it closed.

  Her hasty departure filled me with a vague sense of uneasiness. That was a weird encounter.

  Emy put a dish towel to soak under the cold water tap and turned on the kettle.

  Lorne winked at me. Nice work, he mouthed while gesturing at his eye. I made a face at him.

  Emy hurried back with a plate of bacon-cheddar scones and set them in front of me. “Tea’s on its way. Now tell me how you did that.” She peered anxiously at my swollen brow.

  “It’s nothing,” I said.

  “Don’t be silly. You need to take care of that.” Emy hustled back behind the counter to wring out the compress and returned with it. “Hold this against your eye.”

  I did as she instructed. “I can’t stay, Emy. We have work to do.”

  “Nonsense. Lorne can do it without you.”

  Lorne pushed off from the wall. “I’ll get the equipment off the truck.”

  “No,” I protested, trying not to drip water on the table. “That’s not necessary.”

  “It’s no problem, Verity,” he said. “Look after that eye.” As he pulled open the door, the chanting grew louder.

  I raised my voice. “No, really—”

  Lorne waved through the window as he walked away.

  Emy placed a filled teapot by my elbow. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have asked you to go up there.”

  I flipped the compress and pressed the other, cooler, side to my brow. It was ridiculously soothing. The perfect antidote to my crazy morning.

  “So?” Emy asked, sitting down. She poured me a cup of tea from the pot and added milk. “How did it happen?”

  She listened carefully while I described my encounter with the hornets and my reconnaissance at the Peak.

  Then she sat back, tapping her fingers on the table. “I’m more convinced than ever that something’s not right.
It couldn’t have been suicide.”

  We sipped our tea, mulling this over.

  Emy replaced her cup on its saucer with a slight frown. “I wonder what the autopsy will find.”

  “Have they done an autopsy?”

  “Not yet, but they will. Suspicious death and all that. I don’t think they can avoid it when someone dies like that, can they?”

  I shrugged. “Dunno.” No need to speculate whether Lucy was injured before her fall. From my repeated viewings of Mystery Theater, I knew an autopsy would take care of that.

  Emy scrunched her eyes at me. “Jeff would know.” She took the now-warm compress from me and rose to re-soak it in the sink behind the counter. “He’s right outside. You could ask—”

  I pointed at the window, anxious to change the topic. “Why are those people here, anyway?”

  Emy turned to follow my gesture. Derek had emerged from the hardware store again to scowl at the protestors. We watched as Jeff guided the marchers down the street to the jewelry store, one building down. They shuffled along the sidewalk to their new positions and resumed their chanting.

  The jeweler—a thin-lipped woman with amazing earrings—glared at them through her plate-glass window.

  “Who is the Black Widow Killer?” I asked.

  “It was years ago. I don’t remember much about it. Mom knows the details.”

  I nodded in agreement. Thérèse was not only Leafy Hollow’s chief librarian, but also its primary repository of village lore. She would definitely have the facts.

  “Any clippings in that scrapbook of hers?”

  “I’m sure there are, but it’s not here anymore. Mom took it home. Something about us being too nosy.” Emy grinned. “But she did tell me that both of Mrs. Rupert’s husbands—that’s her real name, Marjorie Rupert—died under mysterious circumstances, and Marjorie went to prison.”

  “So why do those protest signs have spider webs on them?”

  “You know—black widow spiders?”

  “What about them?” I asked, remembering an incident from my childhood when Aunt Adeline had nonchalantly dispatched one with a paring knife. Thwack. I was so impressed.