by Rickie Blair
“They kill their mates. That’s why women who murder their spouses are called Black Widow Killers. Especially if they’ve done it more than once.”
“Sue mentioned three husbands.” I held up my fingers in a parody of her emphatic gesture.
“I don’t know—maybe that’s true.”
“Why does she care?”
“I don’t know that, either, but she’s been going door to door, trying to get people to sign a petition to have the Black Widow run out of town.”
“Can they do that?”
Emy snorted in amusement. “No. But Sue claims to have inside information. A few people have taken her seriously, but not many. Most prefer to let it alone.”
“Why would she care about an old murder case?” I asked.
Emy shrugged. “Why would anyone? This Black Widow isn’t a danger to anybody except a new husband, and who’d be dumb enough to marry her?”
“Why is she here?”
“According to Mom, she owns the building where the new restaurant is opening. That’s why it’s been empty for so long. She refused to rent it out while she was in prison.”
I picked up my cup to walk over to the front window. Sipping my tea, I studied the protestors.
“Derek doesn’t look happy,” I said.
“Who?”
“Derek Talbot—from the book club?”
She walked over to stand by my side. “Oh, right. I didn’t see him there. He’s probably been told by his boss to shut down the protest. Derek does what he’s told.”
I nodded. At book club meetings, Derek always agreed with Thérèse’s interpretation of the book’s theme. But then, I did too. It was easier and, besides—Thérèse was always right.
I pulled the crumpled flyer from my pocket and smoothed it out on the window. The newspaper photo printed on the flyer showed a black-haired woman getting into an SUV at the bus station. The caption read, “Marjorie Rupert arrives in Strathcona.”
But it was the driver who caught my attention. A mustache darkened his upper lip, but sunglasses, a fedora, and the turned-up collar of a windbreaker obscured the rest of his face.
I pointed to the photo. “Maybe there are men willing to get involved. One, anyway.”
Emy gave my arm a playful tap. “That’s probably a relative.”
“Have you ever seen him before?”
Emy studied the clipping. “I don’t think so. It could be a hired driver.”
Outside, Sue sounded a blast on her whistle. I looked up. The entire group was heading our way.
“C’mon,” Emy said, pulling me to the door. “This is a perfect opportunity. Go talk to Jeff.”
She dragged me across the floor and shoved me out the door so hard that I tripped over my feet and nearly ran into a lamppost. Cursing my awkwardness under my breath, I looked up.
Jeff smiled down at me. “You don’t strike me as the protesting type,” he said, extending a steadying hand.
“I’m not protesting anything,” I objected. “I’m only—”
He caught sight of my forehead and narrowed his eyes. “Did they hit you with that sign?”
“It’s a hornet sting.” At his puzzled glance, I launched into an explanation.
“Never mind,” he said with a grin. “It would be more surprising if you didn’t have signs of battle.”
“That’s not fair,” I sputtered.
He bent toward me, inspecting my injury with his lips slightly parted. For a moment I couldn’t breathe—or take my eyes off his mouth.
“Just kidding,” he said. “Get that looked at, though. By a professional.”
Jeff didn’t specify what type of professional, and since he was looking at it, that was enough for me. I felt better already, so I gave him what was probably a goofy grin.
He started to speak. “Verity—”
My stomach churned. What if his comment had nothing to do with hornet stings or protesters? What if it was more personal? Did I want to hear it?
“I got this at the Peak,” I broke in, tapping my swollen eyebrow, “while I was investigating the spot where Lucy Carmichael fell.”
Jeff gave me a startled glance. He took a step back, and his expression changed. “Investigating? Why?”
I tugged at my T-shirt. “Did I say investigating? I meant sightseeing. I was sightseeing—”
“On a weekday morning?”
“The sunrise is beautiful from there.”
“The sun rose four hours ago.”
Before he could say anything else, I rushed through my assessment of the scene, tumbling my words together.
Jeff uttered a long sigh. “Verity, you haven’t been in Leafy Hollow long—”
When I opened my mouth to jump in, he held up a hand.
“—enough to know it’s not unusual for someone to fall off the escarpment. We do our best to warn people, but the ridge goes on for miles. There’s no way to prevent every accident. That’s what Lucy’s death was—a tragic accident.” He paused again. “Or suicide. We scoured the scene, believe me, and there was nothing to indicate foul play. Nothing.” He emphasized the last word.
“But the fence—”
“There’s no fence, partial or otherwise, on the lookout where she toppled off. And no fence pieces at the bottom where we found her body. I’m sorry.”
A protest rose in my throat, but Jeff’s expression reminded me that he was no stranger to sorrow. He would never take someone’s death lightly. I bit my lip and looked away.
“We haven’t closed the case yet. And we won’t until we’ve talked to all of her friends and family. But so far, there’s no evidence anyone else was involved.” He bent his head to catch my gaze. “Okay?”
“Are they doing an autopsy?”
“Yes. It’s standard procedure.”
While we were talking, the demonstrators had reconsidered their new position and crossed the street again.
The jeweler barreled out of her door, scowling. “Get out of here,” she said, shoving the nearest placard carrier.
It happened to be blue-haired girl, who had regained her composure since her encounter with me. “Fascist,” she yelled, whacking the jeweler over the head with her sign.
Jeff rubbed a hand over his face, shaking his head. “I have to go, Verity. Look after that eye.” With a brief smile, he crossed the street and approached the combatants.
I watched him go, assessing the cut of his… uniform.
With a spring in my step, I whirled around—and walked straight into the village’s resident blond Adonis.
Chapter Seven
I retreated with a hasty “Sorry!” until my back was up against the lamp post. When I saw who I’d run into, I fisted my hands on my hips. “Are you following me again?”
Ryker Fields regarded me with his lips pressed into a thin line.
I immediately felt bad. Yes, he once followed me—and if he hadn’t, I might be dead now. Leafy Hollow’s heartthrob would never stalk women. If anything, it was the other way around.
“Sorry. I don’t know why I said that.”
“Perfectly understandable.” Ryker leaned in, flashing his trademark sexy grin and flaunting his impressive pecs. “Which reminds me—what about that dinner date you promised me?”
“I never promised any such thing.” I smiled despite myself.
“You’ve probably forgotten. You were unconscious at the time.”
“If you’re referring to that day by the river, then yes, I was unconscious. That’s how I know I never…”
His eyebrows lifted. “A guy could get a complex when you go out with him only to make someone else jealous.”
“I never did that,” I blustered. “I…”
Biting my lip, I remembered our shared dinner. It was at Kirby’s, a popular steak house on the highway outside the village. Ryker and I had been drinking at the bar, but I agreed to escalate our encounter to dinner after spotting Jeff flirting with that blonde. When Jeff had leaned in to share a spoonful of whipp
ed cream with her, I hid my reaction—I thought.
“You saw that?” I asked sheepishly.
Ryker’s eyebrows rose even higher. “If you mean the look on your face when you spotted our resident crime-buster and his date—then yes, I did.”
Briefly closing my eyes, I hoped the flush I felt didn’t mean my face was beet red. “It wasn’t like that,” I said, opening my eyes.
“Of course not.” Ryker smiled. “Now, dinner. How about right here? Tonight?” He gestured at the window behind us.
I pivoted to take a look. We were standing in front of Anonymous, Leafy Hollow’s trendy new gourmet restaurant. A banner over the window read, “Grand opening tonight.”
The three-story brick building had housed a restaurant on its ground floor for many years. But when I arrived in Leafy Hollow, the leatherette booths and laminated counter were gathering dust. That was before Fritz Cameron blew into town. The redheaded hipster somehow lured a noted chef from Strathcona to re-open the old place. After a renovation that included everything from mahogany tables-for-two to Irish linen napkins, Fritz renamed the restaurant and announced the opening. All the area’s notables were attending. Most of them, I suspected, had been promised free meals by the media-savvy restaurateur.
My invitation, sadly, was lost in the mail. But I knew every detail about the new eatery because Fritz had hired Emy to craft the desserts. They’d been conferring over them nonstop. Emy couldn’t stop talking about it since Anonymous—and its online marketing campaign—might attract restaurant critics from as far as Toronto.
“How did you get an invitation?” I asked Ryker.
He slapped a hand over his heart and raised his eyes to the heavens. “Another low blow,” he said, before lowering his head with a grin. “Also not relevant. Nice hair.”
At least he’d elected not to mention my swollen eye. Nervously, I patted my wavy brunette locks. I had taken a little more trouble with my appearance of late, but only because Lorne was such a tremendous help at Coming Up Roses Landscaping that I had the time. It didn’t mean I was looking for romance. At least Ryker didn’t set my heartbeat racing, so I wasn’t likely to make a fool of myself. Which was a point in his favor. Or was it? I made a face, trying to sort out my tangled feelings.
“Are you in or not?” he asked.
I mulled it over. On the one hand, I was curious to see the village’s latest eatery in action—as well as provide Emy with moral support. But the restaurant would be packed. Threading my way through a crowd always made me queasy.
“Well…” A movement inside the restaurant caught my eye. Fritz was in the rear, near the kitchen, talking to a man in a white jacket and chef’s hat whose back was to me.
Fritz caught sight of me looking in the window. Verity! he mouthed and pointed to the front door.
I froze, wondering whether that meant I should go in, or he was coming out. When I glanced at Ryker, he shrugged.
Fritz pushed open the door and stepped onto the sidewalk, wearing a big smile. His brown eyes twinkled behind his rimless glasses and his red hair, graying at the temples, was shorn into a poufy haircut that faded into a close crop underneath. Obviously, Fritz spent more time at the hairdresser than I did.
“Hey, you two,” he said, patting his upper lip.
With a start, I noticed his trim red mustache. That’s new.
Ryker took a step back. “See you tonight, Verity.”
“Uh,” I mumbled with my usual poise, turning my back on Fritz while mouthing to Ryker, Don’t leave!
“Ciao,” Ryker said with a smirk, then strode off.
Great. Now I’d have to listen to a hipster blowhard tell me about his fabulous new restaurant. I hoped Fritz didn’t want to debate thread counts again.
“He seems like a nice guy,” Fritz said as Ryker walked away.
“Yes.” I glanced around, hoping for an excuse to get the heck out of there. “You know, I have to…”
“Verity, I’m glad I ran into you. I’d like your thoughts on a few marketing ideas of mine. If you have time.”
I cast a longing glance up the street. No sign of Lorne, who must be off cutting lawns by now. “I know nothing about marketing.”
“That can’t be true,” Fritz responded with an easy laugh. “Everyone says you resurrected your aunt’s landscaping business single-handed. That must have taken marketing skills.”
Everyone? I stared at him. “Who…”
He flicked a hand, cutting me off. “Emy Dionne. She has a very high opinion of you.”
“We’re friends, but—” I tried to remember any marketing efforts I might have made. As far as I knew, they consisted entirely of having the faded and peeling Coming Up Roses logo re-stenciled on the doors of my aunt’s aging pickup.
Across the street, the chanting rose in volume.
“Killers. Not. Welcome. Here.”
“Let’s walk,” Fritz said. He grasped my hand at the elbow and guided me down the street, away from the marchers.
I tried to disengage my arm while suppressing an urge to whack it across his smirking face. This was a perfect example of why I had so much trouble warming up to Fritz Cameron. He would zero in—so close I could count the freckles on his corded neck—and then, before the encounter got really awkward, back off with an affable grin.
It was also surprising that a successful restaurateur had picked such a sleepy village to host his new venture. Emy had dismissed my concerns, claiming I was too suspicious. I countered that by insisting she was too trusting. We agreed to disagree.
Fritz pointed down the street. “Let’s go this way. I’ve wanted to take a closer look at the statue in the square since I arrived. Founder’s Day is coming up, isn’t it?”
“On Saturday—a week from today. But there’s not much to the statue,” I replied, thinking of the bronze Loyalist in his buttoned-up waistcoat, tight pants, and riding boots. Either the original had been height-challenged—like his contemporary, Napoleon—or the village fathers had a tight budget when they commissioned his bronze likeness in the mid-nineteenth century. Perhaps they didn’t have enough funds for a life-sized figure. Better short than armless, I guessed.
Fritz towered over the statue by at least a foot. He sank onto the nearby bench and patted the seat beside him. “Sit,” he said.
I did, but sidled over to the far side on the pretext of wanting to lean on the wooden arm. Sparrows flocked at our feet to peck at the pavement, no doubt hoping for bits of stale hot dog buns. Or, now that Fritz had arrived, perhaps artichokes and goat cheese?
“So… marketing?” I asked.
Fritz stretched his arm along the back of the bench in my direction and crossed his leg so that one Italian leather loafer pointed toward me. “Tell me about yourself.” He lifted his right hand and frowned at an unruly cuticle.
I forced a laugh. “Haven’t you heard it all from Emy?”
“I like to get alternative viewpoints.”
Alternative viewpoints? I suspected the reason for this interrogation was that Fritz had the hots for Emy—which wouldn’t be unusual. Not only was she adorable, with a smile that melted most men’s hearts, but she made a killer lemon meringue. Whereas, my idea of gourmet cooking was adding frozen peas to Kraft Dinner. Also, it had been three years since my last professional manicure, and my notion of girly attire was digging out a clean T-shirt.
I did have a dress—I just couldn’t remember where I’d put it.
So, I was positive the hip and well-groomed Fritz Cameron wasn’t interested in me. It was possible he thought befriending Emy’s best friend would bring Emy herself closer. He’d have no luck there. Lorne would cut him off at the knees, graying temples and all. My landscaping assistant presented a shy exterior to the world, but if anyone made a move on Emy—especially an unwelcome one—he’d chase them off with hedge trimmers. Maybe even a lawnmower.
Whatever. I simply didn’t feel comfortable around Fritz. Waving my hand airily, I forced a smile. “I think your story is
much more interesting.”
He looked at me, his expression blank. “My story?”
“Why are you in Leafy Hollow, re-opening a restaurant that failed years ago? There must be better prospects.”
“Oh. No, you’re wrong. The original restaurant didn’t fail. The owner simply left the area and refused to lease it.” He leaned in and double-tapped his forehead. “A bit eccentric, apparently. But that’s why it’s been empty for so long. It’s an excellent location. I was lucky to get it.”
Eccentric seemed a rather charitable assessment of a convicted murderer. But before I could ask Fritz about it, he jumped in with another question.
“What about you? Why did you come to Leafy Hollow two months ago?”
“How do you know I did?”
He shrugged. “Emy mentioned it.”
I walked my fingers along the bench’s sun-warmed arm. “My aunt disappeared, and I came here to look after her estate.”
He nodded solemnly. “I’m sorry for your loss. Your aunt sounded like a wonderful woman.”
Fritz had never met Aunt Adeline. His concern seemed genuine, but it irked me. “She’s not dead,” I blurted.
Darn it. I hadn’t meant to say that. I bit my lip and looked away.
“Oh? Have you heard from her?”
While I pondered how to answer that without lying, a sparrow hopped onto the bench between us. Fritz flicked it off without taking his eyes from mine.
“Nooo,” I said, finally. “I haven’t.”
“Ah,” he said, settling against the bench with a loud exhale. “Wishful thinking, then.”
I bristled and opened my mouth for a snarky retort.
Before I could deliver it, he added, “I’ve lost a loved one. It’s tough.”
The look on his face deflated my anger. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Accident?”
A flash of anger crossed his face, but it lasted barely a second. “Never mind. Mustn’t dwell on the past. We have to move forward.” Clapping his hands on his knees, he stretched out his legs and then bounced to his feet. “See you later, Verity.”
“What?”
“Aren’t you coming to my opening? I thought Ryker—”
