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

by Rickie Blair

  I made a face. “Do we have to include Fritz?”

  “He honestly wants to help, Verity. But we won’t call on him unless it’s necessary. Promise?”

  I nodded and made a cross-my-heart motion.

  Patty looked a bit dejected. Then she brightened. “Verity, can you teach me a few Krav Maga moves? In case I need to defend you when we’re together? Like maybe that thing you do with your foot?” She sprang up and adopted her idea of a martial arts pose, with knees flexed and hands up, then attempted a hook kick with her foot. The only thing she managed to hook, however, was the nearest chair, which went down with a clatter.

  Emy’s eyebrows rose as she regarded the toppled furniture.

  “That won’t be necessary, Patty,” I said, picking up her fallen victim. “This killer only strikes people when they’re alone. We won’t be in any danger.”

  I smiled at them both, hoping my expression conveyed more confidence than I felt.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  We’d barely put our plan into action when news broke the following day of a development in the Black Widow murder case. The 5X Bakery filled up rapidly with friends and customers anxious to hear the news.

  While we waited for the facts, Emy worked the crowd.

  “Coming through.” She hoisted her platter of baked goods above her head so she could sidle between two book club members who were disputing the use of euphemism as a literary device. They paused just long enough to grab a sample each before resuming their debate, mouths full.

  I hoped Thérèse hadn’t noticed their breach of etiquette. Although, when I caught a glimpse of her through the crowd from my position against the wall, she looked as if table manners were the last thing on her mind. Thérèse sat in the back of the bakery, head bowed.

  Emy made the rounds, dispensing samples of nut tart and lemon shortbread. “My latest—try them,” she said.

  The group was centered on a beaming Wilf Mullins. Our diminutive councilor was stretching out the reveal. As usual. Eventually, he reached the pertinent nugget.

  Sue Unger had cut short a birding trip to Costa Rica and come home after returning to base camp to find she was a “person of interest” in two mysterious deaths. She wasn’t happy about it, though.

  “As her recently appointed lawyer, I accompanied Ms. Unger to the police station,” Wilf said. “Of course, she had nothing to do with either of these tragic events. Ironclad alibis.” He winked, which I found incongruous given the severity of the possible charges.

  The crowd pressed in, calling out questions.

  Wilf held up his hand. “One at a time, please.”

  “What was her alibi?”

  “On the day of Mrs. Rupert’s death, numerous people spoke to Ms. Unger outside the hardware store. Several can testify that she never left that spot. The police had already been apprised of this. And when Lucy Carmichael met her tragic end, Ms. Unger was on a group field trip, stalking a rare bird. Some sort of finch, I believe,” he said, brow furrowing. “In any event, the entire group can vouch for her presence. She was quite… memorable.”

  I wondered if Sue had a fit of pique over the day’s menu.

  But this news did not reassure me about her innocence, because I knew something that cast doubt on her alibi. Something I hadn’t shared with the police.

  A voice in the back called out, “Then who’s the current suspect?”

  All eyes swiveled to Thérèse, toying with the morsel of nut tart on her plate and pretending not to notice their penetrating stares.

  Wilf gave an expansive wave of his hand and public attention returned to him. “No idea, I’m afraid. You’ll have to ask the police.” After dropping a stack of his personalized fridge magnets on Emy’s countertop, Wilf picked up a white bakery box tied with string. “Folks, I have to get back to work.”

  He waltzed out the door, followed—as he knew he would be—by the crowd. They continued to pepper him with questions, some walking backward in front of him, as the group made their way up the street toward his law office.

  The bakery door closed quietly—Emy had dismantled the bell an hour earlier with an exasperated sigh—leaving only the four of us: Emy, Thérèse, Patty, and myself.

  Then it opened again, and Lorne strode in.

  Instead of his usual jeans and work boots, he was wearing khakis and a sports jacket. I gave him a puzzled glance. “I thought you were mowing the Hendersons’ lawn. Did I miss something?”

  “Going there now. I had an errand this morning at the police station.”

  Relief surged through me. “You told them Thérèse’s alibi?” I’d figured it out during my restless night at the Stumble Inn, but hoped someone else would reveal it.

  “I did,” Lorne said, crossing his arms.

  Emy dropped her empty platter onto the counter with a clatter. “What?” She turned to Thérèse. “Mom?”

  Before Thérèse could answer, the door opened again and Jeff walked in. He must have dropped Lorne off before parking his cruiser.

  Jeff removed his cap, tucked it under his arm, and nodded at us.

  Thérèse pushed her plate to one side and leaned her elbows on the table with an audible sigh. For the first time in days, the wrinkles on her forehead disappeared. “I couldn’t tell the police where I was the morning Lucy died, because it was someone else’s secret.”

  “Whose?” Emy asked.

  “Mine,” Lorne said. “Your mom’s been teaching me to read, Emy. We had a lesson that morning. It was ludicrous to think anyone would suspect Thérèse. I expected it to blow over and that the real killer would be caught. Obviously, I was wrong.” He gave an apologetic shrug. “I gave a statement at the station this morning. I’m sorry. I should have told you.”

  Emy stood stock-still, staring at him. “I don’t understand,” she said finally. “You know how to read.”

  Lorne flushed. “I do now.”

  Thérèse rose to her feet. “Lorne has dyslexia, Emy. I’ve been teaching him techniques to counter it. It’s not unusual, but it interfered with his learning to read. His teachers didn’t notice because he was clever enough to keep it hidden.”

  Emy’s eyes never left Lorne’s. Her voice wavered. “He kept it hidden from me, too.”

  Lorne flinched. “I wanted to tell you, but—”

  “You didn’t trust me?” She blinked rapidly.

  “It’s not like that…” he broke off at the look on her face. “Oh, Emy, I’m so sorry. Don’t cry, sweetheart.”

  Emy wiped the back of her hand across her nose while she looked away. “Your uncle should have noticed,” she whispered. “Years ago.”

  Lorne shrugged. “He was busy. Oh, please don’t cry.”

  “I’m not crying. I’m not. But I don’t understand why you didn’t tell me.”

  “I was embarrassed. I didn’t want you to think our children—”

  “Our what?” Her eyes widened. “Aren’t you getting a little ahead of yourself?”

  Lorne flushed even redder. “I meant… my children. Mine. Not yours. Yours would be perfect in every way.” His voice trailed away, and he trained his miserable gaze on the floor.

  I looked around for a shovel—or at least a big spatula. Lorne would need one to dig himself out of this hole.

  “My cousin had dyslexia,” a cheery voice said behind us. “She reads fine now.”

  I’d forgotten about Patty.

  Emy wiped a tear from her cheek, ignoring her. “One word from you, Lorne, would have cleared Mom. Why didn’t you—”

  “It’s my fault,” Thérèse said. “I told Lorne not to go to the police.”

  Emy’s mouth dropped open as she whirled on her mother.

  I pushed off from the wall. “I think I’ll get going.”

  Jeff nodded. “Me, too.” He held open the door for me, and we walked out together. He closed the door and smiled at me.

  “So,” I said. “Thérèse has an alibi.”

  “Yes. You could have told me.”
r />   “I didn’t know for sure. I only figured it out after our… climb.”

  The look on his face caught me up short. It was almost wistful.

  He lowered his voice. “I know you don’t want to hear this…”

  I braced myself for a lecture.

  Jeff trained his gaze on the sidewalk at his feet. “When that call came over the police band that a fire crew was at the Peak, rescuing climbers, I knew it had to be you. Who else would be that—”

  “Dumb?” I finished the sentence for him and waited for his reply.

  He chuckled, then raised his head until his eyes were locked with mine. “I was going to say bold. Or, maybe—daring?”

  Bold? Daring? Those were not the adjectives I’d expected.

  “But while I was driving there—much too fast, by the way—I realized how dangerous your actions were. And that by getting… involved, I might be encouraging you to continue that risky behavior.”

  He took a deep breath. “I didn’t want you to get hurt, Verity.”

  I glanced through the window into the bakery where Emy was shaking a finger at Lorne. “You explained this already.”

  “But that wasn’t the whole truth. It wasn’t only that I didn’t want you to get hurt. I didn’t want to worry about it. And that… was selfish.”

  My mouth opened, but I couldn’t find anything to say.

  “When my wife died, I blamed myself,” Jeff continued. “If only I’d driven her that night. If only I’d asked her to wait out the storm. If only…”

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  He nodded. “The thing is, Verity, you do get into a lot of trouble.”

  I bristled. “That’s not always—”

  He grinned. “I kind of like it, to be honest—the way you spring into action to help your friends.”

  My pounding heart was the only thing holding me up.

  “Although…”

  Oh, great. At the exact moment my backbone turned to mush, he discovered another objection.

  Jeff stepped closer, mesmerizing me with his slightly parted lips. He ran his fingers along my bare arm, sending an electric tingle up my back.

  I released a breath I hadn’t known I was holding.

  “Maybe,” he said, “I could be the one to charge in and save you now and then? I mean, if it’s not too…”

  “Clichéd?”

  He chuckled. “Not what I was thinking, but… sure.”

  I tapped the badge on his shirt pocket. “You already have the armor. Where’s your horse?”

  He covered my hand with his own, pressing it against his chest, and directed a brief nod at his cruiser. “Right there.” Jeff tightened his grip on my fingers and grinned. “Care for a ride?”

  What was left of my spine decided to call it a day.

  It would have been so easy to cave. But I remembered how my stomach churned during our talk on the Peak. What if he changed his mind again? Could I handle another reversal? Could I go back to Rose Cottage once more, fling myself on the sofa, and stare at the ceiling while the General nuzzled my wet face?

  Once had been enough, I thought with a wince.

  Jeff raised his eyebrows, smiling.

  I drew a deep breath and slowly, let it out. “No.”

  He released my hand and stepped back, looking startled. “Why?”

  “I don’t… trust you.”

  He tilted his head with a puzzled expression. “Sometimes, you have to take a leap of faith, Verity.”

  I shook my head. “Sorry.”

  Jeff looked away. His jaw clenched a moment. Then he slid his cap from under his arm and aligned it precisely on his head. It seemed to take a long time before he got it just right.

  “See you around,” he said. “Take care, Verity.”

  And walked away.

  It was all I could do not to run after him.

  What had I done?

  I trudged back into the bakery, letting the door close behind me, and sighed heavily. One thing I hadn’t done was reduce that agitation in my stomach. It was like a carnival tilt-a-whirl in there. At the sound of voices, I looked up.

  Emy was standing in front of Lorne, biting her lip. “I knew you were going somewhere on those days—all those lame excuses. But I thought…”

  He looked down at the floor. “I couldn’t tell you.”

  She took his hand and pressed it against her cheek. “You should know by now that you can tell me anything.”

  He raised his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  “Please don’t apologize. It’s my fault. I must have given you a reason—”

  “There was no reason. I just…”

  “Well,” I mused aloud, unable to ignore the look of anguish on Lorne’s face any longer, “there was one reason.”

  Everyone turned in my direction.

  I made a face. “Oh, come on. We’ve all seen the way Fritz looks at Emy. You can’t blame Lorne for being jealous.”

  “Fritz?” Emy scrunched up her nose in disgust. “Don’t be ridiculous. He’s a buffoon.”

  Lorne’s face brightened into a grin.

  Patty picked that moment to weigh in with her usual impeccable timing. “He likes my eucalyptus panna cotta though. He might even put it on the menu.”

  Emy gaped at her. Then she marched behind the counter, noisily filled the kettle, and placed it on the burner, muttering under her breath. She stood before the kettle with her back to us.

  Lorne walked around the counter until he stood next to Emy. By the time Thérèse, Patty, and I were seated at the table in the back, he had his arm around her, and she was leaning against him.

  “They’ll be fine,” Thérèse whispered.

  The kettle boiled. Emy made a pot of tea and brought it over to us. She slumped into a chair with her raised feet planted on the table’s central leg, pouting. “You should all be ashamed of yourselves,” she said.

  Lorne leaned over and dropped a kiss on her head. “Noted.”

  Thérèse cleared her throat. “Now that’s over with, I need to come clean about something else.”

  Emy groaned and swiveled her gaze to the ceiling, but said nothing.

  Thérèse shook her head sadly. “Lucy deceived me—deceived all of us.” Emy looked up with surprise, as did Lorne and Patty. I was the only one who knew what was coming.

  “She embezzled money from the book club charity fund,” Thérèse said.

  “How much?” Emy asked.

  “All of it.”

  Patty gasped. “Is that why she was killed?”

  Thérèse considered the question gravely. “I don’t think so. No one suspected but me, and I didn’t tell anyone. I had a hunch, but… I should have realized what she was up to. Verity checked the books for me a few days ago and confirmed it.”

  “Did you tell the police?” Emy asked.

  “How could we? Your mom was a suspect in Lucy’s murder,” I pointed out. “Knowledge of Lucy’s fraud could have been considered a motive.”

  Thérèse tilted her head with a quizzical look. “I never thought of that, to be honest. I didn’t tell the police because I couldn’t bear for anyone to remember Lucy as a thief. She was a good woman, I know she was. If it hadn’t been for her obsession with that ridiculous house…” She shook her head. “Lucy poured hundreds of thousands into that restoration. I never stopped to think about where the money was coming from.”

  Thérèse’s eyes filled with tears—something I never thought I’d see.

  “If only I had paid more attention,” she said. “Maybe I could have helped her. Maybe she’d be alive today.”

  I pulled a tissue from my purse and handed it over. Thérèse took it with a nod of thanks and blew her nose.

  Emy looked chastened. “You couldn’t have done anything, Mom. Verity and I also have a secret about Lucy. We believe she was blackmailing people.”

  Thérèse went still, one hand holding a tissue to her nose. “What?”

  We explained Lucy’s online ghostwriting
gig.

  “I’ve never heard of such a thing,” Thérèse protested.

  “Neither had we,” I said. “But many of Lucy’s clients were high-earning professionals who lacked the time to create online chatter, so they hired Lucy to do it for them. Some of her conversations were a little sordid, I’m afraid. Not illegal, but nothing you’d want your boss, or your neighbors—”

  “Or your spouse,” Emy broke in.

  “—to hear about. Reputations were on the line.”

  “What happened when these correspondents asked to meet in person?”

  “I guess Lucy arranged the meetings and hoped for the best. Maybe she provided them with cheat sheets. ‘Ask about Fluffy’ and so forth.”

  “Are you certain?” Thérèse asked.

  “We have no direct evidence of blackmail. Lucy had a list of aliases that correspond with online dating accounts and each name has dollar amounts tied to it. We worked out most of the aliases—they were initials, so it wasn’t hard. We think she charged those people for her services.”

  “But three of the accounts showed huge payments,” Emy said. “Way more than the others. And they continued, month after month.”

  “Who?” Thérèse lowered the tissue.

  Emy shot me a worried glance.

  “Tell me,” Thérèse demanded.

  “We haven’t been able to work out the aliases for two of them,” I said. “We have no idea who they are. But the other”—I flinched, reluctant to disappoint Thérèse by casting doubt on another Originals member—“was Sue Unger.”

  Thérèse looked puzzled. “Sue?” she asked. “Why would—”

  I leaned in, hoping to soften the blow. “Here’s the thing, Thérèse. Lucy stole way more money than she needed for the house. That’s why she had such a huge investment account. I think she enjoyed her little stings. I think she took the book club money for fun.”

  “No,” Thérèse whispered. “Not Lucy.”

  “Maybe she couldn’t help herself. A lot of white-collar criminals have psychiatric issues,” I added, dredging up something I read in Morally Bankrupt: A Primer.

  Thérèse knitted her brows. “That’s true. It often originates in childhood.”