by Rickie Blair
Jeff twisted his head to the car and raised his eyebrows. “Why?”
“Check the front passenger side, under the floor mat.”
Jeff waved to the tow truck driver to stop. Then he walked around to open the door of Fritz’s car and duck his head in. He emerged holding a sheaf of papers. “Is this…”
I nodded.
Jeff riffled through the pages. “How did you know?”
“When I got in Fritz’s car for the drive here, I tossed his backpack off the seat. A few pages fell out. I didn’t have time to read them, but I noticed that the capital O’s and A’s had been colored in—like on the two pages in Marjorie’s apartment. I figured it had to be her missing memoir. And if Fritz had it, that meant he was her killer.”
I drew in a long breath to steady myself before continuing.
“So when he opened the trunk to get his rifle, I took the pages from his backpack and slid them under the floor mat. I hoped someone would find them, even if—” I shuddered, remembering our moments of terror on the Peak. It could have gone so horribly wrong.
“If you knew Fritz Cameron was Rupert’s murderer, why didn’t you try to escape?”
“I couldn’t, Jeff—not with Patty in danger.”
He gave me a long look, then his face creased into a soft smile. “No. Of course not.”
“Jeff,” a paramedic called from the other side of the parking lot. Fritz had finally stopped screaming, now that he was pumped full of anti-histamine. His handcuffed hands were still flicking at his face, though, and he was mumbling to himself. Jeff walked over to supervise his transfer into a police cruiser headed for the station.
Captain Bob and his crew of firefighters emerged at the head of the trail, carrying Derek on a rescue stretcher. Two paramedics walked beside them. An inflated splint cradled Derek’s broken ankle, and a bandage swaddled the gunshot wound on his hand. His face was pale under the parking lot lights.
The Captain winked at me as they passed.
The paramedics transferred Derek to the second waiting ambulance, settled him in, and closed the doors before driving away.
Jeff returned to exchange muffled words with the officer watching over me, then bent down to give me a worried look. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I squeaked.
Jeff squatted beside me, one hand gently rubbing my back. “The paramedic’s coming over to see you. You should go to the hospital, just to be safe.”
“No need. I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine—you’re covered with scratches, for one thing.”
He stood as a paramedic with orange-streaked hair, wearing a blue uniform and stethoscope, walked over and squatted beside me. She attached a blood pressure cuff and inflated it.
“Hi, Verity. I’m Meredith. How do you feel?”
“A little woozy.”
“Perfectly understandable.” She checked the readout. “Your pressure’s a little high. But you’ve had a lot of excitement, so that’s not surprising. Let’s take a look at those scratches.”
Once she’d determined that nothing was broken, my shoulders hadn’t been dislocated—I found that hard to believe—and none of my cuts were serious, she cleaned the minor wounds on my hands and face with antiseptic.
“You’re going to have bruising. Are you sure you don’t want to come in for a full checkup? You’ve had quite a shock.”
A shock? That’s how medics classify utter terror? Good to know. Sighing heavily, I ran a hand through my matted hair, picking out bits of leaves and insects and flicking them onto the gravel. “I’ll be fine once I get home.” The worst of my panic attack was over for now, but I desperately wanted to go back to Rose Cottage, lock the doors, ease into a hot bath—and never leave.
“Verity!” someone called from the road.
I turned to scan my surroundings. Vehicles jammed the parking lot. The first ambulance was gone, but the flashing lights on the fire truck, the fire captain’s SUV, and four police cruisers provided ample competition for the village’s fireworks display. Add in the rubberneckers—parked cars lined both sides of the narrow road—and Founder’s Day had never been so exciting.
Fortunately, the police had blocked the parking lot entrance, so nobody could ask me any questions. Unfortunately, it also meant that Emy and Lorne were unable to run across the gravel lot to my side.
They waved frantically from behind the tape. “Verity!”
I leaned out to grab the officer’s sleeve. “Can you let my friends in?” I pointed in their direction.
“Not yet, sorry. I have orders not to let anyone cross that line. But I can drive you home.”
“Can you tell them to meet me there?”
“Sure.”
He trotted off to speak to Lorne and Emy. I watched them confer over the yellow police tape. Emy was grabbing Lorne’s arm and jumping up and down so she could see me over the crowd.
I waved. Lorne waved back.
My phone beeped with a text. I pulled it from my pocket to view Emy’s message.
See U at home.
Great, I texted.
Then I turned my attention to the activity around me.
Jeff was directing the search of the Peak for evidence. One of the police officers retrieved Fritz’s rifle and locked it away in the trunk of his cruiser. Jeff leaned over Derek’s stretcher, now raised on collapsible wheels, to talk to him. Derek lifted his uninjured hand to point at something. Possibly me.
I ducked my head back into the cruiser. Derek’s frantic denial during our confrontation on the Peak played over and over in my head.
I never would have hurt Marjorie. I loved her.
Derek had never been violent. Not in public, anyway. His outburst at Sue during our book club meeting was the only time I saw him angry. And he told a convincing tale about how Lucy met her death.
Well, he would, wouldn’t he?
My inner critic was insistent. I heaved a sigh. Not my problem. Someone else would decide Derek Talbot’s fate. At least he wasn’t dead.
My sympathy did not extend to Fritz Cameron. Considering how much one hornet sting hurt, I had a good idea of his suffering. It sparked no pity from me. Even as I winced at his swollen face and hands, my reaction had been coupled with satisfaction. The look of terror on Patty’s face would stay with me forever—as well as Derek’s.
Poor Derek. Whatever his faults, he had suffered for love. Marjorie played him, pure and simple. Or was that Lucy? There was more than enough deception to go around in their story.
I turned over another tale in my mind—that of Marjorie and Ian Rupert. Marjorie had embarked on a forbidden and doomed romance. You could almost call it a tragic love story. She gave up everything to be with the man she loved.
My inner critic gave me another slap. Marjorie Rupert was a gold digger, and the man she loved probably helped murder her first husband—which detracted a bit from the romance angle.
Still, if a pair of psychotic killers could make love work, what did that say about me? I wasn’t even willing to risk a dinner date.
I straightened up and pulled out my phone. After typing in a long text, my hand hovered over the Send button. My heart pounded, my stomach churned, and that vein in my neck… I put my phone on the seat beside me, and bent over for a little deep breathing.
“Verity?” the officer asked. “Are you—”
“I’m fine,” I said, sitting up so suddenly I triggered a dizzy spell. What was the matter with me? After a few more deep breaths, I picked up my phone and punched Send. I was tired of letting anxiety control my life.
As I slid the phone into my pocket, the officer gave me a curious glance. I wiped the smile from my face, determined to retain at least one secret.
Briskly, I fastened my seatbelt. “Can you drive me home?”
Epilogue
ONE WEEK LATER…
Emy, Patty, and I stood on Rose Cottage’s driveway, with the Ferrises’ suitcases at our feet. I sniffled back a few tears. “I’ll
miss you, Patty,” I said as we hugged.
Clark stood off to one side with his earplugs in, listening to the latest Leeds United match. “You too, Clark,” I called.
He waved distractedly. “Sure thing, Verity.” Then, “Yes!” he howled, jumping up and down on the gravel, punching his fists in the air.
Patty gave an exasperated sigh. Then she patted her purse—where she’d tucked my signed sublet agreement for delivery to my former landlord. “We’ll miss you, too.”
Emy held out a Tupperware container. “I brought along a few things for your flight, Patty,” she said cheerily. “Sausage rolls and strawberry scones. I’m sorry they’re so pedestrian.”
Patty gave her a look of horror. I held my breath.
Emy winked. “I’m kidding. But you know what—I decided to punch up a few of my flavorings. You’ve been a real inspiration.”
“Thank you,” Patty said, accepting the plastic container with a grin. “But the only person who learned anything about baking on this trip was me. You’re an incredible pastry chef, Emy. Thank you so much for showing me how to make your maple-bacon tarts.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “They even made Clark look up from the television.”
Patty handed me the Tupperware box so she could wrap Emy in a hug.
When she stepped back, both women were teary. I looked away, not wanting to embarrass the two prior combatants. They weren’t soul mates—not yet—but they’d grown a lot closer. And Emy had promised to visit Patty in Vancouver.
Which left me free to resume my search for Aunt Adeline.
Two weeks, Control had said. The clock was ticking. I only hoped I was up for whatever it had in mind.
The sound of a car crunching over gravel recalled me to the present. The limo had arrived to take Patty and Clark to the airport. The driver put their suitcases into the trunk.
Emy and I watched the car drive down Lilac Lane and turn in the direction of the highway.
“Are you okay by yourself?” she asked.
“I’ll be fine. Are you and Lorne…”
“We’re great.” Emy did not move toward her car. We stood silently, enjoying the day.
A pair of red squirrels scampered across the roof of Rose Cottage. I smiled at them, wondering if they were the same rodents who’d greeted me on my arrival over two months ago. When I turned back, Emy’s expression had become serious.
“Verity, I don’t trust that thing in your basement. No,” she held up a hand. “Let me finish. That doesn’t matter. When you need us, Lorne and I want to help in any way we can. Do not”—she poked a finger at me—“shut us out.”
I swallowed hard. “I won’t. And thanks.”
“See you later, then.” Emy climbed into her Fiat and drove off, waving as she turned out of the driveway. I watched her go, thinking about the changes of the past two months. When I boarded that red eye in Vancouver, I never expected to gain some of the best friends I’d ever had.
Once Emy’s Fiat was out of sight, I turned to admire—for the umpteenth time—my beautiful rebuilt porch and its brand-new wicker rockers. Rose Cottage had never looked so good. The insurance company had even replanted the rose bushes.
“Carson,” I called. “I’m going in. Do you need anything?”
Carson looked up from his latest long-term project—repointing the cottage’s fieldstone walls. Reuben strutted by his side, admiring the work.
“Nope,” Carson said. “Calling it quits for the day. See ya tomorrow.” He glanced up at the darkening sky. “Looks like rain.”
As the first drops fell, he and Reuben crossed the driveway and headed for their respective roosts—Reuben to the Ford, and Carson into his tent.
I lowered the ramp on the back of my aunt’s truck to unload the day’s landscaping equipment. Within minutes, a hard rain was falling, drenching my hoodie and jeans. When I was done, I dashed across the lawn and into the house.
General Chang was stretched out on the back of my new, and as yet unscratched, sofa. He opened his eye, saw it was only me, and closed it again.
“Some pets greet their owners at the door,” I said, peeling off my hoodie.
The General huffily shifted his position to face the wall.
I walked over to ruffle his fur. “You’d be off there in a shot if I opened a bag of liver treats.” He yawned, then nudged his head against my hand. I smiled as he broke into a rasping purr.
By the time I’d taken a hot shower, changed my clothes, and run a brush through my hair, the sky was black and rain was pelting against the windows. I turned on a few lamps and considered lighting a fire.
A soft knock sounded on the door. I walked over to open it.
Jeff stood in the doorway. Rain dripped off his chin, but his eyes were twinkling. “Are your houseguests finally gone?”
I nodded. “You’re wet.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
I stood on tiptoe to wrap my hands around his neck. “Hmm. Let me think.”
He lowered his face to mine.
A crack of lightning lit up the yard, followed by a tremendous boom. The General flew off the sofa and into the basement. Every light in the cottage went out, leaving us in darkness.
“Power outage,” I whispered in Jeff’s ear.
“Perfect,” he replied as he pulled me closer.
THE END
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Also by Rickie Blair
THE LEAFY HOLLOW MYSTERIES
A Branch Too Far is the third book in the series. If you like lovably quirky characters, deceptively idyllic Canadian villages, and twists you won’t see coming, then you’ll love The Leafy Hollow Mysteries.
From Garden To Grave, Book 1
Verity Hawkes is a shut-in. After two years bunkered in her apartment, the only thing that gets her out is the disappearance of her beloved but eccentric aunt. As she takes over her aunt’s landscaping shop, she’ll need to go from hoarder to horticulturist in a hurry…
Her new home of Leafy Hollow is quaint, except for her most obnoxious client. When a series of freak accidents kills the customer, all signs point to Verity as the killer.
The hunt for answers is on, and Verity must question a tipsy carpenter, a bacon-peddling vegan baker, and her dreamy landscaping competitor to keep her new life afloat. Failure to find the truth could put her back in a confined space for much more than two years…
Digging Up Trouble, Book 2
Verity Hawkes misses her recluse lifestyle, but she’s finally starting to settle in as Leafy Hollow’s resident landscaper. At least until a village-wide cupcake battle helps turn one new visitor from a skeptic to a corpse in record time. When her friend’s crush shockingly confesses to the crime, Verity is once again asked to investigate…
Potential clues come in as fast as the suspects: a documentary film director, a wacky artist, and a feral-cat enthusiast, to name a few. It turns out everyone in town has skeletons in their closet… even her new friends. If Verity doesn’t find out the truth soon, then the next local legend buried in the ground… could be her.
THE RUBY DANGER SERIES
If you like fast-paced action, believable heroines, and breathtaking twists, then you’ll love this series of gripping financial thrillers. (Note: The Ruby Danger books include mild language and some adult situations, although they’re less violent than most thrillers.)
Dangerous Allies, Book 1
No one invites the mob on their second honeymoon… Ruby Delaney is at the bottom of a spiral. After the death of her sister, the young actress turned to booze to numb the pain. Desperate to reconnect with her husband and get her life back on track, Ruby embarks on a luxurious second honeymoon cruise. Everything is going well, until she makes a surprising discovery in their cabin: $20 million in bonds!
When she’s set up for a crime she didn’t commit, Ruby’s only chance is a series of impossible e
scapes to clear her name. With the help of a few surprise allies, and a bit of luck, Ruby might just have a shot… if she can live long enough to solve the mystery.
Dangerous Benefits, Book 2
When fraudbusters Ruby Delaney and Hari Bhatt track a murder victim’s stolen money to Paris, they uncover a surprising link to one of Wall Street’s biggest names. The partners race to determine the truth, unaware they’re being watched by someone who will go to desperate lengths to hide a lethal secret.
Dangerous Comforts, Book 3
After the tragic consequences of their last case, fraud investigators Ruby Delaney and Hari Bhatt have lost the desire to expose cheats and con artists—or to risk their own hearts.
But when a body is found in the home of a missing casino employee, the estranged partners must join forces to find the victim’s terrified killer. Hari and Ruby embark on a desperate race through the underground tunnels of Las Vegas, pursued by a deadly adversary who’s hunting the same man.
About the Author
When not hunched over her computer talking to people who exist only in her head, Rickie spends her time taming an unruly half-acre garden and an irrepressible Jack Chi. She also shares her southern Ontario home with three rescue cats and an overactive Netflix account.
Contact Rickie at rickieblair.com or on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/AuthorRickieBlair/
