by Rickie Blair
With dread, I recalled another outdoor reconnaissance mission of ours that had gone painfully wrong—for me. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
He shook his head, looking surprised. “No.” Pulling his cell phone from his pocket, he keyed in a text. “Emy will love this.” Noting my sour expression, he added, “Come on. It’ll be fun. The three of us haven’t done anything like this in ages.”
For good reason, I thought, recalling a rock-climbing quest that had resulted in a highly embarrassing rescue by local firefighters. I still winced whenever I passed the fire hall.
Peeling off my gardening gloves, I studied Molly’s trim bungalow and its extra-wide property frontage. Local developers lusted after large lots with small World War II-era bungalows like hers. Within minutes of buying this place, they’d call in the construction crews. A monster home would be erected—and on the market—within months.
But if someone like that was after Molly’s home, tracking a midnight marauder through her property might not be fun. It might be dangerous.
Shaking my head to dispel that cynical notion, I tossed my gloves into the back of the truck before climbing into the cab. Molly’s vandals were likely high school kids rampaging through the neighborhood on a dare, leaving uprooted flowers in their wake. And what high school bad boy didn’t have a can of spray paint in his backpack?
The most dangerous opponents we’d face were likely to be killer mosquitoes. “Bring plenty of bug repellent to this stakeout,” I said morosely while turning the key in the ignition.
Lorne’s cell phone rang loudly. “Will do,” he replied absently while reaching for the ringing phone. He raised it to his ear. “Hi, babe. What’s up?” His expression changed. “Emy? What’s wrong? What is it?”
Put it on speaker, I mouthed.
Lorne complied, pumping up the volume. “Verity’s listening in. Tell us what’s wrong.”
“Hi, Verity.” Emy’s voice was strained. “Have you heard?”
“Heard what? What’s happened? It’s not your mom, is it?” With one hand on the wheel, I pulled the truck over to the side of the road and slipped the gear into park.
“No, she’s fine. It’s not that,” Emy said. “You’ll never believe this—”
“What?” Lorne and I cried in unison.
“Ryker’s been arrested. For murder.”
Chapter Four
Lorne and I shared shocked glances.
“That’s not possible,” I said. “It must be a mistake.”
“No mistake,” Emy said. “They marched Ryker out of his house this morning and took him to the station. It’s all over the village.”
Traffic whooshed past the truck, muffling her voice. I motioned to Lorne to hand me the phone, then switched off the speaker and held it to my ear. “Why did they do that?”
“The bodies of two women were found in a house in Strathcona.”
“And the police think it’s murder?”
“Yes.” At an impatient gesture from Lorne, I held up two fingers and mouthed two.
“Who were these women?”
“I don’t know. But there’s a story in the local paper online, with photos. One of the women was young, in her twenties. The other was a neighbor.”
“Strathcona’s a two-hour drive from here. Why is Ryker a suspect?”
“He was dating one of the women, according to the paper.”
The twist in my stomach that had begun with Emy’s first words tightened into a regular Gordian knot. Ryker dated a lot of women. Feeling ill, I passed the phone to Lorne.
“Hi, babe,” he said. “Do you want me to come down to the bakery?”
While they talked, I stared out the window, absently running my hand along the steering wheel. Ryker was a long-time friend of Emy’s. She’d known him for years. Since high school, in fact. At one time, she even suggested Ryker and I might… My mind whirled. Could I have ended up a murder victim?
Stop it, I told myself.
Then I sat bolt upright, gripping the wheel with both hands. “It’s not possible.”
Lorne gave me a curious glance. “Hang on, babe. Verity’s gone all white.” He lowered the phone to peer at my face. “Are you okay?”
I slapped the heel of my hand on the wheel. “Ryker couldn’t possibly have murdered those two women in Strathcona.”
“What’s Verity saying?” Emy’s tinny voice issued from the cellphone. “What? Let me talk to her.”
Lorne handed over the phone.
“Emy?” I asked. “The bodies were found today, right?”
“That’s right.”
“I saw Ryker this morning. He hasn’t been out of his house for weeks. He couldn’t have been in Strathcona—and he couldn’t have killed anybody.”
Technically, I couldn’t swear I saw Ryker, unless the twitch of a window blind counted. I suspected it might not. But there was no reason to think his sister was lying. Shelby could vouch for him.
“I agree that Ryker would never kill anybody,” Emy said, her voice subdued. “But the timing doesn’t help. Those women had been dead for two weeks.”
My stomach re-clenched. “How do you know?”
“I told you—it’s on the news.”
Grimacing, I imagined the state of a body that had been lying around for weeks. At least the bodies I’d found had been fresh. Except for the skeleton, but that one doesn’t really count.
“How could no one notice?”
“Their bodies were in the basement. Locked door. I guess it had to get really bad before the neighbors…” Her voice trailed away.
My teeth clenched at the thought. “Thanks. I get the idea.”
“What will happen to Ryker now?”
“Are you positive he’s been charged?”
“That’s the gossip.”
“That seems like fast work. Check to see if there are any updates.”
Tapping my fingers on the wheel, I waited anxiously until Emy returned.
“The latest story says he’s been taken in for questioning. There’s no mention of an actual charge.” Her tone brightened. “That’s good, right?”
“Yes. The police probably only want details about Ryker’s relationship so they can rule him out as a suspect.”
I was trying to be optimistic, but I couldn’t help thinking that Ryker’s behavior in recent weeks was far from normal. Had guilt kept him indoors? Immediately, I felt a twinge of guilt myself—for even thinking that even-tempered and sunny Ryker Fields might be a killer.
“Emy, call me if you hear anything else. I’ll drop off Lorne at our next job, then go to the police station to find out what’s happening.” I tossed the phone back to Lorne.
Then I roared up the road with a swish of gravel and a cloud of dust.
I was out of breath by the time I parked the car at the station, raced across the parking lot, up the front steps, through the double doors, and skidded to a halt at the reception desk.
“Hi, Verity,” said the duty sergeant, barely looking up. He waved a laconic hand to his left. “Jeff’s in the back.”
“Thanks,” I gasped, then sprinted down the hall.
The current love of my life, the darkly handsome Jeff Katsuro, was sitting behind a table, studying a laptop screen. He looked up in surprise when I darted through the door. “Hi, sweetheart. Why are you—”
“What’s happened to Ryker?” I blurted. “Is he in a cell?”
For several seconds, Jeff merely stared.
I raised my eyebrows as high as they’d go without causing a facial tic.
“Close the door and sit down,” he said.
I slumped into a wheeled armchair and swiveled to face the table, tapping my fingers on the chair’s arms.
Jeff closed the laptop, pushing it to one side. “Nothing’s happened to Ryker. He left here over an hour ago.” He leaned in for a thoughtful scrutiny of my face. “Are you all right? You look a little…anxious.”
This, I knew, was a reference to the anxiety attacks I’d
suffered in the past. I appreciated Jeff’s concern, but he didn’t have to bring it up every single time I got a little edgy. Where was this concern on Trivia Night, for instance, when Emy and I were skunked by the grocer’s team? It was a championship round, too—free lunches for a week, donated by our host, the Tipsy Jay’s fabulous chef, Katia Oldani. We lost. All because we didn’t know the year of the latest NFL expansion, which Jeff—who arrived too late to help—would have known in his sleep.
“I’m fine,” I said, twisting my fingers in my lap to halt their tapping. “But I heard Ryker was arrested.”
“No.” Jeff shook his head. “He wasn’t.”
“Is it true two women were murdered in Strathcona and he’s a suspect?”
“Two women were killed, yes. Their bodies were found this morning. As for the rest of it, I can’t comment.”
“How were they…” Clenching my teeth, I made a throat-slashing motion.
Jeff frowned. Before he could launch into his standard can’t-talk-about-it routine, I jumped in with, “It’s all over the news. You might as well tell me.”
He heaved a sigh. “One was bludgeoned. The other was stabbed with a gardening tool.”
“A gardening tool?” I hesitated while digesting this. “I don’t think you should jump to conclusions. Ryker’s not the only person with gardening gadgets. I own quite a few.”
Jeff tilted his head, regarding me with a cool professional gaze. “Should I ask forensics to take a look at your toolbox?”
His expression was deadly serious. Only the slightest tremor of his lips gave him away. If I were a criminal facing Detective Katsuro in an interrogation room, I’d confess to anything. Then Jeff tapped his lips thoughtfully, which drove it all from my mind as I recalled the previous evening when he’d—
Uh-oh, I thought. Losing focus, Verity.
I made a face. “I’m only saying—that’s not much to go on.”
“Thank you for your insight. I’ll pass it along to the detective in charge.”
“If Ryker hasn’t been arrested, does that mean he’s been cleared?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Wait—you said the detective in charge. Aren’t you investigating the case?”
“No. It’s not our jurisdiction.”
“You’re in the loop though, right?”
He leaned back in his chair, heaving a sigh. “Why are you so interested in this?”
“Why wouldn’t I be? Ryker’s a friend.”
The phone by his elbow rang. Jeff—still fixing me with an odd stare—picked it up. “Katsuro.” Pause. “Who?” Then he covered the mouthpiece to whisper, “Why is your father here, asking for me?”
My eyebrows flexed in astonishment. Until recently, your father is here was a phrase I hadn’t heard for twenty years. Frank Thorne left my mother and me and bolted for Australia when I was eight. As a teenager, I changed my last name to my mother’s maiden name in protest. After my mother died when I was eighteen, I vowed I’d never forgive Frank for abandoning us.
Until he suddenly showed up in Leafy Hollow on “a matter of life and death,” embroiling us all in a twenty-year-old mystery. It turned out my father’s absence had a more complex explanation than any of us had suspected.
And now, well… Even Aunt Adeline, my mother’s sister, had forgiven him. Something I had thought was impossible.
Still, I wasn’t quite used to being a family again. And I had no idea why Frank would visit a police station. Voluntarily, that is. So, I merely shook my head.
Jeff uncovered the mouthpiece. “Send him in.”
I sat back, fiddling with the arms of my chair, unwilling to renew my questions about Ryker in front of Frank. That made it one more on the list of topics I wasn’t comfortable discussing in front of my dad—like the fact I actually had a dad, after twenty years of doing without. I’d welcomed Frank back into my life, but it hadn’t been easy on either of us. For one thing, he still saw me as a defenseless eight-year-old who needed protection from the bad guys. After months of Krav Maga remedial classes with Aunt Adeline, I was confident I could look after myself. Besides, Jeff would hammer anyone who gave me so much as a dirty look.
After a sharp rap on the door, Frank opened it and stuck his head in. “Jeff, I was wondering if—” His gaze fell on me. “Verity? What are you doing here?”
“Visiting my honey.”
Jeff cast a bemused glance at me. I thought his lips twitched, but it could have been a trick of the overhead lighting.
Frank walked in, closing the door behind him. “Then you’re not here to ask Jeff about Ryker Fields’ problem?”
“Why would I… Hang on. How did you hear about it?”
“The whole village is talking about it. Plus, I was at Emy’s bakery this morning.”
That figured. Emy had a soft spot for my dad’s breezy charm and vivid blue eyes. I assumed she’d doled out a free coffee and butter tart while filling him in on the latest news.
“She seemed upset,” Frank continued. “She said you were both friends with Ryker.”
“Why are you using the past tense? I am friends with Ryker, who’s done nothing wrong.”
Jeff and Frank exchanged a quick glance.
“What?” I blurted. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Frank looked down at his feet. “Nothing.”
“Why are you here, then?”
“Just checking in.”
At this, I straightened in my chair to look directly at Jeff. “Is this a regular occurrence?”
Before he could reply, my dad broke in. “So. How are you two doing?”
Jeff’s smile appeared forced to me. “We’re doing fine, Frank.”
“Really? Then why is my daughter still single?”
I gaped at my paternal unit.
“Not that it’s any of my business…” Frank swiveled his gaze to the ceiling. “Only…people are asking—”
“They are not. You made that up.” Crossing my arms, I added huffily, “Besides, I’m not single. Technically, I’m a widow.” I slumped into my chair and swiveled to face the wall, watching the two of them out of the corner of my eye.
“Exactly.” Frank nodded sagely while looking at Jeff. “And what’s up with that?”
“Don’t blame me,” Jeff said, holding up his hands. “I asked her. She’s thinking about it.” He rolled his eyes in mock annoyance, then gave me a soft smile—the one that usually melted me into a puddle. I steeled myself against its effects.
“What do you mean, you asked her? How did you put it?”
“I think I’ve said enough already.”
“I’m her father. I’m concerned. You must have said something that—”
“I’m right here,” I insisted. “Also, this topic is not up for discussion.”
My dad pivoted toward me. “Is it true you turned Jeff down?”
“Well… It’s more complicated than that.”
He pivoted back to face Jeff. “You must have done something—”
“Let’s change the subject,” I said brightly.
The men glared at each other. If I had to step in, there was no doubt whose side I’d take—Jeff’s. Always. If anything happened to him, I wasn’t sure I could go on living.
I was happy my father and I had been reunited. But it was a fragile thing, our reconciliation. I still harbored doubts. Jeff was always courteous to Frank. They even shared a weekend fishing trip—cut short by the fact “nothing was biting,” which I assumed did not apply to their conversation. Jeff was not convinced my father had atoned sufficiently for past wrongs. Frank would have to behave himself for a long time before Jeff would relax his vigilance.
Which, oddly, I didn’t mind at all.
To be fair, Frank had tried to fit in. Since Aunt Adeline had put in a word for him at a local garage, he had worked diligently, becoming one of their most popular mechanics.
“Don’t they need you back at the garage?” I asked, arching my overworked eyebrows.
Perhaps realizing he’d gone too far, my father flashed a brilliant smile. “We can talk later.” He gave Jeff a brisk nod before walking out.
Once the door had closed behind him, Jeff contemplated the door’s worn blue paint with great interest while deliberating ignoring my gaze. “You didn’t answer me,” he said. “Why are you so concerned about Ryker?”
“He’s a friend.”
“He’s more than a friend.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Have you forgotten how he used to follow you around?”
“Ryker never—” My brow knit. “Oh, you meant that time when a killer was stalking me. But he was protecting me.” I had a flashback of opening my eyes to find Ryker slumped in a chair, too exhausted to stand, keeping vigil by my hospital bed.
“Is that what it was? Because it seemed to me he was the one doing the stalking.” Jeff turned his dark eyes to search mine.
I hesitated under his soulful gaze, momentarily unable to speak. Even after months of living together, it still had that effect on me. I recovered quickly, however, since I felt duty-bound to protest this unfair assessment of Ryker. “Much as I’d like to believe I’m irresistible, you know that’s not true.”
“Which part? That he stalked you, or that you’re irresistible?”
“Both.” I hesitated. “Wait. Is that a trick question?”
He tossed me another spine-melting smile.
I resisted it. “I tried to talk to Ryker this morning. He wouldn’t even come to the door. He’s hiding something.”
Jeff’s expression darkened. “Probably.”
“What do the police have on him?”
Pulling the laptop in front of him, he flipped it open. “You know I can’t tell you that.” He studied the screen, brow furrowed.
“Hypothetically, then.”
He swiveled his eyes to meet my gaze. “You’re not going to let this go.”
“No.”
“All right. Hypothetically. Let’s see—phone records, emails, texts, fingerprints, and other physical evidence at the home of the deceased.”
