by Rickie Blair
“What does Ryker say?”
“I have no idea.”
“Come on, Jeff. Can’t you tell me something?”
“No. Not only because it would be wrong, but because I don’t know anything. I’m not involved. It’s Strathcona’s case. And since I know the suspect personally, I have to steer clear.”
I sat back, momentarily stumped. Time to try wheedling.
Lowering my voice, I leaned in. “Seriously, Jeff. What’s Ryker’s explanation—his alibi? He must have one, right?”
Jeff frowned. “You’re awfully interested in this.” His tone was surprisingly sharp.
“Ryker’s a friend of mine. He’s your friend, too. You played in his pickup hockey league for years. You know darn well he’s innocent. You should be trying to prove it.”
“I’m confident the Strathcona force can handle it.”
“Really? The same people who suspected me of murder? Have you forgotten?”
Looking uncomfortable, Jeff shifted in his chair. “That was different.”
“Different—how?”
“You were innocent.”
I reared back. “You know something you’re not telling me.”
“I told you, I’m not involved in the investigation.”
“I don’t care, Jeff.” My voice rose despite my efforts to hold it steady. “Ryker’s been a good friend to me. If I can help him—”
“I didn’t realize the two of you were that close.”
I sucked in a quick breath. “That was uncalled for.” My tone had become sharp, as well. I didn’t care. “If you know something, you better tell me.”
Jeff slammed the laptop closed with such vigor I feared for its hinges. “What did you say?”
Hesitating, I bit my lip. What had come over me?
His lips thinned. “I hope you realize Ryker Fields has had more women than Bluebeard. Your presence on that list barely rates a mention.”
My eyes widened. “Surely you don’t believe Ryker and I ever—”
He waved a casual hand. “It’s in the past. I have work to do. I’ll see you later at home.” He rose to wrench open the door.
I followed him into the reception area. “Jeff, listen to me. Ryker is a friend. That’s all. I could never… This is crazy.”
He pivoted to face me. “You’re having second thoughts, aren’t you?”
My breath caught in my throat as I realized we weren’t talking about Ryker anymore. “No,” I protested. Placing a hand on his arm, I drew closer. “Jeff—”
He shook my hand loose before striding through the lobby and out the front door. I reached the parking lot in time to hear a car door slam. As he drove away, my stomach twisted. We’d had disagreements before, but this one felt serious.
Chapter Five
Lorne was waiting by the side of the road when I arrived at our job site. He’d already finished the mowing, trimming, and blowing. He made quick work of loading the mower into the back of the truck while I stayed in the driver’s seat, full of remorse.
“So?” he asked, climbing in beside me and pulling the door shut. “What’s up with Ryker?”
After easing the truck into gear and driving off, I filled him in.
He nodded thoughtfully. “But that’s good news. Why do you look disappointed?”
I stared through the windshield at the road ahead. “I’m not,” I said dully.
“Then”—Lorne tapped out a drumroll on the dash with his fingers—“time for lunch. Emy’s making sausage rolls today.”
As always, I hoped that news didn’t get back to the clients of Emy’s vegan takeout, Eco Edibles, which shared the building with her 5X Bakery. “Your favorite,” I said.
“You bet. We should hurry, because sometimes she runs out.”
Tapping the accelerator, I headed for Main Street. I wasn’t interested in meat-filled pastries, even though Emy’s were excellent. Instead, I desperately wanted to chew over the latest developments with my best friend. And not just the news about Ryker.
When I pulled into a parking spot a few doors down from the bakery, Lorne bolted out of the truck and headed for the sausage rolls. After feeding change into the meter, I strolled along the sidewalk, pausing for a brief glance in the window of Hemsworth’s Fine Art and Collectibles. The shop looked deserted. The painting on display—a mottled brown landscape with three oddly shaped cows—showed signs of dust on its frame.
A few doors farther on, I came to the 5X Bakery logo etched in gold paint on Emy’s plate glass window. I pushed open the front door. The bell tinkled overhead as I walked in. With one hand on the door handle, I closed my eyes, the better to appreciate the heady aromas of lemon, lavender, and chocolate wafting my way. No matter how bad my day, it always improved after a visit to the 5X.
Lorne was sitting at the bakery’s lone table, tossing back the first of what I knew would be a half-dozen flaky pastry rolls. Emy was behind the counter, arranging blueberry-lemon scones on a display platter, her dark head bent in concentration.
She lifted her face as the door eased shut behind me with a whoosh of air. Her heart-shaped face crinkled into her usual brilliant smile. “Hi, Verity.”
I propped myself up on the glass counter with a sigh. “Did Lorne tell you the latest news about Ryker?”
“Between bites.” Emy tilted her head at Lorne, who was starting his second sausage roll.
Swiveling my gaze, I joined in her awe of Lorne’s formidable appetite.
My five-foot-ten frame and strenuous job let me absorb quite a few calories without worry. But Lorne left me in the dust. Yet he was never anything other than lean and trim. In fact, I’d heard Emy’s mother, Thérèse Dionne, say more than once that her daughter should “fatten him up a bit.”
Emy was doing her best.
Lorne stuffed in the last of that roll then reached for a third while gulping coffee with his other hand.
I turned back to face Emy over the counter. “I need advice,” I said in a voice low enough that it wouldn’t attract Lorne’s notice—if anything could at that point, short of an emergency recon mission.
Emy narrowed her eyes. “About Jeff’s proposal?”
“How did you know?”
“Everybody knows.”
“They do not. You’re exaggerating.”
“Well, the people who care about you know. What possessed you to turn him down?”
“I didn’t—” Realizing my voice was rising, I leaned in to whisper. “I didn’t turn him down. Not exactly. I needed time to…think it over.”
Emy nodded thoughtfully, then bent to slide the filled platter onto a shelf. Shutting the glass door, she straightened up to her full five-foot-one, wiping her hands on the front of her long white apron. “You know I’d tell you if I thought you were making a mistake.”
“Then what’s your opinion?”
“That you and Jeff belong together and this is just nerves. Tea?”
I nodded. “Thanks.”
Emy picked up the kettle then stepped over to the sink to turn on the tap. “Who are you waiting for? Prince William is taken.”
I made a face. “I’m not waiting for anybody.”
“Huh.” She wrinkled her nose before placing the filled kettle on the burner and switching it on. “Jeff won’t lack female companionship for long, you know. If you reject him, I predict he’ll be single for no more than ten minutes. Katia will be taking bets on it at the Tipsy Jay.”
“I don’t want to reject Jeff,” I protested. “Nothing could be further from my mind. It’s just…” As my voice trailed off miserably, my mind filled with the series of images I’d tried for three years to forget. The reel always ended the same way—with Matthew’s funeral. The man who had been the first—and I had expected the only—love of my life.
Emy plonked a china plate on the counter, added a blueberry scone, then pushed it toward me. “You think you’re tempting fate.”
“Is that what I think?” Morosely, I pushed the scone around on the
plate with my finger.
The kettle boiled, and Emy made my favorite Assam tea in a mug. “Milk?”
I nodded.
She set the mug in front of me. After a glance at Lorne, she leaned over the counter and lowered her voice. “It’s understandable. Jeff lost his wife in a tragic accident, and you lost Matthew to a devastating illness. You’re afraid it will happen again.”
I pushed the scone around some more. Was that it? Was I expecting fate to sneak up behind me with a pipe wrench?
“It’s not only that, Emy,” I said. “My parents’ marriage was…troubled.”
She puffed air out her lips, looking pensive. “That’s not relevant. Those were special circumstances that will never occur again.” She tapped a fingernail on the counter. “Maybe it’s not fate that worries you. Maybe it’s the other F word—fear.”
I scoffed loudly. “I’m not afraid.” Then I winced. “I don’t think.” I contemplated my crumbling scone before deciding on a sip of tea instead. Caffeine was never a bad idea.
“Then it’s guilt. You feel guilty about being happy when Matthew’s dead.”
I put my mug down with a groan. “When I asked for your advice, I didn’t expect it to be so depressing.”
Emy reached over the counter to pat me briskly on the back. “It’s not depressing. Not even a little. It’s a big life decision, and you have every right to think it over. But if you give Jeff the heave-ho, I swear I’ll never talk to you again.”
She gave my shoulder a final pat—more of a slap, really—before strolling to the kitchen at the back of the shop. “Lorne, call me if anybody comes in?”
“Sure, babe.” He reached for another sausage roll.
I remained slumped on the counter. Give Jeff the heave-ho? Never. But what if he gave up on me? What if he moved out of Rose Cottage? What if that slide-out sock drawer in our new wardrobe was empty when I got home? I pictured its little cubicles with only specks of lint to fill them. The thought gave me the shakes.
I had to talk to Jeff and straighten this out.
Yet I had to help Ryker, too. At the moment, his need was greater than mine.
Picking up my mug, I followed Emy—after placing my plate with the uneaten scone in front of Lorne.
“Hey, thanks,” he said, without looking up.
In the kitchen, I leaned against the doorjamb to watch Emy chop candied ginger. “You didn’t mean that, did you?”
“Stop right there.” She pointed with her knife. “You need a hairnet to come in here.”
“Sorry. Forgot.” I lifted a fresh hairnet from the dispenser by the door then slipped it on before proceeding into the room, eyes averted from the huge commercial refrigerator. I’d learned to turn my head away when sidling past its shiny doors. You never wanted to see your reflection while wearing one of Emy’s hairnets.
“Did I mean what?” She glanced up briefly.
“That you’d never talk to me again if I—you know.” I shrugged, staying well away from the fridge, which was looming over me. Leering, almost.
Emy resumed cutting the crystallized ginger. “Of course not. You’re my best friend.” Then she waved the knife at me again. “But you’d be making a big mistake. And I wouldn’t keep quiet about it.”
I raised my hands in surrender before dropping onto a metal stool. “Noted. Meanwhile, we have to do something about Ryker.”
Emy winced, holding the knife in midair. “I know. I keep hoping it’s all some horrible mistake.” She attacked the ginger with renewed vigor, then pushed it aside to start on a pile of shelled walnuts. “The police need a motive, don’t they?”
“Yes, but what could it be?” Puffing air through my lips, I regretted my encounter with Shelby. “I should have questioned his sister more.”
“Whose sister?” Emy swept the chopped walnuts from the cutting board into a metal bowl.
“Ryker’s.”
Holding the bowl in one hand, she shot me a puzzled look. “Ryker doesn’t have a sister.”
“He does now.” I sighed. “I forgot to tell you.” Briefly, I relayed Shelby’s story. “Weird, eh?”
“It’s not the first time I’ve heard of DNA tests flushing out unknown relatives.” Emy covered the bowl of walnuts with plastic wrap. “But it’s interesting she mentioned the inheritance. Did the police question her about it?”
“No idea.”
“You have to get her alone somewhere and grill her.” Emy rested the heels of her hands on the countertop, rocking while she thought about it. She jerked her head around. “I know—how about the Tipsy Jay? I could call her, welcome her to the village, then invite her out for trivia night. Once we get a few beers into her, she might be more talkative.”
I mulled this over. “It’s a good idea. Maybe we could do it tonight.”
Emy pushed the bowls of chopped ginger and walnuts to the back of the counter. “Not tonight. I’ve got a better idea. We should check out the Lawren Harris painting. The one Perry Otis left to Ryker.”
A timer beeped loudly. Emy pulled on a pair of silicone mitts, then opened the nearest oven to remove a steaming tray of chocolate cookies.
I drew the air toward me with both hands, savoring the aroma. “Those smell good.”
“Dark chocolate-chili.” Emy slid the cookies from the baking sheet onto a cooling rack, then took off her mitts to place them alongside. “Too hot to eat at the moment, though.”
“I can wait,” I said, feeling surprisingly chipper, which I attributed it to the intoxicating chocolate fumes. “Now, how do we check out the painting?”
She grinned. “I happen to know that Nigel Hemsworth is holding an open house tonight at Perry’s place on Tulip Crescent.”
“Ooh—that’s news we can use. Come to think of it, I did see his name on the for-sale sign. When did Nigel become a realtor?”
“He moonlights. I wouldn’t say he’s serious about it. But Perry was a friend of his, and that’s why Nigel has the listing, according to Mom. She knew them both quite well at one time, but that was years ago. Nigel was fun back then, she said, but Perry was quieter. He was a well-known art collector, though.” Emy tilted her head. “Guess what the centerpiece of his collection was?”
“The Lawren Harris painting? Spirit of the North?”
“Bingo. I’ve never been in Perry’s house, but I’m willing to bet that painting will be hanging on the wall tonight in a place of honor.” She rolled her lips. “Under a ceiling spot, probably, flanked by exotic flowers.”
“What do Lawren Harris paintings go for these days?” I asked, eying the cookies. They looked cooled to me.
“You’re kidding.”
“No, I’m serious.”
“Google it on your phone.” Emy waited, watching me, until she saw my eyes widen.
“Eleven million?” I asked. “Eleven million?”
She chuckled. “That’s the record, and of course Perry’s isn’t worth anywhere close to that, but still…” She smirked. “Interested in seeing it?”
“You bet.” I recalled the impressive renovations Lorne and I admired from Perry’s driveway. “Besides, I’d love to see the inside of that house. How does this help Ryker, though?”
“Don’t you think Shelby will take the opportunity to check out this fabled inheritance for herself? She’s obviously curious, and the house has been locked up since Perry died. This might be her only chance before the lawyers weigh in.”
“Ah,” I said, realization dawning. “You’re a genius, Emy. We can corner her at the open house then escort her to the Tipsy Jay for our friendly chat.”
“Yes. And if I know Nigel, there will be oodles of wine at this thing. She’ll already be half-sloshed by the time we strike.”
We shared a high-five.
Chapter Six
There’s no way to sugarcoat it. Nigel Hemsworth, Leafy Hollow’s long-time art dealer, had enormous ears. I’m not saying they were Dumbo-sized, but he could have given Prince Charles a run for his money. His attemp
t to disguise those flaps with tufts of graying hair only made it worse, especially up close. In fact, when Nigel casually squeezed my hand after Emy introduced us, I found it difficult to look at anything else.
I forced myself to focus on his nose instead. It wasn’t much of an improvement. I couldn’t help wondering if he surrounded himself with beautiful objects in order to take his mind off the unfortunate mess Nature had made of his face.
We were standing in the octagonal addition of Perry Otis’s house, only a few yards from Spirit of the North, among a throng of stylish gawkers munching on canapés and holding champagne flutes.
“Pleased to meet you, Nigel,” I said. “I’ve been meaning to stop by your shop for ages.” I leaned in, lowering my voice, hoping to give the impression of a shared confidence. “Until recently, my budget did not extend to works by well-known artists.”
That was a wildly inaccurate statement. The ongoing restoration of mid-nineteenth-century Rose Cottage left me broke at the end of every month. Jeff repeatedly offered me money, but I couldn’t bring myself to take it. He still had a mortgage on his empty condo in Strathcona—a condo I’d encouraged him not to sell. I didn’t feel right charging him rent.
Still, Nigel didn’t know any of that. So, I added until recently hoping that if he saw me as an enthusiastic new buyer he would divulge details about the coveted painting. Like the price, for starters.
Nigel took a step back, with one hand under his elbow and two fingers resting against his cheek. I preened a bit under his scrutiny. I’d taken care with my outfit—black jeans, black sequined top, and a black handbag borrowed from Emy. When I’d admired it in the mirror at home, it gave off a distinctly artistic vibe. I also thought its monochromatic scheme made it look expensive.
I might as well have worn a flour sack.
Nigel pursed his lips while appraising my outfit. “Well… Good art doesn’t have to be costly. I’m sure I could find something that would fit into your budget.” He lowered his critical fingers to make a magnanimous sweep of Perry Otis’s artwork-studded walls. “Mr. Otis started out small, yet look at his collection today. Magnificent. Now, consider this one…” He walked away, still talking.
