by Rickie Blair
“I know,” Lorne said. “The visibility is remarkable.”
We crouched in a row, facing Molly’s house, and waited.
And waited.
As with all our stakeouts, the initial excitement rapidly segued into uncomfortable tedium. The screen was too short to allow us to stand. Instead, we sat, we crouched, we lay on our elbows, we turned, and we shuffled. No position was comfortable after a while.
“Ow,” I complained as somebody shoved an elbow into my back for the umpteenth time. “Watch it. Are we out of tea?”
“I’m afraid so,” Emy said, rooting through the backpack. “Shortbreads are gone, too.”
“What about the party mix?”
“Lorne polished off the last of it half an hour ago.”
“Even those hard little pellets everybody leaves to the end because nobody likes them?” I whined. “Are they gone, too?”
“Afraid so.”
“Shhh,” Lorne hissed, raising night vision goggles to his eyes. “Look.”
Flopping onto my stomach, I turned to take in the scene.
“Awwww,” I crooned. “Cute.”
A fluffy brown bunny hopped hesitantly across the lawn, stopping occasionally to nibble a few…
“Wait a minute—is that thing eating my begonias?”
“Looks like it,” Lorne said from behind the goggles. “But not for long.” With his other hand, he pointed to the left.
I followed his finger. Two fat raccoons were waddling across the grass, headed for the rabbit—and the begonias.
The rabbit jerked its head up in alarm, leaves hanging from its mouth.
The raccoons ignored it, heading instead for the flowers. Once there, they started digging. They worked furiously, their paws a blur, throwing earth up behind them as they uprooted the first plant. Then the next. Those hideous rodents worked their way along the entire row, spewing soil and begonias in their wake.
Behind our camouflage netting, I whimpered. “Look at the mess they’re making.”
Emy patted my shoulder consolingly. “At least we’ve identified the vandals.”
I sighed. Peering through the netting, I watched the raccoons at work. “It’s almost as if there was bonemeal on those plants. Why else would they do that? There aren’t any grubs in that soil. I would have noticed.”
“Do raccoons like bonemeal?” Emy asked.
“It attracts lots of animals. But I didn’t use any in Molly’s garden. Aunt Adeline always advised against it. Ryker never uses it either. He told me once that the odor draws wildlife, so to stay away from it.”
“Do coyotes like it?” Lorne asked in a noncommittal tone.
I chuckled. “I doubt it. But why do you—arggh.” My words shriveled in my throat as I pointed a shaking finger. “That’s a—coyote,” I finally managed.
“Yes.” Lorne nodded. “It is.”
“Cripes. Are we downwind?” I clapped a hand over my mouth, hoping to muffle my carbon dioxide emissions. I read once that can help with pest deterrence. Although, come to think of it, they may have meant mosquitos.
“Coyotes don’t attack humans,” Emy said.
“I don’t know about that. This one looks a little thin,” I countered, lowering my hand and continuing in a whisper. “It might not be particular about the source of its dinner.”
The raccoons, too clever to risk a confrontation with the latest arrival, backed away, chattering furiously, fur sticking straight up on their backs.
I figured they were safe. A full-grown male raccoon can easily weigh thirty-five pounds, and their teeth and nails are razor sharp. If I was a coyote, I’d take a pass in favor of a tasty, defenseless bunny.
Sure enough, when the coyote caught sight of little Peter Rabbit, it crouched, tail swishing. With horror, I realized that adorable creature was about to be torn limb from bloody limb right in front of us.
The coyote advanced furtively toward the bunny.
I sucked in a breath. Let nature take its course?
Not while I’m around.
“Stop,” I shrieked, jumping out from the bushes, swinging my arms in the air. “Stop.”
Too late, I remembered the camouflage netting.
As I burst through it, the stakes yanked out of the ground, and the rubber netting wrapped around me like fingers of doom. The more I tried to fight it off, the tighter it gripped. I staggered forward, stumbled, and fell—wrapped as tightly as Frodo in the lair of the giant spider.
I rolled to a halt, swaddled in the netting—and found myself nose to snout with the astonished predator. I don’t know who was more surprised—the coyote, the rabbit, or me.
The coyote lowered its head, fur silently rippling on its neck, to regard me quizzically. I could almost hear it pondering the eternal question: Is this thing—edible?
We locked eyes. His were yellow and glowing.
I stopped breathing.
The bunny, no doubt sensing a lucky break, darted off, bounding and zigzagging across the lawn.
The coyote raised its head, tracking the rabbit with its yellow eyes, then trotted after it.
Sucking in a painfully compressed breath, I scrunched my eyes shut, relishing my narrow escape.
“Verity!” Emy’s voice rose in alarm as she shook my camouflaged form. “You’re not hurt, are you?”
“No,” I sniffed, opening my eyes. “But I could have been.”
She back-slapped the approximate location of my arm. “Stop scaring me like that. Lorne, we have to get her out of this.”
“On it.” He rolled me over.
“What are you doing? That won’t work,” Emy said.
“I need to find the edge of the netting,” he said.
“Can’t breathe,” I said, with my face pressed into the ground.
Lorne heaved me over in the other direction.
I spit grass out of my mouth. “Can we speed this up a bit? My legs have gone to sleep.”
“Lorne, you have to cut it,” Emy said.
“But then we’ll never be able to use it again.”
I gave him my most baleful stare.
“Okay, okay.” After flicking open his Swiss army knife, Lorne carefully cut the netting into strips.
Before long, I was sitting on the grass, rubbing my arms and legs to get the circulation back. “Blasted wildlife,” I muttered.
By the time I stood up, Lorne and Emy were laughing so hard they had to lean against each other for support.
“I’d forgotten how much fun you were on a stakeout,” Emy said, wiping her eyes. “Leaping into action like that.”
I regarded her morosely. “I suppose you would have let little Peter Cottontail be eaten in front of our very eyes?”
“Serves him right for all the damage he did,” Lorne said.
I scowled at him. “You’re a hard man, Lorne Lewins.”
Emy doubled over with another snort of laughter.
“Oh, come on,” I said. “That’s not—”
“Shhh.” Lorne grabbed my arm, signaling at the road. The sound of an approaching car grew in volume. “Quick—hide.”
We dove into the bushes.
“Ow. Get off me.” I swatted an arm away.
By the time the car door opened and a figure stepped out, we were lying shoulder to shoulder under a lilac bush.
Lorne trained his night goggles on the intruder. “Target acquired,” he whispered.
“Lorne—it’s a full moon. We can see him fine.”
He ignored me. “Target on the move.”
The intruder approached the house, but since he or she was wearing a black hoodie, we couldn’t identify them. Until the newcomer reached the destroyed plants. The figure hesitated, surveying the damage, before tossing back its hood to reveal a tousled thatch of red hair.
“That’s a woman,” Emy whispered.
I peered at the black-dressed figure, trying to make out her face. Could this be Grace Anderson?
As she turned in our direction, moonlight reflecte
d off a can of spray paint in her hand. She strode to the side of the house, vigorously shaking the can, then disappeared around the corner.
I drew in a sharp breath. “She’s headed for the gas meter. We have to stop her. That paint might muck up the gauge. You can’t be too careful with gas.”
Lorne rose, goggles hanging from his neck, and gave a sharp wave. “Move in.” He trod silently toward the house, bent over in an impressive semi-military stance.
Emy and I strolled after him, using our normal upright stance. I tugged at her arm. “Move in?” I whispered.
She whispered back, “I blame Gregory Peck.”
Before I could reply, an ear-splitting shriek rent the air.
Lorne backed off so rapidly, his hands raised in surrender, that he trod on my toes.
“Ow,” I howled, hopping on one foot. “What the—”
I halted mid-sentence.
Before us stood a middle-aged woman, the paint can lying at her feet. Her mouth was wide open and her hands were clasped to her chest. “Who are you?” she asked in a tremulous voice.
Before we could answer, lights came on inside the house, casting rectangles of yellow across the lawn. Then a light over the front door flicked on.
Molly stepped out onto the porch. She held the door open with one hand while the other clutched a flowered robe to her chest. As she squinted at our little group through her Coke-bottle glasses, her mouth dropped open.
“Bridget? Is that you?”
The redhead stepped into the glare of the porch light, hanging her head dejectedly. “Sorry, Mom.”
Emy and I exchanged glances. Awkward, I mouthed.
We sat around the kitchen table as a thin-lipped Molly filled the electric kettle, slammed it onto the counter, then noisily took mugs from the cupboard.
“Maybe we should leave?” I asked.
Lorne and Emy made for the door.
“No,” Molly demanded, pointing a finger at the table. “Sit down. I need witnesses.”
We sank into our seats.
“Oh, Mom,” Bridget wailed. “You’re overreacting.”
“Overreacting?” Molly asked, gripping a mug. Her eyebrows rose nearly to the ceiling. “Overreacting?”
The temperature in the kitchen rose by several degrees.
“You had no right to damage my property so you could trick me into moving out,” Molly continued. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? For me to sell this old place and move into one of those damned condos?” Wrapping her arms across her sunken chest, she glared at her daughter. “Well?”
“No, it’s not—”
With a snort of disgust, Molly turned to the counter to pour hot chocolate mix and steaming water into the mugs, furiously stirring each in turn.
“We worry about you, Mom, out here all by yourself. You’re so stubborn—”
“Don’t you dare blame this on me,” Molly choked out in fury. Her hands shook as she placed the mugs in front of us, then thumped down a platter of tea cakes that rocked as it hit the table.
Nervously, we raised our mugs.
“Well?” she asked, stepping back to cross her arms and glower at Bridget. “Is that all you have to say?”
Bridget morosely studied the hot chocolate in her cup, then set it on the table and pushed it away. “What if you did move? Would that be so bad? This place is a lot of work, especially the garden.”
“We cut Molly’s lawn and plant flowers for her,” I pointed out. “We could do more.”
“Yes, but…” Bridget trailed off at another glare from her mother.
“And we identified the vandals,” I added.
“Yes. You did,” Bridget said, nodding approvingly. “Good detective work, that.”
Molly shot her daughter an angry look. “Which means, for the third time, we have to plant the same flowers. Will there be a fourth occasion?”
“No!” Bridget shook her head, eyes wide. “I never touched your plants.”
Her mother glared.
“She’s right, Molly,” I said hastily. “The raccoons were responsible for that.”
I had suspicions about what drew those rodents to Molly’s garden, but I decided to keep that to myself for now.
“When we replant,” I continued, “I’ll add pepper spray and ammonia. There won’t be a raccoon within a hundred feet of your flowers after that. Although…” I hesitated. “The ammonia might attract the odd cat.”
Molly worked her lips. “Thanks, Verity. And thanks for the stakeout, you three. I really appreciate your help.” She opened the refrigerator, mumbling, “Especially since my own family is worse than useless.”
Bridget winced, looking down at her lap. “That’s not fair, Mom,” she said in a small voice.
Molly ignored her.
Lorne’s flagging attention perked up when Molly pulled out a plastic container and opened it to reveal a dozen sausage rolls. He shifted in his chair in anticipation.
Molly set the container down in front of him. “Help yourself, son. As for you, Bridget—I think you should leave.”
“Mom—please. Let me explain.”
The atmosphere couldn’t get any frostier, so I decided it would do no harm to step in. “I’d actually like to hear that,” I said, reaching for a tea cake. “I mean, raccoons can’t spray paint, can they? No opposable thumbs.”
Lorne smirked over his sausage roll.
Bridget heaved a sigh. “No. That was me.”
“Why?” her mother asked, glaring.
“I didn’t know it was raccoons destroying your plants. I thought it must be vandals roaming through the neighborhood. It was one more thing you had to deal with, and I thought…” Bridget bit her lip. “I thought, why not add some spray paint? Maybe that way I could convince you this old house was too much trouble.”
“How? By scaring me half to death?”
“I never meant to frighten you, Mom,” Bridget said, her voice almost a whisper. “But I do worry about you. What if something happened? What if you fell or…took ill suddenly? There’s no one nearby to help you.” She lowered her head. “I’m sorry. It was a stupid idea, I see that now.”
No one spoke. Except for Lorne’s chewing, the room was silent. He reached for another sausage roll.
Molly shifted from one foot to the other. “Well… I suppose you meant well.”
“I did, yes. And then, when you got that offer on the house—” Bridget spread her arms, shrugging. “It seemed like the perfect opportunity for you to move somewhere safer.”
Molly stiffened. “So you wanted my money.”
“No,” Bridget blurted. “How could you think that? Everything’s in your name, and it still would be.”
Molly folded her arms again. “It’s none of your business what I do with my money.”
Before hostilities could escalate further, I held up a hesitant finger. “By the way, Molly—I haven’t been able to reach Grace Anderson, the woman on that business card you gave me. I get a voice mail message saying, this mail box is full.”
Molly tapped her foot, regarding her daughter with narrowed eyes. “Don’t worry about it, Verity, because I’m never leaving this house.”
“Mom,” Bridget wailed. “That’s not—”
Molly pointed a finger. “Don’t you tell me what to do. I may be decrepit, but I’m still your mother.”
I excused myself. “Bathroom?” I whispered with a tentative gesture toward the hall.
“At the back, Verity,” Molly said before resuming her tirade.
Stepping into the hall, I turned in the direction of the bathroom, intending a quick pit stop before dragging Lorne away from the sausage rolls and making our excuses. But my attention was drawn by rows of framed art on the walls. They weren’t the usual family photos and out-of-date calendars—although there was one framed picture of Molly and her husband, taken decades earlier when her now-white hair had been bright red.
Most of the pictures on the wall were oil paintings. My recent re-thumbing of M
odern Art for the Time-Challenged had not been rigorous enough to allow me to identify the artists, but they didn’t look like the kind of works you picked up at garage sales. These were beautiful. A business card was tucked into a corner of one dusty frame.
Hemsworth’s Fine Art and Collectibles
Leafy Hollow, Ontario
I nodded, intrigued. That Nigel really got around.
By the time I returned to the kitchen, Emy was tilting sideways in her chair, eyes closed. Molly and Bridget were still talking, although in relatively civil tones.
I caught Lorne’s eye, and he shook Emy’s arm. “C’mon, babe. Time to go.”
As we made our way across the lawn, I paused by the ruined flowers, bending to pick up a handful of soil to sniff.
The unmistakable odor of bonemeal filled my nostrils.
Chapter Seventeen
Much too early the next morning, I drove my pickup into Ryker’s driveway and parked beside his dusty black truck. Someone had swiped their fingers through the Wash Me slogan, but the rest of it was still dirty. As I switched off the ignition, the blinds in the front window flickered briefly.
That had to be Ryker, because I knew Emy was detaining Shelby at the bakery, as per our plan. Emy had agreed to text me the next time Shelby came in, so I could dash over and interview Ryker without his sister getting in the way.
It was a good plan, too, except we hadn’t counted on a sleepless night stalking plant rustlers.
It was only after I flung one arm out from under the sheets to grapple for my beeping phone, then opened my bleary eyes to read Emy’s text, that my sleep-deprived brain realized what time it was. With a groan, I crawled out of bed to splash cold water on my face.
The other side of the bed was already empty—Jeff had let me sleep in when he left for work.
He did leave a note on the pillow, though.
Your turn to make dinner tonight.
I pictured him smirking as he wrote it.
Fine. I might not be as talented a chef as my honey, but I was very clever with a takeout menu and a credit card.
Now, as I watched Ryker’s window blinds from my truck, I rehearsed my questions. For instance—why did he refuse to provide an alibi? Was it because of his affair with Julia Vachon?
