by Rickie Blair
Quickly scanning the rest, my eyes lighted on this paragraph.
Ms. Wynne’s boyfriend, Ryker Fields, a Leafy Hollow landscaper, was questioned by police and released. So far, he has not been charged.
I ignored the rest of the text in favor of a closer look at the photos of the victims. Dakota Wynne was young, blonde, and vivacious. Rosie Parker was middle-aged with narrow eyes, wispy bangs, and scowl lines around her mouth.
I looked up from the paper, tapping it with my finger. “Did this reporter speak to the neighbor?”
Ryker shook his head. “No.”
“Why not?”
He leaned over to point at Rosie Parker’s photo. “Because that’s her.”
“She’s dead?” I squeaked.
He nodded grimly. “See why I have no alibi? I can’t tell the cops any of this.”
We locked glances. He looked years older than his normal—with a shock, I realized I had no idea how old he actually was. Emy had known him in high school, but he had been years ahead of her, and even then, he had likely failed more than once, given his stints in juvie. For all I knew, he could be forty. The circles under his eyes made him look even older.
At the sound of a car door slamming, I jerked my head around to look out the front window. I’d been so distracted by Ryker’s story, I’d missed hearing a cab drive up outside.
Shelby was back.
“Ryker,” I said hastily, with one eye on the door. “Shelby was Dakota’s sister, correct?”
“Half-sister. Different mothers.”
“Different—” My head felt like it was going to explode. Ryker, Dakota, and Shelby—three siblings, all with the same father, none of them aware of the others’ existence.
“Does your father still live in Manitoba? With your mother?”
“Yes. She’s stood by him all these years. I don’t know why, given what he put her through.”
“What does he say about this?”
Ryker snorted. “He denies it. Says DNA is a load of bull.”
The front door opened with a gust of air, then slammed shut.
“I’m back,” Shelby called.
Ryker leaned in, speaking in clipped tones. “Listen, Verity. My old man got sent up when I was eight years old. Mom moved to Penetanguishene to be near him. That’s how I ended up in foster care…” He slumped back with a gesture of disgust. “I wouldn’t believe a word he says.”
I recognized Penetanguishene as the location of a maximum security prison north of Toronto. Before I could probe further, a woman’s voice called, “There you are.”
I twisted my head to see Shelby standing in the doorway, her fingers clutching the twine handles of a brown paper shopping bag. I recognized the logo of Bertram’s, the village’s upscale grocer.
Shelby held up the bag. “I picked up wild mushroom risotto and grilled salmon for dinner. I put it on your tab, Ryker.” She gazed at me, unblinking. “Verity.”
“Shelby. Nice to see you again. Ryker has been telling me about your amazing reunion.”
Limping slightly, she stepped through the doorway, set the bag on the coffee table, then settled into the sofa next to Ryker. “It’s amazing, isn’t it? I’m still getting my head around it. To find out you have a brother you didn’t know about… It’s weird.”
That’s one way of putting it, I thought.
She reached out to squeeze Ryker’s hand. “I should say, we’re still getting our heads around it, aren’t we?”
“Sure,” he mumbled, pulling his hand free.
“But Ryker’s not your only relative, is he? You found a sister, too.”
Her eyes widened. “Did he tell you that?”
I nodded.
She shot a quizzical look at Ryker. “I thought we weren’t supposed to talk about her.”
He looked away.
Shelby shrugged. “Did he tell you she was that woman in Strathcona—the one who was murdered?”
Ryker shot to his feet and paced to the window, where he stared through the slats of the blind with his back to us.
“Yes,” I said. “But I won’t tell anyone. I did wonder, though… That DNA service you used. How does it work, exactly?”
She crossed her arms demurely. “What do you want to know?”
“Nothing, for myself, but I have a friend who’s considering it. She was wondering… Do these companies send you proof?”
“Not the actual chemical results. Just a list of people in their database that you’re related to, based on your DNA. Mostly they’re distant relatives—third cousins, fourth cousins, and so on. They give you a family tree, with all the names. If you want to track your relatives down in person, though, it’s not as easy as it sounds. There’s a lot of legwork involved. Most people don’t bother.”
“You’re not most people, obviously.” I tossed her a warm smile.
“No, not me. I had to know. I’m fascinated by the whole thing.”
“I’d love to see this family tree. So I could tell my friend about it, I mean.”
“I’ll be happy to show it to you. Once we get it back from the lawyers.” Shelby pulled a face. “They’re so cautious. But when they’re done with it, I’ll let you know right away.” She brightened. “Then you can tell your friend all about it.”
Shelby swiveled her head, giving her half-brother a long look. “It was strange, finding out I had a little sister I’d never met…” She shook her head. “Dakota wouldn’t talk to me, you know. I decided not to pressure her. Of course, I hoped she’d reconsider. But I figured we’d have plenty of time.” Sighing, she puffed out a breath. “Just goes to show, doesn’t it? You never know. And now she’s dead.”
Ryker’s shoulders tensed, so I hastily changed the subject.
“I noticed that you’re limping, Shelby. Did you sprain your ankle?”
She waved off my question. “I’ve been working too hard in the garden. It’s nothing.”
That was a lie, but I let it go.
She rose, leaning over for the shopping bag. “I’ll put this away for now, Ryker. We can heat it up later.”
Taking the hint, I also got to my feet. “I should get back to work. Nice to see you, Ryker.”
He grunted without looking at either of us. Whatever he was staring at, it must have been fascinating. Watching the weeds grow, maybe? I envisioned Sleeping Beauty’s castle with mile-high vines choking it. Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that here. Especially since the prince was still inside.
Shelby accompanied me to the door. She hesitated, her hand twisting the knob. “Verity, my brother is quite upset.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “I don’t know why he told you about Dakota, but I think it’s better if we keep it to ourselves for now.”
“I won’t tell anyone.”
“And…” She hesitated, smiling grimly. “I think you should phone before visiting another time.”
“Of course.” I turned to go, then whirled with a final question. “How is the inheritance hunt going? Any news?”
Her lips thinned. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Nigel Hemsworth. Have you talked to him recently?”
“I don’t think that’s any of your business.” Pursing her lips into a pout, she closed the door in my face.
As I walked down the path to climb into my truck, I felt someone watching me. Shelby, no doubt. I didn’t turn around to check.
Chapter Nineteen
Outside Nigel’s art shop, I paused to inspect the painting of the three cows in the window. It was still unsold. After a glance at the price tag, I could see why. Clearly, I was not as informed on art as I could be. But I was about to remedy that. I pushed open the front door, setting an old-fashioned bell jangling over the doorframe.
The front of the shop was surprisingly spacious, with artwork hanging on stark white walls under overhead spots.
Nigel and his ears were seated behind a broad desk at the side. He looked up with a smile. “Hello. Feel free to look around. If you need any assis
tance, I’m here to help.” He lowered his head discreetly to study the paperwork before him, but I felt his eyes following me as I strolled from one painting to another.
When I paused a little longer at one work—an abstract painting titled Endless Spring—Nigel rose from behind the desk then ambled over to stand beside me, hands clasped behind his back.
“It’s a lovely piece, isn’t it?” he asked. “The use of negative space in the composition is quite striking.”
“Lovely.” I offered a dry chuckle. “A little out of my price range, I’m afraid.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “Verity, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” I grinned at him. “I’m surprised you remember. We met at the open house the other day.”
“I never forget a lovely face.” His smile did not reach his eyes. “I have pieces in the back that are more modestly priced, if you’d like to take a look.” He motioned to the open doorway in the back wall.
“Lead the way.”
The door led, not to the back of the building, but to a room filled with antiques and vintage furniture. As we strolled through, I paused to admire a grandfather clock of gleaming walnut and brass.
Nigel nodded in approval. “A beautiful piece,” he said. “Newly acquired. This way, please.”
I followed him through a door into a narrow hallway at the back. Nigel inserted a key into the lock of a door on the left, then ushered me in.
This room was also painted white, but the artwork here was leaning in stacks against the walls. Unlike the ostentatious front gallery, this space had a bargain-basement feel. I suspected that was Nigel’s intention, and that the bulk of his sales were actually made here, under the guise of “great deals” or “too much inventory.”
Noting my interest, he bent over the nearest stack to riffle through it. “These are mostly estate sales,” he said. “The families usually demand a quick transaction. I always tell them I could get a better price if they’d be more patient, but…” He shrugged. “Money talks.”
“So these are bargains?”
“They’re not cheap,” he cautioned me. “Although many of these prices are significantly undervalued—correct.”
Drawing from the stack a painting of a blue-gray lake under a blue-gray sky, he held it up for my perusal. “This series of prints is particularly popular. The artist is local.”
As he hefted the painting, I noticed a bandage on the palm of his right hand. “Did you hurt yourself?”
Nigel glanced quickly at his hand. “Oh, that.” He chuckled. “A slight cut. I was a bit overzealous with the box cutter on a new arrival. Such a lot of packing material these days. It’s nothing, but I have to be careful. Even a single drop of blood could ruin a painting. Speaking of…” He held the landscape higher. “What do you think?”
“It’s lovely.”
But not why I’m here, I thought. How could I broach the subject of Ryker and his unfortunate brush with the law?
Nigel turned to replace the print against the wall. “Or these.” He shuffled through several others before pulling out another painting and holding it up. “Very evocative.”
“Oh,” I said, “that reminds me of the Lawren Harris painting at the open house.”
Nigel’s eyebrows rose slightly as he cast a downward glance at the picture, which happened to be an abstract swirl of vivid colors that bore no resemblance whatsoever to the brown streetscape I’d viewed at Perry Otis’s house.
“I meant the…negative space,” I improvised, then barreled on before he could reply. “Will you sell that Lawren Harris painting here? I mean, given that Ryker Fields—he inherited it, didn’t he?—might be behind bars before long. I suppose that complicates things.”
If Nigel was startled by my conversational swerve, he showed no sign. “Ah,” he replied with a gracious air, replacing the painting in the stack, “I really couldn’t comment on Mr. Fields’ situation.”
I adopted a disappointed tone. “Really? I heard you were the executor for his cousin’s estate.”
“Who told you that?”
“I can’t recall, exactly. Perhaps someone at the open house? There was quite a crush. A lot of people wanted to see that painting up close. See if it was real, I guess.”
His expression became pinched. “Whatever do you mean by that?”
“Oh, you know. That old guy—Perry Otis?—was a recluse. I heard he didn’t let anybody see his collection. Wanted to keep it all to himself. That Lawren Harris picture acquired a real air of legend—as if it was not quite real. You must have noticed how many people were talking about it.”
“I’m not in the habit of listening in on other people’s conversations,” he said in a clipped tone.
Like hell, I thought, remembering his intense interest in Shelby Wynne’s movements.
“I guess you’re more interested in offloading his house. It’s quite something, isn’t it? Almost like a castle, what with that silo and all. But a little scandal never hurt sales—am I right?” I leaned in, raising my eyebrows. I considered adding a wink to my performance before deciding that might be going too far. “I heard you sold that Lawren Harris painting to Perry originally. What do you think it’s worth today?”
Stiff-lipped, Nigel held out a hand to usher me back into the hall. “I really couldn’t say.” He turned to lock the door, then strode through the hall and into the antiques showroom.
I hurried after him. “But that’s your business, isn’t it? Valuing paintings, I mean? Shelby—Ryker’s sister—told me they intend to get it appraised. I said you’d probably already done that, but she seemed to think you weren’t skilled enough to… Well, I suppose I shouldn’t repeat that.”
We’d reached the front gallery, and Nigel swiveled to face me, his expression dark. “That woman should mind her own business.”
Finally. I’d hit a nerve. Which was good, because I was running out of material.
“What did she do?”
“She made ridiculous accusations. That woman has no class whatsoever.” He sniffed, absently rubbing his bandaged hand. “I can always tell.”
“You mean she’s not interested in art?”
“Hah.” He snorted. “Not likely.”
“How do you know? Shelby may be uneducated about art”—I grimaced as my assessment of the three cows came to mind—“but that doesn’t mean she can’t learn.”
Nigel puffed out a breath. “That woman’s interested in nothing but cold, hard cash.”
Tilting my head, I tried to look surprised. “That’s a bit harsh. What makes you say so? At the open house, she seemed genuinely interested, I thought.”
Naturally, I thought nothing of the kind. But Nigel fell for it.
“You are being naive, Verity. And I’ll prove it.” He stalked to the front desk to retrieve a cell phone from a cubbyhole. After thumbing through it, he handed me the phone. “She sent me that before she’d even hit town.”
I read the email.
Mr. Hemsworth,
I’m sure you’ve heard about Ryker Fields’ inheritance, which includes a very good Lawren Harris painting. I’m writing to inform you that, as a sister of Ryker’s, I intend to claim a share of this inheritance. I’ll be in Leafy Hollow soon to contact you directly for an estimate.
I glanced up at Nigel. He was scowling.
“That’s remarkable,” I said. “She didn’t waste any time.”
“What did I tell you?” He gestured for the phone, and I handed it back. “Is there anything else, Verity? Because I have things to do.”
I hurried to change the subject. Appealing to his vanity should work.
“I’ve been told you’re an expert on the Group of Seven.”
Narrowing one eye, he replied with a drawn-out, “Yes.”
“I’d love to learn more about them. They’re Canadian icons, after all. I want to do some research. Could you start me off? Since you’re such an authority?”
Conflicting emotions flashed across his face. Then, as I knew it
would, his love of pontificating overcame his natural suspicion.
“Well. Let’s see—”
Adopting an expression of utter fascination, I settled in for the lecture.
“The Group of Seven was formed in the early decades of the twentieth century by artists who wanted to depict the unique character of the rugged Canadian landscape.”
“Yes.” I nodded vigorously. “Their paintings are beautiful.”
“They’re more than that. The Group of Seven is integral to the Canadian identity. They broke from the European tradition of the time to present a more nationalistic viewpoint, a new style of painting. They set out to follow ‘the bolder course—new trails,’ as A. Y. Jackson once put it.”
“He was a member?”
“Of course.”
“And Lawren Harris was—”
“Their unofficial leader. Some people refer to him as the Canadian Van Gogh, although I find that a little fanciful.” Nigel pulled a notepad towards him. “Why don’t I recommend a few books on the subject?” He jotted down a list, tore off a slip of paper, and handed it to me.
I scanned it quickly. No mention of Modern Art for the Time-Challenged. “Thanks.” I dropped it into my purse. “I’ll check these out.”
Nigel sat down at the desk, then began to shuffle papers. I imagined he meant to signal our conversation was over, but I was not that easily deterred.
“I guess Shelby and Ryker plan to shop that painting around, do they? Wait until they get the best deal?”
He gave me a sharp look. “Not at all. Shelby wanted it sold immediately. No restraint whatsoever. She even wanted to take it off the wall at the open house so she could take it to someone she claimed to know—” Miming air quotes, he added, “in the art world.” He scowled. “I had to explain the legal ramifications to her.”
“Uh-huh.” I nodded vigorously before adding, “And those are?”
“Perry’s will is still under probate, for one thing. Nothing can be sold until the lawyers are satisfied.” He impatiently pushed aside a cardboard file.
“But you have the house on the market already.”
“Only to gauge interest. A sale can’t be finalized yet.”
