by Rickie Blair
“I wasn’t there. I have no opinion. When I asked Nigel years later, he refused to talk about it.”
“Who was the other student, the one he claimed put him up to it?”
“I don’t know, of course, but the rumor at the time was that Isaac Damien was behind it.”
I puffed out a breath, remembering Isaac and Nigel’s confrontation at the open house. “Would that be the Isaac Damien who recently returned to Leafy Hollow?”
“That’s the one.”
“Where has he been all these years?”
“I heard he went to Europe.”
With a start, Gideon sat up. Then he rose to his feet, a little unsteadily, and turned to the back door. “I’m going inside,” he muttered to a lilac bush on his way past.
“Have a nice nap,” Adeline called after him.
“Now,” she said, rising from the lounge chair to perch beside me on the bench. “What’s your thinking on Ryker’s predicament? Did he do it? What does Jeff say about it?”
“Jeff didn’t tell me much. Only that the police believe one of the murdered women, Dakota Wynne, was an intimate friend of Ryker’s.”
“They can’t throw him in jail for that.”
I tried to keep my face blank, but Adeline knew me too well.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
“I went to see Ryker. He visited Dakota’s home around the time she was murdered. He wanted to talk to her because—” I paused, wondering how much to reveal. “Because they’d had an argument. She didn’t answer the door, so he left.”
“I bet he only told you that because somebody saw him.”
“According to Ryker, somebody did see him—talked to him, in fact.”
Adeline leaned in. “Who?”
“The other victim.”
I could tell my aunt was taken aback, but she did her best to hide it. “That’s circumstantial. A good defense lawyer could poke holes in it. What was the murder weapon?”
“A garden tool of some kind. Jeff didn’t want to elaborate.”
I must have looked dejected, because Adeline bent closer to study my face.
“Are you and Jeff okay?”
I adopted a jovial tone. “Of course we are.”
I must have been convincing, because she settled back against the bench with a slight nod. “If Ryker Fields didn’t murder those women—”
“He didn’t.”
“Then someone else did. Who are our other suspects?”
“Well…”
I delayed my response until I’d mentally ticked off Ryker’s potential motives.
First, he feared public exposure of his relationship with his half-sister. Those fears were amplified when Dakota sent him an email demanding money. She said if I didn’t give it to her…she’d make our relationship public.
Could potential humiliation—or shame—lead to murder?
Second, he could have killed her in a jealous rage, as the police apparently believed. Perhaps another man was involved. Mentally, I put a check mark beside that one. Find out if Dakota had other boyfriends.
Third, there was the financial angle. Ryker’s inheritance would be reduced if other siblings came forward.
I heaved a sigh. He had plenty of motives. Was I deluding myself?
“Verity?” Adeline tilted her head.
Shrugging, I spread my hands. “I’m still working out who else could have done it. But there are possibilities. Ryker’s employee Ethan Neuhaus, for one. He’s a shady character.”
“Shady how?”
“Ethan said it was high-handed of me to take on Ryker’s customers without consulting him and that he should have had first pick. Ethan also said Ryker was unfit to continue working. He suggested he was contemplating suicide. And implied that showed a guilty conscience.”
“Good heavens. Is that true? About suicide, I mean?”
“Ryker’s definitely upset, but I don’t think he’s that upset. The way Ethan explained it, though—it was creepy.”
My aunt arched a brow. “But not in a serial-killer kind of way.”
“Well, no. But he knew all about Dakota Wynne, and that Ryker had been seeing her, and that if anything happened to her, Ryker would be the obvious suspect. He knew where she lived, too.”
“What’s his motive?”
“To swoop in and poach Ryker’s business for himself?”
“Seems a stretch.”
“I have to start somewhere.”
“Anyone else?”
“Well… Ryker has one female client who signed on for more than lawn cuts. Julia Vachon.”
Frowning, Adeline reached a hand overhead to tweak off a yellowing grape leaf. “I’ve heard rumors about that.” She tossed the dead leaf away.
“I suspected that Julia could provide him with an alibi, but when I asked her about it, she refused to get involved. When I mentioned Ryker’s new girlfriend, Julia seemed pretty jealous. She even bad-mouthed poor dead Dakota.”
“Do you think she was jealous enough to wish Ryker harm?”
I shrugged. “Ryker claimed he hadn’t seen Julia for months. She was ticked off about something, though, and it could have been that. Or maybe she simply feared their affair would come to light. In any case, she could have decided to kill Dakota and frame Ryker for the crime.”
“Why kill the neighbor?”
“Collateral damage. That woman must have surprised Julia in the act.”
My aunt made a face. “A little farfetched, I think.”
“Then there’s Nigel Hemsworth. If Ryker was in prison accused of murder, it would be easier for Nigel to dispose of that Lawren Harris painting at a premium rate—or commission, or whatever he does.”
“Maybe,” Adeline said thoughtfully.
I counted on my fingers. “That makes three—Ethan, Julia, and Nigel.”
“Don’t you mean four? Let’s not forget Ryker.”
“No, it can’t—”
“Verity, I applaud your determination to help a friend, but maybe…” She shrugged apologetically.
“You think he’s guilty.”
“I didn’t say that. I’m only saying you can’t arrange the evidence to make it come out the way you want. I agree it doesn’t seem likely that Ryker did it. That doesn’t make it impossible.” She regarded me sadly. “I don’t want to see you disappointed.”
“Why do I have to keep reminding everybody that I’m a big girl? I can handle disappointment.” I hesitated, then added, “I haven’t had an anxiety attack in ages.”
She patted my arm reassuringly. “I hope you can also handle a little sparring practice. Are we still on for tomorrow?”
“Absolutely. I’ll meet you at the gym.” I rose to my feet. “Got to go. I’ve been summoned to the Sleepy Time Motel. It’s an emergency, supposedly.” I arched my eyebrows.
“Ah—say hello to Frank.”
“I will, thanks.” Smiling, I recalled that my aunt and my father had been sworn enemies for years. I didn’t realize how much that had bothered me. Until all that ill will was gone, and I felt the regret of decades lift from my shoulders. It was a good feeling, even now, months after their reconciliation.
Leaving my still-full glass behind, I headed for the truck.
“Oh, I nearly forgot.” I wheeled around, then yanked a pamphlet from my pocket. Gesturing with the crumpled paper, I intoned, “We Need More Wilf. He Does Things.”
Adeline shot me a withering look.
Smirking, I anchored the leaflet under the lemon-tini pitcher before walking away.
One down.
One thousand, nine hundred, ninety-nine to go.
I dropped another two hundred pamphlets at the 5X Bakery, sneaking them onto the counter while Emy made my sandwich and coffee.
Emy twisted her lips when she saw them but handed over my lunch without a mention. There was every chance those leaflets would end up in the trash once I’d left, but my pact with Wilf did not include follow-up visits, so I didn’t care.
/> “Delicious,” I said, smiling over my egg salad on brioche.
The jangle of a bell, followed by muffled voices, came through the passage that connected the 5X with Emy’s other business, the vegan takeout Eco Edibles.
“How’s the new student working out?” I reached for my coffee and took a sip. Emy had signed up for the culinary skills internship program at the local college. They sent her a different student each semester. Since Emy started work at 4 a.m., prepping and baking before opening the bakery at 8, the extra help came in handy.
“Terrific,” she said. “In fact, Lorne says I should take this afternoon off.”
“You should. You must be exhausted after last night. At least I got to sleep in a bit.” I gobbled the last of my sandwich, crumpled the wrapper, and finished my coffee in one gulp. “You should take a break.”
She puffed out a weary sigh. “Maybe I will. Where are you off to in such a hurry?”
“I have to check in with my dad. Meanwhile, I left Lorne and Ethan to do all the work by themselves. I should get back.”
“Say hello to Frank.”
“Will do.”
Because my father and I were still working out the parameters of our renewed relationship, I found it useful to have a prop—such as a pertinent question, or a casserole—on hand when we spoke. Today it was a brace of T-shirts from Walmart’s bargain bin.
“I brought you a couple of shirts,” I said, holding up the shopping bag when he opened the door of Suite 7.
“C’mon in. Quick.” He grabbed my arm to yank me inside, then stuck his head out to cast a furtive look at the motel office before closing the door.
I halted, my path blocked by teetering piles of clothing. At a quick glance, I identified dress shirts, chino pants, jackets, a puffy parka, and—were those Speedo swimming trunks?
“Dad?” My voice quavered. “Where did this stuff come from?”
He spread his hands, looking sheepish. “It’s complicated.”
Curious, I picked up a pair of red flannel pajamas with an appliquéd moose on the chest. A price tag dangled from the sleeve. I expelled a horrified breath, then shook the PJs in his face.
“You stole them, didn’t you?”
Chapter Twenty-One
Shelby tugged her baseball cap lower to shade her face, then glanced around. She was alone on the street. Quickly, she mounted the front steps, then pushed open the old door with its pebbled glass window and entered the shabby foyer.
This run-down rooming house on a nondescript street, whose owner didn’t bother to check her renters’ IDs, was perfect for her needs—a safe place to store the painting when she got it, and a bolt hole to run to if Ryker became suspicious.
She strode through the deserted hall, with its cooking smells and muffled television sounds, to a narrow wooden staircase at the back. Two flights up the creaking steps, she reached the room she’d rented days earlier. She raised a hand to unlock the door. Then whistled when she saw it was already ajar. Just a hair, but enough that she’d spotted it.
What an amateur, she thought, shaking her head. As if she wouldn’t notice something like that.
It couldn’t be the landlady, come to do the weekly cleaning, since Shelby had insisted she’d do it herself. The landlady was happy to agree.
No. This must be—
She lowered her raised hand as a chill slithered down her spine. What if the intruder was still inside?
She froze as a stair board creaked behind her.
Then another.
She whirled around, heart thumping, not breathing.
Listening.
But there was nothing to hear, apart from the muffled noises of game shows and sports channels from the floor below. It was only the old house creaking and settling, the stair boards springing back after her passage. She drew in a relieved breath.
There were no sounds from inside her room. Whoever had been there was long gone. But— Shelby straightened her shoulders.
They’d left her a booby trap to deal with.
Fortunately, this had been a favorite trick of her foster brothers. She knew there would be a wire attached to a can on a floating shelf overhead. When the door opened, tripping the wire, the can would tip, splashing its contents on anyone unlucky enough to spring the trap.
She cast her gaze about, looking for something to push open the door and harmlessly trigger the booby trap. A dusty stand against the wall held an ancient black umbrella—the perfect tool to push open the door. She leaned over to pull it from the stand.
As she yanked it free, a faint sound paralyzed her.
Chu-chak, like a gun being cocked.
She froze, her heart racing, not daring to turn.
Then came the sharp crack of a gunshot.
Shelby shied, stumbled, and—frantic for cover—burst through the door. As she dove toward the worn carpet of her room, a blow hit her hard on the head.
With a gasp, she slammed into the floor, then twisted to face the ceiling.
Liquid gushed into her open mouth and covered her face.
Spitting and choking, her head reeling, she scrambled to her hands and knees, eyes closed, frantic to slam the door against the gunman.
But when she forced open one eye, she realized the hall was empty.
Whereas she was kneeling in a puddle of bright red blood. At least, it looked like blood.
After swiping her eyes, Shelby took a closer look.
Then flopped back onto her haunches, feebly wiping red paint from her eyes and mouth. Her hair dripped paint onto the floor. Her clothes were soaked in it. She sniffed her hand. Oil paint. But when she pulled her fingers apart, strands of red connected them. Oil paint—mixed with glue. She groaned.
It would take hours, and gallons of turpentine, to remove it.
Cursing under her breath, she glanced around the red-splattered room. The walls, the floor, the furniture—all of it was splashed with paint.
She slumped back onto the floor, laughing hysterically. Good thing she’d refused to pay the damage deposit.
There was no need to check the inside of the umbrella stand for the source of the chu-chak sound. She knew what she’d find—a tripwire alarm made with a firecracker, duct tape, wooden matches, and the striking surface from a matchbox. It would be rigged so when she pulled out the umbrella, the match would strike, igniting the firecracker, which would flare up, then explode with a sound like a gunshot.
Which, in turn, would scare her into plunging through the door, triggering the first booby trap. The one that was obvious. The one she should have avoided.
Her analysis was confirmed by a whiff of sulfur in the air, as well as a tendril of smoke curling up from the umbrella stand.
She’d been an idiot.
Now she’d have to spend the rest of the day cleaning herself up. Then— Scowling, she wiped her hands on a clean patch of carpet.
Part of her, the sensible part, knew she should call it quits.
But a bigger part demanded revenge.
Chapter Twenty-Two
While I rummaged through the piles of clothing scattered around my father’s motel unit, he tried to explain.
“I did not steal them,” he huffed. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, by the way.”
“Then where did you get them? And why?”
“Birdie keeps bringing me clothes from that liquidation mall on the highway. I asked her to stop, but—” He shrugged helplessly.
“Birdie Tanner, the motel clerk?”
He nodded, shifting a dozen pairs of socks—so thick and woolly they would have been unwearable even in the Arctic—off one of the twin beds.
I sat on the cleared spot, then leaned back on my hands. “Maybe she’s sweet on you,” I said.
My father did have a way with women. I assumed they found his lean frame, wavy brown hair bleached blond by the sun, and laugh lines crinkling at the corners of his laser-blue eyes irresistible.
It certainly wasn’t his wardrobe. He was a little l
ight in the clothing department. In fact, other than the waxed field coat, cowboy boots, and jeans he’d arrived in months earlier, I’d yet to see a meaningful outfit change. My father’s unplanned visit was originally meant to be short, which explained his lack of luggage. It didn’t explain why he hadn’t sent for the rest of his wardrobe from his previous home in Australia once he decided to stay.
I suspected he didn’t bother because there was little point in shipping faded shirts, worn underwear, and threadbare jeans halfway around the world. From childhood pictures, I knew my father had once been a clotheshorse. Obviously, those days were behind him. Even with his motel unit jammed to the rafters with brand new sartorial choices, he was still wearing those same old jeans.
Puffing air out his lips, Frank strode to the window to peer out at the parking lot—which was empty except for my truck and Carson’s trailer.
“You look jumpy,” I said.
“I have to get out of here.” He muttered something under his breath before turning to face me. “It’s not a good place.”
“I know the coffee’s bad, but what else is wrong with it?”
“It’s not that.” He grimaced, not meeting my gaze.
“What is it then?”
“I found something that shouldn’t be here.” He was staring at the far wall, which was a bit disconcerting.
“Can you be more specific?” I tried to keep my voice free of irritation. After all, I’d been called here on an emergency. Even allowing for my father’s tendency to exaggerate, something must be up.
He heaved a sigh, then walked over to the closet, opened the door, and stepped inside.
I gaped at his disappearing back. “What are you doing?”
He stuck his head out from between his coat and a flannel shirt that originally might have been plaid. “Are you coming?”
“Where? To Narnia?”
“Don’t be smart. Look at this.” He shoved the clothing on the rod to either side, then pointed to the back wall of the closet. A tarnished medallion was attached to the wall.
Intrigued, I stepped closer.
Frank pushed the medallion to one side. It swept up and over, revealing a hole in the wall between his unit and the next one.
