by Rickie Blair
“I only want a friendly chat, but she’s hard to track down. Someone mentioned they saw her here.” I tried to look hard-bitten, whatever that meant. “That bitch owes me money.”
The landlady shrugged. “I’m not surprised.” Pursing her lips, she studied my face, obviously mulling it over.
“I won’t cause any trouble,” I added hastily.
She broke into a grin. “Ha. I can tell that.”
Inwardly, I sighed. My attempt at hard-bitten hadn’t worked. File that for future reference.
“Listen,” she said. “I’d like to get my hands on her, too. I never should have let her rent a room without a damage deposit. She talked me into it. I should have known better.” Rolling her eyes, she added, “You wouldn’t believe what she did up there.”
“What?”
“I’ll show ya.” Snatching a key from a hook on the wall beside her door, she stalked down the hall. “Follow me.”
The vinyl-floored hall led to a staircase at the back of the house. After two flights of creaky wooden steps, the landlady pushed open a door. “Take a look.”
I edged past her to enter the room, then gasped. The floor, the walls, the sagging bed, the worn floral armchair—everything was splashed with red.
“Is that…blood?”
“I wish,” said the landlady. “Her blood, preferably.” She shook her head. “It’s paint. Oil paint. I didn’t think you could buy that anymore. Not only that, but my handyman says it’s been mixed with glue. Glue! What kind of idiot does that?”
She surveyed the damage. “We can repaint the walls, but we can’t get this stuff off the floor. Or the furniture. She tracked it into the bathroom, too, and the tub. If you see that woman”—she shook a furious finger at me—“you tell her she owes me money.”
“Mind if I look around a bit?”
“Be my guest. Let yourself out. No reason to lock this room now.” She stalked off.
I opened the three drawers of the worn bureau. They were empty. The bathroom held a few essentials—soap, shampoo, a comb, and a rusty razor in a corner that looked as if it had been there for years. Two red-stained towels hung over the edge of the tub. If Shelby had rented this room, she certainly hadn’t been using it.
Outside, as I climbed back into the Fiat, I thought it over. Why would Shelby throw paint around? What was she trying to accomplish? It was pointless.
It was far more likely someone else did it.
Possibly as a warning.
I recalled Shelby’s appearance in the bakery. Her reddened skin must have been from scrubbing paint off her face, not sun bathing. And her limp? Not from weeding, that was certain.
With a start, I remembered Nigel’s reputation for practical jokes. His obvious hatred of Shelby. And his severed ear, which could have been the work of a practical joker.
Turning the key in the ignition, I realized with a sinking feeling it might already be too late.
I pulled away from the curb, headed for the Escarpment road.
Only one place left to look…
Chapter Twenty-Nine
I drove up Perry’s driveway and over the crest of the hill. Sunlight glinted off the Silo’s white tower. The trees lining the driveway swayed in the breeze. In the distance, a row of dark green spruce trees framed a field of brilliant yellow canola. Through the Fiat’s open window, I heard birds chirping.
It was an idyllic scene that would have soothed my troubled nerves, if it hadn’t been for the two vehicles parked by the front door—Nigel’s blue convertible and Ryker’s pickup truck, its flat tire nearly worn through.
I pulled the Fiat in beside them, then turned off the engine to call 9-1-1. An understandably harried dispatcher answered. I tried to explain.
“I’m calling to report the possible presence of a man police would like to—”
“Is this an emergency?”
“No. Not an emergency. I think Ryker Fields might be at a farmhouse on Tulip Crescent—”
“This line is reserved for emergencies. Call the police station if you have something to report.” Click.
After trying to leave a message on Jeff’s cell phone—this mail box is full—I got out of the car, then leaned against it, watching the front door. Jeff had promised to send a squad car. All I had to do was wait.
After a few minutes of inactivity, I decided there was no harm in strolling around the side of the house to look in the windows. When I reached the Silo, I peered through a window. The center of the room was lit by sunlight coming through the skylight, but the edges—where the paintings were hung—were in shadows. All the spotlights were out.
Then I saw Shelby.
She was huddled against a far wall, her knees clasped to her chest, her head lowered. I tapped on the window.
She looked up, bleary-eyed.
I gasped at the blood on her face.
When she saw me, she shied back at first, looking frightened. Her eyes widened.
It’s me—Verity, I mouthed.
She rose, resting a hand on the wall to steady herself. Her lips moved. Ever so faintly, through the walls of the Silo, I heard her muffled cry, “Help me.”
Glancing frantically about, I realized there was no exit door in the Silo. By design, no doubt, in order to protect the paintings from intruders.
I’m coming, I mouthed at Shelby through the glass. Then I raced around the house to the front door.
When I saw it was ajar, I paused. But only for a moment. Backup would arrive soon. Meanwhile, Shelby needed help.
I trotted through the foyer, my steps slapping against the tiles, then through the great room. Ignoring the eight-foot suede sofas and granite coffee tables, I swerved to the left, heading for the Silo.
Shelby appeared in the doorway in front of me, looking terrified. Blood was dripping onto her face and shoulder from a scalp wound, and she was cradling one arm.
“Verity,” she wailed, staggering toward me. “Thank God you’re here.”
I rushed forward. “What happened?”
“He’s here,” she wailed. “Nigel. He came after us.”
“Us?”
“Ryker’s in the next room. He tried to protect me. Oh, Verity… It was awful.”
“Is Ryker hurt?”
She burst into tears. After smearing blood, tears, and snot across her face with the back of her hand, she jerked her chin at the Silo.
I darted though the door.
Ryker was sprawled on the floor a few feet away. I hurried forward, then halted. There was something about—
Thwump.
Every muscle in my body relaxed as the room went black. I didn’t even feel the floor when it rushed up to meet me.
Pain. In my head.
I groaned.
Hurts.
I opened my eyes.
Shelby stood before me, wiping blood off her face with a towel. She was grinning. Now that the blood was gone, I saw the streaks of paint in her hair.
“You hit me,” I said groggily.
Somehow I couldn’t do anything other than state the obvious. Deep inside, my inner Aunt Adeline shook her head in disbelief. You fell for that?
Still grinning, Shelby kicked a broken lamp out of the way, then walked out of the room.
I tried to stand, battling the fog that swirled through my brain. But my wrists were bound behind me, and my unsteady feet couldn’t get purchase on the tiled floor. After a few minutes of pointless floundering, I slumped back down, hitting the floor with a thud.
I lay there, breathing heavily.
Just for a minute. I have to clear my head.
My gaze fell on a roll of black duct tape a few yards away. Clenching my teeth against growing nausea, I groaned. Why does it always have to be duct tape?
Ignoring the overwhelming urge to close my eyes and pass out, I searched my surroundings for a box cutter or scissors to free my wrists—regretting that knives never fall from the ceiling when you really need them.
I looked over at Ryker. His hands and feet w
ere bound, and tape covered his mouth. His eyes were closed. I couldn’t tell if he was alive or dead.
Shelby came back through the door, rolling a hand cart in front of her. “You’re wasting your time, Verity. Don’t bother looking for your phone, either. Or the keys to that stupid little car. I have them both.”
Leaving the cart by Ryker’s body, she bent to check the tape on my wrists.
Feebly, I tried to trip her with an outstretched foot. Chuckling, she nimbly avoided me, then reached for the roll of duct tape, tore off a strip with her teeth, and wrapped my ankles.
“Help,” I screamed. “Help.”
My voice echoed off the walls.
“The only reason I haven’t taped your mouth is that no one can hear you,” Shelby said. “But I will if you don’t shut up.”
I shut up.
Shelby flopped Ryker onto the cart, hoisting first one end, then the other.
“What have you done to him?” I slurred.
She ignored me. Grunting, she pushed the cart toward the great room, stopping once to wipe sweat from her eyes. “Bastard,” she muttered. “How much does he weigh?”
I assumed it was a rhetorical question.
Shelby and the cart disappeared into the great room. Moments later, I heard a door slam.
Desperately, I glanced about. Through the haze clouding my vision, I saw Spirit of the North hanging in its usual spot. Nigel hadn’t taken it after all.
But where was Nigel?
Shelby reappeared, pushing the cart in front of her. “You’re next, Verity.”
“The painting,” I said, hoping to delay her. “Nigel won’t let you take it.”
She gave me a sad look. “Oh, I’m afraid poor Nigel had to give it up.”
“To you?”
“Yep. Don’t worry, though.” She winked. “He’s not going to miss it.”
I struggled to understand. “His car…”
“Isn’t it nice? I always wanted a convertible. I took the keys off his bureau when I broke in to set up my little surprise. As well as the keys to this farmhouse.” She paused, gazing thoughtfully at the painting. “Too bad I’ll have to ditch the car. It’s too conspicuous.”
I scrunched my eyes shut as tightly as I could, then opened them again with a shake of my head. The fog was beginning to clear.
“How did you do it?”
She shrugged. “Easy. I nicked the gas line to the barbecue on Nigel’s balcony. Because it was outdoors, he didn’t notice the smell of escaping gas. And when he lit that thing—boom!”
“So he’s dead?”
“I dunno.” She grinned. “What do you think?”
“How did you know he’d use the barbecue today?”
She laughed. “That was brilliant. I paid the organic butcher to deliver a box of ridiculously expensive steaks to his apartment with an anonymous get-well note. Nigel couldn’t resist. I knew he’d have that thing up and running in no time. Which gave me the opportunity to come up here to claim my painting.”
She hoisted a rusted metal can in one hand. “I do need to get on with it.”
With a lurch in my stomach, I read the can’s peeling label.
Turpentine
Underneath, there was a large Flammable warning, complete with skull and crossbones.
Noticing my gaze, Shelby shook the can and sighed. “You’re right. Gasoline would be better, but this is all I could find. It was in the garage. But first—”
She put down the can, then bent over to grab my feet. “Let’s go,” she said, dragging me in the direction of the cart.
I squirmed and tried to sit up, to prevent her.
Shelby heaved a sigh, dropped my legs, and kicked me in the stomach.
“Ow.”
“You can’t stop me, Verity. I’d allow you to get up and walk, but you’re not trustworthy.” Bending over, she grabbed the neck of my shirt and hauled my top half onto the cart. Then the bottom half. My attempts to stiffen my body only made it easier for her.
“I know you’re not Ryker’s sister,” I said as the cart’s wheels squeaked across the floor. “So does Ryker. And so do the police.”
She paused long enough to scowl. “Ryker never would have figured it out if Dakota hadn’t been stupid enough to tell him her age. I warned her not to.”
I gasped. “Your fraud charge. The one you went to prison for. Dakota was the accomplice you refused to name.”
Shelby slumped against the nearest wall, breathing heavily. “You’re heavier than you look.” Chuckling, she added, “I should have taken Ryker up on his weightlifting tips.”
“Your accomplice,” I repeated. “It wasn’t another man. It was Dakota, wasn’t it?”
She shot me a vicious look. “What if it was? She’s dead.”
“Did you kill her?”
Pursing her lips, she looked beyond me, her gaze fixed on the Silo gallery.
Thinking about her prize, I imagined.
“You don’t get it. I went to jail rather than turn Dakota in. She owed me.” Wiping a line of sweat from her forehead, Shelby stood to grab the cart’s handle again.
We moved forward. Squeak, squeak, squeak.
“We worked together for years,” she continued. “Small stuff, mostly. Then I read about these new DNA tests online and saw an opportunity.”
Grunting, she maneuvered the cart into the front hall.
As we rounded the corner, my overhanging feet banged against the wall.
“Watch it,” I said.
“Shut up,” she said.
My vision was growing hazy again. I fought to stay conscious. “But why Ryker?”
“Dakota sold her grandmother’s stuff to an antiques dealer from Leafy Hollow, one piece at a time.” She chuckled. “Nigel Hemsworth, it was. And he couldn’t stop himself from bragging. Poor old Nigel.” She chuckled again. “One day, they got to talking about estate sales. He mentioned that some guy in the village had inherited this really valuable painting and that he—Nigel—was going to profit from it. It didn’t take us long to find out who the guy was.”
Leaving me on the far side of the great room, near the foyer, Shelby walked off, returning with the can of turpentine. She set it on the cart.
I eyed it warily.
“Dakota was supposed to charm Ryker. She was good at that. But this time, it backfired.”
“She fell for him,” I said, my voice flat.
“It was sickening,” she hissed. “I would have done anything for her. What did she need Ryker for?”
“You were jealous.”
“Shut up.” She wheeled me into the foyer. Squeak, squeak, squeak. “I told Dakota that if she didn’t explain the situation to him, I would.”
“You mean, tell him he was her half-brother?”
She shrugged. “It’s worked before.”
“Didn’t Ryker ask for proof?”
“Nope. Nobody ever does. It looks official, the way we present it. Most of them simply pay us to go away and not tell anyone.”
She crouched at my feet to swipe my legs off the cart. “But in Ryker’s case it was different, because he’d shown Dakota the will. When she told me about it, I realized immediately what it meant. Instead of keeping it hidden, we needed everyone to know they were related, so she could claim a share of his inheritance.”
“The lawyers would have figured it out.”
“By then we’d have the painting.”
“What went wrong?”
She flopped my top half onto the floor, thumping me onto my shoulder, which throbbed in protest.
“Dakota carried out the first part—telling Ryker,” Shelby said. “Then she refused to make it public. I told her she didn’t have to ask Ryker to give her money—it would be hers by rights. I told her she had to do it. That everything would change between us if she didn’t. But she wouldn’t listen.” Shelby scowled. “I can still hear her. Ryker was distressed. She couldn’t bear it. Poor Ryker.”
With a muttered curse, she kicked the tu
rpentine can across the foyer. I held my breath, watching as it bounced off the wall and clattered to the floor. The cap stayed on. I sucked in a grateful breath.
Shelby stared at the can, pain contorting her face. “We were so good, the two of us. Why wasn’t I enough for her? But she wouldn’t listen.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Why wouldn’t she listen?”
With a grim face, she unlocked the door of a walk-in closet off the foyer. I hadn’t noticed it during the open house. Perry must have used it to store paintings, since there were several propped against one wall, leaving plenty of room for the hand cart.
Ryker was propped against the other wall. He wasn’t moving.
Chapter Thirty
I considered rolling away from Shelby before she could drag me through the door and stuff me into that closet. But my stomach was still cramping from her kick. I decided to bide my time.
“How did you convince Dakota to go through with it?” I asked.
She shrugged. “I didn’t have to. I used Dakota’s phone to send Ryker an email from her, demanding money. But she found the email…and we fought over it.”
“You killed her.”
“I didn’t mean to. I…lost control.” Her eyes widened. “It was an accident.”
“What about the neighbor, Rosie Parker? Was that an accident, too?”
Shelby looked surprised. “Oh, I had no choice. That meddling gossip would have turned me in. I did the neighborhood a favor, really.”
With a series of grunts and muttered oaths, Shelby dragged me inside the closet by my feet. Then she slammed the door. I heard a key turn and the lock thud.
The faint light coming under the door was enough to make out a light switch on the wall. Struggling to my feet, I flicked it on with my chin, then turned to Ryker, praying he was still alive. “Ryker?”
He opened his eyes wide, then flexed his eyebrows at me.
I issued a sigh of relief. “I thought you were dead.”
“Rrrhhmrmphh,” he said.
After dropping to my knees and inching forward, I lowered my face to his. Once I had a good grip with my teeth, I ripped the duct tape off his mouth.
“Thanks.” He gulped in several deep breaths. “I’ve been such an idiot, Verity. She’s not my sister.”
