Muddy Waters Read online

  Muddy Waters

  The Leafy Hollow Mysteries, Book 4

  Rickie Blair

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  MUDDY WATERS

  Copyright © 2017 by Rickie Blair.

  Published in Canada in 2017 by Barkley Books.

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  All rights reserved.

  The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise stored in a retrieval system, without the express written consent of the publisher, is an infringement of the copyright law.

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

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  ISBN-13: 978-1-988881-02-7

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  Cover art by: www.coverkicks.com

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  Also by Rickie Blair

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Nellie Quintero pulled her Lincoln Town car up to the rustic fence that edged the deserted lot, turned off the engine, and settled in to wait for a man she’d never met.

  Warily, she glanced around. It wasn’t the lack of people that bothered her as much as the abundance of nature. Predatory, menacing, irritating nature. Raindrop-sparkled branches lay in wait to drench her clothing. Colorful drifting leaves would be soggy and treacherous under her feet. Screeching jays with full bladders circled overhead, no doubt aiming for her freshly blown-out hair. Even the parking lot itself was questionable. When she swung her legs out from behind the steering wheel and onto the ground, gravel crunched against her stiletto heels, threatening to mar their perfect surface.

  After scowling at the jays, she checked her watch. Right on time. Good. Punctuality showed respect for a new client. And mutual respect was the cornerstone of a lucrative relationship. With a sigh, she got to her feet and leaned her arms on the edge of the open driver’s door, gazing at the path that led to the peak.

  Sensibly, she left the love of her life sitting on the taupe leather passenger seat. What if her new client insisted on an actual tour of Pine Hill Peak, instead of a simple drive-by? She kept a nice pair of running shoes in the Lincoln’s trunk for more dubious viewings. Regarding her pumps with trepidation, she weighed whether to change into flats. That would illustrate how accommodating she could be. But it would also result in a less-than-professional appearance.

  And professionalism was Nellie’s stock-in-trade.

  When accepting a new listing, for instance, she always recommended her vendors employ a professional stager before putting their homes on the market. These hired decorators boxed up the assorted detritus of everyday life—family photos, cracked china, battered toys—and sent it off to storage. Most of the furniture followed. Pets were banished to a local kennel. Once the palette was clear, the stagers and Nellie would stroll through the suddenly spacious rooms, conferring in low tones, Nellie’s arms sweeping through the air as they strategized.

  Painters were brought in to “wash” the walls with neutral shades. Rental furniture was trucked in and skillfully distributed. Finally, the stagers added the little touches that made a house a home—fluffy Egyptian-cotton towels rolled up in wicker baskets in the bathroom, high-thread-count sheets and silk duvets arranged artfully on the beds, European espresso machines and stainless steel mixers gracing the pristine kitchen counters.

  It was expensive, naturally—her clients usually gasped when she handed them the stagers’ bills—but worth every penny.

  Sadly, not everyone took her advice. One bungalow, for instance—an estate sale—had housed a dozen cats. Possibly more. She rolled her eyes in remembrance. That viewing had definitely been a running-shoe situation. In hindsight, even those shoes could have used protection.

  Not that it mattered to the eventual buyer—a contractor who planned to gut the interior in preparation for a lucrative flip. The village of Leafy Hollow had grown popular with families escaping big-city life—and big-city real estate prices. Many of those buyers preferred to begin their new lives amid fresh drywall, updated plumbing, and speckled granite counters.

  As the village’s favorite realtor, Nellie had cashed in.

  Hence the purchase of what she called, not entirely in jest, the “love of her life”—a wildly expensive Hermès Birkin pebbled leather handbag. One she did not intend to endanger with a scrabble up the muddy trail that led to the Peak.

  An alarm tinkled on her cell phone. She glanced at it, her new client temporarily forgotten. There had been rumblings of something coming. Something big. She might have to drop everything—even a profitable new customer—to deal with it.

  Hopefully not. Her new Birkin really should have a matching wallet.

  False alarm, thank goodness. She dropped her phone on the driver’s seat. The client was late. How long should she wait?

  Meet me at the Pine Hill lookout, ten a.m., the email had said. Interested in purchasing village house. Need at least four bedrooms, historic building essential. Would like to view general area first.

  The reference to an “historic building” meant this buyer wanted one of the village’s most expensive homes. Nellie glanced at her watch. Usually she met new clients at her office, but requests to tour the village’s scenic backdrops were not uncommon. The view from Pine Hill Peak, three hundred feet above the village, drew hikers and sightseers for hundreds of miles. From the top, Leafy Hollow’s narrow streets and replica antique lamps resembled the miniature panoramas beloved by shopping channel collectors. Triumphant hikers snapped selfies in front of its background of billowing treetops and the gray-blue expanse of Lake Ontario in the distance. Today, with every maple, chestnut, and dogwood blazing with autumn colors, even she had to admit the valley was spectacular.

  A cardinal cried out, its red feathers almost invisible within a thicket of flaming sumac. The bird burst through the branches, wings flapping, apparently spooked. She watched it fly off into the cloud-daubed sky, followed by the jays. A cricket chirruped in the bushes. Nellie took in a deep breath of loamy woodland air, the sunlight warming her upturned face.

  Then something dropped over her head, shutting out the light.

  Panicking, clawing at the shroud, she tried to cry out. But her struggles only pulled cloth into her mouth, choking her and muffling her screams.

  Rough hands grabbed her from behind and pulled her across the lot. A heel snapped off one of her shoes as she twisted and flailed, her heart pounding against her ribs.

  Behind her, a vehicle crunched noisily over gravel, and a door opened. A mighty shove sent her into the car. Her head cracked against the doorframe, and she stopped struggling.

  Chapter Two

  The sunny tune I was crooning died on my lips when I stepped into the 5X Bakery and saw the startled look on my best friend’s face. I puffed out a breath in lieu of the last notes. “What?”

  Emy Dionne stared at me, a teapot in one hand. “Were you just humming a Neil Diamond song?”

  “Maybe.” Letting the door shut behind me, I paused to inhale the usual intoxicating aromas of cinnamon, lemon, and cocoa. With Emy still staring at me, I dropped into a chair at the lone table. “What’s it to you?”

  “Nothing. I just thought you were more of a Killers fan.” She walked over to pour me a cup of black Assam tea, her lips twitching in a near-smile. “It’s such a coincidence. Someone else was in here this morning humming that same tune. Jeff Katsuro, in fact.”

  I eyed her suspiciously. “That is a coincidence.”

  Emy arched her eyebrows, the teapot still in her hand. “Are you and Jeff—”

  “No comment.” I added a dollop of milk and two spoonfuls of sugar before raising the cup to my lips.

  “Oh, please. You’ve come in late every morning this week.” Emy placed the teapot on its trivet and glanced at the flicking tail of the black-cat clock on the wall. “It was only twenty minutes today, though. I thought Jeff had more stamina than that.”

  Nearly spurting tea through my front teeth, I set down my cup. “Hey. Watch it.”

  Emy sat across from me and filled a cup for herself. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you this morning, but if you don’t divulge the details–I will make them up. And I have quite an imagination.” She sipped her tea and put the cup down, raising her eyebrows again.

  “Oh, stop it.”

  From her impish grin, I knew she wasn’t deterred. “Just tell me. Is it official yet?”
r />   “Is what official?”

  “Your arrangement, whatever it is.”

  I stared glumly at my half-drained cup and settled it carefully onto its saucer, my sunny mood abruptly cloudy. “We don’t have an arrangement.”

  “Whose fault is that?”

  “We’re both busy…” My voice trailed off in confusion. For some reason, I was reluctant to follow through with the only man I’d been attracted to in the two years I’d been a… I raised my cup for another sip. My inability to pronounce the word widow might be part of the problem. But how could anybody come to terms with being a widow in her mid-twenties?

  Emy kept right on talking.

  “—every unattached woman in the village has been trying to snare Jeff since his wife died five years ago. Yet, for some reason, he prefers you—Verity Hawkes.” She made a gesture of feigned incredulity, dark eyes wide in her petite, heart-shaped face. The dusting of flour on her upturned nose somewhat detracted from the gravity of her presentation.

  “Yeah.” With my eyes narrowed, I mentally reviewed the competition. “Doesn’t that worry you a bit? I mean, why me?”

  “Stop selling yourself short. You’re smart and funny and very… tall.”

  “Thanks for the dubious endorsement.”

  Emy issued a puff of annoyance. “You wouldn’t say that if you were five-foot-one.”

  “Have you tried wearing vertical stripes?”

  “Stop changing the subject.” She straightened in her chair and glanced at the door. “Where’s Lorne, by the way? Wasn’t he cutting lawns with you this morning?”

  “He’s picking up your grocery order at Bertram’s.” I grinned. “Don’t worry. Your sweetheart will be here anon.”

  “Anon?”

  “The book club’s reading Trollope this month.”

  “Wrong era.”

  “Close enough,” I huffed.

  Emy rolled her eyes. “Well, he better get here soon. I want to know why he’s plotting with Nellie.” She sat back, tapping two fingers on the table.

  “Nellie Quintero? The realtor?”

  “She texted me yesterday. Take a look at this.” Emy handed me her phone. I scanned their short conversation. The first text was from Nellie.

  N: Must talk to Verity. Fri. nite, drinks?

  E: Why me?

  N: Hanranhan’s at 10. Verity will come if u do.

  I looked up, puzzled. “I don’t understand.”

  “Me either. But when I tried to back out of it…” Emy gestured at the phone in my hand. “Keep reading.”

  E: I have to check with Lorne.

  N: He’s fine with it.

  I handed the phone back. “Isn’t Hanrahan’s that place with the karaoke?”

  Emy grimaced. “It is.”

  “Maybe she’s kidding?”

  We exchanged glances, then said in unison, “Naah.” Nellie had many attributes, but a sense of humor wasn’t among them.

  “Have you heard from her today?”

  “Not a word.”

  “Maybe she’s forgotten?”

  We exchanged fresh glances, and repeated, “Naah.”

  “While we’re waiting, did the lunch crowd buy all your sandwiches?” I glanced hungrily around.

  “I saved you a roasted vegetable with Swiss cheese.” Emy rose to walk behind the counter. “But I’m serious. Why the hesitation over Jeff?” She returned, plonking the wrapped sandwich in front of me.

  After unravelling the plastic wrap, I took a big bite of the crunchy ciabatta bun and chewed thoughtfully, following it with a sip of tea. Emy kept her gaze fixed on me. I took another bite and chewed some more. Her eyebrows rose.

  “All right.” I put the sandwich down. “His occupation is a red flag, don’t you think? Police detectives get shot occasionally.”

  Emy bit her lip before speaking. “Jeff’s not going to die, Verity.”

  Something caught in my throat, and I swallowed hard before replying. “Still. It’s a dangerous job.” I took another bite.

  “Compared to sticking your nose into murder cases? That’s not dangerous? At least Jeff is armed. With more than gumption, I mean.”

  I flicked her arm. “Stop it. I do not stick my nose into murder cases. Last time, I was only helping your mom. It’s unfair to say—”

  “You were awesome. But you did nearly get yourself killed.”

  “Why does everybody keep bringing that up? It only happened once.” I sipped my tea. “Okay, twice.” Swallowing morosely, I regarded Emy. “Three times, tops.”

  The front door opened with a jingle of the proverbial saving bell.

  “Oh, look,” Emy said, her voice dripping sarcasm. “Here’s my new social coordinator.”

  My landscaping assistant Lorne Lewins tromped in on his work boots, grinning, his light brown hair falling over his forehead. No matter how many times he pushed it off his face, it always dropped back.

  He placed six lemons and a carton of demerara sugar on the counter and handed Emy the receipt. Bertram’s was convenient, but pricy. She grimaced at the total before placing it to one side and fixing Lorne with a steady look.

  His gaze swiveled from Emy to me and back again. “What did I miss?”

  Emy placed her hands on her hips. “Did you tell Nellie I was available on Friday night?”

  Lorne looked a little shifty. “Maybe.”

  “Oh, great.” Emy lowered her arms with a sigh.

  “Look, babe,” Lorne said. “She’s not the easiest person to say ‘no’ to.”

  I understood his reluctance. Nellie’s friendly demeanor, cheery waves, and sympathetic vibe made her everybody’s idea of the ideal woman. But she was also a razor-sharp negotiator, able to pry loose the best possible price for her vendors while convincing the buyers it was a “steal.” If Nellie Quintero wanted a karaoke night out with the girls, Emy and I might as well start gargling and practicing scales.

  I shuddered at the thought of performing in public, never mind before a rowdy bar crowd. There might not be enough Molson Canadian in the entire village to do the job. For me, I meant, not the crowd. I heaved out a sigh, already picturing the anxiety attack it was likely to trigger.

  “When did you talk to her, Lorne?” Emy asked.

  “This morning, when you sent me to Bertram’s for lavender.”

  I pictured Nellie ambushing Lorne over the grocer’s organic kale and dandelion leaves. He would have been helpless.

  “She said you’d have fun,” Lorne said. Weakly, he added, “Verity—she said you could take Jeff along.”

  “What?” My mouth dropped. My relationship with Jeff–such as it was–was not supposed to be public knowledge. “Is everybody in the village talking about us?”

  “Not everybody,” Emy said.

  I swiveled my head to stare at her.

  She shrugged. “A lot of people are still on vacation.”

  Lorne smirked, and I narrowed my eyes at the two of them. I suspected Emy had let it slip to her mother. Thérèse Dionne was Leafy Hollow’s chief librarian, volunteer literacy tutor, and primary gossip—sorry, I meant “custodian of village lore.” If Thérèse knew my secret, I might as well take out an ad in the village’s weekly newspaper, The Bugling Beaver.

  I slumped in the chair and lolled my head back to stare at the ceiling. “Never mind. I’m too tired to care. In fact, I’m not leaving this spot until I’ve had two espressos and another sandwich.”

  Emy gasped. “What on earth—”

  Waving a feeble hand, I added, “I’m kidding about the sandwich. But a butter tart would be nice.”

  No reply, except for footsteps running to the window.

  “What’s he doing?” Lorne asked.

  I snapped forward in my chair and glanced around. Lorne and Emy were standing by the front window, looking out onto Main Street.