The Grave Truth Read online

  The Grave Truth

  The Leafy Hollow Mysteries, Book 6

  Rickie Blair

  THE GRAVE TRUTH

  Copyright © 2019 by Rickie Blair.

  Published in Canada in 2019 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: 978-1-988881-09-6

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  To receive information about new releases and special offers, please sign up for my mailing list at www.rickieblair.com.

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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

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

  Also by Rickie Blair

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  The old man had been dying for days. Troublesome to the last, the gray-suited gentleman seated by the carved four-poster thought. And enjoying every minute of it, probably.

  With a twinge of irritation, Nelson Palmer glanced at the middle-aged woman dozing in an armchair on the other side of the bed—her open mouth issuing an occasional snort, a single string of pearls rising and falling on her chest.

  “Marilyn,” he said. And again, louder, “Marilyn.”

  Her eyes flew open. “What is it?” she blurted, jerking awake with a flailing of arms. She slapped a hand to her chest, gasping for air. “What did you do that for? Idiot.”

  “Sorry, sis.” Suppressing a smirk, Nelson turned his gaze to the two-story window that overlooked the blue-gray waters of Lake Ontario stretching to the horizon. A red-tailed hawk soared overhead, searching the lawn for prey.

  A cardiac monitor beeped monotonously in the background.

  On a chair under the window sprawled a young man, one leg flung over its arm. He fondled a leather-handled knife with an air of boredom. Sensing his uncle’s eyes upon him, the young man looked up. “How long is this going to take? I’m dying for a smoke.”

  “Well, forget it,” his mother snapped from her armchair.

  “Where’s Tracy?”

  “I told you. Your cousin has been delayed.”

  “Then why do I have to be here?”

  Nelson straightened, patting a hand over his thinning hair. “You don’t. Take a break, Seth.”

  The young man scrambled to his feet, sheathed the knife, and headed for the door.

  Marilyn gripped the arms of her chair, glaring at her brother. “What if Eugene wants to speak to him?”

  Nelson gave an exaggerated glance at their father’s white hair fanned over the linen pillow. His watery eyes were unfocused, and his gaunt fingers picked at the quilted coverlet. “He won’t.”

  Then Nelson settled back and closed his eyes, reviewing his efforts to get the old man to explain his mumbled declaration of three days earlier.

  She knows. I told her…

  Knows what? More secrets, probably. Nelson would have ignored it, except for the obvious note of glee in Eugene’s gravelly voice.

  She knows.

  For three days, Nelson had been haunted by those words. But it appeared the old man would slip away without explaining—leaving a potential time bomb to explode in his wake.

  Or at his wake, the son thought, picturing a disheveled woman of dubious pedigree crashing the solemn occasion, low-cut black knit straining over an ample bosom. He sighed. Is it too much to ask for a little advance notice?

  Eyes shut tight, he tried to remember if funeral services included a version of the “speak now or forever hold your peace” line common at weddings. Was it possible to halt a funeral with salacious disclosures? No, he realized immediately, shaking his head. Otherwise, there’d be a never-ending queue at the funeral home.

  But—

  She knows.

  A familiar feeling of dread inched its way up his throat. If those revelations were of a different nature—a financial nature, say—much more than a funeral would be disrupted.

  At a sudden guttural sound, Nelson’s eyes sprang open. He rose to his feet, then bent low over the bed. “Father? What did you say?”

  The old man’s gnarled fingers gripped the coverlet as he mumbled.

  “What is it?” Marilyn pushed down on her armchair with bejeweled hands and leaned in, ready to leap to her feet. “What is he saying?”

  “Shh.” Her brother gestured impatiently. “Shut up, Marilyn. Father, what are you trying to tell us?” He leaned over the bed until his ear was inches from the old man’s mouth. “Can you repeat that?”

  With effort, the patient lifted his head from the pillow and spoke again.

  Nelson grimaced. “I don’t understand.”

  The old man’s eyes widened, and his fingers tightened their grip on the sheet. His head fell back on the pillow, and a long, rasping sigh left his lips.

  Then, nothing.

  Overhead, the cardiac monitor ceased to beep.

  Nelson straightened, staring at his father’s frozen face. It bore a disconcerting expression. The old man was—grinning.

  He shook the nearest shoulder. “What did you say?” Then he shook both shoulders. “Father, can you hear me?”

  He exchanged glances with his sister.

  Her eyes widened. “No,” she blurted, leaning in to clutch the old man’s motionless arm. “Tell us, you—you—” Lifting his limp hand, she slapped it against his face. “Wake up.”

  Nelson’s mouth gaped. “Stop it. That’s not helping.”

  “You do something then. We have to know—”

  “Let me through, please,” a male voice said.

  Nelson jumped at the sound. He hadn’t heard the nurse come in.

  After tugging the old man’s hand from Marilyn’s grasp, the nurse held the sagging wrist and regarded his watch.

  Marilyn leaned in, watching him, her mouth open.

  While they waited, Nelson’s gaze wandered to the stethoscope-wearing teddy bears that frolicked across the nurse’s cotton tunic. Stray bars of melody floated through his brain from a childhood favorite, “The Teddy Bear’s Picnic.” If you go down in the woods today, you’re sure of a big surprise.

  Nelson frowned at the ancient memory. Who sang that to him? Not his father, certainly. Impatiently, he banished the tune from his head.

  After a full minute, the nurse lowered the old man’s hand. “I’m afraid he’s gone.”

  “No,” Marilyn yelled. “Get him back. We have to know what he—” Her gaze flicked desperately around the room. “Where are those paddle thingies? You have to zap h
im.”

  The nurse’s eyebrows rose. “That’s not—”

  “Zap him,” she screamed, climbing onto the bed.

  “No.” Nelson grabbed her around the waist to stop her from hurling herself at the nurse. “It’s too late.”

  After a brief struggle, Marilyn slumped into her chair. She sank her head into her hands in a rare gesture of defeat.

  The nurse hastily closed the old man’s eyes before pulling the coverlet over his head. Then he took two steps back. “Let me know when you’re ready. I’ll be downstairs.” He turned to the door.

  Ignoring the nurse, Marilyn plucked at her brother’s sleeve. “What did he say?”

  “I couldn’t make sense of it. It was gibberish.”

  “But what was it?”

  “As far as I could tell, he said, ‘The walks woman. She knows.’”

  Marilyn frowned. “Walks? Walks where?” Her frown escalated to a scowl. “Did he mention anything about—” Casting a wary glance at the departing nurse, she lowered her voice. “You know?”

  “Not that I heard.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “For heaven’s sakes, Marilyn. You’ve been here the whole time. If he’d said anything else, you would have heard it.”

  “Yes.” She looked dubious. “But—the walks woman? What does that mean?”

  Standing stiffly by the door, the nurse cleared his throat. “Maybe it was something else. Like—talks. Or gawks.” He pointed to the window, where the red-tailed raptor continued to hunt. “Or even hawks.”

  Marilyn’s voice regained its usual chill. “The hawks woman? Our father was hardly a birdwatcher.” With a gesture of impatience, she turned her back on the nurse. “Tracy might know. When did she say she’d get here?”

  Her brother shook his head. “Tomorrow. But it doesn’t matter. He said walks. The walks woman.”

  Whirling, Marilyn looked accusingly at the nurse. “Did you put him on some kind of exercise regimen? Is that what he was talking about?”

  The nurse regarded her coolly. “Your father has been beyond exercise for some time.” After a pause, he added, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Then he went downstairs to call the coroner.

  Chapter Two

  Two weeks later…

  The warmly welcoming, cinnamon-scented air of the 5X Bakery had turned wickedly chilly. Behind the front counter, my friend Emy Dionne froze, her fingertips resting lightly on the glass.

  Emy’s eyes darted between me and the unnamed man who faced me.

  No one moved.

  It was High Noon at the 5X—only with lavender scones and maple butter instead of cheap hooch. On the wall, the plastic eyes of Emy’s black-cat clock clicked back and forth. Tick-tock.

  My name is Verity Hawkes—full-time gardener, part-time investigator, and relatively recent resident of Leafy Hollow, a picturesque southern Ontario village nestled at the foot of the Niagara Escarpment. Most of the customers who dropped by the village’s favorite bakery were known to me. The others were generally tourists who had worked up an appetite snapping selfies in front of historic brick buildings and replica antique street lamps.

  This man was not a tourist.

  I stepped closer to the figure in the waxed-canvas coat—close enough to see that the wavy brown hair I remembered had been bleached blond by the sun, and his face was heavily creased.

  A gust of chill spring air rattled the front window.

  Tick-tock.

  Emy broke first. “Can I get anybody anything?” she squeaked.

  I folded my arms, my gaze fixed on the newcomer. “Emy, this is my father. Frank Thorne.”

  “Ohh,” she said, nervously tapping the glass. Evident in her gaze were the unspoken words—That can’t be good.

  “Why are you here, Frank?” I asked.

  “It’s a matter of life and death. Verity, I need your help.”

  “Why should I help you?”

  “I’ll tell you.” But instead of revealing the reason for his surprising visit, my father—that honorific stuck in my throat as wildly inaccurate—spent a full minute removing his overcoat, glancing around for the coat rack, then hanging up the garment while smoothing its wrinkled sleeves. No one stepped in to help him.

  Despite the weather, he had no gloves, no hat, and no scarf. My irritation mounted when I saw he wore jeans, a worn leather belt pulled tight, and a denim shirt with cuffs rolled up over tattooed forearms. The worst of the winter was over, and the spring thaw had made a tentative appearance in the village. But it was still frigid outdoors. He must have been cold in that outfit—but too macho, as usual, to admit it.

  Frank pulled out a chair by the only table, then sat with his legs stretched in front of him, arms crossed. When he smiled at me, laugh lines crinkled at the corners of his laser-blue eyes.

  I narrowed my own eyes, determined not to look away. Or smile back. “Well?”

  “Wait. I’m getting to it.”

  Emy poured a coffee—black—and brought it to him. Her petite hand quivered slightly as she set it on the table. “Sugar?”

  Shaking his head, he unfurled his arms to pick up the cup. “Thanks.”

  While he drank it, I whipped out my cell phone to tap in a text.

  frank’s at the bakery.

  And hit send.

  He watched me over the rim of his cup.

  Narrowing my eyes at him, I imagined the curse words issuing from my aunt’s cottage a mile away when she read my text. No one hated Frank Thorne more than Adeline Hawkes, the sister of the woman he’d abandoned.

  My phone beeped with a reply.

  b right there

  It was accompanied by a super-angry emoji. The one with horns and a red face. I tucked my phone in my pocket to await reinforcements.

  Shucking off my parka, I hung it next to Frank’s coat, tucking it into place with trembling hands while I decided which of the thousand possible responses careening through my brain were worthy of expression. Finally, I walked to the table and pulled out a chair across from him. I sat, keeping my chair far away from his, and crossed my arms again.

  He smiled, putting down his cup. “You look well.”

  “You look old. Wife number three must be wearing you out.”

  His lips twitched. “No need to get personal.”

  “Personal?” I felt my voice rising, even though I was doing my best to stay calm. “Did you expect me to welcome you with open arms? I haven’t heard from you for years. You didn’t come to Mom’s funeral. You didn’t even send flowers. Why are you here now?”

  He rubbed a hand over the nape of his neck as if easing out a kink. “Well… About the flowers—I didn’t want to intrude on your grief.”

  I gaped in astonishment. “You didn’t want to intrude on—” Shaking my head, I tried to take this in. “Yeah, that makes sense. Your only daughter becomes an orphan, yet you can’t be bothered to pick up the phone?”

  “You’re not an orphan,” he said quietly.

  I leaned my head back to stare at the ceiling, willing my pounding heartbeat to slow. After a few moments, I straightened. “What about Aunt Adeline? Don’t you think she deserved a line or two? She had to clean up the mess you left behind.”

  “Adeline made it clear she didn’t want to hear from me.”

  “That’s irrelevant. Her only sister died and—”

  “Right.” He scowled. “The sainted Hawkes sister. The bereaved, innocent sibling mired in grief. You think Adeline can do no wrong. You don’t know anything about it. You have no idea what she’s capable of.”

  Half of me—the adult half—wanted to jump out of that chair and slug him. The other half—the abandoned eight-year-old—wanted to cry. I’d waited twenty years for him to walk back into my life. And now that he was here—I was flummoxed. “I don’t have any money, if that’s what you’re after.”

  A strange expression passed over his face, vanishing a moment later. He leaned forward solemnly and placed his hands on the tab
le. “Verity, I made a mistake. I’m here to fix it.”

  “It’s too late.”

  “Not that. I mean, that too, but—this is not what you think.”

  A jangle of the bell over the front door seized our attention, and we both turned to it.

  Aunt Adeline was holding the door open. There was a wild look in her eyes. Her white parka was unzipped, and a wool scarf trailed from one sleeve. She stepped into the bakery, slamming the door behind her with enough force to make the black-cat clock shift crookedly on the wall.

  My aunt’s normally sunny face was the same color as that emoji. I was shocked to note the volume in her voice as she advanced on Frank.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Adeline,” he drawled, rising slowly to his feet. “Knew you’d crawl out of the woodwork the minute you heard I was back. As for what I’m doing—I’m catching up with my daughter.”

  “You bastard.”

  “Language, Adeline.” He tilted his head in mock surprise. “There’s young folks in the room.”

  My aunt’s voice was bitter. “Turn around. Leave now. You’ve done enough damage here for a lifetime.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  The two of them squared off, sizing each other up. My father stood stiffly, his expression stony. Aunt Adeline leaned forward on the balls of her feet, fists clenched by her sides. “You’ll leave—or I’ll make you leave.”

  I glanced at Emy standing transfixed behind the counter. Her alarmed gaze darted from my aunt to Frank and back again. I gave a little cough, and Emy swung her attention to me.