A Branch Too Far (The Leafy Hollow Mysteries Book 3) Read online

  “I’m sorry,” the clerk said nervously to Lucy. “I don’t think—”

  “You don’t have to think. Why don’t we let the manager decide. Is she around?” Lucy craned her neck to sweep the tiny store with an annoyed gaze.

  “I can get her.” The clerk’s voice was wavering. She was close to a breaking point. If Lucy didn’t let up, Emy would never get her lavender.

  “This is ridiculous,” a voice proclaimed from the queue. “Move it along, lady.” It was the orange-lipsticked woman behind me. Her sunny day had clouded quickly.

  Lucy planted her fists on either side of her waist and twisted to confront the grumbling lineup. “You should be thankful that I insist on proper food-handling hygiene. Obviously, this girl has not been properly trained.”

  The teenaged clerk blinked rapidly, and her silver rings quivered.

  The shoppers fell silent, scanning shelves of gourmet vinegar with exaggerated interest.

  I noted a suspicious twinkle in Lucy’s eyes. She was enjoying herself.

  As Lucy turned back to the counter, I dropped her empty basket onto the stack behind the till. Then I reached for the last of the lavender.

  A delicate, white hand clamped onto my arm. “Hang on,” Lucy said. “I was just about to add that to my order.”

  My mouth fell open as she plucked the lavender from the vase and flourished it in front of the clerk.

  “I’ll take this, too,” she said.

  With an indignant gasp, I snatched for the flowers. “No fair, Lucy—I told you I was buying those.” I grabbed a corner of the lavender. “Let go.”

  The queue of shoppers stepped away with raised eyebrows as Lucy and I tugged at the bouquet. The rattan basket rocked on my elbow, and the six lemons leapt out one by one. I tap-danced around them, still clutching the lavender.

  When Lucy released her grip without warning, I pitched back, no longer able to avoid the rolling fruit. The first one squished under my running shoe with a splat. But the second and third were not giving up that easily. My feet planed across the lemons.

  I landed heavily on my rear with a grunt of surprise, my empty basket hanging from one hand and a torn bouquet of lavender in the other.

  Lucy bent over me and extended a hand. “Here, let me.”

  I raised my arm.

  “Thank you,” she said, plucking the lavender from my grasp. She straightened up, slapped it on the counter, and opened her change purse again.

  “Hey,” I squawked while struggling to my feet. “That’s mine.”

  Lucy ignored me. “This is damaged,” she said to the clerk. “I expect a discount.”

  By the time I’d paid for the battered lemons, Lucy was outside—with Emy’s lavender.

  I marched out the door, intending to give her a piece of my mind. At the very least, she should pay for the ruined fruit.

  Lucy was standing beside her bundle buggy, eying the Labradoodle with disgust. The dog lowered its head and edged back as far as its leash would allow.

  “Listen,” I said, “about the lemons—”

  “This is a disgrace.” Lucy pointed to the dog. “That animal should not be in any store where food is sold. Someone should call the health department.”

  “It’s not in the store.”

  She snorted. “It might as well be. Look—I think it drooled on those rutabagas.”

  I turned to look. The locally grown vegetables outside the entrance were at least a foot above the Labradoodle’s head. Besides, he wasn’t interested in rutabagas—unless they were wrapped in bacon. When I turned to explain this to Lucy, she was already marching up the sidewalk away from me. I jogged after her, hoping to open negotiations for the lavender.

  “Lucy,” I called.

  I stopped in surprise as she halted beside a white Land Rover two car lengths from Bertram’s front door. After placing her bag of groceries on the front seat, she folded up the bundle buggy and slid it into the back.

  “Why do you need a bundle buggy if you’re driving?” I asked.

  She gave me a curious glance while latching the door. “Don’t you care about the environment, Verity?”

  Before I could answer, she opened the driver’s door and got in. Lucy tucked a sprig of lavender behind her ear and tossed the rest of the bouquet onto her front dash. “See you at the book club meeting,” she called through the open window as her white vehicle jerked into traffic and drove off.

  A minivan shrieked to a halt to avoid hitting the Land Rover.

  With a grimace of disgust, I pulled out my cell phone. Still no text from Lorne. I slipped the phone into my pocket and decided to fill in the time by harvesting the only lavender I could count on—the patch growing in my aunt’s back garden.

  I texted Emy, Slight delay. Back soon. Then headed for my truck.

  In Rose Cottage’s kitchen, I laid my freshly cut lavender on the counter to even up the stalks and wrap them in paper. They weren’t as pretty as the perfect flowers sold at Bertram’s, but good enough to pinch hit.

  “Verity.”

  I jerked my head up, listening. The voice had been so faint it could have been my imagination. I was alone in the kitchen. General Chang, my scruffy one-eyed tomcat, would usually be jonesing for a liver treat but today he was snoozing on the front porch. After glancing around the empty kitchen, I returned to my task.

  “Verity. Verity Hawkes.”

  There it was again. This time I identified the source—the basement. I tied a string around the flowers and placed them near the back entrance, where I could grab them in case of a hasty getaway.

  “Verity!” The voice was louder now, with a definite petulant tone.

  “Be right there,” I called as I wrenched open the sticky basement door and started down the worn steps. At the bottom, I toggled the antique light switch and stepped into the dusty room, ducking under overhanging pipes.

  The far wall normally displayed holographic shelves stocked with fake boxes of maple syrup and Molson Canadian. Today that wall was gone. In its place was a non-holographic swivel chair, a console with keyboard, and a double row of monitors. Identical gray heads—their sharp-edged faces reminiscent of Picasso’s Cubist period, or perhaps ventriloquists’ dummies—appeared on each screen.

  Pairs of gray eyes watched me while I dropped into the chair. Other than my fingers tightening on the seat edges, I sat very still, painfully aware of a growing cramp in my chest. So far, I’d taken comfort in the no-news-is-good-news adage, but I’d been prodded awake more than once by an overwhelming fear that Aunt Adeline was gone for ever. Was this the day my nightmare came true? I decided to tackle my fears head-on.

  “I’ve been waiting weeks for you to check in,” I said, swallowing hard. “Do you have news?”

  My aunt had been missing for over two months. After police pulled her ruined Ford Escort from the river, the authorities wrote her off as dead. I’d received enough cryptic notes to believe that wasn’t true, but I had no idea when she would come home—or even if she could. Her next-door neighbor and long-time confidant, Gideon Picard, was out looking for her. So far, he’d shut me out of his search. The only thing I knew was that they had once both worked for a mysterious, black-ops marketing outfit called “Control.”

  And that this talking hologram in my basement was a direct link.

  Perky black berets materialized on the puppets’ heads. Their jaws moved in unison. “Ma chérie, we must talk. Temps perdu, and so on. Time waits for no—”

  “Lose the accent, please,” I said, through gritted teeth. “And the hat.”

  I didn’t know what other talking holograms were like, but this one had always been pretty irritating.

  “Just kidding, Verity.” The berets disappeared with a pouf. “And we’re sorry, but we have no news. Not yet.”

  The tightness in my chest eased. “Then what do you want?”

  “We want to know why you’re not in Niagara Falls. At HQ.”

  “I went there, as you instructed. No one con
tacted me. I couldn’t even find HQ.”

  Emy, Lorne and I had walked aimlessly around Niagara Falls for hours. After contemplating the thundering water, we checked out everything from the dinosaur park to the power plant—even a forty-foot-wide chiming clock made out of flowers. Zinnas and creeping phlox, mostly. No one approached us.

  “We told you to come alone.”

  “You did not,” I sputtered.

  The faces regarded each other quizzically. “No?”

  “No. Also, you promised me information about my aunt. I’m still waiting.”

  “You don’t understand the urgency of our demand.”

  “Why don’t you explain it, then? And for starters, you can stop calling it a demand. You have no right to give me orders.”

  The faces swirled into multicolored ribbons before re-forming into identical contrite expressions. “Verity, we have embarked on the wrong foot. We apologize.”

  “Just tell me what you want me to do.”

  “Oh. We’re not cleared for that.”

  I flicked my gaze upward with a sigh. “Then put me through to someone who is.”

  The heads twisted from side to side, exchanging glances, before facing me again. “They’re not ready for you yet.”

  Through gritted teeth, I asked, “When will they be ready?”

  Their faces brightened. “Ten days. Or maybe”—gray fingers tapped gray chins—“two weeks? Then again…”

  “What about Gideon Picard?” I tapped the pocket of my yoga pants, where Gideon’s latest message lay crumpled. I’d discovered it that morning while rummaging in the glove box of my aunt’s truck for my Tim Hortons gift card.

  The note simply said,

  Adeline found

  I recognized Gideon’s handwriting, as well as his infuriating economy with words. Not to mention the fact that he could have knocked on the front door of Rose Cottage and told me this in person, instead of skulking around in ridiculous secret-agent mode. I pictured him plunging through the shrubbery, as usual.

  I also cursed his brevity. Adeline found? Did that mean she was alive? Or—my chest contracted again—dead?

  “Gideon can’t be trusted,” Control snapped. Then, with a sharp pivot of their heads accompanied by a beady stare, “Have you… heard from him?”

  My fingers gripped my pocket as if it had suddenly become transparent. It occurred to me that Adeline found didn’t necessarily mean Gideon had been the one to find her. I casually smoothed my hands down my thighs and adopted my best candid tone. “No. And unless you have actual news, I have no time for this. Is there… anything you want to tell me?”

  I waited.

  Gray lips pursed, but said nothing.

  “Fine.” I jumped to my feet, scraping the chair across the floor, and turned to go. “We’re done here. Call me.” With an exhalation of disgust—to cover my disappointment—I headed for the stairs.

  Behind me, metal panels clanged shut, locks snapped into place, and the basement wall shimmered back into cases of beer and syrup. I guess. To be honest, I didn’t watch.

  Or stop to wonder when I became so blasé about having a talking hologram in my basement.

  On my way out the back door, my cell phone beeped with a text from Lorne.

  Delayed. Sorry.

  How long? I texted back.

  One hour.

  Pausing on the threshold, I swept my gaze across my aunt’s back garden. Tattered perennials, neglected vegetable plots, and magnificent herbaceous borders stretched four hundred feet before me, melding into the purple-hazed woodlands of Pine Hill Valley in the distance. I’d tried to restore the garden’s faded glory, but there was so much to be done and never enough time to do it. Grinning, I set off to retrieve my gardening tools from the back of the truck. Emy wouldn’t mind waiting another hour or so.

  With the lavender on the front seat beside me, I drove my aunt’s truck down the escarpment road and onto Main Street. A boy on a bicycle darted in front of me, and I slammed on the brakes. Then a man sprinted past, following the boy. I turned my head to see where they were going.

  A crowd had gathered in a driveway directly under the Peak, where a garbage bin had disgorged its chicken bones, soggy kale leaves, and plastic milk bags across the road. The squashed receptacle looked as if it had been run over, but the flashing lights of a police cruiser suggested there was more at stake here than a vandalized garbage container. Or maybe not—this was Leafy Hollow, after all, where residents were infuriated by neighbors who mixed compost with non-recyclables.

  I pulled the truck over to the shoulder to watch. Another police cruiser halted beside the first. With one hand on the gearshift, I debated driving off and staying out of their way.

  Then Detective Constable Jeff Katsuro emerged from the second vehicle, settling his police cap over his jet-black hair.

  I smiled. It couldn’t hurt to say hello. And then—because Jeff was working—I’d get right back into my aunt’s truck and drive away. I put it in park and got out.

  There was no yellow tape up yet, so whatever this was must have occurred only minutes earlier. I sidled up to the group and craned my neck. One advantage to being five-ten—possibly the only advantage—is that I can see over most people’s heads. The pavement was splattered with ripped cardboard, empty tin cans, takeout containers, and…

  I sucked in my breath at the sight of a covered mound next to the garbage bin.

  Exactly the size of a body.

  “Fell off the Peak,” a woman beside me whispered to her companion. “Just now.” The woman with her nodded. They edged nearer, craning their necks.

  “Did anyone see what happened?” the second woman asked.

  “I don’t think so. There was no one here when I arrived.”

  I tilted my head to look up at the cliff that soared above us. A fall from that height would be a long, terrifying drop. When I lowered my gaze, the first officer was placing numbered cones next to objects on the pavement. Number four sat next to… my breath quickened at the sight of a tattered stalk of lavender.

  I squinted at the other objects, trying to make them out.

  “Hey,” the first woman asked, poking my arm. “I saw you at the grocer’s, didn’t I?”

  I turned to face her gray pixie cut and orange lipstick.

  “You were arguing with Lucy.” She placed her hands on her hips. “It got pretty heated, as I recall.”

  “Lucy?” A cold hand gripped my heart as I inclined my head toward the body. “Is that… Lucy Carmichael?” I had trouble getting the words past my suddenly dry lips.

  “Sure is. I found her body and called it in.”

  Her friend shook her head sadly. “What a tragedy. Poor Lucy.”

  Then both women looked suspiciously at me.

  Chapter Three

  Emy was huddled at the back table of the 5X Bakery with her mother, Thérèse. When the bell over the front door tinkled, they looked up at me with white faces.

  I stood frozen in the doorway, recognizing their shocked expressions. It was an uncomfortable reminder that I had seen that look too many times.

  “You already know?” I asked.

  “About Lucy? Yes.” Emy nodded miserably, exchanging a grim glance with her mother. Although Thérèse was older by twenty-five years, they could have been twins. The same petite five-foot-one frames, heart-shaped faces, and black hair. Only the wrinkles at the edges of Thérèse’s brown eyes hinted at her age. That, and her elegant pencil skirt, silk blouse, and blunt-cut bob. Whereas Emy—cheeks flushed from the heat and humidity of her bakery kitchen—wore an enormous white apron over a T-shirt, yoga pants, and running shoes. It was all dusted with flour—including the tip of her upturned nose.

  I walked past the glass-fronted counter that spanned a side wall of the narrow shop, drew up a third chair, and sank into it. I’d been conscripted into Thérèse’s book club shortly after my arrival in the village, two months earlier, so I knew Lucy Carmichael well. Despite her annoying exterior, th
ere was a lively intelligence in her eyes. Lucy had been a keen observer of life, if not an eager participant. As a world-class introvert myself, I recognized a fellow sufferer beneath that hard shell. And now…

  “I simply can’t take it in,” I said, drumming my fingers on the table.

  “You were there, weren’t you?” Emy asked. “I’m sorry. It must have been awful.”

  “I didn’t see anything. Not really.”

  “The police think she may have—”

  Thérèse clamped a hand on Emy’s arm. “It was an accident.”

  Something about her manner put me on my guard. From Emy’s pursed lips, I could tell there was more, but I let it pass. No need to arouse the scrutiny of Leafy Hollow’s chief librarian and unofficial Miss Manners, Thérèse Dionne.

  “Why would Lucy be on the Peak?” I asked. “She was afraid of heights. It came up at our Anna Karenina meeting. When we were discussing the train scene.”

  Thérèse rose, brushing her skirt with one hand and reaching for her handbag with the other. “Don’t forget, Verity—this month’s meeting is on Sunday. Two days from now.”

  “Really? We’re going ahead with it?”

  Thérèse showed no sign that she’d heard. “Alias Grace, remember. Margaret Atwood.” The heels of her pumps clicked on the floor as she strode to the door.

  I watched her go, puzzled by her odd behavior. Why was Thérèse telling me something I already knew? And surely our meeting would be cancelled? Nevertheless, I made a mental note to set aside Give Your Phobias the Chop: The Ninja Guide to Conquering Fear and get cracking on the club’s current selection.

  Emy hustled after her. They exchanged a few words at the door, their voices too low for me to make out. While they talked, I got up and bent over the glass counter to check out Emy’s latest creations. The tray of scones held only one offering, its pale glaze sprinkled with tiny purple blossoms.

  I slapped a hand to my forehead. The lavender was still on the front seat of my aunt’s truck.

  Bells sounded, marking Thérèse’s exit.

  A second later, a finger poked my back. With a start, I whirled around to see Emy smiling at me.