Death of a Highland Heavyweight Page 4

  I didn’t mind, and neither did Helena Borgdenburger, their creator. The panels had gained her a well-deserved reputation throughout Atlantic Canada; corporations and churches commissioned her work after seeing the panels in my shop. While inside Dunmaglass ooohing over Helena’s work, these people also purchased pieces of my jewelry and/or her husband’s creations. So it was what one might call a win-win situation.

  A giant, multi-paned bay window fronted Dunmaglass. It was the perfect display location for my favorite stained glass panels—the lighthouse on the rocks at the end of the harbor.

  Carrie’s new lobster boat trophy was supposed to sit on the curved stone sill in front of the stained glass where the whole world could see it and, hopefully, inspire a few more racers to join the Hum Harbour Daze competition.

  As I approached the shop, I noted duct tape over cardboard replaced five of the square window panes. Not a good sign.

  Hands trembling, I fitted my key into the door lock, and let myself into the shop. The tiny bell over the door jingled. A year ago my shop had been vandalized. Since then I’d installed a security system, but my stomach still clenched when I remembered the destruction.

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I said a silent prayer. I fisted my hands and braced myself for the worst. Then I flipped on the lights.

  The perfectly normal shop displays stole my breath. I sagged against the doorframe in relief.

  “Ash? Ash, are you here?” Her footfalls pounded down the stairs, and she looked neither concerned, nor frazzled, when she emerged into the open.

  “Hey, Gai,” she said with a smile. “You came.”

  “Of course I came. Andrew said there’d been a disaster at the shop and—”

  “D-disaster? Is that what he told you?”

  “He didn’t remember exactly what you’d said, but yes, disaster was the general drift of it.”

  She hurried forward, and gave me a big hug. I guess I looked like I needed one. “It’s OK. Everything’s OK. R-really.”

  “Then what happened to my window? And where’s the new trophy? Don’t tell me it’s broken. Or stolen. It’s not missing, is it?” I couldn’t keep new panic from my voice.

  The trophy was a Halbert Borgdenburger original—a replica of a Northumberland lobster boat, dusted in sea spray as it crested a frothy wave—all in blown glass, mounted on a polished, Birdseye maple pedestal. Spectacular. Irreplaceable.

  Nowhere in sight.

  “It’s upstairs,” Ash said. “When I came in to work this morning and found the b-busted windows I was, like, ‘that trophy’s not safe down here, especially with the window guys coming this afternoon.’ So I locked it in your office room. Well, shut it in the office, I d-didn’t lock the door ‘cause you can’t, and Sheba doesn’t open doors.”—Sheba’s my cat—”But I figured you wouldn’t want her around the trophy in c-case she, like, brushed against it and knocked it over or something.”

  I placed a steadying hand over my thumping heart and took a deep breath. “Do you know what actually happened to the window?”

  She shrugged. “K-kids, I guess. I couldn’t see anyone on the video feed. They kept out of range of the camera.”

  I remembered that unsettling moment the previous night, when I saw someone watching Hunter Hall. It seemed hard to believe that someone else was outside in last night’s storm. “How am I supposed to catch vandals I can’t see?”

  She didn’t seem concerned by this injustice. “I called the window repair guy.”

  “And you thought it was best to close the shop until they finished working?”

  She tilted her head, considering. “Yeah.”

  I had put her in charge.

  “But the rest of the store is OK?”

  She slapped my shoulder a little too enthusiastically for my comfort. “Everything’s g-great.”

  No disaster, just a small calamity. I smiled with relief. As was so often the case, Andrew’d gotten it wrong. “Then I guess we can reopen.”

  “Before you d-do, maybe could you come upstairs for a minute?”

  I think that’s when I registered that Sheba hadn’t greeted me in her usual, enthusiastic way. Had I relaxed too soon?

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong. N-not here. But it c-could be…”

  Ash’s stammer intensified when something was amiss. And there was no point waiting for her to work her way through an explanation. You could solve six murders before she ever got there. So I checked that the shop was still locked and led the way to my upstairs apartment.

  Apart from the large black cat trying to cram herself into a gift-bag in the middle of my living room floor—she did not fit—and the kitchen frog strategically placed in the middle of my coffee table, the place looked fine.

  Ash pointed at the frog.

  Frankly, after spending the last twenty-four hours surrounded by Carrie Hunter’s ridiculous frog collection, I wasn’t particularly thrilled to find another ceramic amphibian center-stage in my own home.

  “Mom’s kitchen frog,” I said. “What about it?”

  “You recognize it?”

  I am not on a first name basis with the neighborhood kitchen do-dads, but I was pretty sure this was my mother’s. I’d never seen another painted Nova Scotia tartan.

  “You found Mom’s frog.”

  “It was g-given to me.”

  “By whom?” I felt required to ask.

  “Josh.”

  Josh Pry, Ash’s boyfriend.

  “He found a tartan frog like Mom’s and gave it to you? That’s nice, I guess.”

  She tore off a strip of fingernail with her teeth. “Not like your m-mom’s. This one is your m-mom’s.”

  I picked it up, turned it over, recognized the tell-tale chip from when my brother, Andrew, had pitched it at my other brother, Sam. There’d been a corresponding lump on the back of Sam’s head, as I recalled.

  “Where did he find it? Did he say?”

  “He probably d-didn’t think I’d recognize it. I mean, how many people are into frogs like I am?”

  “Carrie Hunter?” I muttered.

  Ash seemed too distressed to hear. “What should I do? Give it back? T-tell him to give it back? And what about all the other f-frogs he’s given me?”

  “Other frogs?” Oh dear.

  “Every week a new one. Or a d-different one? What if he stole them all?”

  I flopped down on my floral couch. Not in its usual ponytail, my hair spilled annoyingly into my face. What if Josh was Hum Harbour’s frog thief? What if he was the one who’d absconded with Carrie’s precious figurines? Worse still, what if Josh had killed Claude Oui in the midst of the robbery?

  I could tell by the look on Ash’s face that she hadn’t connected the dots. She didn’t know about Carrie’s collection, or its missing pieces, or that Claude’s death was anything more than a tragic accident.

  I didn’t actually know that, either.

  What I did know was that Josh’s frog stealing days were over. And obviously, since Ash had only told me and no one else about her suspicions—”Have you told anyone else?”

  She shook her head.

  She wanted me to deal with this as quickly and quietly as possible. Which was also why she’d closed Dunmaglass, she explained. I needed to confront Josh.

  “Why me?” I asked.

  “He likes you. He’s fishing with his dad. B-But when he gets back tonight, can you talk to him?”

  Dunmaglass faces Main Street, but my back windows overlook the harbor. I could see the fleet was gone for the day. That gave me a few hours to decide how I’d confront him. Although Ash didn’t realize it, we were talking about a bigger crime than lifting a few kitchen frogs.

  Josh might be involved in Claude’s death

  “Until then, we may as well open Dunmaglass. Can you handle it?”

  She nodded again.

  “Then off you go.” I made shooing motions with my hands. “I’m going to shower and change and head to the clinic
. Geoff gave me yesterday off. I don’t want to miss today too, if I can help it.”

  As soon as she disappeared, I flopped sideways on the couch. The disaster I’d anticipated—a smashed one-of-a-kind trophy—had turned out to be nothing more serious than a couple of broken window panes. I’d call the security company and have them readjust the cameras to cover more than Dunmaglass’s front and back doors. The secondary disaster, however, the one I’d walked into without warning, was much worse. Ash’s boyfriend was a thief. A thief with a thing for frogs.

  With Claude Oui dead and Carrie missing a few of her own prize amphibians, it looked as though Ash’s beau had become the prime suspect.

  10

  I am a medical receptionist. I say this with pride, the way Evie Carnahan declares, “I am a librarian” to Rick O’Connell, in the movie, The Mummy. I also have long, black hair, but that’s where the likeness ends. Her eyes are green, mine are hazel. She’s tall—five-seven—I’m small in comparison—five-four on a good day. She has a delightful British accent, and I speak plain, old, Canadian.

  We do share another important thing, though. We both have amazingly handsome sidekicks who help us solve mysteries.

  My comrade-in-arms is the breathtakingly dashing Dr. Geoffrey Grant, my employer and fiancé. He took over Doc Campbell’s practice last spring when Doc retired. Within days, Doc was dead—murdered—and Geoff and I were determined to catch his killer. OK, I was determined to catch the killer, and Geoff was determined to keep me out of trouble. His task proved harder than mine, though not as heartbreaking. You see, Doc’s murderer was my life-long best friend.

  I had no idea how to cope with the devastating discovery, but after five years as a missionary in Somalia, Geoff was well versed in coping with loss. He understood, he listened, he held me when I cried, and it seemed only natural to fall in love with him. Unavoidable, really. And I am so thankful God could bring something this good out of a situation that was that bad.

  When I arrived at the clinic, it was regular Wednesday busy, which meant steady, but not frenetic. Geoff and I worked well together and had achieved a kind of rapport I never managed with his predecessor, Doc Campbell. We understood how each other’s minds worked and could anticipate what the other wanted, or needed, in order to do our jobs well.

  So, by four-thirty I was closing the file on the day’s last patient and sending the required billing statement off to Nova Scotia Health for payment.

  Geoff leaned against the doorframe, watching me log off the computer. “Got dinner plans?” he asked. We often shared meals.

  “I promised Ash I’d talk to Josh once he got back.”

  “That’s not until sunset.” When the boats came in.

  “So, dinner at your place or mine?” I asked.

  “Why don’t I cook? I bet you’re worn a little thin after last night with Carrie Hunter.”

  He had no idea.

  “We’ll eat at six. Gives us time to hit the beach before you go.”

  Morning and night, I walked the beach scavenging for sea glass. I wasn’t always successful, but I loved the routine. I followed Geoff out of the clinic, and after he locked the door, we walked home.

  Hum Harbour is a small fishing village along the rugged shores of Cape George, Nova Scotia. Its four main streets parallel the shoreline’s curve, each one riding higher up the steep hillside. Water Street, with the wharf, fish plant, and Bait ‘N Tackle, was closest to the harbor. Main Street, where I live, housed the business section. The clinic was on Pictou Street, and uppermost, Murray Street, connected to the highway.

  Geoff lived next door to Dunmaglass, in the apartment above my cousin’s Hubris Heron Seafood Café.

  “I saw your broken windows this morning,” he said as Dunmaglass came into view.

  “Did you hear any commotion last night? Ash said it was probably kids, but I’m worried.”

  “That you’ll have another break-in?”

  I shoved the unpleasant suggestion to the back of my mind. “Have you seen anyone lurking around?”

  Geoff draped his arm across my shoulders. “You’re letting your imagination run away with you, Gai. Don’t let Claude’s accident spook you.”

  “How can you be so sure it was an accident?”

  “Gai.”

  “Hear me out. Carrie’s robbed. Claude’s killed. My windows are broken. There was someone watching Hunter Hall last night. Don’t you find all that suspicious?”

  His arm stiffened when I mentioned the late-night watcher. “Could you see who it was?”

  “The street lights were out in the storm. But what if it was the thief? Or the murderer? What if they’re one and the same?”

  The clefts in his cheeks deepened when he pressed his lips together. Usually that meant he was struggling to find the right words. Right now, his right words would be telling me to drop the whole thing.

  I didn’t want to hear that.

  Geoff surprised me, though. “If you know something you need to tell Andrew.”

  Not before I’d made sure my suspicions had merit. “But what if I’m wrong? You know how I get carried away.” We stopped in front of Dunmaglass. Clear window glass replaced the duct tape and cardboard squares. Not the warped antique glass that used to fill the panes, but a definite improvement on the duct tape.

  Geoff cupped my face between his hands and kissed me soundly. “Then promise me you’ll leave this to Andrew.” He looked so earnest and concerned; I wondered if he’d include my promise to confront Josh about stealing among the things I should leave to Andrew.

  “Does that include me talking to the frog thief?”

  “Do you know who your frog thief is?”

  “I think so. Maybe. Probably. Yes.”

  “You’d already decided to confront him yourself?”

  “We could go together, if you want. We’d just talk to him.”

  “Gai.”

  “Is there any harm in that?”

  “Tonight, I suppose?” Geoff, always two steps ahead of me, realized I was talking about my impending chat with Josh. “You were going to do it without me.”

  “I don’t need your permission to talk to people, you know.”

  Geoff peered into my eyes, as if trying to see through to my brain, and decipher what was in there. “You should. Especially if you’re going to start accusing them of murder.”

  I pulled away. “What do you think I am? Some brainless ninny who flies off half-cocked every time I turn around?” I poked his chest for emphasis.

  “I’m not the one who sees a murderer under every bush.”

  “And you think I do?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Kitchen frogs. All I’m going to talk about is kitchen frogs!” I flung open the door to Dunmaglass, almost knocking the bell off its hinge. “If the topic of murder comes up, trust me, I won’t be the one to blame.”

  “It won’t be anyone else.”

  Angered by his lack of trust, too stubborn to admit Geoff might be right, I stomped through to my apartment.

  As usual, Sheba sat in the middle of the table, waiting for supper. My moods didn’t bother her. As long as she had her kibble, I could rant and rave to my heart’s content.

  Which I did.

  11

  I had a small deck above Dunmaglass’s back storeroom. There was just enough room for a couple of chairs and a potted palm, which lived inside my apartment ten months of the year. Geoff had a larger deck over the Hubris Heron’s kitchen. Since less than a foot of space separates Dunmaglass from the Heron, Geoff built a small bridge so we wouldn’t have to walk downstairs, outside, and upstairs again to reach each other.

  By the time I crossed the connector, any negative feelings I might have harbored had dissipated in the fervor of romantic anticipation.

  Geoff’d set his outside table with a hand-me-down tablecloth, mismatched china, and old cutlery he’d picked up at the thrift shop. A mason jar overflowed with cone flowers, bee balm, and daisies that quivered sh
yly in the breeze. Since our second-storey decks overlooked the wharf, it could be idyllic or deafening, depending on the time of day and the amount of activity below. At the moment, things were still quiet. However, I could see the first of the fishing fleet rounding the breakwater as they chugged home.

  Geoff wore an apron around his trim waist. He kissed my cheek before setting wooden bowls of salad at each place, and we took our seats. As always, we held hands while he prayed, and I confess, I didn’t close my eyes. I loved to watch the way our hands looked with his long, perpetually-tanned fingers linked protectively through mine and the way my diamond ring—once his mom’s—magically caught the late afternoon sun, spinning tiny stars of light against the underside of his patio umbrella. Another bargain store find.

  Risotto followed salad. Fruit and custard—compliments of the Hubris Heron and cousin Mimi—followed the risotto.

  We ate and talked and kissed and absently watched Josh and his dad off-load the day’s catch. Neither of us felt keen about ending our dinner, much less confronting Josh regarding his frog thefts. Geoff would come with me—whether to keep me in line or keep Josh out of trouble should he fail to keep me in line--I wasn’t sure. But any excuse to have Geoff near was good.

  Darkness came too early in August, when the air still sagged with summer heat, and no one wanted to head indoors for the night. A couple of years ago, colored patio lights were all the rage, and it seemed like everyone in town bought strings of plastic lanterns. As Geoff and I walked to Ash’s house to meet Josh, we could see the colorful lights in every backyard along the way. Voices and tantalizing BBQ fragrances wafted from all directions.

  We found Ash and Josh entwined on the front step of her parents’ two-story. When Geoff cleared his throat they unfurled, arms and legs detangling, two bodies emerging from one mass. They reminded me of the poppies in my mom’s garden, the way their enormous blossoms swell once the tiny pods burst.