Read Digging Up Trouble Online
Authors: Heather Webber
Tags: #Fiction, #Contemporary Women, #Mystery & Detective, #General
Digging Up Trouble (18 page)
I heard a car door slam and saw Dale Hathaway striding across his driveway toward his wife. She must have called him away from work.
My phone rang. Tam. I stepped aside to answer it.
"Did you kill someone else?"
I dropped my voice. "I didn't kill anyone!"
"I heard there was another dead body."
Dear Lord. "How'd you hear that?"
"Lindsey Lockhart called Bill at Growl. Riley heard about it and called you at work, but got Ursula, and Ursula called me."
My mind spun trying to keep up with it.
"Well," I said, "do you know if Bill was coming home?" I really wanted to ask him about those accounting books.
"Riley said something about him leaving early."
"Wait, you talked to Riley?"
"I needed more information, Nina. This hospital room isn't exactly control room central."
"How are you feeling?"
"Better. The doctor says I might be able to go home soon."
"Really?"
"I'll still be on bed rest, though. How's Ursula working out by the way? Isn't she perfect for the job?"
Depended on what job. Driving me crazy, definitely. I wasn't sold on the receptionist part. Not yet at least. "She's doing better than Coby." Which was true.
"I knew you'd be happy to have her."
"Tam, get your head checked while you're at the hospital."
"Now, Nina, I know you two aren't the best of friends, but she's really a nice—"
"Gotta go," I said before I threw up. " 'Bye!"
I snapped my phone closed, wandered back to Kate and Dale.
Suddenly I was hearing Disney's chipmunk song in my head. I definitely needed food.
My phone rang again. I sighed, stepped away and answered it, wondering if Tam had figured out what was going on from her hospital bed and was calling to let me know.
"Chérie?"
"Mom? What's wrong?"
"Wrong? Wrong? Nothing's wrong. What makes you say that?"
"The tone of your voice."
"Tone? What tone?"
"Mom."
"There's been a small problem here. Very small. I'm sure the insurance will cover it."
I closed my eyes, tried to rub both throbbing temples with one hand. "What kind of problem?"
"A broken pipe is all. Nothing major."
A broken pipe. On the second floor.
"Just thought I'd let you know. I'll let you get back to work now. Ta!"
"Trouble?" Kate asked when she saw my face.
I wanted to laugh. Could this day get any worse?
"Nothing the insurance can't cover, apparently."
"Oh."
Cops streamed from the Grabinsky doorway. Across the yard, I saw Meredith Adams staring at me. I wanted to stick my tongue out. I restrained.
"This is all so sad," Dale said. He held Kate protectively, his arm wrapped around her shoulder. The sun glinted off his wedding ring.
A ring I'd seen before.
In Greta's kitchen.
Close up I could see the unusual design more clearly than I had the other day.
Platinum twigs intertwined to form a beautiful floating band. Kate, I suddenly noticed, had a matching one.
"We love to hike. We love nature of all kinds," Kate said.
I must have looked confused.
"The wedding rings. I saw you looking at Dale's."
"They're beautiful." I looked up at Dale.
"Custom made," he said. "Nothing but the best for Kate."
Russ had been blackmailing Dale.
Dale had threatened Greta.
I looked at Kate. Did she know?
I wondered what it was Russ had on Dale. He looked
like a loving husband, but I knew looks could be deceiving.
Had it been Dale who trashed the Grabinsky house?
Had Greta been murdered after all? What had Dale said to Greta? Something about her paying dearly?
"I'm going to go," I said.
They went back to their house too. I managed to find Baby Face and had him move his patrol car. Before I left, I grabbed a bottle of spring water from my truck, crossed the police line, and poured it into the pot of pansies on the porch. I didn't want another thing to die at this house.
I backed out of the driveway and started driving, realizing I was shaking.
It had been one of those days. I needed some food, some Advil, some comfort, a hug.
It wasn't until I was almost there that I realized where I was going.
Bobby.
Nineteen
By four-fifteen I was in a seriously bad mood.
Bobby wasn't to be found, the Advil hadn't worked, nothing looked or sounded good enough to eat, and there was no one around to hug.
Well, there was Brickhouse, but I had my limits.
Too bad Kit wasn't there. The man gave the best hugs ever.
I looked around my office. Two design boards leaned against my desk, which was cluttered with site plans and designs.
To add insult to my day, when I'd visited Derrick Brandt at the nursery, I learned that Jean-Claude hadn't placed the orders I needed. Luckily, with what Derrick had in stock, we were able to salvage my design plans.
I'd come back to the office for my appointments and learned that my two o'clock had bailed on me after hearing the news reports of Russ's death.
Thankfully, the young couple who came in at three was very enthusiastic and excited about doing a yard for the young woman's mother.
I double-checked that I had the written permission of at least one homeowner (the girl's father) before I took them on.
Jean-Claude, Jean Claude.
I rubbed my temples. What was I going to do?
Grabbing my cell phone, I punched in Ana's number, waited while it rang.
"Ana Bertoli," she chirped.
"You sound happy."
"Shakes and I are talking."
"Shakes?"
"S. Larue's nickname. I can live with Shakes. It's kind of cute."
"Talking? Are you back together?"
"Not yet, but we're working on it. You sound like crap," she said. "What's wrong?"
She knew me too well to hide anything. "Too long to get into."
"Want me to come over tonight?"
If she and S. Larue were talking, I thought that maybe she'd have other plans. "I'm okay."
"You sure?"
"Yep. Hey, did you ever hear from that bartender?"
"Jake? He was cute, wasn't he?"
"Shakes," I reminded.
"I can look."
"No you can't. You're easily distracted."
"I take exception to that."
"No you don't."
"You're right. Nope, haven't heard from Jake. Why? Has JC disappeared again?"
"Ugh. Don't call him that."
"Why? It's . . . cute."
"You're in a cute mood."
"Love is in the air."
I wanted to gag.
"Are you gagging?"
"I'm close."
"Why? You've got Bo-bby."
Why did everyone singsong his name? "He might be leaving."
"What? Spill!"
I explained about the transfer.
"Stop thinking about how Kevin would feel."
Leave it to Ana to cut to the heart of the matter.
"It's not up to him. It's your life, Nina."
"I know."
"Do you?"
"Kind of." Argh.
"I'll be over at eight."
"No, no. I'm fine."
"I'll bring Phish Food."
"All right." I'm easily swayed by Ben & Jerry's.
"Besides, I want to see your bedroom. I hear it's gorgeous."
"It is. But the bathroom . . ."
"Bathroom?"
"You don't want to know."
We hung up, and I was clearing clutter (stuffing things in drawers) when Brickhouse appeared in my doorway.
She clucked.
I closed my eyes, thought about thunking my head on my desk until I was unconscious. I didn't have the energy for Brickhouse right now.
When I opened my eyes, she was right in front of my desk, a bowl in her hands. She set it in front of me.
"Eat."
I peeked into the bowl. The smell that rose up on waves of steam made my stomach growl.
There were things in there I couldn't identify. Little bits of pudgy rice-shaped pasta for one. The spices for another. I recognized the carrots, the celery, the bits of ground beef. "What is it?"
"Soup."
"Ha. Ha."
"It's an old family recipe." She set a plastic spoon next to the bowl. "Now eat."
I looked up, trying to gauge why she was being nice to me, and thought I saw a flash of maternal worry before her eyes switched back to their normal blue steel.
"Thanks," I said, nearly choking on the word. Me, thanking Brickhouse Krauss. I never thought I'd see the day.
She nodded and walked out the door.
I scooped, I sipped, I
mmmm
ed. It was very, very good.
mmmm
ed. It was very, very good.
I just hoped it wasn't poisoned.
Inside Growl, people stood four deep in lines. There were three people working the registers. Two looked like they could have been Goosh's brother and sister.
I stood there twirling my key chain on my finger until Riley noticed me. He gave me the one-finger wait-a-minute sign again. I pointed down the hallway that led to the restrooms.
He nodded.
I didn't see Noreen, and according to Tam, Bill had gone home early. This was the perfect time to check his office, see if those accounting books had miraculously turned up.
Black ceramic tile led me to the ladies' room. I stopped, looked over my shoulder, and sprinted down the rest of the hallway toward the Employees Only door, Keds squeaking, keys jangling.
Pushing on the swinging door, I peeked in. Didn't see anyone. Slipping through the opening, I looked around.
To my right, a short hallway led to the kitchen area and what looked like a break room. Someone stood with their back to me, chopping tomatoes.
There was an office to the left, the light off, the door open. I ducked in, closed the door, turned on the light.
The office was split down the middle by a partition. Each half matched the other, right down to the heavy oak desk and steel trash can. Two small supply closets faced each other on opposite walls.
One desk had a picture of Lindsey on it. Bill's. My Clueplaying abilities never ceased to amaze me. Setting my keys on the heavy duty industrial carpet, I riffled through papers, opened drawers. No accounting books. Nothing that looked the least bit incriminating at all.
Working fast, I checked Russ's desk as well. The man was a neatnik, I'd give him that. Tam would have appreciated his organizing. I looked for a financial file among the hanging files but couldn't find one.
Bracing myself, I opened the closet door on Russ's side, hoping nothing—namely a dead body—fell out on me.
It had been that kind of day.
There were several work shirts hanging on a rod, and shelves above and below that held office supplies. Printer paper, file folders, envelopes, and the like.
Quickly, I crossed the room to Bill's closet, turned the handle.
It was locked.
Why? What was in there?
My mind jumped again to dead bodies.
Pushing that thought away, I wished I'd brought my purse in. My credit card would have come in handy right about now. Kevin had once shown me how incredibly easy it was to bypass a simple lock.
And this one was simple.
I didn't bother checking my hair for a bobby pin—I never used them. I thought fast.
The desk. It would have paper clips. Sure enough, they were in the top drawer. An economy-size box of them. I grabbed one, unbent it.
A second later the lock released.
Slowly, I opened the door.
"Ewww." I stepped back.
Not a dead body, but almost as bad.
Mushrooms.
I shuddered.
Two small barrels of them took up two-thirds of the closet floor. There was an empty space on the left side that looked just the right size for another barrel. Shelves started above the barrels, right about thigh high, and went all the way to the ceiling. They were filled with everything from humongous jars of fat-free mayonnaise (ewww) to cans of chick peas, black beans, barley, and lentils (double ewww).
It was a storage closet.
Not an accounting book to be found. And I looked. Behind cans of mandarin oranges, bags of rice, spice tins. Despite myself, I even poked around the mushroom barrels.
If Bill had taken the accounting books from Greta's house, he hadn't brought them here. Not that I could find them anyway. Maybe he'd kept them at home? Less suspicion that way.
The office doorknob jiggled. My stomach lurched.
"Why is this door locked?"
Bill. Oh God.
"I don't know."
Noreen.
I looked around for a place to hide. My gaze hit on the closet floor. I might be able to make it . . . if I squeezed.
Hard.
"How odd," Bill said. Muffled, his voice sounded menacing.
I ran over to the light switch, flipped it as I heard a key sliding into the lock. I fairly dove into the closet, became a contortionist, and closed the door behind me.
It was dark. Very dark.
And oddly chilly.
And smelly.
For a second I had a panic attack about my deodorant again, then realized the smell wasn't coming from me. It was the mushrooms.
I shuddered again. Mushrooms and I just didn't get along. Not since my mother made beef Stroganoff when I was six and forced me to eat every revolting bite. It probably had more to do with my mother's cooking than the mushrooms themselves, but it had scarred me, and my stomach, for life.
I didn't know a lot about mushrooms—just that I didn't like them—but weren't they supposed to be stored in a refrigerator?
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