Heather Webber - Digging Up Trouble

66

Heather Webber

Considering I now couldn’t tell you what socioeconomic meant probably meant I earned that D.

Brickhouse narrowed her ice blue eyes at Tam. “I know you don’t want your son to have a cheater’s name.”

Tam scratched that one off the list too.

To me, Mrs. Krauss said, “She could call the cops on you.

Harassment.” She clucked, then smiled as if the idea amused her.

The last thing I wanted was to be involved with the police.

Especially one homicide detective in particular. I wondered when Russ Grabinsky’s autopsy would be completed. Freedom, Ohio, wasn’t exactly the murder capital of the country.

How busy could the M.E. be?

“Patrika?” Mrs. Krauss offered.

Tam and I frowned at her.

She clucked and continued to flip pages.

“I wouldn’t do it,” Tam said. “Going to see the dead man’s wife is asking for trouble, Nina.”

“Ach. I agree,” Brickhouse added.

That pretty much sealed it for me. I had to go see Mrs.

Grabinsky. Get her to listen to me. If only to prove to Mrs.

Krauss that she was wrong.

“How did it go with Jean-Claude?” Tam asked.

“Well, um . . .”

“You didn’t fire him!”

“I couldn’t.”

Mrs. Krauss clucked. “You’re a wuss, Nina Ceceri.”

I bit my tongue to keep from calling Mrs. Krauss something I might regret later. Actually, I wouldn’t regret it at all.

“Oh yeah? Well, you’re—”

“Looking good,” Mr. Cabrera said to Brickhouse from the doorway. He held a pot of red geraniums.

“Donatelli!” Mrs. Krauss’s whole face brightened. She clucked lovingly. “Geraniums. My favorites.”

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Geraniums always reminded me of cemeteries, but I kept that tidbit to myself. No need to remind Mrs. Krauss of Mr.

Cabrera’s bad luck with women.

Mrs. Krauss abandoned the baby name book and leaned up for a kiss.

It lasted for a good ten seconds.

Eww.

“I’ve got to go.” Quickly, I kissed Tam’s cheek good-bye, rubbed her belly, hoped the baby wouldn’t move while I did it and creep me out. It didn’t. “I’ll come back later,” I said.

“Leaving so soon, Miz Quinn?” Mr. Cabrera asked.

“Sorry,” I said, not sorry at all. “I’ve got someone to see.”

Tam’s and Brickhouse’s groans followed me out the door.

Eight

I parked down the block. I told myself it was because I needed the exercise—my lungs still hadn’t recovered from that sprint after BeBe—but really, it was because I didn’t want to give Mrs. Grabinsky any advanced warning.

If she saw me coming, she might not open the door. We weren’t exactly on friendly terms.

Skipping over a crack in the sidewalk, I glanced at the Lockharts’ house. A stone path flanked by blooming flower beds led to the front door. It was a charming house. Cape Cod style with dormers and a front porch complete with two rocking chairs and hanging flower baskets—petunias with flowing ivy.

The lawn sported a few clumps of crabgrass, which made me feel better. Lindsey wasn’t a complete perfectionist.

I glanced toward the big picture window. It would be so easy to peek in.

Maybe see if there were any frames set out.

That might hold pictures of loved ones.

Dead loved ones.

I glanced up, then down the street. No sign of any HOA patrols.

The Lockharts had a side garage, and I decided to check Digging Up Trouble

69

and see if it was open before I played Peeping Tom. Trying not to look suspicious, I moseyed down the sidewalk. The two-car garage door was open wide, a Jetta parked on one side, the other side empty.

From her visits to my office, I knew Lindsey drove a newer model Escalade. So Bill was home. Odd. I’d have thought he’d be busy at work today, especially since he was now running Growl alone.

I abandoned my peeping ideas—for now—and turned my attention to the Grabinskys’ yard.

It was a mess. Yellow crime scene tape still cordoned off the backyard, and I wondered why. The forensic guys should have been here and gone by now. Not that there was anything to find. Russ had had a heart attack, plain and simple.

Nothing’s ever plain and simple, my inner voice warned.

I didn’t want to listen to it, but couldn’t help but hear the ring of truth.

By the looks of things, Russ Grabinsky hadn’t been Man of the Year. But murder? Who’d want to kill him?

And how? Poisoning? An overdose?

Shaking my head, I decided not to go there. It had been a heart attack. I needed to stop playing Quincy, M.E., and get on with why I was here.

I needed to conjure up my inner Pollyanna and convince one seriously ticked-off woman not to sue me.

Since the yard was a mess anyway, I abandoned my manners and cut across the lawn. Three small concrete steps with a rusting black iron railing led to the front door.

The pansies on the front step looked in need of some water. I looked for the spigot, but raised voices coming from inside distracted me.

A man and a woman were arguing, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying.

70

Heather Webber

As usual, my nosiness got the better of me. I leaned over the step’s railing and peered into the front window. The front room looked to be a small family room, straight from the fifties. There was an old-fashioned TV and radio. A rotary phone and a powder blue Smith-Corona typewriter sat on a rolltop desk in the corner. Bookshelves were stuffed full, but orderly. There were no pictures, I noticed. Not even an obligatory wedding one. A faded pink love seat with a tattered throw blanket balled into one of its corners sat diagonally from two worn La-Z-Boys. A TV Guide rested on the ottoman in front of a leather chair in front of the window. On a table next to the chair, I saw a stack of bound books. Old-fashioned accounting books, by the looks of the spiral bounds and red leather. I’d used them before Tam brought me into the computer age.

Beyond an arched doorway, I could see shadows coming from what appeared to be the kitchen area (the refrigerator was a dead giveaway), but still couldn’t see who was arguing.

The woman had to be Greta Grabinsky. But who was the man? Did this have anything to do with Russ’s death?

Had it been murder after all? A love triangle gone wrong?

I shuddered at the thought of Greta Grabinsky being in the middle of a love triangle.

Love is blind, my inner voice reminded.

Oh great. Now it was sounding like my mother too.

I turned toward the street, looked left, then right.

Trying to look natural, I eased off the step, made a beeline for the backyard. Ducking under the crime scene tape, I looked over my shoulder to make sure no one was watching, then hurried around the corner, bumping into something hard. Someone, actually. A man.

He spun around, annoyed eyes widening when he saw me.

Half scared to death, I opened my mouth to scream, but only a gurgle came out.

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“Shh!” Bill Lockhart warned, holding a finger up to his lips. He pressed on the top of my head, ducking me down even though I was a good two inches shorter than the height of the windowsill. He turned his back to me, his ear cocked.

My heart raced, but I managed to close my mouth. Blood pulsed through my ears, drowning out the voices inside the house. Adrenaline surged through my body, looking for an outlet. I swear I could see my chest pulsating beneath my T-shirt, my heart still pounding.

Was this what it was like to have a heart attack? The chest pain, the lack of air?

I couldn’t help but look at the spot where Russ had fallen.