Heather Webber - Digging Up Trouble

To me, it looked like he had died quickly. I wondered if he’d actually suffered silently, a scream trapped in his throat.

Oh great. Now I was thinking like Ana.

I drew in a deep breath, let it out. I did that a few more times, glad I had seen Tam practicing her Lamaze breathing.

When I finally felt my pulse slowing, I whispered, “What are you doing here?”

He looked over his shoulder. “Same as you, I suspect. Shh.”

Trying to talk Greta out of suing. I’d forgotten she threatened Lindsey with a lawsuit too.

Now that I had calmed a bit, I could hear the voices inside, through the open window above our heads.

“Greta,” the man said, “don’t play games with me. You’ll be the one who gets hurt by them.”

“Is that a threat?” I heard her say.

“Who’s she talking to?” I whispered.

Bill shrugged.

“No, it’s a promise,” the man inside said.

I groaned.

I noticed Bill had ear hair as he said, “What?”

“What a lame line! ‘No, it’s a promise,’ ” I mocked. “Gag me. Obviously it’s someone who watches too many B movies.”

72

Heather Webber

“You talk a lot.”

“It’s the adrenaline.”

“I know Russ had them,” the male voice said. “If he had them, you had them. And I want them back. Now. Russ had no right to them and neither do you.”

The man’s voice was young. Maybe twenties or thirties.

This put my love triangle theory into serious doubt.

“What do you think he had?” I asked.

“If you’d be quiet maybe we’d find out.”

Greta’s voice was hard but tired. She sounded stressed. “I told you, I don’t have whatever you’re looking for. I don’t know anything about it.”

I eyed the kitchen window. Even if I stood up straight I wouldn’t be able to see in. I looked at Bill. He seemed like a strong guy. “Boost me up.”

Bill looked over his shoulder at me. “What?”

“Boost me up.” I motioned toward the window. “I want to see who she’s talking to.”

The male’s voice lacked patience. “The only reason the lawsuit is being dropped is so I could get them back.”

Lawsuit dropped? The HOA lawsuit? “Did you know about that?” I asked Bill. According to Lindsey and Bill, the reason they paid for the Grabinskys’ surprise makeover—

and lied to me—was to prevent the older couple from being foreclosed upon by the HOA. But if the lawsuit had been dropped, then why go through all the trouble?

Bill made a makeshift sling with his hands. “No.”

What would the Lockharts have gained by paying for the backyard makeover if there wasn’t a lawsuit? People didn’t spend twenty thousand dollars out of neighborly love, even if they had to look at a hideous backyard.

The male voice inside the house carried easily through the open window. “I don’t like being blackmailed, Greta.”

Digging Up Trouble

73

Someone had been blackmailed to have the lawsuit dropped. Blackmailed by Russ, apparently.

Definitely a motive for murder.

Not that Russ was murdered.

It had been a heart attack.

If I kept thinking that, then maybe it’d be true.

I slipped my foot into Bill’s linked hands and used the brick exterior for leverage.

I stayed to the left of the window and peered in, a quick peep just to see where the two were standing. Greta stood in front of the sink, her back to me. All I could see of the man was his hands as he gestured. He stood too far left, near the back door.

“I want them back, Greta.”

He wore a wedding ring. Not just a simple band. There was something unusual about it, but I was too far away to make out any details. I looked for a watch or any other identifying feature, but couldn’t find anything that stood out.

Only man hands. Long fingers, short nails—not bitten. He must have worn a short-sleeve shirt because I couldn’t see any cuffs.

“Who is it?” Bill asked.

“I can’t see him,” I whispered.

The back door creaked open. “I want them back by—”

I didn’t hear the rest. I fell backward when Bill released his hands. I braced for a crash landing but was snatched up before I hit the ground.

Bill pushed me around the corner of the house just as the back door slammed closed.

I dragged Bill toward the front of the house, but he resisted.

Breathing hard, I tried to keep my voice low. “What’re you doing?”

“Going back. I want to see who it is. I’ll look casual.”

74

Heather Webber

He was nuts. I was so out of there.

As he stuck his hands in his pockets, started whistling

“Yellow Rose of Texas,” and headed for the police tape, I made a break for the front yard . . . and almost slammed into someone when I rounded the corner.

What was it with me crashing into people today?

“Who are you?” Suspicious eyes honed in. “What are you doing sneaking around? I’m going to call the police!” she said, shaking a finger at me.

Backing up, I scrambled for an answer. She was a short rotund woman, with thick arms and thicker ankles. She wore orthopedic shoes, black stirrup pants from the eighties, a purple beaded shirt, and a strange glint in her eye.

I quickly said, “I’m Nina Quinn. I’m the landscaper . . . I was just checking to see if the crime scene tape had been removed yet. I’d like to finish the job I started.”

I was such a good liar. I wasn’t sure if this was a good trait or not. Probably not, but a girl had to make do with the gifts given her.

Bill came whistling around the corner and stiffened when he saw the woman. “Noreen?” he said. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be at wo—”

She cut him off. “Are you two together?” Her gaze jumped between Bill and me, suspicion still apparent. Potato-shaped, she looked to be about fifty, with a short graying bob with chunky bangs, chubby cheeks, and big Sally Jesse Raphael red glasses.

“Us?” I said. “No. Definitely not.”

We all jumped when the front door swung open, banging against the wall behind it. Seemed I wasn’t the only one on edge.

A red-faced, perspiring Greta filled the doorway.

“Greta, what’s wrong?” Mrs. Potato Head asked.

Digging Up Trouble

75

Greta still wore the same housecoat as yesterday. “What are you all doing here?”

I swallowed hard. It was quite clear by her jumpy de-meanor and angry eyes that she wasn’t in the mood for visitors. This probably wasn’t the best time to ask about dropping the lawsuit. “I, um, came by to talk.”

Bill said, “Me too.”

Mrs. Potato Head didn’t say anything, but Greta didn’t seem to be looking for an answer from her. Greta folded meaty arms across her huge chest. “I have nothing to say to either of you.”

Ohh-kay.

I looked to Bill. He took a step forward, toward the front stairs. “Greta, I’m truly sorry about Russ, you must know that.”

Her shoulders stiffened. “I don’t know anything right now.”

“Fair enough,” he said. “But—”

Greta glared. Her beehive ’do shook as she leaned against the doorjamb. “But what? What do you want, Bill?”

I saw his pointy Adam’s apple bob as he said, “Russ had taken some paperwork home with him from the restaurant. I need it.”

“It’ll have to wait.”

“It really can’t.”

“It has to.” She wiped her forehead with the top of her hand. “Go home.”

Bill held out his hands, pleading. “Greta, please.”

I didn’t understand the hint of desperation I heard in Bill’s voice. Was he looking for the account books I’d seen through the window? Were they for Growl? Or was he looking for something else? Something so important that he’d leave his pride behind and beg a grieving widow?