Heather Webber - Digging Up Trouble

“I, um, told you. I overheard.”

“And where were you?”

“Ah, um, in the Grabinskys’ yard?”

Digging Up Trouble

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“Nina . . .” he warned.

I sat upright, getting tangled in the chenille blanket. “I’ve, um, got to go.”

“Wait!”

I winced, bracing for the worst.

“We can hash out the whole trespassing thing later, not to mention crossing a crime scene line.” He sighed. “The bad news . . .”

I’d forgotten about the bad news. My heart sank down to the pit of my stomach. “Do I want to know?”

“You have to know.”

“What is it?”

His voice dropped to a whisper, as though he didn’t want to be overheard. “I shouldn’t be telling you this.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I kept quiet.

“The captain, well, he’s looking to make a case with the prosecutor’s office.”

“What kind of case?”

“There was a case in New Jersey recently where a man died of a heart attack because he’d been scared to death at a bank robbery.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that the prosecutor’s office is looking into charging someone with murder for Russ Grabinsky’s death.”

“Someone as in me?”

“You and the Lockharts.”

“Even if it was a heart attack?”

“Even if. It’s like what that annoying HOA lady was saying the other day. He might have died from the shock of it all.

Look, the prosecutor is desperate to make a name for himself, Nina. You know the problems the department has had lately, so the captain is bending over backward to help him.”

There had been some rumblings over the past six months in the department of briberies and kickbacks, rumors of bad 110

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cops. Nothing had ever come of it, and the prosecutor ended up looking like a fool.

“I was just doing my job!”

“Nina, calm down. I’m just saying it’s being talked about.

And it probably wouldn’t be murder charges. Maybe man one, or involuntary manslaughter.”

“Oh, that makes me feel much better.”

“I just wanted to let you know.”

“Thanks,” I mumbled and hung up the phone.

“You okay?” Ana asked from the doorway.

I looked up at her. “If I get probation, will you find a good job for me?”

Thirteen

I was afraid to go home, but since I didn’t have any clean clothes, I didn’t have a choice.

Ana had done her best to cheer me up, but at ten on a Sunday Ana is not at her best. Especially since she’d had many more drinks than I did last night.

Ana dropped me off and drove away before I even made it to the front steps. I didn’t blame her. She knew my mother was inside and assumed my father had filled her in on our foray into the Blue Zone. She didn’t want the lecture any more than I did.

Unfortunately I didn’t have a choice.

Ana really didn’t either. She was just delaying the in-evitable. My mother had a long memory and would undoubtedly bring up this situation the next time she saw her.

The front door flew open before my foot hit the porch.

“ Chérie! How was it?” She waggled her eyebrows.

It took me a second to process what she was saying.

“Good?” I hedged.

Maybe my father hadn’t spoken to her yet . . . Maybe she still thought I’d spent the night with Bobby . . .

“Are you asking me, chérie ?”

I decided to keep her in the dark. For now. “No, no. It was 112

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good.” Fantasies of me and Bobby in bed played in my mind. “Really good.”

I stepped into the house, preparing for the worst. I’d seen some of those home improvement shows and their nightmare results.

Oh, not all of them were disastrous, but Maria had had orange paint on her. Orange.

Dear Lord.

Paint fumes lingered in the air, but as I looked around, I didn’t see any evidence of paint. I looked at my mother.

“What room did you change?”

“Upstairs. Were there candles? I love when your father lights a lot of can—”

“Eww! Stop!”

“What?”

“I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Why? I am your mamá! You can talk to me about everything.”

Except that. I shuddered. “Where’s Maria?”

“Shopping.”

Ah.

“Want to see your room?” she asked me, her face lighting.

Orange. I sucked it up. “Sure.”

She latched onto my hand, her skin smooth. Time had been kind to her. Barely any wrinkles marred her creamy white complexion. Maria was the spitting image of her, with blonde hair, blue eyes, and a natural grace.

I took after my father. And after seeing him last night, I was beginning to worry how I’d turn out.

“You’re all tense,” my mother said, looking back at me as we climbed the stairs. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” I didn’t want to worry her with the whole Grabinsky thing. Not until there was something to worry about.

“Late night,” I said.

Digging Up Trouble

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When my mother broke into a smile, I realized it had been the wrong thing to say. I fully expected another maternal interrogation, and was surprised when she didn’t ask any questions. She simply said, “I’m happy for you, chérie .”

I swallowed over a sudden lump in my throat and fought off tears. She, at times, could say just the right thing.

She patted my hand. “You can have all day to rest.”

I wished I could. I needed to speak with Greta Grabinsky.

I also had work to do. TBS was open on Sundays for a half day. Usually it was time to meet with clients, catch up on paperwork, but today there was a mini going on. Deanna’s first, planned solo.

She had the confidence and know-how to pull it off, but I wanted to at least pop in at the site and give her encourage-ment and support.

I also needed to call Bobby to plan when we could get together. To talk.

“Come, come,” my mother said. “I cannot wait for you to see your room.”

Worried, I held my breath as she pushed open my door.

“Ta-da!”

All I could do was stare. And stare some more.

Gone was my standard, no muss no fuss bed. Gone were the two dressers, one still empty in Kevin’s absence. The paint had gone from a bland white to a creamy yellow.

No orange!

My inner self did a happy dance.

I walked in, absorbing.

A queen-size canopy bed angled in the corner took up most of the space. The canopy was made of white flowing gauze material. The bed looked heavenly with a mile high feather bed, thick ivory down comforter, and tons of pillows.

Hints of cranberry color popped up here and there. In the 114

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pillows on the bed, on the lamp on the bedside table, in the throw rugs on my new hardwood floor.

I blinked.

Hardwood?

“Did you do all this yourselves?”

My mother winked. “We had help.”

“It’s so beautiful.”

She clapped, reminding me again of Maria. “We knew you’d like it!”

I never would have thought I’d like something so feminine, but it appealed to a side of me I rarely indulged. This was so perfect. For so many reasons. The biggest being that it helped to erase the memories of Kevin from this room.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“There’s no need to say anything. You do for so many, chérie. It was time someone did for you.”

“Thank you, Mom, it’s beautiful.”

And I couldn’t help but think I wanted to show it to Bobby as soon as possible.

As I spun, taking in the little details, the touches of wrought iron, the new crown molding, I caught a glimpse of my adjoining bathroom and noticed that the seventies era flowered wallpaper wasn’t up anymore.