Heather Webber - Digging Up Trouble

The pansies had perked up at least.

I followed Noreen into the house. “I can’t stop crying,”

she said. “Who could have done this to her?”

“Maybe,” I broached, setting my backpack down on the recliner, “it was a natural death. A broken heart, maybe?”

One eyebrow arched and the other dipped. “You’re kidding, right?”

“That bad?”

“Worse. Know why she took such good care of this house? Because it was the only thing she had. It had been a wedding gift from our parents to Greta and Russ. The deed was in her name. Russ controlled everything else.”

“What about when he died? Didn’t he have savings? Life insurance?”

She sighed with disgust. “He left everything to a male heir. A distant cousin.” She must have seen the horror on my face. “Exactly.”

“Not even to his daughter?”

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“Francie couldn’t stand him. Left at eighteen and never looked back. Broke Greta’s heart. Russ disowned Francie, acted as though she hadn’t existed.”

“And Greta stayed with him? Why?”

“I wish I knew, Miss Quinn. I really do.”

My image of Greta continued to change. From victim to villain, back to victim again.

It didn’t escape my notice that Greta was the one whose legacy was threatened by the HOA’s lawsuit. It twisted my thinking.

Had Russ been behind the blackmail at all? Or had Greta been the mastermind?

I needed to talk to Dale.

The design plans were fairly straightforward, and I could tell Noreen was pleased with them. We made plans to meet there at seven a.m. on Thursday morning to finish the job I’d started last week.

Something Noreen said triggered a question. “You said Russ left everything to a nephew?”

“Cousin.”

“Even his partnership in Growl?”

“Oh, no,” she said, leaning against the doorjamb. “The agreement between Russ and Bill stated that upon death, the surviving partner gains complete control of the business.

Growl is all Bill’s now.”

Twenty-Two

Dale didn’t look happy to see me. I didn’t take it personally. An air-conditioned breeze swirled around my ankles from his open doorway.

“What can I help you with? We’re not interested in a yard makeover.”

Not exactly the welcome wagon, was he?

“You don’t need one. Your yard is beautiful as is.” Nothing like a little buttering up to get what I wanted.

“Look I’m sorry to be rude, but I only get an hour for lunch.” The blue in his striped tie matched his eyes. “I have to get back in a few minutes.”

I cut to the chase. “I know you’re being blackmailed.”

His head snapped back as if I’d hit him. Well, maybe as if Kit had hit him. I didn’t know if I had that much force in me.

Over his shoulder, he called out, “Be right back, Kate,” and quickly closed the door behind him.

His handsome face transformed into something dark and ugly. He grabbed my arm. “How do you know that?”

I twisted out of his grasp. “Don’t touch me.”

Long fingers dove into his hair. “I’m sorry. It’s just—this whole thing has been crazy.”

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“I overheard you in Greta’s kitchen the other day. The window was open, your voices carried. I heard you threaten Greta.”

His eyes widened as my meaning sank in. “I didn’t . . . I didn’t kill her.”

“No?”

“No!”

“But you did go through her house. Looking for?”

“The pictures.”

“Of?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“How did Russ contact you?” I asked.

“By letter. Anonymously. But it had to be him. Who else wanted that lawsuit dropped?”

“You never confronted him, face-to-face?”

“I did. Once. He played dumb.”

“Maybe he didn’t know,” I suggested.

“Had to have. Who else would have sent that letter?”

“Greta.”

His eyes widened. “No way.” He shook his head. “No.”

“Why not?”

“She was too . . . Mother Hubbard. No, it wasn’t her.”

“Do you still have the letters? Could I see them?”

“Why?”

“Comparison value.”

“Comparison? You mean someone else was getting blackmailed too?”

I nodded.

“Who?”

I borrowed his line. “I’d rather not say.”

“You’re married to that police detective, right?”

Six more days. “Yes.”

Worry lines creased his forehead. “Does he know . . .

about the blackmail?”

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Heather Webber

“Yes,” I lied. If Dale had killed Greta, I didn’t want to be next on his list.

He raked his hand through his hair again, sighed. “I don’t want Kate dragged into all this. She’s such a private person.

Good Catholic girl, you know?”

No need to point out that there were actually very few “good Catholic girls” out there. Maybe Kate was the exception.

I didn’t want to think about the sins this Catholic girl had been chalking up, so I said, “When did you break in to Greta’s?”

“Yesterday morning. I didn’t think she was home. I’d been watching the house, hadn’t seen any lights or movement for almost a day. The back door was unlocked. I searched almost all the downstairs before heading up. I went through the bathroom, then headed to the master . . . that’s when I saw her.”

“Why didn’t you call 911?”

“She was obviously dead already. What good would it have done except to implicate me?”

“Did you see anything out of place while you were there?”

He shook his head. “If your husband finds the pictures . . .”

He closed his eyes. “They’re going to become evidence, aren’t they? Open to the public to examine and judge.”

My curiosity buzzed. “Probably. Sorry.”

“I’m glad Russ is dead. I hope he burns in hell.”

On that cheerful note, I backed away. Fury glowed in Dale’s icy eyes. “The police,” I said, “will probably be by to talk to you soon.”

He nodded. “I figured. I guess I need to take the rest of the day off.”

It wasn’t the stereotypical response of a murderer, which made me think that Dale hadn’t killed Greta. Or maybe he was a good actor. Maybe I was gullible.

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I needed to call Kevin as soon as possible and tell him what I knew.

“Can I see the letters?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

Redness colored his cheeks. “They describe the pictures taken.”

“Were they typed?”

“On an old-fashioned typewriter. Like the one Russ owns.”

“Or Greta,” I said.

“I don’t buy it.”

“Did you notice anything about the font?”

“The lowercase i is out of alignment.”

Yep, they were written on the same typewriter.

“Anything else?” I asked. A confession, maybe?

“Wait a sec.” Dale ran into the house, came out a second later. “Take these with you. I don’t know why I took them in the first place except I knew Bill had been looking for them.”

He placed two red leather-bound accounting books into my hands. So Bill hadn’t taken them. He probably hadn’t been in the Grabinsky house at all. Probably hadn’t killed Greta.

But who had?

I called Kevin from my truck. I got his voice mail and thanked my lucky stars. I left a quick message about Dale Hathaway being blackmailed, possibly by Russ or even Greta herself, and casually mentioned that Dale had been the man I overheard threatening Greta.

I didn’t mention Dale’s breaking and entering into the Grabinskys’ house. Kevin was smart. He’d put two and two together.

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I hung up feeling as though I’d done my civic duty.