Heather Webber - Digging Up Trouble

His eyes softened. “Nothing official.”

Noreen perked up. “But something.”

His tone softened. “Preliminary reports show she was poisoned.”

“By what?” I asked.

“Looks like something she ate.”

Noreen paled. “Poisoned?” Tears welled in her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Kevin said.

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She nodded, pulled open Growl’s door and disappeared inside.

“Autopsy results are being released to the media tomorrow.”

“Any suspects?”

He arched an eyebrow. “Why don’t you tell me? What’s with the accounting question?”

“Nothing.”

“Ever heard of obstruction?”

I shrugged. “I saw some accounting books in the Grabinsky house. Bill had been looking for them.”

“When did you see them? When you found Greta?”

“No.”

“No?”

“Before that. They weren’t there the day I found Greta.”

“You looked, then.”

“I thought it odd that Bill wanted the books back so badly, that Russ even brought them home in the first place.”

“What made you ask about Greta?”

How much did I want to tell him? All. All of it. I didn’t want to carry the weight of this around with me. I explained about Dale Hathaway and the blackmail. About Bill and the blackmail. About the one person who had the most to lose.

“Greta,” he said.

“Exactly.”

I could see him turning over the situation in his mind.

“Yet she’s dead.”

“Exactly.”

“I need those blackmail letters.”

“You’d have to ask Bill about that. Did you talk to Dale today? After I called you?”

“Yeah. Said he’d been blackmailed by Russ to drop the HOA lawsuit. He tried but wasn’t successful. He thought bluffing with Greta about having it dropped would get his pictures back.”

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“Did he show you his letters?”

“Said he didn’t have them anymore. Had thrown them away.”

My eyebrow rose. I very much doubted that.

“Yeah,” Kevin said, “I don’t believe him either.”

The door opened behind us. Bill escorted the two men from the prosecutor’s office out of the restaurant. “Anything I can do, gentlemen,” he said.

The two looked at Kevin, nodded in that way men do when they greet each other. Their attention turned to me for a brief moment, but they continued on to their black Ford Taurus.

I had the feeling I’d be seeing them again soon.

I still hadn’t heard from Bobby’s cousin Josh. I thought maybe I should put a call in.

Kevin pulled Bill aside, but the summer breeze carried their voices.

“I’ve become aware that you’ve been blackmailed. I need to see those letters, Bill.”

Clearly shocked, Bill stammered. “How . . . ?”

“You don’t need to know that. Why don’t you show me where the letters are?”

Bill’s shock turned into something else. For a second it looked like panic. “Now?”

“Why not?”

“I’m, uh . . . no.”

“No?”

Bill pulled back his shoulders, lifted his chin. “You’ll need a search warrant for that, Detective.”

Kevin held his surprise well, I’d give him that. He’d be great at poker. “You sure you want to go that route, Bill?”

“I’m sure.”

“All right, then.”

Bill glared at me, then went back into Growl.

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“He’s not going to take this out on Riley, is he?” I asked.

“Not if he wants to live. What?” he said. “What’s that look?”

“You’re a good dad.”

“But a rotten husband.”

“Maybe you’ll be a good ex.”

“Five days.”

Oh God. He’d been counting too.

“I’m sorry, Nina.”

“I know.”

I drove toward home wondering about Bill’s evasiveness.

Why not just show Kevin the blackmail letters? Was he afraid to admit why he was being blackmailed?

He’d have to eventually.

Unless he planned to get rid of the letters, deny they ever existed.

Too bad I’d made copies.

I wondered how soon Kevin would get a warrant. Probably not until morning. Our county judges were notorious for not liking to be disturbed at night unless it was an emergency of epic proportions.

Maybe Kevin could pull a few strings.

I’m sorry.

I was too. I was still torn about letting him go for good.

My heart was still somewhat attached to him, like a painful sticky burr.

What I guess I really needed to decide was if I was ready to move on with Bobby.

Was I?

My cell rang, and I wondered if it was Bobby, if it was di-vine intervention telling me what I should do.

I looked at the readout.

Ana.

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Bummer.

“Hey,” she said. “Where are you?”

“Tylersville headed east.”

“Turn around. Come pick me up.”

“Why?”

“Jake called.”

“Jake?”

“You know, the cute bartender. He knows what Jean-Claude’s been up to.”

“What?”

“Wouldn’t tell. Said something about telling me over dinner.”

“Was I even invited?”

“Well, no. But I need you there.”

“Why?”

“To keep me in line. I’m really going to try to make this thing with Shakes work out.”

“Okay.”

“Thanks. Oh, and thanks for not making a joke about my commitment to Shakes.”

I’d been so close. “No problem.”

I banged a U-ey, was at Ana’s in fifteen minutes. She bounded into the car in a turquoise camisole and a beaded miniskirt.

“What?” she said.

“You’re not dressed like you’re trying to work things out with Shakes.” I took back roads to the highway.

“A girl’s got to look good.”

“Now you sound like Maria.”

Ana made the sign of the cross. “Maybe I could put on a sweater.”

“Do you have one?”

“No.”

I rolled my eyes.

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Ana and I speculated about Jean-Claude’s job all the way to the river. I didn’t bring up any dead people. Or lawsuits.

Or blackmailers.

I needed a mental break.

People filled the seats at Paul Brown Stadium, and I wondered what event was going on there, since it wasn’t football season.

My cell rang and Ana picked it up, flipped it open. “Nina Colette Ceceri Quinn’s phone. . . . What?” Her concerned gaze shot to me.

“What?” I asked.

“We’ll be there as soon as we can,” she said, then hung up.

“What?” I asked, my palms sweating.

“There’s been an accident.”

I had a weird déjà vu feeling of Tam telling me the same thing.

“Not Riley?” I said.

“No. Mr. Cabrera and his new girlfriend. The girlfriend’s dead. Mr. Cabrera’s in the hospital.”

I exited at the next off-ramp, got back on the highway and headed back to Freedom.

Twenty-Four

It was one of those hot muggy July days that just promised bad tempers and thunderstorms.

I looked around the Grabinskys’ backyard and felt none of my usual excitement at starting a job.

Maybe because this job had been started, then put on hold.

Or maybe because today there would be no surprise at all.

Everyone must have felt the same way because they walked around like they were tiptoeing around a casket.

I shuddered at the creepiness of it all.

Ignacio and his crew were working with Kit on readying the yard for topsoil.

Kit had shown up this morning sans BeBe . . . and sans hair.

“I didn’t like the staring,” he said when I’d asked about it.

Like people didn’t stare at the skull tattoo. I didn’t press because, truthfully, I hadn’t liked the hair.