Heather Webber - Digging Up Trouble

“BeBe!” Jean-Claude had picked himself up and was running alongside me. He turned worried eyes to me. “Is Kit going to kill me?”

“Yes.”

He slowed down. “Maybe I should go.”

I grabbed his arm, tugged him along. “Not until you catch her!”

“BeBe!” he yelled.

She wouldn’t even look at us. Her focus was completely on the little cat who seemed to be enjoying running BeBe ragged.

The skid loader’s engine fell silent. “Oh no,” Jean-Claude murmured.

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Heather Webber

“BeBe! Come to Nina!” I urged. No luck. She galloped through the backyard, this way and that.

“Jean-Claude!” Kit bellowed.

Jean-Claude went pale.

“Maybe you ought to go after all,” I said.

He turned and ran.

The cat dashed into the woods behind the house. BeBe followed it. I followed her.

Kit whistled, but BeBe wasn’t listening. “What happened?” he yelled to me.

I thought it was fairly obvious, so I didn’t answer.

The shady woods were full and thick with greenery.

Everything from honeysuckle vines to squishy mushrooms covered the ground. Breathing hard, I hopped over a small creek and was relieved to see BeBe circling a large buckeye tree.

I bent at the waist, drawing in oxygen.

Kit powered through the woods and grabbed hold of BeBe’s leash. He looked at me. “Time for a trip to the gym?”

“Ha.” Gasp. “Ha.”

BeBe apparently noticed my presence for the first time because she ran over and slobbered my face. “Eww!”

“She just loves you.”

I shot Kit a look.

“Nina!” Coby yelled from the edge of the woods.

I walked toward him, noticing he looked a bit piqued.

“What’s wrong?”

He pointed to an older man standing near the house. “He wants to talk to you.”

I didn’t recognize him. I just hoped he wasn’t another homeowners’ official. Using the back of my hand, I wiped the sweat from my forehead, the drool from my face, and hurried down the hill.

I noticed two things right off. The man held a Growl take-Digging Up Trouble

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out bag in his hand (it’s hard to miss being all black with bright yellow lettering), and he didn’t look well at all. He was shouting at Marty.

“What is going on here? This is private property!” Sweat beaded on his brow. “Who are you people? No one gave permission for this!”

My lungs burned. Maybe a trip to the gym wasn’t such a bad idea. Pulling in a shallow breath, I said, “I’ll take care of this, Marty.”

Next, I tried for a soothing tone. “Sir, calm down.”

The take-out bag crinkled in his closed fist. “Don’t tell me to calm down, little lady. This is America. I can be as not calm as I want! Where’s my wife?”

Little lady. Hmm. I couldn’t decide whether this insult was a step up or step down from “ma’am.”

Kit snorted from behind me. I turned and gave him the evil eye. Even BeBe ducked behind Kit’s legs.

The man stomped across the cracked cement patio, threw open the back door of the house, and disappeared inside.

The house I was quickly suspecting did not belong to the Lockharts.

I felt sick.

“Greta!” he yelled, his voice thunderous.

Uh-oh. Was he yelling for his dog . . . or his wife?

I felt really sick.

He came back out a second later without the take-out bag, both fists clenched tight, like he was ready to take a swing.

Sweat dripped from his receding hairline. He looked hot yet cold at the same time. Sweating yet pale.

Stepping back, I wondered if I had any degerminator in my truck. The man obviously had the flu or something.

He bellowed, “I come home from work not feeling well, just wanting some rest, relaxation, and a little soup, and this is what I find! People desecrating my yard! What is going 42

Heather Webber

on?” Color sat high on his hollow cheekbones, standing out against his pale skin.

“Surprise!” I said. “I’m Nina Quinn, owner of Taken by Surprise, Garden Designs. I was hired to makeover this backyard.”

“Hired! By who?”

I didn’t think this was the time to correct his grammar. I gulped. I’d been hired by Lindsey Lockhart to surprise her husband.

This clearly was not Bill. I’d met him many times picking Riley up from work. So either Lindsey was a polygamist or I’d been tricked. It was a sticky situation. I didn’t know what to do, what to say, and I hated that I’d been put in this position.

“Um, the homeowner?” I asked, hoping against hope that I was wrong about this house belonging to this man.

“Are you toying with me, little lady?”

Again the snort from Kit. What on earth was going on? I expected Candid Camera any second.

“ I am the home—” He broke off mid-word, his eyes widening. He clutched his chest, his lips parting in a silent scream. His knees buckled and he toppled over. He landed in a motionless heap at my feet.

Five

Kit immediately handed me BeBe’s leash and started CPR. I watched him do chest compressions, stopping to breathe air into the man’s lungs every so often.

“He’s dead!” a voice over my shoulder said.

It was Meredith Adams, HOA VP, her eyes on bulge overload.

“No, he’s not,” I said, hoping it was true. Please God, let it be true. I swore right then and there I’d go to confession every week for the rest of my life if it were true.

“Yes, he is. You killed him!”

“Did not!”

“Did too.”

“Go away!”

Someone grabbed Meredith’s arm and tugged. It was Kate Hathaway. I gave her a grateful smile.

Kit pressed and breathed.

Dear God. I’d never had someone die at one of my sites.

BeBe, probably sensing something important was going on, sat at my feet, content to lick my hand. I didn’t even mind.

All I kept thinking about was what the man had said. Or what he’d been about to say. I am the homeowner.

This man was clearly not Bill Lockhart.

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Heather Webber

Who the hell was he?

I turned to Madame President to ask, but she and Meredith Adams were gone. Marty and Coby stood huddled by the neighbor’s picket fence, their eyes wide with disbelief.

Ignacio and his crew had disappeared. I didn’t blame them.

In a few minutes this place would be crawling with officials.

Officials who might think to check green cards.

Sirens rang in the distance.

They’d gotten here fast, though I rather suspected it was too late for the man. John Doe’s face had turned a pale shade of blue, his lips a plum color. And his eyes . . . I shuddered.

They were open wide but not seeing a thing.

Still, Kit worked on him. The man had clearly been ill, and I wondered if he was contagious as Kit did mouth-to-mouth.

I looked down the hill to the sidewalk and saw an ambulance pull up diagonally at the curb. As the paramedics rushed toward us, they brought a crowd of onlookers. BeBe excitedly danced around my feet at all the new faces.

When she tried to help Kit with the CPR by licking John Doe’s face, I tugged sharply on her leash and led her to my truck.

I rolled down the windows two inches, turned on the AC, and called Lindsey Lockhart’s cell phone.

No one answered.

A police cruiser pulled up behind the ambulance. A uniformed officer got out and hurried up the slope into the backyard.

Still no answer when I tried Lindsey’s cell again. I left a message.

I figured the cop would want to ask me questions, so I left BeBe drooling on my gear shift and listening to the Oldies station. Kit stood with folded arms on the fringe of the crowd. The paramedics still worked on John Doe, using a portable defibrillator.