"Why'd you call?"
"Russ Grabinsky."
"You have heard something, then."
"I haven't heard about the charges, but the M.E. just faxed over the postmortem results."
"And?"
"And they're still waiting for the tox screens to come back, so it's not a final report."
"But?"
He didn't lower his voice, so I assumed he was on his cell somewhere, safe from prying ears. "Heart attack. Ninety-five percent artery blockage. He was a walking time bomb."
"A time bomb. One that could be set off by a surprise makeover?"
"I'm sorry."
"So the prosecutor will probably file charges against me."
"I don't know. Nothing will happen until the toxicology reports come in. There could be something in there."
Could be. But probably not.
I sighed. "Thanks for letting me know. I know you're not supposed to be talking to me."
"I'll always do my best to protect you, Nina. You've got to know that."
Funny thing was I did.
After dropping Riley off at Growl, I drove over to the Fallow Falls neighborhood.
I pulled right into Greta's driveway, marched up the front steps, and rang the bell.
Coming here served two purposes. One was to avoid contact with Brickhouse Krauss at all costs. The other was to talk with Greta Grabinsky.
I wasn't leaving until I saw her. That was that. I had too much to lose if I didn't. She could sue the pants off me if she wanted, but I was not going to jail for something that wasn't my fault.
I rang the bell again.
Greta held a lot of the answers I wanted. About Bill and Russ, those accounting books, the HOA lawsuit, the person threatening her, about finishing the backyard.
Buzzing again, I tapped my foot. The pot of pansies on the front step looked pitiful, wilting in the sunshine.
Giving up on the buzzer, I rapped on the door. It opened on its own.
Immediately my defenses went up.
"Hello?" I called, pushing the door farther open with my elbow. "Mrs. Grabinsky? Greta?"
Don't go in, my inner voice whispered.
The adrenaline drowned it out.
I stepped into a small hallway. The lime green linoleum was worn and cracked but looked freshly cleaned. I came to two doorways, one on each side of me. I went left. The living room.
I gasped. Where the room had been immaculate the other day, it was now as though a twister had swept through, upending and damaging everything in its path.
My gaze immediately shot to the small end table where just two days ago the accounting books had sat. The overturned table lay on its side.
I poked around as best I could without touching anything, but as far as I could tell, the accounting books were gone.
The sofa's cushions had been slashed open, stuffing spilling out of the wounds. The couch itself had been tipped, its underside ripped open.
Someone had been looking for something.
The voice from the other day, the one coming from Greta's kitchen, haunted me.
If he had them, you had them. And I want them back. Now. Russ had no right to them and neither do you.
Had he finally given up on Greta giving the item back and resorted to taking it back? By force?
"Greta?" I called out.
I took another minute to look around the living room, at the broken face of the old grandfather clock, the old typewriter upside down on the floor, the old buffet cabinet turned on its side, its doors open wide.
The dining room hadn't fared much better. Whoever had been searching was careful not to break any of the good china.
How courteous.
A set of silver littered the floor. Nothing looked missing, though I supposed Greta would have to be the one to go through things piece by piece.
I felt myself getting angry for her. This kind of intrusion was such a violation of privacy and security.
"Greta?" I yelled.
Get out, my inner voice yelled.
I listened, but only for a second. I couldn't leave until I knew if Greta was okay.
In the kitchen, the cabinets and pantry had been emptied onto the floor. The searcher was thorough. Even the flour and sugar canisters were dumped out—into the sink.
Trash spilled out of a plastic white can onto the linoleum. A brown banana peel, old newspaper, a take-out soup cup from Growl that still had mushrooms clinging to its insulated sides. Forest Mushroom? Mushroom Barley? There was also a Growl take-out bag, coffee grounds, and some wadded paper towels.
I quickly checked the back hall. More of the same destruction. But no Greta.
A brown rotary phone hung on the kitchen wall, and I told myself to call the police.
I headed for the stairs instead.
On the second floor the bathroom was a mess, drawers opened. I tried not to notice the everyday items of Russ and Greta's life. The toothpaste, the deodorant, razors, shaving cream, but couldn't. It smelled horrid in there even though the window was open. The scent of someone who'd been horribly ill. Lingering from Russ's bout with the flu?
The window looked out into the backyard, and from up there was a bird's-eye view of both the Lockharts' and the Hathaways' yards. I took a deep breath of clean air and hurried into the hall.
There were only two bedrooms. I went for the closest and pushed open the door. "Greta? Are you here?"
The first thing I noticed was that this room hadn't been searched.
The second was that Greta lay diagonally across the bed on her back, wearing the same frumpy housecoat she'd worn the last two times I'd seen her.
Only this time she was very clearly dead.
Eighteen
I'd been told not to go anywhere by the babyfaced officer first on the scene. Not that I could—his car blocked the end of the driveway.
Brickhouse had clucked when I called to cancel my one o'clock appointment. I hadn't told her why.
Officer Baby Face had informed me detectives would want to speak with me, and my stomach hurt really bad, so I had a good idea just who those detectives would be.
I sat on my front bumper and looked at the house. Russ had died of a heart attack. What had killed Greta?
I hadn't seen anything that would indicate she'd been murdered. No blood, no bruising. But it just seemed too coincidental that she'd die of natural causes during a burglary.
Who'd broken in?
I tilted my head, looked at the Lockharts' house. The accounting books were the only things I could say for certain were missing. And Bill had been looking for them.
I jumped to the conclusion and figured he'd taken them.
But why ransack the rest of the house? To make it look like someone else had done it?
The man from Greta's kitchen? That person would make a great scapegoat. How convenient that Bill had heard the man's threats.
And Greta? Had she gotten in the way?
I looked up. Uh-oh.
"You," Kevin said, approaching me. "Come with us."
"Us" included Ginger. My day just kept getting better and better.
Officers had begun roping off the house with crime scene tape. Kevin led me back to his car, an unmarked black Crown Vic with a long antenna on its trunk.
Ginger followed. She was tall, with long legs that reminded me of the spider in my window. Her hair was tied back in a long ponytail. She had beautiful wide eyes, full lips, a kind, caring face. If I were being truthful, she was gorgeous.
I hated that about her.
I sat there through thirty minutes of Kevin and Ginger's repetitive questions, trying not to compare myself to her. I told them over and over what I knew, what I saw. I even reminded them about Greta's visitor the other day. And I even told them about the missing account books.
That's me. Nina Colette Good Citizen Ceceri Quinn.
While I was at it, I shared my theory about why the Lockharts had hired me—to induce a heart attack on purpose.
Kevin didn't say anyt
hing at that, just arched an eyebrow.
Hmmph.
"Anything else?" he finally said.
"I told Riley I'd pick him up tonight, so you don't have to."
"He called."
Ginger wandered off.
Kevin looked over his shoulder, watched her go, then turned back to me. "What's with that call this morning?"
"You called me."
He stepped in. He smelled good. "You know what I mean."
"Nope."
"Nina . . ."
"Kevin."
"Are you having second thoughts?"
And thirds and fourths. I played dumb. "About what?"
"About us."
His sparkly green eyes lingered on my lips. It felt like the temperature had gone up a few degrees. I was suddenly sweating, and suddenly worried my deodorant wasn't strong enough, thanks to what Kit had said yesterday.
"Us?"
"Yes, us."
The divorce would be final in seven days. I put my hand on my stomach, but it didn't help the pain.
"You okay?"
"Fine." Maybe I'd call the doctor when I got back, see if she'd fit me in.
"When'd you last eat?"
I thought about it, figured it was those egg rolls last night. No wonder my stomach hurt. "I'm okay. Really."
With his finger, he lifted my chin. "I don't like what's going on here," he said.
"With us?"
He smiled. "I knew there was more to that call this morning."
I scowled.
"I actually meant with the Grabinskys. You be careful. Don't get any ideas about snooping. I know how you are."
"Yes, sir." My fingers were crossed behind my back.
As soon as he turned, I looked around for Kate Hathaway, found her at the edge of the gathering crowd. I just wanted to ask her a few questions before I left.
I was glad to see that she was alone, that Meredith wasn't lurking around anywhere.
"This is horrible," Kate said when she spotted me. "Who would do such a thing?"
"It could have been natural. You're always hearing about stories of people who've been married forever dying days apart. Of broken hearts."
"With a ransacked house?"
She had a point. Still, I hadn't seen any signs of a struggle inside Greta's room. And nothing on her body that suggested she'd been killed.
Actually, I'd been thinking about it, and it seemed more likely with those bathroom odors that she had gotten the flu going around and maybe died from that.
After all, Russ had had it. It would seem likely Greta would get it too. Maybe she had other health issues that made it too hard to fight the bug. I wished I had snooped through the medicine cabinet when I'd had the chance.
"Do the police think this was a random break-in? One of those home invasions?"
I could see her presidential wheels spinning. If there were a burglar in the neighborhood . . .
"I don't know." I had my doubts about the randomness of it all but kept them to myself, per Kevin's strict orders.
I heard a car door slam and saw Dale Hathaway striding across his driveway toward his wife. She must have called him away from work.
My phone rang. Tam. I stepped aside to answer it.
"Did you kill someone else?"
I dropped my voice. "I didn't kill anyone!"
"I heard there was another dead body."
Dear Lord. "How'd you hear that?"
"Lindsey Lockhart called Bill at Growl. Riley heard about it and called you at work, but got Ursula, and Ursula called me."
My mind spun trying to keep up with it.
"Well," I said, "do you know if Bill was coming home?" I really wanted to ask him about those accounting books.
"Riley said something about him leaving early."
"Wait, you talked to Riley?"
"I needed more information, Nina. This hospital room isn't exactly control room central."
"How are you feeling?"
"Better. The doctor says I might be able to go home soon."
"Really?"
"I'll still be on bed rest, though. How's Ursula working out by the way? Isn't she perfect for the job?"
Depended on what job. Driving me crazy, definitely. I wasn't sold on the receptionist part. Not yet at least. "She's doing better than Coby." Which was true.
"I knew you'd be happy to have her."
"Tam, get your head checked while you're at the hospital."
"Now, Nina, I know you two aren't the best of friends, but she's really a nice—"
"Gotta go," I said before I threw up. " 'Bye!"
I snapped my phone closed, wandered back to Kate and Dale.
Suddenly I was hearing Disney's chipmunk song in my head. I definitely needed food.
My phone rang again. I sighed, stepped away and answered it, wondering if Tam had figured out what was going on from her hospital bed and was calling to let me know.
"Chérie?"
"Mom? What's wrong?"
"Wrong? Wrong? Nothing's wrong. What makes you say that?"
"The tone of your voice."
"Tone? What tone?"
"Mom."
"There's been a small problem here. Very small. I'm sure the insurance will cover it."
I closed my eyes, tried to rub both throbbing temples with one hand. "What kind of problem?"
"A broken pipe is all. Nothing major."
A broken pipe. On the second floor.
"Just thought I'd let you know. I'll let you get back to work now. Ta!"
"Trouble?" Kate asked when she saw my face.
I wanted to laugh. Could this day get any worse?
"Nothing the insurance can't cover, apparently."
"Oh."
Cops streamed from the Grabinsky doorway. Across the yard, I saw Meredith Adams staring at me. I wanted to stick my tongue out. I restrained.
"This is all so sad," Dale said. He held Kate protectively, his arm wrapped around her shoulder. The sun glinted off his wedding ring.
A ring I'd seen before.
In Greta's kitchen.
Close up I could see the unusual design more clearly than I had the other day.
Platinum twigs intertwined to form a beautiful floating band. Kate, I suddenly noticed, had a matching one.
"We love to hike. We love nature of all kinds," Kate said.
I must have looked confused.
"The wedding rings. I saw you looking at Dale's."
"They're beautiful." I looked up at Dale.
"Custom made," he said. "Nothing but the best for Kate."
Russ had been blackmailing Dale.
Dale had threatened Greta.
I looked at Kate. Did she know?
I wondered what it was Russ had on Dale. He looked
like a loving husband, but I knew looks could be deceiving.
Had it been Dale who trashed the Grabinsky house?
Had Greta been murdered after all? What had Dale said to Greta? Something about her paying dearly?
"I'm going to go," I said.
They went back to their house too. I managed to find Baby Face and had him move his patrol car. Before I left, I grabbed a bottle of spring water from my truck, crossed the police line, and poured it into the pot of pansies on the porch. I didn't want another thing to die at this house.
I backed out of the driveway and started driving, realizing I was shaking.
It had been one of those days. I needed some food, some Advil, some comfort, a hug.
It wasn't until I was almost there that I realized where I was going.
Bobby.
Nineteen
By four-fifteen I was in a seriously bad mood.
Bobby wasn't to be found, the Advil hadn't worked, nothing looked or sounded good enough to eat, and there was no one around to hug.
Well, there was Brickhouse, but I had my limits.
Digging Up Trouble Page 15