The Diva Digs Up the Dirt

by Krista Davis

  We heard Francie shout, “Hey! Can I help you?”

  “Oh, pardon me. I must have counted the gates wrong. So sorry to intrude.” The voice seemed vaguely familiar to me, but I couldn’t quite place it.

  I didn’t need to. Moments later the gate at the rear of my yard opened. Daisy loped toward the back as a full-figured, dark-haired woman stole inside. She closed the gate behind her and stepped gingerly across my lawn, evidently not having noticed us in the shady corner by the fence.

  Her forehead creased, Nina threw me a questioning look.

  I placed a finger over my lips. I wanted to see what the woman planned to do.

  She patted Daisy in a dismissive manner and continued to pick her way toward my house. Almost comical, she hunched over and stepped carefully to avoid lodging her kitten heels in my lawn. She studied the windows like she was checking to see if anyone was watching.

  When she reached the patio, I asked, “Are you planning to sneak into my house?”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Dear Sophie,

  We moved into a new house and need to plant some decorative beds. My husband says buying the smallest plants is best. I think he’s being cheap. How can I convince him that big plants are the way to go?

  —Mrs. Miser in Tightwad, Missouri

  Dear Mrs. Miser,

  Sorry, but I have to agree with Mr. Miser. Although large plants give you instant oomph, the roots of small plants have an easier time getting established when planted. In two or three years, they will have caught up.

  —Sophie

  She screamed and dropped her purse. Clapping her right hand over her heart, she threw her left hand into the air. “I didn’t see you there.” She staggered over to the table and slid into a chair. “You almost gave me a heart attack.”

  I hoped that wasn’t the case. She seemed to be the dramatic type, so I assumed she was exaggerating.

  She fixated on Nina. “Hello, dear.” She extended her hand, and Nina dutifully shook it. “I’m Mona.” She tugged her colorful top into place and patted her coif. “Desdemona, actually. I can’t imagine what my parents were thinking. Today you’d probably be reported for child abuse if you named an innocent little baby Desdemona.”

  “Nina Reid Norwood.”

  “Three names. You’re clearly a southerner.”

  Nina laughed. I could tell she liked Mona.

  Mona placed a pudgy hand over mine. “Sweetheart, I don’t like to impose…”

  Oh no? What did she call prowling into my backyard?

  “But do you think I could have a glass of water?”

  Nina leaned toward her. “How about a latte?”

  Mona held up both hands in protest. “Oh no. I couldn’t.” Her left shoulder lifted in a teeny shrug. “Maybe a little one.”

  She was too cute. Like a nosy aunt that everyone adored. I reminded myself that people weren’t always what they seemed. Still, it wasn’t as though I didn’t have everything ready in the kitchen. It wouldn’t take long to make coffee for her. She’d left her purse in a heap on the patio, so I didn’t imagine she intended to pull out a gun. I left her with Nina while I fetched two more lattes. When I returned, Mona was mmm-ing over a chocolate croissant like it was the best thing she had ever eaten.

  I set a latte in front of her, which prompted her to say, “Thank you, darling.”

  I carried the other latte to the wooden privacy fence that separated my lot from Francie’s, stepped on a wobbly old stump, and held the latte out across the top. Francie’s hand readily snatched it.

  When I returned to the table, Mona was gabbing with Nina, but her sharp eyes hadn’t missed a thing.

  “Now see? That was such a nice thing to do—bringing a coffee to your neighbor. I can sense that you’re a kind person. Your friend, Nina, has been telling me about your adventures solving murders.” She gestured toward Nina, who sputtered latte. “I’m certain you girls could find my Linda.”

  I wasn’t going there. “Mona, I’m very sorry about your daughter. You have to understand that I have no expertise in finding missing people. You really should go to the police.”

  “You think I haven’t talked to them?” Her mouth pulled back in irritation. “They have too many cases to care. She was an adult, so they won’t do anything. Meanwhile, I lie in bed every night wondering if she’s in a ditch somewhere, if she has food to eat”—Mona released a big sigh and her shoulders sagged—“or if her bones are bleaching in the sun.”

  A shudder hit me full force. No matter how sneaky or forward Mona might be, she shouldn’t have to live with that thought hanging over her. “She lived in Old Town?”

  “She lived in Alexandria, outside of Old Town proper, but she worked here in town. She disappeared one evening and was never seen or heard from again. Next week she will have been gone for five years.”

  “Sounds like someone nabbed her,” said Nina.

  I flashed her a warning look. We were not getting involved!

  Mona placed her fists on the table. “Wouldn’t you think someone would have noticed something?”

  Uh-oh. I could tell where this was going. “No you don’t.” I spoke firmly, because Mona struck me as the kind of person who kept at you until she achieved her goal. “I see what you’re doing. I am truly sorry about your daughter, and I hope you find her. However, I am not in the business of locating missing persons.” No matter how sorry I felt for her, I knew nothing about finding people. It would be wrong, wrong, wrong to mislead this poor woman. She needed a professional criminal investigator, not an event planner.

  Mona drained her latte. “Is she always this stubborn?” she asked Nina.

  Nina had the nerve, the gall, to wink at her. “Sophie balks at first, but she usually does the right thing.” She looked at me, fighting a grin. “She’ll come around.”

  “Not this time. So sorry.”

  “I’ll walk you out,” said Nina. To me she said, “I’ll see you at Roscoe’s around four.”

  Mona picked up her purse and returned to the table to pluck two more chocolate croissants from the platter and wrap them in a handkerchief she pulled from her handbag. “For the road. But don’t think I’m through with you yet, young lady. How would your mother feel if you disappeared, and she didn’t know what had happened to you?”

  Ouch. Her question hit home. My family would be frantic if any of us were missing. I felt like a crumb when I watched them walk away.

  My phone was ringing when I returned to my kitchen. I answered only to hear an agitated voice yelling, “Stop that. I said stop that! Oh no! How could this have happened?” The connection went dead.

  “Hello?” I checked the caller ID—Mindy Greene, Roscoe’s new wife. I hit the button that redialed the number.

  Busy. Due to the wedding, Roscoe had given me a free hand in setting up his picnic. Mindy had been busy in Ireland, so I hadn’t spent much time with her yet.

  It was going to be a long day. I walked Daisy and tried calling Roscoe. When he didn’t answer, I left a message.

  Hurrying, since I didn’t know what was up over at Roscoe’s house, and I figured I should get over there, I showered and slipped into a loose-fitting, coral-colored sundress. I pinned my hair up with a clip and skipped makeup altogether. If I was out in the heat most of the day, it would only slide down my face and give me dreadful raccoon eyes. But that reminded me to wear a hat. A coral hat with an extra broad brim matched my dress nicely. I skipped sandals and went for turquoise Keds, not elegant, but practical for someone who would be on the run all day. I clipped on heart-shaped earrings that had been a gift from my ex-husband, and I was out the door.

  Just then, Wolf’s car eased into a parking spot in front of Nina’s house. We had met almost four years ago, on Thanksgiving weekend. It had taken us a while to date, but we had been an item for about three years. Wolf’s irregular hours as a homicide investigator with the Alexandria Police Department and my late hours as an event planner hadn’t made it easy to get together. Much o
f the time our dates consisted of late-night dinners relaxing at my house after work.

  He stepped out and whistled at me appreciatively.

  I whistled back, jealous that silver hair looked so handsome on men. It gleamed in the sunlight, accenting his temples in the perfect places, as though a beautician had done it. Our efforts to eat healthy from the vegetable garden we had planted were paying off, too. He’d definitely shed some pounds.

  “Where are you off to?” he asked.

  “Roscoe Greene’s picnic. Want to come?”

  “Is that today?” He planted a delicious kiss on me.

  “You’d enjoy it. He always has a fabulous ice cream bar, and I believe we’re allowed one scoop today, aren’t we?” I hoped so.

  “Ice cream—yes!” Wolf closed an eye and squinched up one side of his face like Popeye. “Roscoe—not so much. I used to go to his picnics. Not interested.”

  Nina appeared at her front door. Dressed in turquoise cropped pants and a matching top, she looked ready for the beach.

  “Actually,” said Wolf, “I’m here to see Nina.”

  She sashayed over to us. “You’ve finally come to your senses, and it’s me you want?”

  “Shh. Not in front of Sophie!” he teased.

  I left them to their business and walked four blocks to my parked car, wishing, as I did in the winter, that I had a garage. Off-street parking was a precious commodity in Old Town Alexandria. The sun beat on my shoulders, and the pavement reflected the heat. Bake and broil, I thought, glad that I had opted for a light dress and a hat.

  Roscoe’s Colonial Revival house was quintessential Americana. Three stories high, with dormer windows in the third floor attic, it was perfectly symmetrical. Gleaming black shutters accented windows in white walls of wood siding. A perfect lawn of lush grass sprawled in the front, not a single dandelion in sight. An old oak tree offered relief from the sun. A walk of herringbone-patterned bricks led to a porch that ran along the entire front of the house and around to the sides. Black rocking chairs beckoned. I felt as though lemonade might magically appear if I sat in one of them. An American flag fluttered gently by the steps to the porch.

  Leaving room for vendors in the driveway, I parked on the street. A powerful smell hit me the second I stepped out of my car.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Dear Natasha,

  We have a vacation home that we try to keep low maintenance. It’s folly to leave nets or equipment outside when we’re not there because they blow away. What outdoor game can we erect in the yard that doesn’t have to be removed and the whole family can play?

  —Hubby Checkers in Lawndale, Pennsylvania

  Dear Hubby,

  Install a permanent game board in the grass. Make sixty-four concrete pavers about two feet square each. Paint them two colors and arrange in a checkerboard pattern. Or get the kids involved and make a large version of your favorite family board game. Buy large inflatable dice and have fun!

  —Natasha

  I had grown up in a small town in the Virginia countryside, and I knew that stench well—manure. More specifically, cow manure.

  I rang the bell at the front door. It swung open. The housekeeper, Violet, scowled at me. Then again, I’d never seen her with any other expression. As usual, she didn’t say a word. I’d been arranging the picnic for years and she had yet to utter anything to me. She shut the door behind me and walked away. On the left, oak stairs led to a second floor. A simple pine chest of three drawers stood against the right wall. A large painting of dogs hunting quail hung over top of it. Huge purple gladiolas stole the show in a majestic bunch on top of the chest. Was I supposed to follow Violet or wait there? I hurried after her, through a family room. She opened a door to the back garden and stared at me with cold black eyes. Was she just putting me outside?

  I stepped out onto the flagstone terrace, where I found Roscoe and Mindy, wrapped in matching fluffy white bathrobes. Mindy’s thin lips formed an angry slash in her pasty face. Bone thin, she wasn’t as young as everyone described her. In her forties, probably. Her platinum hair flipped up at the ends, reminiscent of a popular 1960s style. Pale skin suggested she avoided the sun at all costs. Not a single wrinkle marred her face. Either avoiding the sun helped more than I thought or she’d been Botoxed.

  There had been no lack of scandalous gossip about Mindy’s dogged pursuit of Roscoe. The classic case of an employee who set her sights on her married boss. Stealthy as a thief in the night, Mindy had spent a few years working her way into the coveted position of Roscoe’s assistant. Her next promotion came with a wedding ring.

  Roscoe sported an ample girth that led me to suspect he liked the fried chicken he served at his picnics. His hair had thinned, exposing the top of his head, but the additional pounds filled out the wrinkles on his pleasantly round face. For the first time since I’d known him, his normally ruddy complexion looked sallow and unhealthy.

  “This is a fine mess!” he said, gesturing at his garden.

  The garden was remarkable. Beds of colorful flowers surrounded a plush green lawn almost big enough for a baseball game. Towering trees lined both sides of the property, blocking any view of neighbors. At the opposite end, the grass gave way to a stone path that meandered to a pond. Tall trees clustered behind it like a magical forest. But the stench was awful.

  “What happened?”

  “We were still fast asleep when Violet came upstairs and told us the gardeners were here. Didn’t think a thing about it.” He held out a sheet of paper.

  I glanced at it. A bill for manure, ordered by none other than Mindy Greene.

  “I am horrified,” she spat. “My first party as your loving wife and”—she stopped her rant and pointed at me—“this is your fault.”

  My fault? Okay… I didn’t order the manure, and I wasn’t present when it was delivered. She needed someone to blame, and I happened to be handy.

  “Now, honeybunch, don’t blame Sophie. By the time we got up and realized what they were doing, they’d spread it all through the garden,” said Roscoe. “But Mindy called a mulch company, and they’re coming right out. I figure dumping mulch on top of the manure will help tamp down the smell.”

  “You managed to get a mulch company to deliver and spread on a Sunday?” I asked.

  For a moment, I thought Mindy had stopped breathing. “They had better show up. That’s all I can say. And by the way, I did not order that manure. Roscoe! Why don’t you believe me? It had to be Violet or Olive. They’d love to spoil this party to make me look bad.”

  I sought to soothe her. “The mulch seems like a good idea. Which way does the breeze blow in the afternoon? Maybe we could set up big fans.”

  Mindy stared daggers at me.

  What did she expect me to do? Dig it all up?

  “We could move the party over near the guest house.”

  “Ugh! Absolutely not! That place is unusable as it is.”

  “That was my ex-wife’s retreat,” said Roscoe. “I told Mindy it’s all hers now, but she refuses to go in there. She says she can’t use it unless it’s completely redecorated.”

  “You have two choices. Cancel the party, or move the party. It’s late to do either, but we could try. It’s your decision.”

  “We’ll have the party here. The smell’s not that bad. It reminds me of my grandparents’ farm.” Roscoe wrapped one arm around Mindy and hugged her to him.

  “Should I follow up with the mulch company?” I asked.

  “No!” Mindy cried out, appalled at my offer. “I’ll handle that.”

  The door to the house opened, and Harry Jenkins, always on time with event equipment like tents and chairs, vaulted out onto the terrace. I could only imagine that Violet had given him the same heartwarming treatment I had received on arrival.

  “Sophie! Thank goodness. Who is that witch who answered the door?”

  “You see, Roscoe,” said Mindy, “I am not the only one who finds her creepy.”

  I walked arou
nd the house to the front with Harry, glad he’d brought the tables and chairs so we could get set up. After a great deal of huffing and pouting from Mindy, Harry’s men unloaded the picnic tables along the side of the house, underneath a gorgeous row of arching trees. I hoped we wouldn’t be moving the tables.

  The day wore on, and with each passing hour, the heat and the stench grew. One of my suppliers offered to send over five huge outdoor fans, but Roscoe declined them, saying he would rather smell something real than have the view of his gorgeous gardens blocked by big blue boxes. It was his party.

  At two thirty, the tables had been draped with traditional blue and white checked picnic tablecloths. The caterers had taken over the kitchen, and they yammered at me about Violet presiding over their every move, threatening them silently with her scowl.

  Matt Godadski, also known as the Barbecue Prince among event-planning circles, leaned toward me to kiss me on the cheek and whispered, “The new wife is a nightmare. You should have seen the fight over the ice cream bar. The princess wanted a crepe station. At a picnic? Not to mention that the ice cream bar is a tradition.”

  I was on the side porch when I heard rumbling. Matt burst from the kitchen in a panic. We ran down the stairs and around to the backyard.

  Two huge dump trucks, one on each side of the yard, emptied their contents unceremoniously on the lawn, just missing beds of giant Shasta daisies.

  Mindy ran to the one on the left, her screams not quite drowned out by the noisy engines.