Digging Up Death (A Mari Duggins Mystery)

by Gina Conroy

  Hattie’s phone went to voicemail. I dialed Elizabeth’s number.

  “Elizabeth?”

  “Mari, is everything okay? You sound winded.”

  “Yes, I just had a little fright at the graveyard.”

  “Graveyard? What are you not telling me?”

  “It’ll have to wait. I need a favor. I can’t get through to my kids on the phone. I’d feel better if I knew they were okay. I feel like I haven’t been home in days.”

  “I think Rachel is on the phone with Hattie now. Hold on a sec.”

  A minute later Elizabeth returned. “They’re peachy, Mari.”

  “Thank goodness.”

  “Hattie says Matt’s been the model babysitter. Playing with Ben. He’s about to call in a pizza.”

  I exhaled. “That’s good to know. Maybe Matt’s arrest was the best thing that could have happened. Can you tell Hattie I’ll be home soon?”

  “Sure. See, I told you. All things work together for good.”

  “I’m beginning to believe you.”

  Stepping out of the Jeep, I drew in a cleansing breath, imagining myself on a deserted island. The crash of the ocean upon the shore calmed my anxiety, my shoulders relaxed. Until I realized I was alone in paradise.

  Tension returned as I limped down the walkway toward the enormous church. Steeples and peaks adorned the imposing structure. My chest tightened. The last time I had been in a church was for my parents’ funeral. I wrapped my arms around my waist. No turning back now.

  I opened the door and gasped, almost knocking over Henderson. The giant life-sized photo cutout of him in the alcove mesmerized me like I had just witnessed his resurrection. Leave it to Natasha to mix mourning with extravagance. No matter how tacky the cardboard cutout seemed, I admired Natasha for not caring about what others might think.

  I looked up at Henderson who towered above me in his death as he did in life. With his arms crossed and his fedora slightly tilted, he grinned, making me think somewhere he was the only one laughing at his own joke. I stared at his blue eyes, sparkling. It was hard to imagine those piercing, domineering eyes no longer existed.

  Enough stalling. There was no such thing as being fashionably late to a funeral. I sucked in a deep breath, hoping the lights were dimmed so no one would notice my late entry and inappropriate red sweater. My unexpected detour to the cemetery prevented me from going home to change. I adjusted my skirt. At least it was black.

  The minister’s voice vibrated through the carved wooden doors to the sanctuary. I peeked through the glass window and scanned the pews for familiar faces. Candy sat on the third row. An empty seat beside her. There was no way I was walking down the aisle past all those rows to sit up close.

  Where was Fletcher? I searched from pew to pew, but he wasn’t here. That rat bailed on me. A video montage played of Henderson’s life. Loud sobs from the front of the sanctuary echoed through me. Susan sat on the first left row dabbing her eyes with a white hanky. Natasha wailed louder, sitting on the right front row, glancing from the screen to Susan. By the time the photos progressed to the Professor Henderson I knew, the two bereaved divas battled for the title of most mournful.

  I spied an empty spot three rows from the rear. I told myself to move, but my feet wouldn’t budge. Come on, you can do this.

  But I couldn’t.

  I scampered from the church and pulled from the parking lot, headed toward the highway and home. No one would notice I wasn’t there. I would say I got there late, which I did, and I left early to tend to my family. Which wasn’t a lie.

  My hands tapped the steering wheel to the song on the radio. The methodic beat lulled my anxiety. The highway sign ahead read two and a half miles to Progress Park. My heart nudged, urging me to take the exit. Ten minutes later I found myself weaving through Susan’s neighborhood, thoughts spiraling toward the man in the window.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  7:31 p.m.

  APPREHENSION SLIPPED ITS HAND down my throat and hung a sharp left. Could my hunch about the man in the window be right? No, my overactive imagination had usurped what was left of my sanity. He couldn’t be—but it almost made sense. Jack’s missing artifact and disappearance coinciding with Henderson’s convenient death. My mind refused to believe it, but the niggling in my gut wouldn’t dissipate.

  Only one way to find out.

  I floored the Jeep through Susan’s quiet neighborhood, my pulse exceeding the speed limit. Several wrong turns later, I found the street and parked three houses away. I reached for the door handle and hesitated.

  What was I doing? I should call Detective Lopez. But he was busy with the investigation. I couldn’t distract him on a hunch. I needed proof, and if this crazy jaunt proved futile, he wouldn’t have to know how close I came to checking into the loony bin. All I needed to do was look in Susan’s window. She was at the memorial service. No one would know I was even here. Jusk a peek in the window and I would go.

  I forced air into my lungs, slung my purse strap on my shoulder, and eased the car door open, throwing caution to the curb. Only one thing pulsed through my mind. Discover the truth about the mystery man.

  Creeping across the lawns, I ducked at the neighbors’ windows and tiptoed around to the side of Susan’s dark house. No one stirred inside. The streetlights illuminated her gate sign. Beware of Dog. I halted, my heart slamming against my ribs.

  I listened for several minutes, then threw a rock over the fence. Nothing but crickets. It had to be a hoax to keep out burglars. When Natasha and I came earlier we weren’t scared away by a canine killer. I slipped open the latch. The gate creaked. I cringed, ready to slam it shut if white, snarling teeth appeared in the moonlight. Nothing.

  Sneaking across the grass, I felt my heels sink into the earth. Once on the cement patio, I hugged the side of the house, hoping the full moon wouldn’t cast a shadow on the wall. An outside light popped on. I ducked under the window. Someone was home. The light went off, and I exhaled, resuming my prowl to the back door. If the man inside was who I thought he was, he might have the answers I needed to find Jack and clear his name. If it turned out to be a ghost hunt, then maybe I’d get lucky and find the stolen artifacts.

  I took one agonizing step at a time. The light popped on again. I fell to the ground, my knees scraping the cement. They stung as I waited, paralyzed in the shadows, except for my heaving chest. I glanced toward the window. The dark house dared me to enter. I must be crazy. I should call Detective Lopez. My trembling fingers found my phone. I scrolled for his number, dialed, but it went to voicemail.

  “Detective Lopez,” I whispered. “I need you to call me ASAP. I think I have some more information about Susan. I’m at her house now.”

  Finally the light went out. The pounding in my brain muffled my rational thoughts. Should I chance a peek inside again? No. What good would it do Jack if I were arrested, or worse? I would go home and wait for Detective Lopez to get my message.

  I pushed up, and the light went on again. My head whipped toward the back door, awaiting the stranger. No one. I exhaled and examined the light. Must be a motion sensor. Normal heart rhythm returned.

  Stepping out of the light’s path, I edged along the bushes to the rear windows. I peeked in and noticed several packed suitcases. Too many for a quick Christmas vacation. Boxes stacked high in the far corner. The room looked sparse and void of Susan’s hominess. I surveyed the mantel, the kitchen table, but nothing suspicious caught my eye. I needed to get inside and see what those boxes contained. Doubling back, I froze when the outside light turned on. I was nowhere near the motion detector. I held my breath. Nothing stirred. Not even the crickets. Darkness returned. A cat scampered across the lawn. I clutched my chest, feeling the drumming of my heart. My imaginary man in the window? I was beginning to doubt my whole cockamamie theory.

  I tiptoed toward the patio, my spirits lighter. Something behind me crunched. My breath hitched. I halted. A foreboding presence put the fear of God in me. I st
ood motionless for several seconds. Nothing.

  Blowing out stale air, I listened to the crickets revive their melody and continued along the side of the house. A warm breeze tickled the nape of my neck. I sucked in a violent breath and swung around. A heavy hand clamped over my mouth, the other pressed against the back of my head as I gaped into familiar blue eyes beneath a leather Fedora.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  7:47 p.m.

  LIKE A MILLION FIRECRACKERS detonating at once, I exploded. A swift knee to the groin released Fletcher’s grip on me and had him doubling over, and then rolling on the ground in his Bomber Jacket, moaning.

  “How could you?” I whacked his head with my Gucci purse, ignoring his pleas for me to stop. “How could you do this to me? To Jack?” I got in another couple of blows before he caught my purse and yanked me down.

  “Would you … just calm down … a minute.” He panted like an injured beast, grabbed my arm, and rolled to his knees. All the time his eyes burned through me.

  “Let go of me.” I tried to wiggle free, but I couldn’t break out of his grip. “Want me to scratch out your eyes?” I branded my left claw.

  He grabbed that wrist as well. “Are you nuts? You’re gonna kill me.”

  “That’s the plan. How could you and Susan—” I tried to wrestle from his grasp.

  “Whoa there! Me and Susan?”

  “You were here yesterday! When Natasha and I confronted Susan. I saw your hat.”

  “What are you talking about? I was at the office. Ask Candy if you don’t believe me.”

  “Aren’t you and Susan involved?”

  “Come on, Mari. Me and Susan? It never even crossed my mind.” The confused look on his face made me believe him. Or maybe I still clung to the hope of his innocence.

  “Why weren’t you at the memorial service?”

  “I was running late. I saw your Jeep speed off, so I followed you here. I didn’t even know this was Susan’s house until you mentioned it.”

  “The man I saw here the other day in the window. Wasn’t that you?”

  “No, I swear.”

  I don’t know why, but I trusted him. I quit struggling, and he loosened his grip.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Following a hunch that hasn’t panned out. I’m hoping for another lead. Natasha’s missing artifacts could be here. We need to get inside Susan’s house.” I stood and brushed the grass from my skirt.

  Fletcher grabbed his hat and struggled to his feet, slightly bent at the middle.

  “Sorry about that.”

  “I guess I had it coming for sneaking up on you. But let’s get out of here, Sherlock, and leave the sleuthing to the detectives.”

  “You can leave if you want to, but I have to go inside. Whatever’s in those boxes could prove Jack didn’t steal the heart scarab.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. What about that guy you said you saw here? He could be inside.”

  “If he was, don’t you think he’d be out here by now chasing us off? I’m beginning to think the man in the window was all my imagination.” I glared at him with hands on my hips. “Are you coming or not?”

  “Let me go first, just in case.” Fletcher puffed out his chest and pushed me behind him.

  The light popped on, and he dropped to all fours.

  I stifled my laugh. “It’s motion sensitive, Rambo.”

  “Right, I knew that. Just searching for a key.” He reached under the welcome mat, but came up empty. “Try that.” He pointed past me to a garden gnome holding a lantern on the patio. I nodded, reached inside, and felt something cool and jagged. A key. I gave Fletcher a thumbs up.

  Slipping the key out of the lantern, I tried to silence the Ma’at mantra trying to knock some conviction into my head. I was going in. I had to. If those boxes contained Natasha’s missing artifacts, they could hold the evidence to Jack’s innocence. I was willing to risk breaking and entering if it meant keeping Jack out of prison.

  Fletcher took the key and slipped it into the lock. My muscles tensed as he turned the knob. When he gave the door a gentle push, it creaked. We froze and stared at each other, waiting. Still, no one.

  I followed him inside. He held up his hand. “Wait here.” He tiptoed through the living room, and when he gave me a thumbs up, I reached for the light switch.

  Shaking his head, he whispered, “No light.” As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I followed him with one hand on his back. He opened the top box on the left. I searched through the one on the right. Nothing but books. I slid the box to the floor. It landed with a thud.

  Fletcher looked up, and pressed his finger to his lips. I shrugged and opened the second box. It was filled with clothes. I sorted through some shirts and jeans until my hand hit something hard and smooth.

  “I think I found something,” I whispered.

  I blinked and Fletcher was by my side. “What is it?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Ease it out, carefully.”

  I worked the object from the clothes and removed a smooth ceramic bowl. It fit the description of the one missing from Henderson’s office. “Do you know what this means?”

  “We found our thief. I can’t believe Susan did this all by herself.”

  “I don’t think she did. She had to have help from Peter.” Maybe he was the man in the window, but how could he be? Peter was arrested before Natasha and I visited Susan’s. “Keep looking, I’m going to search the bedroom.” Maybe Susan had an itinerary or plane ticket lying around. Maybe it would clue me in to where she was going and with whom.

  The first thing I noticed when I walked into Susan’s bedroom was the flickering candle on the nightstand. Definitely a fire hazard. I picked it up, welcoming the light, and noticed the book on her nightstand. Silt and Soil: The Making of the Nile. Hardly bedtime reading unless she used it to help her fall asleep. I flipped it open and noticed the inscription. To my one and only love, I would die for you! Love, Theron.

  Looks like Henderson kept his promise. How could he not know Susan was playing him for a fool? A rich fool.

  I searched the rest of the room. Papers scattered across the other nightstand. I set down the candle and picked them up. No flight itineraries, but what I read made my insides shrivel. Spreadsheets of artifacts. Inventories of the antiquities taken from Henderson’s mansion along with dozens of others. There was no way Susan had orchestrated this on her own. I gathered the papers, relieved they had Peter in custody.

  Fletcher grunted from the other room, then I heard a thud. What was he doing out there? I shuffled through the pages as I walked toward the living room. The last page sucked the air from my lungs.

  I reread the initials next to the missing heart scarab.

  J. D. D.

  Jackson Dalton Duggins.

  No, Jack couldn’t be involved. The room started to shrink. What had I done? In trying to clear Jack’s name had I proven his guilt?

  Tucking the incriminating page inside my purse, I wasn’t sure what I would do with the information. I needed to get out of the house. And think. We had enough evidence to call Detective Lopez, but what exactly would I tell him? I stepped from the room, found my phone, and started to dial, but my fingers froze as I stared down the barrel of a gun.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  8:17 p.m.

  MY GAZE JUMPED FROM the gun to the person that held it. Despite my shaking limbs, I stood still, afraid the slightest movement might cause him to squeeze the trigger. The person I thought I knew, no, a stranger, stood before me and grinned. His lying, thieving eyes already caused more devastation than the gun in his hand ever could.

  “Surprised?”

  Actually, I wasn’t. Not deep down, anyway. A part of me had imagined this scenario, had entertained the very idea, though I convinced myself it was impossible. That Lopez had the right man in custody. But all along I knew he was capable of this and so much more. “You’re the man in the window? The thief?”

&n
bsp; “We’ll have plenty of time to catch up, but not here.” He grabbed me by the shoulder and pushed me in front of him. I craned my neck, searching the living room.

  How could I have been so blind? To know him all these years and never really know him at all. How could I have dismissed my growing theory so quickly when the evidence was right in front of me? All around me?

  He linked his right arm in mine. I recoiled at his touch, wanting to hurl on his sneakers. “Give me the keys.”

  I complied. He grabbed a worn leather satchel and escorted me through the living room, past Fletcher lying on the floor, blood pooling around his head. My insides cemented. “What have you done?”

  Ignoring my question, he clamped his hand over my mouth and pushed me out the door and down the sidewalk.

  Please, God, don’t let Fletcher be dead.

  He pushed me in the Jeep, the gun trained on my head as he slipped in the rear seat. Heat seared through me as he handed me the keys. “Get on the highway and head north.” His even tone unnerved me. Void of emotion. Void of life. Void of our history together.

  The engine rumbled to life. “How could you do this? It’s … it’s …”

  “Ingenious?”

  “Diabolical!”

  Something cold pressed against my neck. Panic spilled through me. My stupidity hit me like a sandstorm, thick and suffocating.

  I was dealing with a madman.

  “Drive.”

  “Where to?”

  “Home.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  8:22 p.m.

  WITH SHAKING HANDS, I shifted the Jeep into drive and glanced in the rearview mirror. Determined, threatening eyes glared back. Eyes I had looked into day after day. Week after week. Year after year.

  My emotions seethed.

  “Why would you do this? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “I had no choice. Things got complicated. Now keep quiet and drive.”

  The next twenty minutes passed in silence, thoughts careening through my mind, awkward prayers for God to work everything out for good. Prayers that Fletcher wasn’t dead. That I would make it out alive.