Uprooting Ernie (Jane Delaney Mysteries Book 2)

by Pamela Burford

  On top of the beer and chicken? Well, why not? I tried chatting with Cheyenne as the blender did its thing. You’d think I was conversing with an overly made-up tree stump for all the response I got.

  Detective Bonnie Hernandez strolled by with her gorgeous, perfectly groomed, perfectly behaved red standard poodle, Frederick. She pointedly ignored Dom, who noticed her but quickly redirected his gaze to the creamy orange smoothie he was pouring for me.

  For the record, Frederick wasn’t the only well-groomed poodle in attendance. Yesterday I’d brought Sexy Beast to Rocky, the best groomer in these here parts, so my pet would look his best strutting around the street fair. Rocky (no last name, so Hollywood) had actually gotten me to laugh at the Ramrod News segment by dressing Sexy Beast in a little red-satin devil’s outfit, complete with satanic horns.

  It helped that he was flamboyantly gay—Rocky, that is, not Sexy Beast. He hadn’t known I had such an impressive rack, darling, it was one of those sneaky ones, and why on earth had I left the house wearing those hideous white briefs and was it true I’d found Ernie Waterfield’s skeleton?

  Rocky, as it turned out, had known Ernie, which surprised me. He didn’t strike me as being of Ernie’s and Sophie’s generation, but that was probably because he was slim and fit, with short, neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper hair and good skin.

  Rocky had told me that Ernie had confided in him that he was in love—not with his fiancée, Sophie, but with another man. Rocky, who’d apparently always been open about his sexual orientation, had urged Ernie to call off the engagement, for his sake and Sophie’s, and to come out of the closet. But his friend had been under the thumb of his domineering mother and it was not meant to be.

  I led my elegantly coiffed Sexy Beast to the high school’s senior-trip booth, which was manned by a tall, blond man in his mid-thirties and a couple of high-school kids, a boy and a girl. The students lavished attention on SB as I dug through my purse for my checkbook. When I handed the man a check for twenty bucks, he thanked me and asked if I had a student in the school. I was taken aback until I thought about it a second and was forced to acknowledge I was old enough to be the mother of a high-schooler.

  “Nope, I just want the kids to have a good trip.” I switched my smoothie cup to my left hand and reached across the folding table that constituted the school’s booth. “I’m Jane Delaney.”

  “I know.” Grinning, he shook my hand, and I realized this handsome guy with warm hazel eyes and a pleasantly craggy face had seen The Show.

  My face flamed. The curse of the naturally strawberry blond—a mood-ring complexion that conceals nothing. “My reputation precedes me,” I mumbled.

  “I’m Colin Vargas.” He reached down to pet Sexy Beast, who’d gone under the table to check him out. “I teach advanced-placement American history.”

  “Oh. You must be Lacey and Porter’s son.”

  “I’m Lacey’s son.” He straightened. “Porter is my stepfather.”

  Hmm... Most people wouldn’t feel the need to make the distinction. Colin had never even met his biological father; his stepfather had raised him from birth. I recalled Lacey telling me her son was the image of Tim Holbrook, the man who’d sired him. He certainly looked nothing like swarthy, black-haired Porter Vargas.

  I said, “Somehow I wouldn’t expect an AP history teacher to be a fan of a show like Ramrod News.”

  “My mom told me about it and I caught the segment on YouTube.”

  His words whacked me in the solar plexus. “It’s on YouTube?” I croaked.

  His genial smile faded. “You didn’t know.” A woman with a couple of small children in tow approached the booth. Colin gestured to the students to attend to her.

  “Oh God,” I groaned. “I’ll never live this down.”

  “I wouldn’t worry,” he said. “This sort of thing has a limited shelf life on the web. Just be grateful you’re not a litter of puppies or a grumpy cat.”

  “How many hits did the video have? Did you notice?”

  He hesitated. “A little over a million at that point.”

  I clapped a hand over my mouth and froze in that position. SB whined and pawed at my legs.

  “Jane?” Colin took hold of my arm. “You okay? Maybe you should sit down.”

  I dropped my hand. “Over a million people have seen me wearing that—that— and saying those things...”

  He tried to steer me to the curb, presumably so I could sit with my head between my knees, the better to remain fully conscious and aware of the depth of my humiliation, as well as to draw even more attention to myself. I was the subject of enough gossip as it was.

  “It’s okay, Colin.” I set the smoothie cup on the table, produced my smartphone, and brought up YouTube. “I’m not a fainter.” I was, however, a pretty spectacular upchucker under the right circumstances. Such as discovering that the video titled “Sexy Satanic Death Diva” had racked up 2,374,917 views. Plus, of course, thousands of comments.

  I placed a hand on my roiling stomach. Whose idea had that Thai chicken and India pale ale been anyway? And what had possessed me to pour a smoothie on top of it?

  That’s when I recalled that this particular smoothie was supposed to be good for stomachaches. I sucked on the straw and coaxed SB away from a half-eaten ear of grilled corn that lay in the gutter. I think I said the usual nice-to-meet-you stuff as I took my leave of Colin, but I can’t be sure.

  Two point three million views and climbing. My accidental appearance on Ramrod News was the gift that kept on giving. What had been a perfectly lovely street fair now felt like a horror-movie fun house as I negotiated my way through the chattering, fun-loving crowd. Eventually it dawned on me that someone was calling my name.

  “Earth to Death Diva!” The man was in his late twenties, of medium build, with short red hair, a short red beard, and the kind of peeling, sun-scalded complexion only a redhead could manage. I recognized him as the owner of the Harbor Room, where I’d had dinner with the breeder of golden retrievers and his pelt. I’d met this guy once or twice before and now scoured my memory for his name as he beckoned me to the restaurant’s booth.

  Kevin... Keith... Ken... something K.

  Every year the Harbor Room sponsored the largest, fanciest booth, with a festive tent, nautical decorations, and an entire outdoor kitchen. Next to the booth sat an authentic rum-runner boat that had been used in the 1920s to ferry smuggled booze from offshore vessels to the restaurant.

  I approached the booth, lifting Sexy Beast to keep him from scavenging the assorted edible tidbits that littered the pavement. The owner (Karl? Kasey?) grinned and left the booth, where several workers served fairgoers such popular delicacies as shrimp skewers, lobster rolls, and the aforementioned grilled corn. The mingled aromas drew in crowds from up and down the street.

  Keenan... Kiefer... Keanu... My mind had gone Hollywood in search of this guy’s name. Unnecessarily as it turned out.

  “Kyle Kenneally. Remember me?” He chucked SB under the chin. SB seemed not to know what to do with that.

  “Of course,” I said. “How are you, Kyle? Looks like your booth is pretty popular there.”

  He glanced back at it. “I’m giving every customer that signs up for our email newsletter a coupon for a free appetizer. Want to see them in the restaurant.”

  “Smart.”

  “Listen, Janet, I have a... well, a job I want to hire you for.”

  “I always like to hear that.” Kyle had never hired me before, but I welcomed new clients, now more than ever since I expected to lose a bunch over the Ramrod fiasco. Maybe he hadn’t caught the show. “And it’s Jane, by the way.”

  “Huh? Oh. Right. Anyway...” He led me behind the booth where we’d have something approaching privacy. I set down Sexy Beast but kept a good grip on the leash.

  “Wait here.” Kyle ducked into the booth and emerged with a lobster roll in a paper boat, along with a handful of napkins. I gratefully accepted it, my nausea forgotten. I mean, lo
bster.

  SB sat his little butt on the ground, his dark eyes locked on the hot-dog roll overflowing with gooey lobster salad as I took the first bite and bit back a groan of ecstasy. I looked directly at SB and he swiftly averted his gaze. This is his way, and we can play the game for as long as it takes me to eat something. He covets my exotic human food but tries to be subtle about it. If he gets frustrated enough, he’ll emit a faint whimper, just to remind the alpha female that she’s responsible for sharing with the omega member of our two-animal pack.

  I plucked a mayonnaise-slathered chunk of lobster and offered it to him. He gave it a delicate sniff, then gulped it down and licked his snout to get every last speck of lobstery deliciousness.

  Meanwhile Kyle looked at me with an expression not unlike Sexy Beast’s, but less subtle. Hmm...

  “So what do you need done?” I wiped my mouth and took another bite.

  “I need you to dig up my mama and put something in her coffin.”

  I managed not to spew lobster all over him, but it was a close thing. I squeaked the food down my gullet and cleared my throat. “Excuse me?”

  “She’s buried in Whispering Willows Cemetery,” he said. “You know that place pretty well, right? And you know how and when to sneak in so no one’ll see you.” His leering grin spoke volumes on the subject of whether he’d caught the show. I’d bet real money he was wondering if I was wearing those naughty undies, not to mention the ritual granny panties, under my T-shirt and shorts.

  “Kyle, let me be clear.” SB scooted a little closer and licked his lips. With an exasperated sigh I offered him another bite. “I do not exhume dead people. Never have, never will.”

  He laughed, glancing around and lowering his voice. “You don’t have to pretend with me, Janet. I know all about your, uh, religious practices. Don’t tell me something like this isn’t right up your alley.”

  Good grief. “My religious practices?”

  He spread his hands. “Hey, I make no judgments. You can worship any way and any thing you want, as long as no one gets hurt. Much,” he snickered.

  “Kyle, I—”

  “I’ll pay you five thousand bucks.”

  I was struck momentarily speechless while an unruly corner of my brain calculated what it would take to quickly unearth a casket, mess around with it, and cover it up again. The sod would need to be carefully replaced—

  I gave myself a vigorous mental shake. “I don’t know what gave you the idea that I would... well, I know what gave you that idea, but let me assure you, it’s not going to happen.”

  “Six thousand.”

  “What do you want to put in her casket anyway?” I asked.

  “Her pet giant tortoise, Romeo.”

  I had to ask. “Dead or alive?”

  He looked aghast. “Dead, of course. What kind of sicko do you take me for?”

  The world was full of sickos. I was just aiming to narrow it down.

  “Romeo died last week,” Kyle continued. “He was over a hundred eighty years old. I’ve got him in the walk-in freezer at work.”

  Remind me not to order... well, anything at the Harbor Room ever again.

  “I’m sorry, Kyle, I’m not doing it. It’s illegal for one thing. I don’t do illegal things.” Much. I mean, there’s a fine line on which I’ve found myself teetering on more than one occasion, but for purposes of this discussion, it was best to keep things black and white.

  “Hear me out, Janet. Mama was devoted to Romeo. She grew up with him. So did I. He’s been in our family for generations—they think he might’ve been one of those Darwin tortoises. I know she’d want to be buried with him.”

  “A giant tortoise that old must be a big fellow.”

  “Oh, man.” Kyle beamed, holding his arms wide to indicate circumference. “I used to ride on him when I was little.”

  When all else fails, try reason. “Did you even stop to think he can’t possibly fit in your mother’s casket?”

  “I did think of that, sure, but Mama was tiny and she’s been gone eight years. I don’t see how she can take up that much room at this point, and if you were to saw Romeo in half—”

  “All right, we’re going to stop right here.” I didn’t think anything or anyone could put me off a good lobster roll, but Kyle’s latest conversational salvo had done the trick. I placed the little paper boat with about a quarter of the sandwich untouched at SB’s feet. You’d think food was a new and glorious concept for him, the way he went after it.

  “If you want to bury Romeo with Mama, you’re more than welcome to try. Only, don’t call me to bail you out.” An idea leapt up and whacked me on the noggin. “You know, an animal with a pedigree like that shouldn’t be thrown in a hole in the ground. I’ll bet there’s a natural-history museum somewhere that would be happy to take a donation like that. Maybe stuff him and put him on display in one of those dioramas.”

  He pondered that. “You think so?”

  “With your name as donor right there on a brass plaque.”

  “Huh. Imagine that.” He imagined it, then grimaced and shook his head. “Forget it, I don’t have time to look into all that.”

  “Why should you?” I made a here-I-am gesture. “That’s the kind of thing I do for people.”

  He looked dubious. “Donations to museums?”

  “Anything to do with dead folks.” Granted, most of those folks were of the Homo sapiens variety, but I was no stranger to the Best Friend Pet Cemetery. And granted, I’d never arranged the donation of an animal specimen, but I’ve handled many other kinds of donations on behalf of survivors. Why not an older-than-dirt giant tortoise named Romeo?

  “What’s this going to cost me?” he asked.

  “Five thousand bucks.”

  His look said, Nice try. “One thousand.”

  “An assignment like this promises to be very time-consuming, Kyle. Five thousand if I can get him into the American Museum of Natural History in Manhattan—”

  “With a plaque!”

  “With a plaque,” I agreed. “Thirty-five hundred without the plaque. Same deal for the Smithsonian.”

  “The Smithsonian!” His look was rapturous. I almost expected to hear angels singing.

  “Two thousand bucks if I get him into another legitimate museum.” There must be scores if not hundreds of such institutions all over the world. A few hours with a search engine, a few emails and phone calls. Easy money.

  “Deal,” Kyle said, visions of a brass plaque in the Smithsonian dancing in his head.

  “You’re responsible for my expenses, if any, and for the cost of transporting Romeo to whatever institution accepts him, in whatever manner they require.” Which could cost more, I guesstimated, than my fee, unless the museum paid the freight. I’d have to look into all that.

  “No problem.”

  “I’ll draw up the work order and swing by the restaurant this evening so you can sign it and I can get moving on it.” I didn’t want to give him too much time to mull it over and strike out on his own in the dead of night with a shovel and a half-thawed big-ass reptile. “I’ll need a five-hundred-dollar down payment in cash, refundable if I don’t succeed. And I, uh, will need to see Romeo. So I can assure the recipient that he’s well preserved and all that.” No one wants a freezer-burned tortoise.

  “Great.” There was that skeevy look again. He moved a little closer and seemed not to hear the low groan emanating from SB’s throat. “There’s a cozy private room where we can have a surf-and-turf dinner and toast our venture with a bottle of Cristal.”

  Another icky man angling for a date. And I was waffling about Dom why?

  “Sounds lovely.” I shortened the leash and made SB heel. He wasn’t a biter, but every animal has its limits, and as much as we both disliked Kyle, the prospect of a four-digit fee with minimal work made me all warm and squishy inside. I’d drink his champagne (don’t judge me, it’s Cristal!), but I’d keep the door open and ask one of my new roomies to phone me with an “emerg
ency” twenty minutes after my arrival at the Harbor Room. Yeah, I’m sure Kyle knew that old trick and I didn’t care. I’d be a blur before he could draw in a breath to gripe about it.

  We agreed on seven p.m. and I took Sexy Beast on a detour to a side street so he could do his business far from the crowded fair. After we returned to Main Street, I noticed some kind of hubbub about a half block ahead, with a crowd and intermittent cheering. Being a fan of hubbubs, I quickened my pace and spied a long line of females of all ages waiting their turn at a dunking booth. The object was to throw a ball—you got three tries—at a round red target on a big yellow board and cause some poor sap to fall into a huge vat of water.

  The poor sap sat on a perch above the water and behind a cage so he wouldn’t get beaned by an ill-aimed ball. The vat itself had a big window in front so everyone could watch him flail around underwater before hauling himself up for another dunking.

  Oh, did I mention? The poor sap in question was Martin McAuliffe. And the padre didn’t appear at all unhappy to be the center of all this female attention. He wore Hawaiian-patterned board shorts and nothing else, and he was wet and tasty-looking. He sat on that perch and called out encouragement to the pretty young thing preparing to try to dunk him. Sadly for her, she threw like a girl and the padre kept his seat. He blew her a kiss and the next woman stepped up.

  No way was I going to squander an opportunity like this. SB and I took up position at the end of the line, in back of Rocky, the lone male in the queue.

  “I hate to break it to you, Rocky,” I said, “but Martin’s straight.”

  “A boy can dream, can’t he?” Sexy Beast’s groomer lifted him for a cuddle.

  The line moved fast and the padre kept his perch. The ladies tended to become a tad flustered when confronted with his blue-eyed charm up close and it affected their aim. When it was Rocky’s turn, he morphed into Nolan Ryan and aced it on the first try. Martin went down with a thunderous splash and remained underwater for a good long while, mugging for the crowd. Sexy Beast barked with delighted abandon, excited by the ruckus. Rocky stepped up to the window and gave it a big, smacking kiss, much to the amusement of the ladies and Martin, who spewed bubbles laughing underwater and blew him a return kiss.