Digging Up Trouble (12 page)
Read Digging Up Trouble Online
Authors: Heather Webber
Tags: #Fiction, #Contemporary Women, #Mystery & Detective, #General
"Can't as in won't or can't as in you don't know?"
"Don't kn—"
He was cut off when I was jostled on my stool by some one sitting down next to me. It was a slightly pudgy Elvis, who would have been better off portraying an older Elvis, but had opted for a J
ailhouse Rock
look. Except he had on the glasses.
ailhouse Rock
look. Except he had on the glasses.
"Hey," Alan said, sticking up for me. "Watch it."
"Sorry." The Old Elvis swiveled our way.
I gasped and fell off my stool, spilling my drink down the front of my shirt.
Pudgy Elvis squinted. "Nina, is that you?" He reached down, pulled off my blonde wig, and held it out like it was something toxic.
I looked up, my mouth open, my eyes blinking as if I was hallucinating. "What are
you
doing here?"
you
doing here?"
Twelve
Hairy-chested Alan snatched my wig back, set it on my head, and helped me up. "Do you know him?" he asked me, sounding like he was looking for a fight.
I saw Pudgy Elvis take note of Alan's hands. They lingered on my bare arms. "I suggest you take your hands off of her, sonny."
"Says who, chubby?"
My father's chest puffed. I stepped in between them before punches flew. "Alan, this is my father, Antonio Ceceri. Dad, this is Alan."
My father's eyebrows, dyed freakishly black, slashed downward. "Who was just leaving, right?"
"That's up to her," Alan said, apparently having a death wish.
Just then Ana hustled in, elbowing her way through the crowd. She stopped just short of us, took in the scene. "Why do I always miss all the fun? Uncle Tonio, is that you?"
My father murmured something under his breath, ordered a drink from Jake.
Alan took one look at Ana and lost interest in me. I sat down next to my father while a female Elvis took the karaoke mic and started singing "In the Ghetto." She was booed off the stage.
"Do I even want to know?" I asked my father, dabbing at the front of my shirt with a cocktail napkin. The outline of my pink Victoria's Secret bra was clearly visible for all to see. "Mom thinks you're at some club meeting or something."
He picked up his shot glass. "This is one of the club's outings."
"What kind of club are you in? It's certainly not Historians Unite, or whatever Mom told me."
My father's chest puffed again. "It's called 'Elvis Lives.' We meet twice a month and come here every Saturday night. And your mother knows what I'm doing. She just doesn't want to admit it."
I could see why. "Does that goop come out?" I motioned to his eyebrows. I didn't even mention the pitch-black toupee. I had my limits.
"All water soluble."
"Ah."
"Am I really chubby?" he asked, running a hand over his stomach.
"In a good way," I said. "Think Santa."
He frowned, took another sip of his drink.
Over my shoulder I saw Alan give Ana his phone number. She put it in her pocket and sat on the other side of my father. Alan headed for the karaoke line.
"Uncle Tonio," Ana said, "you look cool!"
He kissed both her cheeks. "Am I fat?" he asked her.
"In a good way," she said.
My father grunted.
"See, I told you so." I wanted to order another drink but didn't want to have to borrow money. I asked for water instead.
"You're Italian," Ana said, as if this explained everything
from chubbiness to the Darwin Theory. She then leaned across the bar top and said to me, "Did you find him?"
"Him who?" my father asked.
"Jean-Claude," Ana said to him.
"Who's Jean-Claude?" he asked.
I picked up another napkin, kept dabbing. "He works for me, remember?"
My father shook his head, the weird toupee flapping.
I dabbed harder.
"Well, Nina thought he might have been a prostitute."
"A gigolo," I corrected. I looked up at Jake, who was hovering. "That's right, right? Girls are prostitutes, men are gigolos?"
"I think both prefer 'escorts' these days," he said.
My father made the sign of the cross.
"Well, we're not sure he's any of those," Ana said. "He's moonlighting but we don't know where."
"Do we care?" my father asked.
Ana ordered something I'd never heard of before. "He could be violating his probation."
"Ah."
I told Ana about my trip to Bump. She laughed about the fifteen dollars. "I'm surprised you got any information about Jean-Claude with only fifteen bucks."
Jake set Ana's drink down. It was pink with a little umbrella. "Oh, is this about JC again?" he asked, looking at Ana's copy of Jean-Claude's mug shot.
"Who's JC?" Ana asked.
"Jean-Claude," I explained.
"Since when does he go by JC?" she asked.
"I've only known him as JC." Jake swiped the countertop. "His real name is Jean-Claude?"
"Does anyone, perchance, have an aspirin?" my father asked.
I fished in my backpack and pulled out a tin of Advil.
"Jean-Claude Reaux."
Jake put another stack of napkins in front of me. "I know him as JC Rock."
"JC Rock?" Ana laughed, tossing her head back. The curls of her red wig flounced.
"Do I want to ask about the wigs?" my father asked.
I gave up on my shirt. "Only if you want us to ask about yours."
He pressed his lips together, signaled for a refill to his Jim Beam.
"Do you know where he works?" Ana asked Jake, switching back to the topic of Jean-Claude.
"No, but he comes in almost every Saturday night." He looked at his watch. "Usually around three."
"Three? A.M.?"
"What?" Ana said to me, "too late for you?"
"Don't give me that." I slid my water glass in circles, wishing it were something pink with an umbrella in it. "It's past your bedtime too."
My father said, "Don't look at me. One o'clock is my limit."
Ana and I looked at Jake. "Want to do a little recon?" I asked.
He set the bar rag over his shoulder. "Like a Tom Clancy novel?"
"Exactly," Ana said.
We explained what we wanted to know, and Jake promised he'd try to get the information for us in exchange for a date with Ana.
My ego was bruised, but I was glad we were finally going to find out what Jean-Claude was up to.
"Speaking of Tom Clancy," Ana said to Jake, "who do you think was better in those movies? Harrison Ford or Ben Affleck?"
Someone sang "A Little Less Conversation" as Jake said, "Harrison Ford. Everyone knows that."
I woke up the next morning to a ringing sound and Ana thumping my head like it was the snooze button of her alarm clock.
I lifted a heavy eyelid and searched for a clock. It was ten in the morning. The ringing continued, and I wondered if I had a hangover.
Then I remembered I'd only had one drink—barely.
"Phone," Ana mumbled, pulling a pillow over her head.
My cell phone, I realized with a start. I rolled out of Ana's bed, stumbled toward my backpack, which was still buzzing. I found my phone, flipped it open, and mumbled something in the way of a greeting. I think it might have been "Hello" but may have come out as "Yo."
"Sleeping late, are we?"
I padded into Ana's living room, flopped onto her sofa, and drew a chenille throw over my bare legs. I'd borrowed one of Ana's T-shirts and a pair of boxer shorts—I didn't want to know their origin—to sleep in.
"Good morning to you too. You never were a morning person," I said.
Kevin grunted. "It's practically afternoon. Loverboy tire you out?"
I ground my teeth, rubbed the sleep from my eyes. "No, Ana tires me out. She hogs the covers."
Banging my head with my fist, I wondered why I'd said anything at all. Why did I care if he thought I'd slept with Bobby?
Why? We. Were. Over.
Done.
Finito.
Right?
Ugh.
"But your mother . . . Never mind," he said.
Ah. My mother probably assumed I'd changed my mind last night and gone home with Bobby after all. Probably I should have told her I was going out with Ana and that I'd decided to stay the night at her place. I'm sure my father had filled her in by now.
"Earth to Nina" I heard in my ear.
"What?"
"Talk about not being a morning person."
"Is Riley okay? Is that why you're calling?"
I yawned. Doing recon took its toll.
"He's fine," Kevin said. "I just dropped him off at work. Can you pick him up?"
"Sure."
"Great. All right, I've got good news and bad news. Which do you want first?"
"Good," I said. I could use a pick-me-up.
"The Grabinsky yard has been cleared. As soon as you get the go-ahead from Greta Grabinsky you can finish the job there."
Oh, like that was going to be easy.
I debated whether I should tell him about the conversation in Greta's kitchen I'd overheard. Decided it was the right thing to do. Taking a deep breath, I told Kevin about the threats.
"And how do you know about these threats?" he asked. I heard irritation in his voice.
"I, um, told you. I overheard."
"And where were you?"
"Ah, um, in the Grabinskys' yard?"
"Nina . . ." he warned.
I sat upright, getting tangled in the chenille blanket. "I've, um, got to go."
"Wait!"
I winced, bracing for the worst.
"We can hash out the whole trespassing thing later, not to mention crossing a crime scene line." He sighed. "The bad news . . ."
I'd forgotten about the bad news. My heart sank down to the pit of my stomach. "Do I want to know?"
"You have to know."
"What is it?"
His voice dropped to a whisper, as though he didn't want to be overheard. "I shouldn't be telling you this."
I didn't know what to say to that, so I kept quiet.
"The captain, well, he's looking to make a case with the prosecutor's office."
"What kind of case?"
"There was a case in New Jersey recently where a man died of a heart attack because he'd been scared to death at a bank robbery."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning that the prosecutor's office is looking into charging someone with murder for Russ Grabinsky's death."
"Someone as in me?"
"You and the Lockharts."
"Even if it was a heart attack?"
"Even if. It's like what that annoying HOA lady was saying the other day. He might have died from the shock of it all. Look, the prosecutor is desperate to make a name for himself, Nina. You know the problems the department has had lately, so the captain is bending over backward to help him."
There had been some rumblings over the past six months in the department of briberies and kickbacks, rumors of bad cops. Nothing had ever come of it, and the prosecutor ended up looking like a fool.
"I was just doing my job!"
"Nina, calm down. I'm just saying it's being talked about. And it probably wouldn't be murder charges. Maybe man one, or involuntary manslaughter."
"Oh, that makes me feel much better."
"I just wanted to let you know."
"Thanks," I mumbled and hung up the phone.
"You okay?" Ana asked from the doorway.
I looked up at her. "If I get probation, will you find a good job for me?"
Thirteen
I was afraid to go home, but since I didn't have any clean clothes, I didn't have a choice.
Ana had done her best to cheer me up, but at ten on a Sunday Ana is not at her best. Especially since she'd had many more drinks than I did last night.
Ana dropped me off and drove away before I even made it to the front steps. I didn't blame her. She knew my mother was inside and assumed my father had filled her in on our foray into the Blue Zone. She didn't want the lecture any more than I did.
Unfortunately I didn't have a choice.
Ana really didn't either. She was just delaying the inevitable. My mother had a long memory and would undoubtedly bring up this situation the next time she saw her.
The front door flew open before my foot hit the porch. "
Chérie!
How was it?" She waggled her eyebrows.
Chérie!
How was it?" She waggled her eyebrows.
It took me a second to process what she was saying. "Good?" I hedged.
Maybe my father hadn't spoken to her yet . . . Maybe she still thought I'd spent the night with Bobby . . .
"Are you asking
me, chérie
?"
me, chérie
?"
I decided to keep her in the dark. For now. "No, no. It was
good." Fantasies of me and Bobby in bed played in my mind. "Really good."
I stepped into the house, preparing for the worst. I'd seen some of those home improvement shows and their nightmare results.
Oh, not all of them were disastrous, but Maria had had orange paint on her. Orange.
Dear Lord.
Paint fumes lingered in the air, but as I looked around, I didn't see any evidence of paint. I looked at my mother. "What room did you change?"
"Upstairs. Were there candles? I love when your father lights a lot of can—"
"Eww! Stop!"
"What?"
"I don't want to talk about this."
"Why? I am your mamá! You can talk to me about everything."
Except that. I shuddered. "Where's Maria?"
"Shopping."
Ah.
"Want to see your room?" she asked me, her face lighting.
Orange. I sucked it up. "Sure."
She latched onto my hand, her skin smooth. Time had been kind to her. Barely any wrinkles marred her creamy white complexion. Maria was the spitting image of her, with blonde hair, blue eyes, and a natural grace.
I took after my father. And after seeing him last night, I was beginning to worry how I'd turn out.
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