Digging Up Trouble (21 page)

"Not even to his daughter?"

"Francie couldn't stand him. Left at eighteen and never looked back. Broke Greta's heart. Russ disowned Francie, acted as though she hadn't existed."

"And Greta stayed with him? Why?"

"I wish I knew, Miss Quinn. I really do."

My image of Greta continued to change. From victim to villain, back to victim again.

It didn't escape my notice that Greta was the one whose legacy was threatened by the HOA's lawsuit. It twisted my thinking.

Had Russ been behind the blackmail at all? Or had Greta been the mastermind?

I needed to talk to Dale.

The design plans were fairly straightforward, and I could tell Noreen was pleased with them. We made plans to meet there at seven a.m. on Thursday morning to finish the job I'd started last week.

Something Noreen said triggered a question. "You said Russ left everything to a nephew?"

"Cousin."

"Even his partnership in Growl?"

"Oh, no," she said, leaning against the doorjamb. "The agreement between Russ and Bill stated that upon death, the surviving partner gains complete control of the business. Growl is all Bill's now."

Dale didn't look happy to see me. I didn't take it personally. An air-conditioned breeze swirled around my ankles from his open doorway.

"What can I help you with? We're not interested in a yard makeover."

Not exactly the welcome wagon, was he?

"You don't need one. Your yard is beautiful as is." Nothing like a little buttering up to get what I wanted.

"Look I'm sorry to be rude, but I only get an hour for lunch." The blue in his striped tie matched his eyes. "I have to get back in a few minutes."

I cut to the chase. "I know you're being blackmailed."

His head snapped back as if I'd hit him. Well, maybe as if Kit had hit him. I didn't know if I had that much force in me. Over his shoulder, he called out, "Be right back, Kate," and quickly closed the door behind him.

His handsome face transformed into something dark and ugly. He grabbed my arm. "How do you know that?"

I twisted out of his grasp. "Don't touch me."

Long fingers dove into his hair. "I'm sorry. It's just—this whole thing has been crazy."

"I overheard you in Greta's kitchen the other day. The window was open, your voices carried. I heard you threaten Greta."

His eyes widened as my meaning sank in. "I didn't . . . I didn't kill her."

"No?"

"No!"

"But you did go through her house. Looking for?"

"The pictures."

"Of?"

"I'd rather not say."

"How did Russ contact you?" I asked.

"By letter. Anonymously. But it had to be him. Who else wanted that lawsuit dropped?"

"You never confronted him, face-to-face?"

"I did. Once. He played dumb."

"Maybe he didn't know," I suggested.

"Had to have. Who else would have sent that letter?"

"Greta."

His eyes widened. "No way." He shook his head. "No."

"Why not?"

"She was too . . . Mother Hubbard. No, it wasn't her."

"Do you still have the letters? Could I see them?"

"Why?"

"Comparison value."

"Comparison? You mean someone else was getting blackmailed too?"

I nodded.

"Who?"

I borrowed his line. "I'd rather not say."

"You're married to that police detective, right?"

Six more days. "Yes."

Worry lines creased his forehead. "Does he know . . . about the blackmail?"

"Yes," I lied. If Dale had killed Greta, I didn't want to be next on his list.

He raked his hand through his hair again, sighed. "I don't want Kate dragged into all this. She's such a private person. Good Catholic girl, you know?"

No need to point out that there were actually very few "good Catholic girls" out there. Maybe Kate was the exception.

I didn't want to think about the sins
this
Catholic girl had been chalking up, so I said, "When did you break in to Greta's?"

"Yesterday morning. I didn't think she was home. I'd been watching the house, hadn't seen any lights or movement for almost a day. The back door was unlocked. I searched almost all the downstairs before heading up. I went through the bathroom, then headed to the master . . . that's when I saw her."

"Why didn't you call 911?"

"She was obviously dead already. What good would it have done except to implicate me?"

"Did you see anything out of place while you were there?"

He shook his head. "If your husband finds the pictures . . ." He closed his eyes. "They're going to become evidence, aren't they? Open to the public to examine and judge."

My curiosity buzzed. "Probably. Sorry."

"I'm glad Russ is dead. I hope he burns in hell."

On that cheerful note, I backed away. Fury glowed in Dale's icy eyes. "The police," I said, "will probably be by to talk to you soon."

He nodded. "I figured. I guess I need to take the rest of the day off."

It wasn't the stereotypical response of a murderer, which made me think that Dale hadn't killed Greta. Or maybe he was a good actor. Maybe I was gullible.

I needed to call Kevin as soon as possible and tell him what I knew.

"Can I see the letters?"

"I don't think so."

"Why not?"

Redness colored his cheeks. "They describe the pictures taken."

"Were they typed?"

"On an old-fashioned typewriter. Like the one Russ owns."

"Or Greta," I said.

"I don't buy it."

"Did you notice anything about the font?"

"The lowercase i is out of alignment."

Yep, they were written on the same typewriter.

"Anything else?" I asked. A confession, maybe?

"Wait a sec." Dale ran into the house, came out a second later. "Take these with you. I don't know why I took them in the first place except I knew Bill had been looking for them."

He placed two red leather-bound accounting books into my hands. So Bill hadn't taken them. He probably hadn't been in the Grabinsky house at all. Probably hadn't killed Greta.

But who had?

I called Kevin from my truck. I got his voice mail and thanked my lucky stars. I left a quick message about Dale Hathaway being blackmailed, possibly by Russ or even Greta herself, and casually mentioned that Dale had been the man I overheard threatening Greta.

I didn't mention Dale's breaking and entering into the Grabinskys' house. Kevin was smart. He'd put two and two together.

I hung up feeling as though I'd done my civic duty.

The accounting books sat on the seat next to me, in between a terra cotta pot and a roll of Mentos. I reached for the Mentos and tried to decide what to do about those books.

Technically, they belonged to Bill. But I couldn't shake the feeling that Russ had been suspicious of them in the first place. Had Bill been swindling Growl? Had Russ found out?

And instead of calling him on it, he turned to blackmail?

It didn't make sense to me. Why not just go to the police? That way Bill would be out of the picture for good, and Growl would be all his.

The accounting books slid on the seat. Suddenly I remembered something Lindsey had said.

That Greta had been a bookkeeper when she'd met Russ.

Was she still? For Growl?

That would explain the old-fashioned accounting books, rather than a computer program.

Who to ask? Who to ask?

I could call Bill, but after the heebie-jeebies I'd gotten from him the other day, I didn't think he'd be too open to any of my questions.

Lindsey? I doubted she knew much of what happened at Growl.

Noreen. She'd know, what with working at Growl and being Greta's sister and all. I called her house before I realized she was still at the Grabinskys'. I dialed 411 for the number there, but learned it had already been disconnected.

I called her house again, this time leaving a message asking her to call me back when she got in.

As I drove toward the office, I played with what ifs.

What if Greta was Growl's bookkeeper and had found an accounting error? Would she tell Russ about it? Or use it to her advantage?

Maybe blackmailing Bill was her way of getting out from under his control. A way to get what she wanted without having to deal with Russ at all.

In each case of blackmail, both Bill's and Dale's, Greta was the person getting something out of the deal.

And what if she knew having a backyard makeover would send Russ into cardiac arrest? Had that just been icing?

It was a lot of supposition and speculation and not enough facts. And it left wide open the biggest question of all.

What happened to Greta?

I turned a corner too fast, and the accounting books slid my way. I caught them before they went over the edge of the seat.

One of the books opened, and as I stopped at a red light, I scanned the numbers and columns, all of it jibberish to me.

My inner voice nagged that I should hand them over to the police. They might be evidence.

Might.

There was one way to know for sure.

Tam.

She'd done my accounting before business skyrocketed and I'd hired out. She'd probably be able to decipher the books, let me know if there was anything hinky in them.

I called her immediately.

She didn't bother with niceties. "It's on the news. The death of Greta Grabinsky. They mentioned TBS."

I groaned.

"Maybe you're jinxed. Just like your neighbor."

Oh my God. She was right. I was jinxed like Mr. Cabrera. People kept dying around me, left and right.

"Maybe you need to move. Get away from him."

And leave Aunt Chi-Chi's house? The Mill? I couldn't. I loved it there.

"It's all a coincidence, that's all."

Oh no. I'd gone and broken a commandment.

"Jinxed."

"Tam!"

"Oh, all right. It's a coincidence," she said, clearly not believing it.

Time to change the subject, before Tam had a real estate agent at my door and my house on the market. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm bored to death," she said. "I'm missing TBS. Someone is keeping your desk orderly and stocking the fridge, right?"

I had no idea. "Yeah."

"Are you lying to me?"

"I'd never."

She sighed. "It's lonely out here. The hospital was much more fun. People always dropping by. Thanks for sending your mom, by the way. She's a blast."

I did have a pretty good mom, on the whole. "I'm glad I could share."

"How's Ursula doing?"

"BeBe likes her."

"BeBe likes everyone."

"She's fine," I said. "She'll do until you get back."

"Aww. I just got warm and fuzzied."

"How bored are you?" I asked.

"I just finished alphabetizing the spice rack. Why do you ask? Do you have something you need me to do?"

The eagerness in her voice made me smile. "I might." I explained about the accounting books.

"I'm your girl. Bring them by."

"You sure you're up to it?"

"Nina, don't make me beg."

"All right. Let me check on Riley and I'll be up, and I can stay for a while." I hated thinking Tam was lonely.

"Is he working, by any chance?" she asked.

"No, why?"

"I'm craving something earthy. Growl does a great earthy."

"Yuck!"

"Don't knock it till you try it."

"How about I stop there and bring you something. What do you want?"

"Surprise me. But nothing that's going to kill me."

"I didn't kill those people! Besides, if I were jinxed, you'd be long gone by now."

"True enough. All right. Thanks. Hospital food isn't my favorite."

Really, it was the least I could do. I just hoped Tam could shed some light on Growl's finances, and if they could possibly be a motive for murder.

By Wednesday afternoon I hadn't heard from Tam. I'd left her the night before with the books, a large bowl of Asparagus Delight, and a Dandelion Fritter.

I spun in my swivel chair and looked out the window behind my desk onto the garden showcase beyond. Despite the beauty of the cottage garden and the water garden, my gaze always went to the xeric garden. I zeroed in on a yucca as I thought about Greta and Russ, Bill and Lindsey, and Growl. From the get-go, a partnership between two complete polar opposites seemed doomed. Then why go into it?

What had they each gotten out of it?

Russ got the restaurant he'd always wanted.

And Bill? What had he been in it for? Money?

I spun back to my desk, looked at the design for the hummingbird garden. I'd spent most of the morning surfing the Net for just the right accessories. I'd printed out pictures and was doing my best to replicate them onto the design board, using paints.

Little tubes of water colors covered my desk, and I used a paper plate as a palate. I mixed yellow, orange, and brown until I came up with an acceptable bronze color.

I glanced at the phone. I hadn't heard from Kevin.

Or Bobby, for that matter.

When would I stop lumping the two of them together?

By the time I looked up from painting, it was four-thirty. Riley had to be at work at five.

I cleaned up, made sure everything was ready for the morning, and said good-bye to Brickhouse, the only one left in the office.

I hated to say it, but she was an excellent temp. She'd even managed to get Jean-Claude in on time that morning. How, I had no idea.