Digging Up Trouble (8 page)

Instead of helping out, I'd driven over to see Tam.

"I don't know," Tam said. "It might make things worse."

"Worse than getting sued?" I asked.

The tortuous beltlike contraption around her waist was still there. And it had a friend. I could see two squarish lumps underneath her hot pink silk pajama shirt. She'd explained to me that one monitored contractions, the other the baby's heart rate. As of right now, everything was normal. The medication she was taking had stopped the contractions. But she wasn't going anywhere anytime soon.

Which meant I had to find a temp for her.

But not Harry.

I didn't dare tell her about Jean-Claude possibly being a gigolo. That might send her into irreversible labor.

A notepad balanced on Tam's belly. She tapped a pencil on it. "You have a point."

"For once," Brickhouse Krauss piped in.

"Don't you have some oxygen to suck?" I asked in a too sweet voice.

"Oh!" Tam said, clutching her stomach.

"What? Is it the baby?" I glanced at the monitors, but everything looked okay. "Should I get the doctor?"

"No, no," Tam assured me.

Brickhouse had looked ready to leap out of the bed to be of assistance. Actually, she looked rather healthy to me. Pink cheeks, softly glowing skin. What was she still doing here?

"The baby just kicked a rib is all."

I glanced at her stomach in time to see a bump move from one side of her body to the other.

Tam laughed.

"What?" I asked.

"You should see your face."

"Does it always do that?" I asked, horrified. It was like something out of a horror movie.

Tam nodded. "You get used to it."

"Oh." I didn't believe her for a minute. You get used to swimming in lukewarm water. You get used to doing your hair the same way. You get used to infomercials. You do not get used to someone poking you from the inside out.

"How about the name Jake?" Tam asked, picking up the notepad, pencil poised.

Mrs. Krauss clucked. "Jake Munroe used to pick his nose in my class."

Tam crossed that name off her list. "Jane?"

I made a face. "Jane Albertson stole my boyfriend in the first grade."

Tam and Mrs. Krauss stared at me.

"What?" I asked. "I'm not allowed to hold a grudge?"

Tam crossed that name off her list. "Kevin?"

I gave her the Ceceri Evil Eye.

"All right." She scratched off that name too.

I got to thinking again about Greta Grabinsky. Maybe going to see her, pleading my case, wasn't the wisest move. Maybe I should give her time. A few days at least. But if she sued . . .

I'd worked too hard to lose it all.

"What could she do, really?" I asked.

"Are we back to that?" Mrs. Krauss asked, flipping through a baby name book.

"Well, I'm sorry to bore you, but I don't know what to do."

"The worst she could do is throw you out," Tam said. "Michael?"

"Michael Perry cheated on his tenth grade term paper," Mrs. Krauss said in a way that made me think he'd paid dearly for it. "Bought one from an upperclassman."

I thought that was pretty ingenious of him. I'd slaved over mine, "A Socioeconomic Analysis of
Romeo and Juliet,
" and had gotten a D.

Considering I now couldn't tell you what
socioeconomic
meant probably meant I earned that D.

Brickhouse narrowed her ice blue eyes at Tam. "I know you don't want your son to have a cheater's name."

Tam scratched that one off the list too.

To me, Mrs. Krauss said, "She could call the cops on you. Harassment." She clucked, then smiled as if the idea amused her.

The last thing I wanted was to be involved with the police. Especially one homicide detective in particular. I wondered when Russ Grabinsky's autopsy would be completed. Freedom, Ohio, wasn't exactly the murder capital of the country. How busy could the M.E. be?

"Patrika?" Mrs. Krauss offered.

Tam and I frowned at her.

She clucked and continued to flip pages.

"I wouldn't do it," Tam said. "Going to see the dead man's wife is asking for trouble, Nina."

"Ach. I agree," Brickhouse added.

That pretty much sealed it for me. I had to go see Mrs. Grabinsky. Get her to listen to me. If only to prove to Mrs. Krauss that she was wrong.

"How did it go with Jean-Claude?" Tam asked.

"Well, um . . ."

"You didn't fire him!"

"I couldn't."

Mrs. Krauss clucked. "You're a wuss, Nina Ceceri."

I bit my tongue to keep from calling Mrs. Krauss something I might regret later. Actually, I wouldn't regret it at all. "Oh yeah? Well, you're—"

"Looking good," Mr. Cabrera said to Brickhouse from the doorway. He held a pot of red geraniums.

"Donatelli!" Mrs. Krauss's whole face brightened. She clucked lovingly. "Geraniums. My favorites."

Geraniums always reminded me of cemeteries, but I kept that tidbit to myself. No need to remind Mrs. Krauss of Mr. Cabrera's bad luck with women.

Mrs. Krauss abandoned the baby name book and leaned up for a kiss.

It lasted for a good ten seconds.

Eww.

"I've got to go." Quickly, I kissed Tam's cheek good-bye, rubbed her belly, hoped the baby wouldn't move while I did it and creep me out. It didn't. "I'll come back later," I said.

"Leaving so soon, Miz Quinn?" Mr. Cabrera asked.

"Sorry," I said, not sorry at all. "I've got someone to see."

Tam's and Brickhouse's groans followed me out the door.

I parked down the block. I told myself it was because I needed the exercise—my lungs still hadn't recovered from that sprint after BeBe—but really, it was because I didn't want to give Mrs. Grabinsky any advanced warning. If she saw me coming, she might not open the door. We weren't exactly on friendly terms.

Skipping over a crack in the sidewalk, I glanced at the Lockharts' house. A stone path flanked by blooming flower beds led to the front door. It was a charming house. Cape Cod style with dormers and a front porch complete with two rocking chairs and hanging flower baskets—petunias with flowing ivy.

The lawn sported a few clumps of crabgrass, which made me feel better. Lindsey wasn't a complete perfectionist.

I glanced toward the big picture window. It would be so easy to peek in.

Maybe see if there were any frames set out.

That might hold pictures of loved ones.

Dead loved ones.

I glanced up, then down the street. No sign of any HOA patrols.

The Lockharts had a side garage, and I decided to check and see if it was open before I played Peeping Tom. Trying not to look suspicious, I moseyed down the sidewalk. The two-car garage door was open wide, a Jetta parked on one side, the other side empty.

From her visits to my office, I knew Lindsey drove a newer model Escalade. So Bill was home. Odd. I'd have thought he'd be busy at work today, especially since he was now running Growl alone.

I abandoned my peeping ideas—for now—and turned my attention to the Grabinskys' yard.

It was a mess. Yellow crime scene tape still cordoned off the backyard, and I wondered why. The forensic guys should have been here and gone by now. Not that there was anything to find. Russ had had a heart attack, plain and simple.

Nothing's ever plain and simple,
my inner voice warned.

I didn't want to listen to it, but couldn't help but hear the ring of truth.

By the looks of things, Russ Grabinsky hadn't been Man of the Year. But murder? Who'd want to kill him?

And how? Poisoning? An overdose?

Shaking my head, I decided not to go there. It had been a heart attack. I needed to stop playing Quincy, M.E., and get on with why I was here.

I needed to conjure up my inner Pollyanna and convince one seriously ticked-off woman not to sue me.

Since the yard was a mess anyway, I abandoned my manners and cut across the lawn. Three small concrete steps with a rusting black iron railing led to the front door.

The pansies on the front step looked in need of some water. I looked for the spigot, but raised voices coming from inside distracted me.

A man and a woman were arguing, but I couldn't make out what they were saying.

As usual, my nosiness got the better of me. I leaned over the step's railing and peered into the front window. The front room looked to be a small family room, straight from the fifties. There was an old-fashioned TV and radio. A rotary phone and a powder blue Smith-Corona typewriter sat on a rolltop desk in the corner. Bookshelves were stuffed full, but orderly. There were no pictures, I noticed. Not even an obligatory wedding one. A faded pink love seat with a tattered throw blanket balled into one of its corners sat diagonally from two worn La-Z-Boys. A
TV Guide
rested on the ottoman in front of a leather chair in front of the window. On a table next to the chair, I saw a stack of bound books. Oldfashioned accounting books, by the looks of the spiral bounds and red leather. I'd used them before Tam brought me into the computer age.

Beyond an arched doorway, I could see shadows coming from what appeared to be the kitchen area (the refrigerator was a dead giveaway), but still couldn't see who was arguing.

The woman had to be Greta Grabinsky. But who was the man? Did this have anything to do with Russ's death?

Had it been murder after all? A love triangle gone wrong?

I shuddered at the thought of Greta Grabinsky being in the middle of a love triangle.

Love is blind,
my inner voice reminded.

Oh great. Now
it w
as sounding like my mother too.

I turned toward the street, looked left, then right.

Trying to look natural, I eased off the step, made a beeline for the backyard. Ducking under the crime scene tape, I looked over my shoulder to make sure no one was watching, then hurried around the corner, bumping into something hard. Someone, actually. A man.

He spun around, annoyed eyes widening when he saw me.

Half scared to death, I opened my mouth to scream, but only a gurgle came out.

"Shh!" Bill Lockhart warned, holding a finger up to his lips. He pressed on the top of my head, ducking me down even though I was a good two inches shorter than the height of the windowsill. He turned his back to me, his ear cocked.

My heart raced, but I managed to close my mouth. Blood pulsed through my ears, drowning out the voices inside the house. Adrenaline surged through my body, looking for an outlet. I swear I could see my chest pulsating beneath my T-shirt, my heart still pounding.

Was this what it was like to have a heart attack? The chest pain, the lack of air?

I couldn't help but look at the spot where Russ had fallen. To me, it looked like he had died quickly. I wondered if he'd actually suffered silently, a scream trapped in his throat.

Oh great. Now I was thinking like Ana.

I drew in a deep breath, let it out. I did that a few more times, glad I had seen Tam practicing her Lamaze breathing.

When I finally felt my pulse slowing, I whispered, "What are you doing here?"

He looked over his shoulder. "Same as you, I suspect. Shh."

Trying to talk Greta out of suing. I'd forgotten she threatened Lindsey with a lawsuit too.

Now that I had calmed a bit, I could hear the voices inside, through the open window above our heads.

"Greta," the man said, "don't play games with me. You'll be the one who gets hurt by them."

"Is that a threat?" I heard her say.

"Who's she talking to?" I whispered.

Bill shrugged.

"No, it's a promise," the man inside said.

I groaned.

I noticed Bill had ear hair as he said, "What?"

"What a lame line! 'No, it's a promise,' " I mocked. "Gag me. Obviously it's someone who watches too many B movies."

"You talk a lot."

"It's the adrenaline."

"I know Russ had them," the male voice said. "If he had them, you had them. And I want them back. Now. Russ had no right to them and neither do you."

The man's voice was young. Maybe twenties or thirties. This put my love triangle theory into serious doubt.

"What do you think he had?" I asked.

"If you'd be quiet maybe we'd find out."

Greta's voice was hard but tired. She sounded stressed. "I told you, I don't have whatever you're looking for. I don't know anything about it."

I eyed the kitchen window. Even if I stood up straight I wouldn't be able to see in. I looked at Bill. He seemed like a strong guy. "Boost me up."

Bill looked over his shoulder at me. "What?"

"Boost me up." I motioned toward the window. "I want to see who she's talking to."

The male's voice lacked patience. "The only reason the lawsuit is being dropped is so I could get them back."

Lawsuit dropped? The HOA lawsuit? "Did you know about that?" I asked Bill. According to Lindsey and Bill, the reason they paid for the Grabinskys' surprise makeover— and lied to me—was to prevent the older couple from being foreclosed upon by the HOA. But if the lawsuit had been dropped, then why go through all the trouble?

Bill made a makeshift sling with his hands. "No."

What would the Lockharts have gained by paying for the backyard makeover if there wasn't a lawsuit? People didn't spend twenty thousand dollars out of neighborly love, even if they had to look at a hideous backyard.

The male voice inside the house carried easily through the open window. "I don't like being blackmailed, Greta."

Someone had been blackmailed to have the lawsuit dropped. Blackmailed by Russ, apparently.

Definitely a motive for murder.