The Sweetheart Racket (25 page)

S
ummer O'Keefe, former kiddie pageant star and Miss Precious Universe, fired pro football cheerleader and private investigator, saw movement from her third-floor window, in the backyard garden of the Nealy house next door, and immediately jumped to an ominous conclusion.

A shadowy shape stood near the seven-foot-tall bean cage shaped like a Christmas tree and her imagination overrode common sense, convincing her that a slobbering pervert was waiting for her lights to go out so he could press his icky face against her bedroom window and watch her sleep.

All this without a speck of evidence to back it up.

Unfortunately, the wood and metal frame kept her from getting a clear view to solidify her suspicion, and the shadow was too far away to confirm that he was indeed a creepy peeper and not a trick of moonlight and oak tree branches. But she was sure someone was there. She felt it in her bones.

Snick
.
Thump
.

Snick
.
Thump
.

Pause.

“What the heck?” The shadow was making too much noise for someone trying to lurk around a winter-ravaged pumpkin patch for a chance to peep at her in skivvies. Still, she wasn't about to let go of the creeper theory altogether.

Snick. Thump
.

“Who else would be out at this hour other than a troublemaker?” It was almost midnight on a Monday night. Only raccoons and college students wandered around this late. Most of her neighbors would be asleep in preparation for work tomorrow. Or having sex.

Sigh. She missed sex. She was probably the only person on the block with cobwebs down there. Maybe that was why her mind shot right in the direction of the gutter?

Snick. Thump
.

“Okay, this is getting weird.”

Could it be a thief, someone out to steal garden tools, or Mrs. Johnson's garden gnomes from her yard directly behind Summer's? She did have quite a collection of the creepy little figurines. She wouldn't put it past drunken college students to make off with an armful of the plaster and plastic eyesores, as a prank gleefully hatched in their alcohol-soaked brains.

It wouldn't be the first time. Mrs. Johnson had wept and wailed to Summer over their shared fence about the time she'd come home from the International Gnome and Pink Flamingo Yard Art Convention to find herself five gnomes short.

The police had been called and everything.

Snick. Thump
.

Squinting, she leaned forward and peered out. From what she could see, Mrs. Johnson's yard appeared quiet. A second flash of movement caught the corner of her eye near the Nealy toolshed and then nothing. In an instant, the shadow had vanished.

“Drat.”

Feeling like a woman who spent too much time looking for criminals under every rock and behind every bush, she clearly needed a new hobby. Something light like collecting ceramic bunnies or garden gnomes.

“You're seeing things,” the rational, if often misused, part of her brain, told her. Taking one last look, she reclaimed her seat at her computer. If someone was out for gnomes, Summer wouldn't be sad to see them go. If he was looking for a place to relieve himself from too much drinking, she was happy that it wasn't her bushes he'd chosen to target.

Ugh.

“Summer, let it go.” Her computer chimed with a new message. The gnome thieves were forgotten as she jumped back into the game. The Hunters were waiting.

JBeam: HSN, are you still there?

Hotsummernites: I'm still here. Okay, I'm two terrorists and one assassin down this month. Anyone else?

JBeam: I have one kidnapper and a terrorist.

Sexyvixn: You both have me beat. I got nada.

Poefan7: I've got one Ponzi scammer and a foreign dictator.

Summer, aka Hotsummernites, aka HSN, clapped her hands and did a funky geek dance in her chair with a lot of arm waving and feet stomping. She'd won again for the fourth month in a row! Of course, it would be rude to be publicly smug. These were her friends. But a little chair spin was not out of order, she thought, as she whirled into a three-sixty. After all, no one could see her do it.

Hotsummernites: Well done, everyone!

JBeam: You are smokin', HSN!

Hotsummernites: Thanks, JBeam. I'll add our captures to the board and send the info on to the appropriate agencies. See you all on Sunday!

Poefan7: Night, HSN.

Her stomach did a little hitch. Although she'd never met Poefan7, or seen a picture of him, there was something about the way he messaged that was oddly sexy. She grinned. Yes, she was indeed a dork.

Hotsummernites: Night, Poe.

A chilly breeze slid through the crack under the open window and she rubbed her goose-bump-covered arms. Logging over to the leader board, she wrote out all the captures and sent off emails to her contacts at the FBI, CIA, and Interpol, as well as a couple of others. She belonged to an anonymous group that hunted international and domestic criminals on the run, for fun. They called themselves the unoriginal “The Hunters.” The club was made up by a dozen fellow geeks who dug through crimes and rooted out criminals through extreme deep web investigations. They only knew each other by their code names for safety.

Her day job was as the cyber PI for Brash & Brazen, Inc., a female PI investigative firm. Summer loved working with her friends, and adored her boss, Irving. Life was good, albeit a bit lonely. The only man in her life was a cyber crush online. Poe.

Sad.

Really sad.

Twenty minutes later, she finished up, glanced at the clock, and logged out. It was after one. She'd be drained tomorrow if she didn't get to bed.

Walking to the window, she looked out toward the Johnson house. All was quiet in Gnomeville. She shrugged, slightly disappointed that all the gnomes were safely tucked in.

The figure was probably just a shadow and the
snick, thump
, the sound of the garden shed door blowing open and closing on rusty hinges. Over the last year, poor health had kept Mr. Nealy from anything but basic gardening, so the property and shed had fallen into disrepair.

She'd tried to help revive the weed patch, but he brushed her off, thanked her sweetly, and decided to let the garden grow over. No more garden goodies in the fall for his neighbors.

The bright moon caught her attention and drew her eyes up. It was beautiful in the night sky. She stood and enjoyed the view for several minutes before a yawn reminded her to get to bed. Movement below stopped her.

A hooded human shape carrying what looked like a stuffed black garbage bag crossed the Nealys' yard and circled around behind the bean cage. This time she wasn't overtired.

Her senses zipped into overdrive. She hadn't been seeing a trick of moonlight earlier. Someone had been out there. Was out there. Her heart skipped.

The person dropped the bag and reached for a shovel.

The strange sound had been him, or her, digging a hole in the dormant garden. And she had a feeling he wasn't getting an early start tilling the soil for rutabagas.

With dark clouds passing over like harbingers of doom to block the moon and add to the creepy factor of the situation, she quietly shoved up the pane and leaned out for a better look. Darn the bean cage.

She tried to make out the grim reaper's face beneath the black hoodie to confirm whether it was either Satan's minion or the newly arrived grandson from Mr. Nealy's old framed photo, but it was too dark and too far away to make a match. She'd rather the visitor was the latter, but if he was in fact the former, that would be cool, too.

Lord, she was losing her mind.

Fearing he'd look up and catch her spying, she reached and flicked off the light on her desk. It wouldn't be respectable to be caught spying, as her grandmother had told her many times. “If one wants to spy, don't get caught,” Nana had said with her thick Texas drawl. As if spying was okay if the spyee was unaware, and the spy stayed respectable.

And Texas-born Summer was always respectable.

“Darn. Who is he?” She concluded by his carriage that the figure wasn't the elderly Mr. Nealy, yet a man nonetheless. She was pretty sure the senior had been moved to an assisted living facility by his grandson, whom she hadn't yet met. Could this mystery gardener be Jason Parker? If it was, why was he digging around the garden at midnight?

Hooked, she couldn't look away. Thank goodness for the moon or snooping would be nearly impossible!

After digging down about two feet, the man jammed the shovel head into the ground, shoved the bag into the hole, and pressed it down with one foot. Taking up the shovel again, he filled the grave halfway and stomped the dirt down by marching over the grave like a drum major in a tall hat.

Now she was beyond curious and on to suspicious. What was in the bag that was so important that it had to be buried under the cover of darkness?

Only people with something to hide would act so suspiciously. He must be hiding something. Toxic pollutants? Stolen loot? A body?

Wait, she hadn't actually seen Mr. Nealy move out. And there were rumors that the senior had squirreled away a large retirement fund. Could Jason have turned on his grandfather, chopped him up, and now be hiding body parts in the garden?

Shuddering, she turned away from the window and weighed the probability of her actually catching a murderer in the act. The odds were against it. Still, weirder things were known to happen. She did watch a lot of Investigation Discovery.

“Don't be silly,” she scolded herself before her imagination turned the man into a serial killer. “There is a good explanation, I'm sure. What you need is confirmation.”

There was only one thing left to do: Get a closer look. Squashing down misgivings, she eased the window all the way open and went for it. After hooking one leg over the frame and taking a deep breath for courage, she slowly went out the window in her shorty pink PJs and fuzzy bunny slippers.

How hard could walking around on a roof be anyway? She'd seen college boys do it all the time, and while carrying beer cans and collapsible camp chairs. Her fitness training was top notch, and she loved James Bond movies. If anyone could successfully accomplish some rooftop recon, it was Summer.

The sound of her heartbeat whooshed so loudly that he had to hear. But he kicked more dirt into the hole as she crept across the narrow and slanted second-floor roof, arms outspread for balance. He seemed unware of her presence.

See. Easy. Now to find a place to sit.

Turning back, she saw the man fill in the hole, tuck the shovel into the garden shed, and close the door. He paused and looked up at her window. She flopped belly down onto the roof, half onto a patch of damp leaves from a huge oak nearby and the other half on slippery, mildewed shingles.

Had he seen her? The office light was out and the dying streetlamp was a few houses down, so probably not. But she waited for a full minute before pushing up to her knees to peer over the edge of the roof. There was no sign of him.

The advantage of living in a very tall three-story house with an attic turret for office space was that she could see for several blocks either way. Spying on her neighbors was no problem. Being a floor down gave her an advantage of being closer to the garden.

Until now she hadn't had a reason to spy, or to climb out a window. Most of her neighbors were just normal people.

Still, she wasn't a snoop at heart, well, except for the whole hunting criminals thing. And she believed in personal space. Most of the time. This strange occurrence warranted at least some minor investigating.

Right?

“Wrong.” Still, it was too late to back out now. Perched on the roof, she was kind of committed. Sadly, there was nothing to see. The man was gone and the bean cage still halfway blocked the view of the hole.

“Drat.” She moved slightly and her foot slipped on the leaves. She looked down her body to see green slime on her top. Yuck. She'd have to pitch the PJs.

“Maybe this wasn't a good idea.” She moved her foot to a dry shingle to brace herself. The effort proved futile and caused her body to shift slightly downward, the slimy leaves turning into a slippery ski ramp.

“Oh, no.” She dug her fingernails into the roof but the shingles didn't give an inch. The effort produced the same success as a declawed cat on a scratching post.

The feel of shifting plant refuse beneath her sprawled body caused a squeak of panic. She was two stories up!

That was her last clear thought as gravity propelled her down, down, down and over the edge of the roof into a cataclysmic vortex of darkness!