Throw in the Trowel (12 page)

Annoyed, I stuck my fingers in my ears and glared at the two teens inside. It was a boy and a girl who were kissing so passionately over the console that they were oblivious to me. So I yelled as loud as I could, “Hey! Idiots! Turn it down!”

The pair broke their lip-lock, and the passenger turned toward me to glare back. But then her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open.

Coincidentally, I had the same look on my face.

It was Tara.

C
HAPTER TWELVE

T
he light changed, the Mustang took off, and so did I, straight for Down the Hatch, practically dragging Seedy on her leash. “Marco,” I said breathlessly, bursting into his office, “Tara . . . in a Mustang . . . kissing a boy . . . driving too fast!”

“Abby,” he said, rising, “catch your breath and start over.”

As Marco came around the desk to pick up Seedy, who had sensed my distress and was crouched at my feet whining, I gulped in a lungful of air and pointed toward the doorway. “I just saw Tara in a car smooching with an older boy who nearly blew through the stoplight. I know she saw me, so she has to be scared—and she should be! When her parents hear about this, they'll ground her for a year.”

“But they're not going to hear it from you, are they?”

“What? Yes! Marco, this is
Tara
, an innocent young girl with no dating experience. She doesn't understand the dangers of teenage boys, especially the older teens. I
have
to let my brother know. It's my familial duty.”

“Abby, Tara's not stupid. From what you told me earlier, she knows she's in the wrong to be out with him. Now that you've seen her with this boy, maybe she'll stop.”

“And if she doesn't? Come on, Marco, you were a teenager once. You know how potent those hormones are.”

“Sunshine, think about what would happen to your relationship with Tara if you ratted her out.”

I felt all the steam leave my body. Hadn't I told myself the same thing? But what was I going to do? I didn't want to be the family snitch, the aunt my niece couldn't trust. Yet at the same time, I was concerned.

“Let's have some food and talk about a possible solution,” Marco said. “I'll get a big steak bone for Seedy and let her chill out in here. She's still trembling.”

I ran my hand down her scrawny little body. “I'm sorry, Seedy. I forget how sensitive you are.”

She gave my face a lick. All was forgiven. If only it were that easy for humans.

The bar was busy, so we didn't get our favorite booth at the back, but at least we had one. We ordered green salads and bowls of beef stew and were discussing Tara's situation when my phone beeped to signal a text message.

“Speak of the devil-child,” I said, and showed Marco her message:
Pls don't tell M & D. I wn't do it agn.

Marco read it. “I take it M and D are Mom and Dad? Interesting that she doesn't say
what
she's promising not to do again. Ride in the boy's car? Kiss him? See him?”

“I'll text back and ask.”

“You're better off having a face-to-face, Abby. Then you can lay down some ground rules.”

“And act like her parents? She'll just sneak around me, too.”

Marco leaned back and sipped his beer. “Tough one.”

“What did your mom do to protect your sisters?” I asked.

“You don't want to do that.”

“Tell me.”

“If
Mama
suspected anything was going on, she'd send my older brother, Rico, and me to spy on that sister, and if she was sneaking around, we were told to deliver a message to the boy.”

“And that message was?”

“Touch one hair on that girl's head and we'll snap you in half like a twig.”

“Did it work?”

“Do you really think I'd spy on one of my siblings? But yes, it did work, only because
Mama
told the girls what her instructions were, and they believed her.”

While Marco ate, I pondered his story. “Okay, what if we invite Tara and her boyfriend for ice cream after school? Then I'll find a way to get Tara to slip off to the ladies' room with me, and you can threaten to snap the boy like a twig if he hurts her in any way.”

“Yeah, right. And the next day he'll show up with his dad and a cop. Who is this boy anyway? Not the police chief's son, I hope.”

“All I know is that he's got a fancy Mustang and his first name is Haydn.” I began tapping the keypad on my phone. “I'll find out his last name right now.”

“It's not that important. I was just curious.”

“So am I.” I set the phone down and resumed eating. When I hadn't heard anything by the end of our meal, I texted her again and got a one word reply:
Busy.

“Just leave her alone for now,” Marco said. “She can't ignore you forever, and I'm sure she got the message that you're concerned.”

Still fuming, I said, “She'd better have gotten the message.”

“Let the rest of that steam out of your ears so you can hear me. I've got a jammed day tomorrow, so I'd like to go see Doug Cannon first thing in the morning. Seven o'clock is a good time to catch construction people before they get busy. Are you up for it?”

“Hey, I'm a team player, Marco.”

“Good.” Marco paused, then arched his eyebrow devilishly, telling me his thoughts had gone in a different direction. “Speaking of playing, what do you say we set a playdate for, oh, say eleven o'clock tonight?”

I gave him a skeptical glance. “You're not talking about doing surveillance work, are you?”

He picked up my hand, turned it over, and pressed a light kiss on my wrist. “What do you think?”

Friday

•   •   •

Why had I promised Marco to be up early again? Oh, right. The interview with Doug Cannon. And why had we gotten to sleep so late? Oh, right.

I showered, dressed, dabbed on a little makeup, had coffee, and ate toast with almond butter and honey, all without speaking a word. When I was tired, and it was still dark outside, I didn't converse much, because at such times, cheerful things did not tend to come out of my mouth.

“Ready?” Marco asked, as I clumped out of the bathroom after brushing my teeth.

He stood at the apartment door looking his usual hunky self, in black leather and blue jeans and black boots, holding Seedy's leash in one hand, a thermal mug in the other, studying my face for signs of coming to life.

He held out the travel mug. “I've even got coffee to go for you.”

“Thanks,” I rasped, not having used my voice yet. “That was sweet of you.”

“I'm a sweet kind of guy.”

My first smile of the day.

We drove separately to Bloomers, got Seedy set up, then took Marco's car and headed to Cannon Construction. By that time, I had finished my coffee, the sun was up, and I was on the case with my teammate. The day was looking bright once again.

“Let's talk about our meeting with Doug,” Marco said. “Unless he got a call from Henry, he won't be aware of the key chain's existence. We need to make sure he believes that the detectives have it, which I should have done with Henry. I don't want a repeat of the bone theft.”

“Got it. You do want me to take notes, right?”

“Yes, just proceed as we normally do.”

Marco drove through the open gate of the cyclone fence that surrounded Cannon Construction and pulled into a parking space in front of the two-story gray frame building. We entered the building through a heavy glass door imprinted with the Cannon logo into a very small, windowless, gray-walled reception room. It had two white vinyl chairs in one corner, a small Formica-topped reception counter at the back, and a doorway behind it.

When no one appeared to greet us, I tapped a bell on the counter, and a few moments later a man with salt-and-pepper hair stuck his head around the corner. “Yes?”

“We're here to see Doug Cannon,” Marco said.

The man stepped all the way out. He was an imposing guy—tall, very sturdily built and good-looking—in his late forties or early fifties. He was wearing a long-sleeved tan work shirt and brown work pants. He didn't smile but said pleasantly enough, “I'm Doug Cannon. What can I do for you?”

Marco flipped open his wallet to reveal his PI license as he introduced us. Then he said, “I don't know if you saw the article in the newspaper, but a skeleton was discovered in the basement of my bar, Down the Hatch, along with an item that may have belonged to your father. If you have time, we'd like to get your take on it.”

At the mention of Kermit, something flickered in Doug's eyes. Was it anger? Fear? But he spoke calmly. “Rusty said you might be stopping by. Come on back to my office.”

So it had been Rusty, not Henry, who'd contacted him. Interesting.

We followed him through the doorway, up a short hall, and into an office paneled in light wood. The room was outfitted with an oak desk that appeared to be quite old, a worn brown leather desk chair, a few wooden shelves on a side wall that held stacks of magazines, files, and blueprints, and two plain oak chairs.

“Have a seat,” Doug said. He settled himself at his desk, his hands folded serenely on top, watching me as I took out a notepad and pen. Shifting his attention to Marco, he said, “Is it safe to assume that your investigation is centering around the bones being Kermit's?”

“It's one avenue,” Marco said. “We've chosen to investigate it first.”

“Because of the key chain?” Doug asked.

“Mainly, yes.” Marco didn't elaborate.

Doug steepled his fingers under his chin. “I have to be honest with you. I think you're on the wrong avenue.”

Marco didn't reply, just gazed at him coolly.

Doug waited a moment, then said, “Has a DNA analysis been done on the bones?”

“A DNA analysis takes four to six weeks,” Marco said, “and investigators would like to get this wrapped up quickly.”

The investigators being
us,
he meant. He made no mention of the bone theft, or that there couldn't be a DNA analysis.

“Have you been brought in on the case by the detectives?” Doug asked.

I had a feeling Doug already knew the answer—it was probably something he'd asked Rusty—but clearly he was trying to make a point.

“We're working in conjunction with the police,” Marco said. “If you'd like, I'll give you the name of a sergeant on the force who can verify that.”

“Not necessary,” Doug said. “I just want to establish that this visit is not part of an official police investigation and any information I give you is completely voluntary.”

“That's right,” Marco said. “However, any information we receive will be turned over to the police.”

Doug thought about that for a moment, then said, “May I see the key chain?”

“We don't have it,” I said, pulling the photo out of my purse. “All we have is a picture.”

I handed it across the desk, and Doug sat back to study it.

“What can you tell us about it?” Marco asked.

His expression blank, Doug handed it back. “There were three of these at one time. My parents and I each had one, but I don't know where any of them are. Did you find keys, too?”

“No, but the detectives haven't finished examining the site,” Marco said.

That got no reaction. Doug seemed almost uninterested.

“Can you speculate as to how this key chain may have gotten buried in my bar's basement?” Marco asked.

“I'm sure Kermit dropped it while he was working down there.”

Interesting that he referred to his dad by his first name. I made a note of it, then asked, “Did he have a habit of losing his keys?”

“When drunk, yes,” Doug said unblinkingly.

“We understand that your father put up the walls in the basement's main room but didn't lay the floor,” Marco said.

“That's correct. Rusty Miller and I laid the floor.”

“Did you help Rusty prepare the dirt beforehand?” Marco asked. “Smooth it out, that kind of thing? I'm sure you know that process better than I do.”

“No, I didn't do anything to the dirt. I stopped by when Rusty was ready to pour the cement and offered my help.”

“Did Rusty tell you he had fired your dad?” I asked, just as my phone started to ring. I glanced at the screen in case it was an emergency, saw Jillian's name, and quickly muted it. Jillian's emergencies tended to be of a personal nature, such as a bad hair day or a broken fingernail. If it were a true emergency, her husband would be calling.

“I'm not sure he used those exact words,” Doug said. “I just remember Rusty being frustrated because his work wasn't getting done. That was why I offered to help. I felt some responsibility for his predicament because Kermit had caused it.”

“By not showing up?” I asked.

“That and by drinking on the job. I couldn't blame Rusty for not wanting Kermit back. He and Kermit had been friends for a very long time, so I'm sure it wasn't easy for him to, in effect, fire him, knowing it would end their friendship.”

“How long had your dad had a drinking problem?” I asked.

“He'd always been a drinker,” Doug said, “but that last six months or so, the drinking got out of hand.”

“Did he ever mistreat you or any of your family?” Marco asked.