"I'd like you to come finish the yard."
I leaned forward. "Really?"
"As soon as possible. I don't want Francie to lose the one thing her mother had wanted her to have. And Greta really wanted her yard done right. Pretty." She sniffled. "You'd have made it pretty, right? Lots of color? Trees?"
"Yes. It would have been beautiful. Will be beautiful. Of course I can finish the job."
Even if Greta had known about the blackmail, I'd been paid for the job. And Noreen's grief more than made me want to help any way I could. Beyond that, I thought of a mother's love for her estranged daughter, of the gift she wanted to leave her.
And I thought of my mother, who had given me the gift of my bedroom while I could still thank her.
I wasn't so mad about the bathroom anymore.
We talked about dates and settled on Thursday. I'd somehow make it work with everyone's schedules, including Ignacio's.
"Would you like to see the plans? For the yard?"
"I'd love to, but I'm at Greta's cleaning things up."
Perfect. "I can stop by. I don't mind the trip out there."
"Really?"
"Really."
I felt a little bad because I had ulterior motives, but there wasn't enough guilt to change my mind.
I needed to talk to Dale Hathaway.
Hanging up, I took a long look at my design. It had a ways to go, but I already adored it.
Woof!
I jumped up, ran to my door, flung it open.
Woof, woof!
"I swear she smells you," Kit said, holding a straining BeBe by a short leash.
"I do not have a B.O. problem."
"Never said you did."
"But—"
"Dogs have a great sense of smell. She just knows yours."
"Oh." I looked around. "Where's Mrs. Krauss?"
"Who?"
"Brickhouse Krauss?"
His eyes widened. "What's she doing here?" Kit had worked on Mrs. Krauss's mini. I remembered how he'd slunk away when Mrs. Krauss starting yelling, leaving me to deal with her alone, the yellowbelly. I swear his scary image was all a facade.
"Working."
He paled. "Here?"
"Tam hired her."
BeBe whimpered. Giving in, I moved closer and let her slobber my hand.
"Nina, I don't know—"
"She's actually been . . . okay. It'll be fine. And it's just for a few months, until Tam is back."
The phone rang and BeBe went crazy. Brickhouse came hurrying in the side door, carrying a trash can. BeBe worked herself into a frenzy.
Brickhouse glared at BeBe, pointed a finger. "Anschlag!"
BeBe stopped barking, cocked her head.
"Sitzen Sie!"
BeBe sat.
My jaw dropped.
Brickhouse answered the phone. "This is Taken by Sur prise, Garden Designs, Ursula speaking . . . Do you think that's wise? Well, I don't. You, young man, need to get your life in order. Prioritize. Make some hard decisions and stick to them."
Kit's mouth dropped open.
"See that you do," Brickhouse said, then hung up. "What?" she asked when she looked at us.
"Who was that?"
"Jean-Claude's not going to be able to make it in today. He apologizes."
"You need to fire him, Nina," Kit said.
Mrs. Krauss clucked again, jabbed Kit in his chest. "Have you never had troubles? Have you never needed help? Have you?"
Kit didn't back down. "Of course."
"Right now that boy has no help. He has troubles and he's trying to do it his way. Soon enough he will see that all he has to do is ask, and he will see who his true friends are."
"Did he tell you what kind of trouble he's in?" I asked. All I could see was Jean-Claude on the corner in the Blue Zone doing God knows what.
"He did."
I prodded. "Well?"
"I'm not at liberty to discuss it."
I blinked. She stared.
I wasn't going to win this battle, so I said, "I'm going out
for a while. Kit, I need you to organize everyone, including Jean-Claude. We're going to be finishing the Grabinsky yard on Thursday." At his look, I added, "I'll explain later."
BeBe sidled up to Mrs. Krauss, sat obediently at her feet.
"We'll also discuss BeBe later."
I grabbed my backpack and headed for the door. As the chimes rang out, I heard Kit say, "How'd you do that? With BeBe?"
Mrs. Krauss said, "It's all in the tone. Did those tattoos hurt? I'm thinking about getting one on my—"
I covered my ears and ran for my truck. I didn't want to know.
Deep purple-blue circles lurked under Noreen's Sally Jesse glasses, and I swear she'd lost weight because she didn't look as potato as before.
The pansies had perked up at least.
I followed Noreen into the house. "I can't stop crying," she said. "Who could have done this to her?"
"Maybe," I broached, setting my backpack down on the recliner, "it was a natural death. A broken heart, maybe?"
One eyebrow arched and the other dipped. "You're kidding, right?"
"That bad?"
"Worse. Know why she took such good care of this house? Because it was the only thing she had. It had been a wedding gift from our parents to Greta and Russ. The deed was in her name. Russ controlled everything else."
"What about when he died? Didn't he have savings? Life insurance?"
She sighed with disgust. "He left everything to a male heir. A distant cousin." She must have seen the horror on my face. "Exactly."
"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."
Twenty-Two
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 Gr
eta."
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."