A Hoe Lot of Trouble

  Words lodged in my throat, but I forced them out. "This could have nothing to do with any of you."

  "Did stuff like this happen to you often before you started investigating my dad's death?" Tim asked.

  Oh, all the time. I still couldn't look at him, never mind answer him.

  "Look, Nina," Bridget said, perching on the edge of the couch, "you need to stop looking into this mess." Gruffness edged her voice.

  Tim nodded, hovering over us. "It's obvious you ruffled some feathers."

  I bit back an accusation. "I'm fine."

  Bridget gasped. "You were almost killed by a train!" Not many ways to argue with that. "Nina!" She took hold of my hand. "You've got to stop. This is too dangerous." She stood, paced, froze.

  I didn't think they'd leave unless I agreed. "Fine, fine. I'll stop," I lied.

  Bridget sighed, long and heavy. "Thank heavens. I can't even tell you how worried we were about you."

  I put on a brave smile. "Sorry I couldn't be of more help."

  Tim said, "All that matters is that you're okay." He turned to Bridget. "We should go. Let Nina rest."

  My gaze shot to Bridget. "Can I talk to you for a minute? Alone?"

  Tim looked none too pleased by the prospect, but didn't protest. "I'll wait in the car."

  Locking her arms, Bridget lowered herself onto the couch beside me. "What is it, Nina?"

  Unsure how to say what I was thinking, I worried my lip. Finally, I said, "It's about Tim."

  "Tim?"

  Pots clanged in the kitchen. Ana was supposed to be making soup, but I figured she was eavesdropping for sure.

  Bridget waited expectantly. Geez, this wasn't going to be easy. "He was awfully adamant I stop investigating."

  "He's worried. About his mom, me, you."

  "Is he?"

  Her pale eyebrows snapped together. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  I sat straighter, came right out with it. "It means he's a man with a motive. He needs money—"

  Without effort, Bridget surged to her feet. Two angry spots of color dotted her cheeks. "How dare you? How could you even think such a thing? There isn't a more decent man around."

  "Bridget—"

  She put up her hand, palm out, the other resting on her extended belly. "No. I don't want to hear any more. I'm disgusted with you." Pivoting, she headed for the door, jerked it open and slammed it behind her.

  Ana stuck her head in the room. "Yikes."

  I stared at the still shaking door. "That didn't go so well."

  The corner of Ana's lip hitched up in a half smile. "You don't say."

  Even with Bridget's stinging rebuke still buzzing in my ears, I couldn't rid my suspicions of Tim altogether—although they had been somewhat tempered by Bridget's reaction.

  I picked up the cordless phone, punched in the office number. The voice of Queen Elizabeth rang in my ear. "Taken by Surprise, this is Tam."

  "Tam, it's Nina."

  She gasped. "Holy hell, how are you?"

  "Fine, fine. Thanks for the gift."

  The gang had all pitched in and bought me a pillow to sit on, the smart-asses they were.

  We chitchatted for a few minutes before she mentioned that all the missing tools had turned up over the weekend. I acted all surprised, but she didn't buy it for a moment.

  "You're not going to tell who it was, are you?"

  "Who was what?"

  She tried prying for a few more minutes before giving in. After answering a battery of questions about the accident, I got to the reason I called. "I have a huge favor to ask you."

  "Anything."

  I leaned back against the sofa cushions. "It's illegal."

  She laughed. "Never stopped me before. What do you want me to do?"

  Sometimes having felons on the payroll was a good thing. Like when one of them used to be a professional hacker.

  "I'd like you to look into an Internet account. E-mails, web traffic, that sort of thing. And bank records if you can get them too."

  Rustling echoed over the line. "Give me the addresses and I'll get right to it."

  I gave her Bridget and Tim's full names, then rattled off Bridget's e-mail address. "I don't know if that's the only account. Her husband might have e-mail of his own. He's the one I really want to know about."

  "If he's got one, I'll find it. Anything in particular I'm looking for?"

  I couldn't say. "Just anything that strikes you as odd."

  "That's many, many things, Nina."

  Smiling, I said, "I appreciate this, Tam, more than you can know."

  "Just get better soon. We miss you around here."

  After hanging up, I stared up at the ceiling unable to shake the feeling that the police needed to be called ASAP. But I decided I'd wait to see what Tam learned before going to Kevin.

  That much I owed Bridget.

  I just prayed that Tam found nothing. Nothing at all.

  Twenty-four

  By mid-afternoon, after doing my best to swallow scorched soup, I was not only starving but also going stir-crazy. I wasn't one to be kept prone for so long.

  Ana had issued death threats, though, if I tried to escape, so I was housebound. At least for the time being.

  Peeking out the window, I saw Mr. Cabrera watering his petunias. They were large petunias, bright purple that circled his maple tree in his front yard. By the look of the small river than ran into the street, he'd been working on that spot for some time. I wondered if it had anything to do with his unfettered view of the front of my house.

  A van rumbled into my driveway. I squinted and made out Riley in the front seat with his newest friend—the Skinz with the metal spiked dog collar. As I watched, they both got out of the van and walked toward the front porch. I dropped to the floor so they wouldn't notice me spying.

  Mr. Cabrera, ever so casually, turned his hose to water the grass near my porch. I smiled at his blatant nosiness. A man after my own heart.

  On my hands and knees, I listened.

  Ry and Spike must have been sitting on the porch swing, or somewhere close by, because their voices easily carried in through the window.

  "I don't know, man."

  That was Riley. He sounded strange. Sort of cocky, yet afraid. I didn't know what to make of it.

  "You need one."

  One what? What was Spike talking about?

  "When can I get one?" Riley asked.

  Lifting my head, I peeped out the window. Spike was sitting on the swing, and Riley was leaning against the porch column, his arms crossed. Spike was smoking. I wanted to go out and snatch the cigarette out of his mouth, warn him about the risk of cancer, but I also wanted to hear what they were talking about.

  "Tomorrow," Spike said.

  "When?"

  Spike scratched his chin. "Let's say two."

  Let's not, I wanted to shout out the window.

  "Man, if I cut class again, I'm dead."

  Damn right! That's the way to tell him, Ry.

  "You gonna let that woman tell you what to do?"

  Hmmph. I took exception to the way he said "woman"— as if I were the lowest form of scum.

  "You're not the one who's gonna have her handcuffed to you if you skip."

  "She's lying."

  I shook my head. Don't fall for it, Ry. I really didn't want to relive my high school days, but I would—to make a point.

  "I don't know," Riley said again. "She came to detention."

  Spike stood. "Look, I thought you were cool, but maybe I was wrong."

  Go away, I silently urged.

  He took a step off the porch.

  I cringed as Riley said, "Wait!"

  Oh, so close!

  "Where?" Riley asked.

  I whimpered as I tried to recall algebraic formulas. Tag

  ging along with Riley in class didn't mean I had to do the work too, did it?

  Spike grinned. "Here."

  Riley looked panicked. "No way."

  "Your mom won'
t even be home."

  "Still . . ."

  "Look," Spike said, the sun glinting off his collar, "you in or you out?"

  Riley shifted foot to foot. "In. Two o'clock. Here."

  "Yeah."

  "And you'll bring it with you?"

  "If you've got the cash," Spike said.

  "I have it."

  "Then I'll bring a selection. We're good to go."

  Riley walked with the kid to his van. Ana came in from the kitchen and saw me sitting on the floor under a window.

  "What are you doing off the couch? The doctor said to rest."

  I had to grin. No mention of why I was on the floor— only that I was up and around.

  "I needed a change of scenery."

  She folded her arms across her chest, tapped her foot. "Lie the other way on the sofa."

  I placed my hands on the floor to lever myself out of a sitting position. The door flew open.

  Riley looked down at me. "What are you doing?"

  "Looking for a contact?"

  "You don't wear contacts."

  "No wonder I can't find it."

  "Don't mind her," Ana said. "She's taking some strong medicine."

  Riley stared. I wanted to believe that he found my stitches fascinating, but I adhered to my commandment not to delude myself. Ana helped me up.

  Riley looked at Ana. "Any sign of Xena yet?"

  Ana shook her head.

  A mischievous gleam appeared in his blue eyes. "She's probably getting hungry by now." He eyed my bare feet. "She might mistake toes for mice." And with that he ran up the stairs to his room.

  The little bugger.

  Twenty-five

  I'd made a deal with the devil.

  I needed to speak with Chanson, and he'd made it quite clear that the only way he'd speak to me again was if I agreed to a TBS makeover as a gift for his wife.

  Which explained why I was—technically, on my day off—on my way to meet with the congressman at his quasi mansion in Vista View.

  The early-morning sun was annoyingly bright as I wrestled with Mr. Cabrera's steering wheel. Since my car was at the giant Toyota factory in the sky, and my TBS truck was at TBS, I'd had to suck up to Mr. Cabrera to get him to loan me his for a bit.

  It hadn't taken much to convince him to let me borrow the car, seeing as how he was deliriously happy with Mrs. Krauss, and my unsubtle reminder that I had played matchmaker had paved the way.

  Well, that, and I had to promise to return the car with a full tank of gas.

  So here I was. Cruising down Liberty driving a tank.

  And the car was a tank, make no mistake about that. What I found particularly charming, though, was Mr. Cabrera's attempt to make the car look homey. The bench seat had a faded yellow afghan thrown over it. A little sprig of greenery sat on the cracked dashboard and two entwined hearts made from grapevine hung from the rearview mirror.

  Amazingly my headache had vanished after a good night's sleep. The pain in my, uh, rear didn't feel nearly as bad as it had yesterday, but my face looked like I'd run smack-dab into . . . well, a train.

  Somehow I'd managed to talk Ana into going back to work. Her mothering was killing me. Well, it was either the mothering or the soup—I wasn't sure which, but I knew both needed to go.

  With a wince, I thought of the case of Almond Joys I received bright and early this morning along with a sweet letter from Robert MacKenna wishing me well. I wasn't even going to go down that road. I'd write a polite thank-you note, eat the chocolate, and that would be the end of that.

  I hoped.

  I rolled past the construction workers who were still hard at work on the Vista View gatehouse. Following the directions the congressman gave me, I drove down the beautifully landscaped streets, wondering who had done the work.

  Trees dotted the sidewalks and canopied the street. The lawns were exceptionally well-kept, and flowers, everything from geraniums to petunias, were bright and cheery.

  The tank clipped the curb as I pulled to a stop in front of Chanson's house. The LeMans continued to rumble even after I removed the key from the ignition, and slammed the door closed.

  If I could absolutely rule out Chanson as a suspect, then I knew my suspicions about Tim might very well be true.

  With my Polaroid, measuring wheel, sketch pad, and pencil, I headed up to the house.

  It was a lot like the man himself—somewhat feminine, its stucco painted a soft pink, its trim a light turquoise. The Floridian colors somehow worked with this particular house.

  Chanson pulled open the door as I climbed the tiled steps, his smile fading as I came nearer.

  He clucked at me, much as Mrs. Krauss would have.

  I fought back a growl.

  "Ms. Quinn, you must really try to avoid collisions with locomotives. Your poor complexion."

  I ponied up my own fake sincerity to match his. "I'm touched you care."

  He smiled, led me into the house.

  The decor had obviously been done by an interior designer, keeping with the South Beach style. An open floor plan, bright pastels, and colorful floor tile.

  He escorted me through the double doors opening into the backyard. Remarkably, considering how squished these houses were to one another, there was complete privacy.

  A tall line of conifers rimmed the perimeter of the yard. A small in-ground pool hogged most of the space, but there were pockets of land just begging for a little TLC.

  Why I was really there nagged at me while I took a few pictures, sketched a little bit. We made small talk about what he was looking for (something romantic), how much he was willing to spend (a lot—which I planned to charge, except for my own labor), and his wife's tastes (tropical).

  Finally, when I had a good vision in mind of what he wanted—a Caribbean honeymoon (which was enough to make my stomach protest)—I turned to face him, hoping that facing him straight on wouldn't send him running in fear.

  Truthfully, I had scared myself when I looked in the mirror that morning.

  I didn't have a lot of time to beat around the bush, with Riley's meeting with Spike just a few hours away, so I cut to the chase.

  "I saw you and John Demming together that day I was in your office. You told him that everything 'would soon be taken care of,' or words to that effect, and told him not to worry. You were talking about Sandowski's Farm, right?"

  He pulled out a patio chair, offered it to me. Reluctantly, I sat.

  Chanson lowered himself into the chair across from me, steepled his hands under his chin. "Yes."

  I was so shocked that he admitted it, I think I gasped.

  He laughed.

  I guessed that proved I did gasp.

  "You're surprised?"

  "Frankly, yes."

  The pool filter kicked on, filling the air with a soft humming. "I have nothing to hide."

  I sincerely doubted that. "That's easy enough to say with Demming dead. No one to corroborate your story."

  "I don't know what you're trying to say, Ms. Quinn, but I don't think I like it." Even angry, he still looked peaceful, serene.

  Tapping my pencil on my sketch pad, I said, "Do you deny being behind the acts plaguing the Sandowski family?"

  His eyebrows dipped quizzically. Man, he was good. I almost believed that he didn't know what I was talking about. "Acts?"

  "The sheep, the dog, the fire, Joe's death?"

  "I don't have a clue as to what you are referring. I think I told you that the last time we spoke."

  "Sure."

  "I really don't," he said, leaning forward. "Has someone been harassing the family?"

  My inner self told me to tell him. I opened my mouth and shut it again. He was behind this. I was sure of it.

  Wasn't I?

  Those nagging suspicions about Tim resurfaced with a resounding whoosh. "Why would you have had that conversation with Demming the other day if you're innocent?"

  "He's a concerned constituent.