Digging Up Trouble

by Heather Webber

  Too bad Kit wasn't there. The man gave the best hugs ever.

  I looked around my office. Two design boards leaned against my desk, which was cluttered with site plans and designs.

  To add insult to my day, when I'd visited Derrick Brandt at the nursery, I learned that Jean-Claude hadn't placed the orders I needed. Luckily, with what Derrick had in stock, we were able to salvage my design plans.

  I'd come back to the office for my appointments and learned that my two o'clock had bailed on me after hearing the news reports of Russ's death.

  Thankfully, the young couple who came in at three was very enthusiastic and excited about doing a yard for the young woman's mother.

  I double-checked that I had the written permission of at least one homeowner (the girl's father) before I took them on.

  Jean-Claude, Jean Claude.

  I rubbed my temples. What was I going to do?

  Grabbing my cell phone, I punched in Ana's number, waited while it rang.

  "Ana Bertoli," she chirped.

  "You sound happy."

  "Shakes and I are talking."

  "Shakes?"

  "S. Larue's nickname. I can live with Shakes. It's kind of cute."

  "Talking? Are you back together?"

  "Not yet, but we're working on it. You sound like crap," she said. "What's wrong?"

  She knew me too well to hide anything. "Too long to get into."

  "Want me to come over tonight?"

  If she and S. Larue were talking, I thought that maybe she'd have other plans. "I'm okay."

  "You sure?"

  "Yep. Hey, did you ever hear from that bartender?"

  "Jake? He was cute, wasn't he?"

  "Shakes," I reminded.

  "I can look."

  "No you can't. You're easily distracted."

  "I take exception to that."

  "No you don't."

  "You're right. Nope, haven't heard from Jake. Why? Has JC disappeared again?"

  "Ugh. Don't call him that."

  "Why? It's . . . cute."

  "You're in a cute mood."

  "Love is in the air."

  I wanted to gag.

  "Are you gagging?"

  "I'm close."

  "Why? You've got Bo-bby."

  Why did everyone singsong his name? "He might be leaving."

  "What? Spill!"

  I explained about the transfer.

  "Stop thinking about how Kevin would feel."

  Leave it to Ana to cut to the heart of the matter.

  "It's not up to him. It's your life, Nina."

  "I know."

  "Do you?"

  "Kind of." Argh.

  "I'll be over at eight."

  "No, no. I'm fine."

  "I'll bring Phish Food."

  "All right." I'm easily swayed by Ben & Jerry's.

  "Besides, I want to see your bedroom. I hear it's gorgeous."

  "It is. But the bathroom . . ."

  "Bathroom?"

  "You don't want to know."

  We hung up, and I was clearing clutter (stuffing things in drawers) when Brickhouse appeared in my doorway.

  She clucked.

  I closed my eyes, thought about thunking my head on my desk until I was unconscious. I didn't have the energy for Brickhouse right now.

  When I opened my eyes, she was right in front of my desk, a bowl in her hands. She set it in front of me.

  "Eat."

  I peeked into the bowl. The smell that rose up on waves of steam made my stomach growl.

  There were things in there I couldn't identify. Little bits of pudgy rice-shaped pasta for one. The spices for another. I recognized the carrots, the celery, the bits of ground beef. "What is it?"

  "Soup."

  "Ha. Ha."

  "It's an old family recipe." She set a plastic spoon next to the bowl. "Now eat."

  I looked up, trying to gauge why she was being nice to me, and thought I saw a flash of maternal worry before her eyes switched back to their normal blue steel.

  "Thanks," I said, nearly choking on the word. Me, thanking Brickhouse Krauss. I never thought I'd see the day.

  She nodded and walked out the door.

  I scooped, I sipped, I mmmmed. It was very, very good.

  I just hoped it wasn't poisoned.

  Inside Growl, people stood four deep in lines. There were three people working the registers. Two looked like they could have been Goosh's brother and sister.

  I stood there twirling my key chain on my finger until Riley noticed me. He gave me the one-finger wait-a-minute sign again. I pointed down the hallway that led to the restrooms.

  He nodded.

  I didn't see Noreen, and according to Tam, Bill had gone home early. This was the perfect time to check his office, see if those accounting books had miraculously turned up.

  Black ceramic tile led me to the ladies' room. I stopped, looked over my shoulder, and sprinted down the rest of the hallway toward the Employees Only door, Keds squeaking, keys jangling.

  Pushing on the swinging door, I peeked in. Didn't see anyone. Slipping through the opening, I looked around.

  To my right, a short hallway led to the kitchen area and what looked like a break room. Someone stood with their back to me, chopping tomatoes.

  There was an office to the left, the light off, the door open. I ducked in, closed the door, turned on the light.

  The office was split down the middle by a partition. Each half matched the other, right down to the heavy oak desk and steel trash can. Two small supply closets faced each other on opposite walls.

  One desk had a picture of Lindsey on it. Bill's. My Clueplaying abilities never ceased to amaze me. Setting my keys on the heavy duty industrial carpet, I riffled through papers, opened drawers. No accounting books. Nothing that looked the least bit incriminating at all.

  Working fast, I checked Russ's desk as well. The man was a neatnik, I'd give him that. Tam would have appreciated his organizing. I looked for a financial file among the hanging files but couldn't find one.

  Bracing myself, I opened the closet door on Russ's side, hoping nothing—namely a dead body—fell out on me.

  It had been that kind of day.

  There were several work shirts hanging on a rod, and shelves above and below that held office supplies. Printer paper, file folders, envelopes, and the like.

  Quickly, I crossed the room to Bill's closet, turned the handle.

  It was locked.

  Why? What was in there?

  My mind jumped again to dead bodies.

  Pushing that thought away, I wished I'd brought my purse in. My credit card would have come in handy right about now. Kevin had once shown me how incredibly easy it was to bypass a simple lock.

  And this one was simple.

  I didn't bother checking my hair for a bobby pin—I never used them. I thought fast.

  The desk. It would have paper clips. Sure enough, they were in the top drawer. An economy-size box of them. I grabbed one, unbent it.

  A second later the lock released.

  Slowly, I opened the door.

  "Ewww." I stepped back.

  Not a dead body, but almost as bad.

  Mushrooms.

  I shuddered.

  Two small barrels of them took up two-thirds of the closet floor. There was an empty space on the left side that looked just the right size for another barrel. Shelves started above the barrels, right about thigh high, and went all the way to the ceiling. They were filled with everything from humongous jars of fat-free mayonnaise (ewww) to cans of chick peas, black beans, barley, and lentils (double ewww).

  It was a storage closet.

  Not an accounting book to be found. And I looked. Behind cans of mandarin oranges, bags of rice, spice tins. Despite myself, I even poked around the mushroom barrels.

  If Bill had taken the accounting books from Greta's house, he hadn't brought them here. Not that I could find them anyway. Maybe he'd kept them at home? Less suspicion that way.


  The office doorknob jiggled. My stomach lurched.

  "Why is this door locked?"

  Bill. Oh God.

  "I don't know."

  Noreen.

  I looked around for a place to hide. My gaze hit on the closet floor. I might be able to make it . . . if I squeezed.

  Hard.

  "How odd," Bill said. Muffled, his voice sounded menacing.

  I ran over to the light switch, flipped it as I heard a key sliding into the lock. I fairly dove into the closet, became a contortionist, and closed the door behind me.

  It was dark. Very dark.

  And oddly chilly.

  And smelly.

  For a second I had a panic attack about my deodorant again, then realized the smell wasn't coming from me. It was the mushrooms.

  I shuddered again. Mushrooms and I just didn't get along. Not since my mother made beef Stroganoff when I was six and forced me to eat every revolting bite. It probably had more to do with my mother's cooking than the mushrooms themselves, but it had scarred me, and my stomach, for life.

  I didn't know a lot about mushrooms—just that I didn't like them—but weren't they supposed to be stored in a refrigerator?

  Or a cool, dry place like a storage closet? my inner voice asked.

  I told it to be quiet, because I should have realized that myself. I really hated being wrong.

  The office door swung open, its hinges in need of WD-40. I held my breath, afraid Bill and Noreen could somehow hear me breathing. Despite the coolness, sweat trickled down the side of my head, tickling my ear. I rubbed it on my shoulder.

  I heard a click, and light suddenly filtered through the cracks in the closet door as the overhead fluorescents in the office clicked and popped, giving me just enough hazy illumination to make out shapes.

  When I started to see spots, I finally took a deep breath, but was suddenly overcome by the same claustrophobic feeling I experience when I scuba dive. I gave up holding my breath and opted for closing my eyes. I practiced Lamaze breathing again.

  When it came time for me to have a baby, I'd be all set.

  Babies. Bobby.

  I gave myself a mental shake. This wasn't the time!

  Leaning my head against the closet wall, I wished I hadn't given up on gymnastics when I was a kid. Flexibility and I didn't get along. My knees screamed, my back ached, and something dug into my back. A bracket for the shelves. My thighs tingled—the beginning of a Charlie horse.

  I tried to flex my foot and nearly kicked the basket of mushrooms. I stayed put. What was a little pain?

  I could handle it.

  "Has anyone else been in here?" Bill's voice was so clear, so loud, he had to have been standing on the other side of the door.

  "Not that I know of." Noreen's voice sounded strained, stiff.

  What was she doing here? She must have been notified by the police that Greta had died. Wouldn't she be at the house? At the hospital where they'd taken the body for an autopsy?

  Not that she could do much at either place.

  "I, um, might have locked it."

  Riley? I stiffened, and regretted it immediately.

  I bit my lip against the pain of the Charlie horse and kneaded my thigh, trying to get rid of it, all the while wondering what Riley was doing with Bill and Noreen. Wasn't he working the register? How long had I been in the office?

  Holding my watch up to a sliver of light, I realized I'd been snooping for fifteen minutes.

  "When I came in to get, uh, some cash register tape earlier. My mom always makes me lock up when I leave the house. Habit. Sorry."

  "It's okay," Bill said.

  My mind raced. Had Riley just called me his mom? Had I been hearing things? Had I been sniffing too many fungus fumes?

  His mom.

  Tears gathered in my eyes, and I looked up, trying to keep

  them in. Something taped to the underside of the bottom shelf near the mushroom barrels caught my eye. I squinted, trying to make it out.

  I didn't dare move, but from where I was it looked like a manila envelope.

  "What're you doing down there?" Bill asked.

  "Tying my shoe," Riley answered. "Not so easy with this splint."

  "Need help?" Noreen asked.

  "Nope. Got it. Thanks."

  "You need a ride home?" Bill asked.

  "No, my mom's coming," Riley said.

  There it was again. Mom.

  My heart produced a weird warm and fuzzy feeling, and I basked in it for a second before I stiffened again.

  I barely held in the Owww as my thigh spasmed. Tears did come, but it was from the pain, not any kind of lovey-dovey maternal feelings.

  The spasm eased, the pain lessened, and I remembered why I had stiffened in the first place.

  Riley. Lying. Not just about me not being there yet to pick him up, but about locking the door in the first place.

  Why?

  Did he somehow know I was in here?

  How?

  As quietly as I could, I felt my pockets.

  No keys.

  They were sitting on the floor next to Bill's desk!

  Right near where Riley had "tied his shoes"? I hoped so.

  "I think I'll just go get something to eat while I wait for her."

  Ewww. Eat something? From here? Had I taught that boy nothing?

  "You need to call her?" Bill asked.

  "No, she's usually late. I'm used to it."

  Hmmph.

  Footsteps faded.

  "Get some rest, Noreen. Take as much time off as you need."

  Maybe Bill wasn't such a bad guy after all.

  "I'm just going to grab my purse and go. I ran out of here so fast this afternoon, I forgot it."

  "I'm really sorry about Greta."

  "Me too." Noreen's voice cracked, and I felt my throat tighten with sympathy.

  I heard some rustling of clothes and imagined Bill giving Noreen a hug.

  "Call when you're ready to come back. I'll put you on the schedule."

  "All right."

  I heard papers shuffling, then a cell phone ringing. I panicked until I realized it wasn't mine. Mine was in my backpack, and that was in the truck.

  "Lockhart . . . Yeah, tonight's fine. My supply is really low." He laughed. "Yes, business is good, especially now that Russ is out of the picture."

  There went my opinion of Bill, once and for all. Okay, so it wasn't an admission that he'd had something to do with Russ's death, but it was clear enough he'd wanted Russ gone.

  Enough to formulate an elaborate plan to give the man a heart attack?

  I listened to Bill make arrangements for something to be delivered that night. I thought I heard him leave the room, but couldn't be sure.

  How would I be sure? I couldn't see through the cracks in the door frame. I certainly wasn't Superman. Woman. Whatever.

  I decided to stay hidden until I hadn't heard Bill for ten minutes.

  My thigh throbbed and I desperately wanted to move, to readjust. Then my eye caught that envelope again.

  I wiggled slowly, trying not to make a sound, and reached for the envelope. It took some doing, some praying, and lots of patience, but I finally freed it.

  A metal clasp bit into my finger as I lifted the flap. Inside were two business-size envelopes. I pulled them out, held them each up to the streak of light.

  Each said the same thing in a strange typed font. "Bill Lockhart. Personal."

  My eyebrow went up. Interesting.

  There was no way I could read the letters without making a ruckus, so I did the next best thing.

  Stole them.

  Really, I had to talk with Father Keesler soon.

  It took more patience than I thought I had, but I finally got the manila envelope back where it had come from, and stuffed the two other envelopes down my shirt, which was thankfully tucked in.

  After exactly ten minutes by my trusty Timex, I pressed my ear to the door to listen for noise just as it sw
ung open. I fell out in a ball onto someone's feet, my limbs not realizing they were free.