Trouble In Spades

by Heather Webber

  Ana and I looked at each other. Neither of us could find words.

  The last pictures were of Claire cleaning up the mess.

  Ana dropped the stack on the table. I flipped them facedown. My stomach twisted and turned.

  Ana reached over and grabbed my hand, and we sat there a long time.

  "Okay," Ana said. "I can kinda see why Claire might have wanted these pictures back. I'd have broken into Maria's for them too."

  I was feeling kind of numb. "What now?" I asked.

  "I wish I knew, Nina."

  "This is surreal."

  "No idea who the guy is?"

  "I've never seen him before."

  "What about Maria? Would she know?"

  Maria. Ugh. Just how did I explain this to her? "She might," I said. "I don't know."

  "You need to call Kevin."

  I thought the same thing. I'd learned my lesson about homicide investigations. I wanted no part of this. None. Zero.

  Still . . .

  "Who do you think the woman who tried to steal these pictures was?" I asked.

  "The blue-haired lady?"

  "Yeah."

  "A pickpocket?"

  "Who bypassed my wallet to get this package? I don't think so."

  "Creepy."

  "Very."

  Her eyes brightened.

  "What?"

  "Let me have the prints run."

  "Huh?"

  "The prints on the envelope. The lady had to have touched it, right?"

  "So did I, and Brickhouse, and Tam and Lyle—"

  "Lyle?"

  "The messenger."

  "Is he single?"

  "Don't know."

  "Oh." It took a millisecond for her to leave Lyle in the dust. "Come on," she pleaded. "Let me get the prints run. I never get to do anything fun. I can take the envelope to a friend of mine at the police department, ask a favor. What can it hurt?"

  I ran through this in my mind. If Ana took the envelope and had the prints run, then we might know who the bluehaired lady really was. And if we knew who she was, we might be able to figure out who she worked for, and that might lead us to Claire's murderer.

  No, no, no, I told myself. I was not getting involved. But . . . wasn't I already involved?

  Besides, what could it hurt to know? It wasn't like I was going to do anything with the information. And once Kevin got the package, I'd probably never hear another word about it again. My curiosity needed closure.

  "All right," I said, already planning. Should I tell Kevin I threw the envelope away? Or wait until Ana was done with it and then pass everything on to him?

  "What does fingerprinting do to an envelope? Would Kevin know we'd done it?"

  "Yeah, he'd probably know," she said.

  All-righty, then. I'd tell him I lost the envelope. If we turned up anything, then we'd take it to him and plead ignorance.

  I put the pictures into the folds of the guest list and fished around in my backpack for a rubber band.

  I was going to stop at the drugstore on the way home and have copies of the pictures made on one of those Kodak machines. I'd also have the guest list photocopied. Hey, it couldn't hurt to have a set of duplicates, I told myself, breaking a cardinal commandment. Thou Shalt Not Delude Thyself.

  I'd suffer the consequences later, I was sure.

  I packed everything up, gave Ana a hug.

  "Everything's going to be all right," she said.

  "Promise?"

  She half shrugged and smiled. "You know how I am about commitment, Nina."

  I had to smile too. "Well, I'm holding you to it."

  "Seriously, you okay?"

  I had to think about it. It was true my life was a stressedout mess right now, but overall . . . "Yeah."

  "Good. Because my mother wants to get together for supper tomorrow night."

  I smiled. I loved my aunt Rosetta. She was crazier than Ana and me put together. "That'll certainly take my mind off things."

  Ana bit her lip.

  "What?"

  "She wants your parents to come too. I kinda need you to invite them. She wants to end this feud once and for all." Oh no. What she really meant was that I needed to trick them into coming. Because that was the only way my mother would be there.

  Ana smiled wide. "And I kinda volunteered you to cook."

  "What?!"

  "No need to get snippy. I'll bring the wine."

  I sighed. I wasn't going to need wine. I was going to need a defibrillator when my mother saw Aunt Rosa.

  "Oh, and Nina?" she said as I pulled open the door.

  "Yeah?"

  She nodded toward my backpack. "Who do you think it was who took those pictures?"

  Oh my God. I hadn't even thought of that. I could only think of one person—the person who sent them to me. Nate.

  Fourteen

  Early the next morning, I stumbled, blearyeyed, into TBS. Between the crazy dog and Maria's moaning and groaning every time she turned on the sleeper sofa—not to mention those awful, awful pictures—I'd barely gotten any sleep.

  The cowbell above the door rang out, and Tam looked up from her computer screen. Dark circles rimmed her eyes. "You're early."

  I opened my mouth to explain about Maria and the dog, but closed it again. I didn't have the energy. "So are you," I said.

  She grumbled something under her breath. I thought I heard "winker" and "intuition."

  I plopped into the chair in front of her desk. "You okay?"

  Curled and sprayed into submission, her hair didn't move when she shook her head. "No."

  "Is this still about Leo?"

  Drawing her bottom lip into her mouth, she bit it. "He's made it personal. He asked me out."

  Maybe Leo had a death wish. "And?"

  "How does he know I'm not married?"

  I suggested the obvious. "No ring?"

  "Pregnant women often take their rings off. Swelling," she said, as if I didn't have a clue.

  She was right, but still. "But you're not married. Or dating. So, maybe he was hoping?"

  Her blue eyes narrowed. "He's . . ."

  "Cute?"

  "Weasel-y. He's like that Eddie Haskell character." She growled at her computer as if it had let her down. "I can't find anything on him. He's squeaky clean!"

  "I'd think that was a good thing. What?" I said when she looked at me, eyebrows furrowed, a frown tugging on her thin lips. "Not good?"

  "Not good at all."

  "Well, I hope you let him down gently." I didn't want him to quit over this. TBS was in desperate need of help for the next few months.

  She rubbed a finger over one of Sassy's leaves. "I said yes."

  I blinked, wondering if I was still in bed, dreaming. "What? Yes? As in, yes you'll go out with him?"

  "It's time to fight fire with fire."

  Rising, I held up a hand to stop her from saying anything else. "I don't want to know." The less I knew, the less the police could get out of me.

  I passed the coffeemaker, almost tempted. But I despised the bitter taste, so I made a beeline for the small fridge and pulled out a Dr Pepper. I needed caffeine in a bad way. I held it up to Tam so she could check it off on her inventory list and ambled into my office, closing the door behind me.

  The Dr Pepper hissed as I popped the top. I rooted around the bottom drawer of my desk and came up with an Almond Joy.

  My mother would have a fit if she knew what I was eating.

  I groaned. My mother. I still needed to call her about dinner.

  Swiveling in my chair, I looked out the window. It had finally stopped raining. My gaze settled on the gardens behind the office. There were six separate ones, ranging from cottage style to contemporary, water to xeric. My glance lingered on a copper water feature with a lustrous green patina.

  Kevin was supposed to be stopping by later to pick up the package. I hadn't told him what he was picking up, only that I had something important to the Claire Battiste investigation. I'd say.
>
  Was Nate really involved? To what extent? Maria had finally called Nate's dad, who was frantic. He'd put the pressure on the Cincinnati cops, the Freedom cops, and even called the FBI. I supposed a former governor had that kind of pull. I was expecting a visit from someone with a badge any second now, as soon as they found out Nate had sent a package to me the day he disappeared.

  Hopefully, the contents of that package wouldn't be in my possession when they showed up.

  For what seemed like the thousandth time, I wondered if Nate had really taken those pictures. If he had stood by and watched a man get murdered. I shuddered.

  It was hard to imagine Nate being involved in something like that. But I couldn't explain those pictures otherwise. My only other thought was that he found them, but it was highly unlikely that Claire—or anyone else—would leave something like that lying around.

  I set my cell phone on my desk in hopes that Nate would call again. For the time being I'd try to stay focused on work.

  Glancing up at the clock, I wondered when Leo would be in. I still had questions about him that needed answers. And the fact that he was cozying up with Tam only added fuel to my fire. If he had ulterior motives for getting a job here, then Tam was putting herself—and her baby—in danger. I checked my day-planner, groaned when all it said was Maria. Not good.

  Everything to do with that job needed to be put on hold. I couldn't risk spending thousands of dollars on materials without knowing if the wedding was off. I'd already used up the deposit Nate Sr. had given me. Thankfully, that was nonrefundable.

  Which left me doing something I really didn't want to do. I'd spent most of my sleepless night debating and finally figured I had no choice. Picking up my phone, I dialed Verona Frye. Desperate times and all.

  I had employees to pay, bills due, and an overhead to keep up. With Maria's job on hold, and nothing on the schedule for another three weeks . . . these were desperate times.

  All right, so there was also a part of me that wanted to ask Verona Frye a few questions. Questions about the PCF gala. I was still trying to figure out why Nate had included a guest list in that packet.

  Verona was involved in planning the gala. She'd have known Claire and Nate. Maybe I could get some insight from someone on the inside.

  Verona Frye answered on the fifth ring. "Oh, I'm so glad your schedule opened up," she said after I reintroduced myself and told her why I was calling.

  I wondered if she'd heard about Claire yet. By her joyful tone, I didn't think she had. "I'd like to schedule a consulta tion, Mrs. Frye. I'll need to sit down with you to get a feel for what you're looking for, and also take some measurements and pictures of the space. Of course, if this is a surprise for Mr. Frye, I suggest he not be home."

  I was continually amazed at how often people forgot that one tiny detail.

  She laughed. "Verona, please. And Colin never seems to be home this time of year, with the gala preparations. A lot of thought goes into the event."

  "Oh?" I said, prying. "Like what?"

  "Everything from gift baskets to lighting."

  "Aren't details like that handled by the Kalypso staff?"

  "Yes," she said, something cold in her voice. "Colin and Claire work closely together to make sure everything is perfect." Her tone softened a bit. "Of course, my mother gets final say, and she can be picky."

  My stomach twisted at the sound of Claire's name, but I pried on. "What about you?" I asked. "Don't you get a say?"

  She laughed, a brittle titter. "Not usually. Just this year since they were in desperate need of my help. Even still, I'm mostly implementing their plans."

  "Why just this year?" I asked. "You are a Phineus."

  "PCF is Roz's baby."

  I wanted to keep questioning her, but I didn't want to arouse her suspicion. "Oh. Well, is there a good time for us to meet?"

  I heard papers rustling. "I have two o'clock today open. Is that good for you?" she asked.

  "Perfect." Hopefully, I'd get lost on my way home or caught up in work and forget that I had to make dinner tonight. I shuddered when I thought of my mother and Aunt Rosa in the same room. It was bound to be ugly. I took down Verona's address, which was in the swanky town of Indian Hills, jotted directions, and hung up. While my computer loaded, I sipped my Dr Pepper, nibbled my Almond Joy. First things first. I wanted to Google the Phineus Cancer Foundation. After that I'd tackle Nate, see if I found anything that would explain what he was doing with pictures that showed someone being killed. Really, I ought to get Tam to do this search for me. She was a whiz with computers—which is how she ended up working for me. She'd been caught computer hacking back in college. Luckily, she'd gotten off with probation and had been on a straight and narrow path ever since. Okay, maybe once in a while she took a wayward fork in the road, but I didn't hold it against her. Especially since I was usually the one navigating.

  I decided to leave her out of this. She had enough on her mind right now.

  Hunting and pecking, I typed in "Phineus Cancer Foundation" on Google's search page, and a whole list of sites spewed onto my screen. Luckily, PCF's official site was near the top.

  I scanned as I scrolled, looking for anything and everything. I wasn't sure why I was even bothering, except for the guest list that had been in Nate's little care package. I shuddered.

  I clicked on various testimonials from families, local charities, even research facilities that had benefited from Phineus Cancer Foundation's generosity.

  By the end of my search, I almost wanted to donate to PCF myself. Except the image of a man being killed by Claire Battiste held me back.

  Try as I might, I couldn't figure out how it all tied together. There were too many questions. Why had Nate put the PCF guest list in the package with those pictures? Who was the man Claire had killed? How did the blue-haired lady know I had the package? And how did she fit in? Be cause I didn't believe for a second that her pickpocketing was coincidental.

  If the pictures in the package were real (and they definitely looked real), Claire had killed a man. Then someone had killed Claire.

  And Nate was missing.

  Glancing at the phone, I wished he would call me again. If not to out and out confess to something, then to reassure me that he wasn't some serial killer.

  I back-clicked to Google's main page and typed in "Nate Biederman." After thirty minutes of wading through pages and pages of mind-numbing info, I finally signed off. There hadn't been anything I didn't already know about Nate. He was, according to the Internet, the epitome of the all-American boy next door living a perfect life. But as I pulled out the copies I made of the pictures Nate sent me, I knew that just wasn't true.

  Fifteen

  Indian Hill was a bit of a hike from the office. I took I-75 south, then jumped onto I-275 east. Once off the highway, I tried not to drool as I drove through the neighborhoods of Cincinnati's elite. This is where the best of the best lived.

  Behind large stone walls and iron gates, mansions sat proudly. Lawns were meticulous, the landscaping incredible. I thought about slipping some business cards into mailboxes on my way home, but decided against it. I liked to play hard to get.

  Hopefully, the mini at the Fryes would get my name into this social register. Where I hoped it would stay for a long, long time.

  Unfortunately, as I drove along, I recognized there was little need for my services. Every mansion was landscaped to perfection.

  As I drove, I also kept glancing at my backpack. I hated toting those pictures around. Kevin hadn't made it to the office before I'd had to leave. I called and left a message asking him to stop by the house later to pick up the package I had for him. I'd almost wanted to say "the package with the pictures of Claire shooting some guy," but I didn't know who'd be in hearing distance when he played his messages. Approaching the Frye's house, I slowed. As I drove up the single lane driveway, I took it all in.

  The grounds were immaculate, every blade of grass cut with precision. The gardener had
gone with a red theme. Red begonias shared a winding bed alongside the walkway with red petunias. Bright crimson spikes of salvia and feathery astilbe complemented the theme and added height and texture to the mix. By the end of summer it would be breathtaking.

  It was already beautiful. And I had to wonder why I was here.

  The driveway widened into a courtyard. I parked in front of a pristine carriage house that looked like it had been converted to a guest home. I oohed over window boxes stuffed full of scarlet primroses with bold yellow centers and cascading vinca vines.

  I looped the strap of my Polaroid over my shoulder, grabbed my drawing pad and measuring wheel and hopped out of my truck.

  Verona Frye strode down the walkway. She wore moss green silk lounging pants and a cream-colored tank top. A strand of pearls hung on her neck and pearl studs decorated her ears. Her long blonde hair was pulled back, secured with two long sticks that made me wonder how it all stayed put. On anyone else—even Maria—the outfit would look ridiculous. Somehow Verona Frye pulled it off.