A Hoe Lot of Trouble

by Heather Webber

  A NINA QUINN MYSTERY

  For my family,

  for their love and support

  (and for inspiring an occasional murderous

  thought or two)

  All my love

  Contents

  One

  Thou shall not stuff pictures of thy husband down the…

  Two

  “Miz Quinn, you really oughta lock that back door.”

  Three

  Mrs. Ursula Krauss lived in a brand spanking new…

  Four

  For crying out loud, I’d forgotten again! What kind of…

  Five

  I followed Bridget as we took the side roads to…

  Six

  As I drove to the high school to meet with Vice…

  Seven

  I stopped at my office after leaving the high school.

  Eight

  I woke the next morning determined to actually make progress…

  Nine

  After lunch with Ana, I headed home, despite my inner…

  Ten

  I had the worst habit of cleaning when I was…

  Eleven

  As I drove southbound on I-75, I kept one hand…

  Twelve

  “You damn well don’t have to drive me.”

  Thirteen

  I pounded on the front door of Ginger’s town house.

  Fourteen

  John Demming had stood me up.

  Fifteen

  What to eat for supper? I was not in the…

  Sixteen

  Ana brushed Passionate Purple onto her baby toe.

  Seventeen

  Foe.

  Eighteen

  I’d spent a sleepless night on the couch, gun in…

  Nineteen

  “Wipe the drool off your lips before we sit down,”…

  Twenty

  “Demming?” I asked, my voice choked. I should have been…

  Twenty-One

  My weak knees brought me to the ground.

  Twenty-Two

  “A restoration project?” Ana’s voice echoed across the line.

  Twenty-Three

  “Stop scratching.”

  Twenty-Four

  By mid-afternoon, after doing my best to swallow scorched soup…

  Twenty-Five

  I’d made a deal with the devil.

  Twenty-Six

  My cat clock meowed eleven times.

  Twenty-Seven

  It took me about five minutes to realize that calling…

  Twenty-Eight

  I parked in Mr. Cabrera’s driveway, tossed him the keys…

  Twenty-Nine

  Hours later, I sat on the front porch swing with…

  Take Your Garden by Surprise

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  One

  Thou shall not stuff pictures of thy husband down the garbage disposal.

  I made a mental note to add this to my list of personal commandments. I'd put it right after "Thou shalt not eat more than two pints of ice cream in one night" and just before "Thou shalt never wear the correct size jeans." Priorities and all.

  I opened the cabinet under the sink and stared at the root of my problem. My newest commandment wasn't a result of sudden regret at the loss of the photos. Instead it came from the fact that by stuffing pictures of the two-timing weasel down the disposal I had caused the sink to clog.

  Little Kodak bits of my husband's head floated around the sink's stainless steel basin. I found an odd sense of peace seeing Kevin Quinn drowning—even one-dimensionally—but I couldn't risk Riley seeing the pieces. I fished them out and shoved them in the trash can.

  I stared at the stack of prints I'd yet to destroy and picked up the top one. It had been taken soon after I met Kevin. I'd been twenty-one and fresh out of college when Officer Kevin Quinn pulled me over for speeding. Being somewhat desperate—since I'd already gotten two tickets in the previous six months—I faked being sick. I still remember with startling clarity the mad dash I'd made toward the tree line, where I'd given a fair imitation of that Exorcist girl—without the head spinning, of course.

  Officer Kevin let me off, but later that night showed up at the off-campus apartment I'd shared with my cousin Ana with a pot of chicken soup.

  Looking back, I should've taken the ticket.

  We looked so disgustingly happy in the picture I was holding.

  Kevin, the weasel, hadn't changed much in the last eight years, at least physically. He was still one sexy piece o' man. Six foot, three inches. Short, jet-black wavy hair. Clear green eyes. And a smile that made my knees go all spongy.

  He'd been eight years older than me, a widower with a seven-year-old son and a boatload of baggage, but when he looked at me with those vivid green bedroom eyes, smiled that mischievous smile—I'd never had a prayer of escaping, heart intact.

  Okay, I admit it. I hadn't wanted to—until recently.

  I looked down at my younger, naïve self. My mother liked to think all her kids looked like movie stars. According to Mom, my younger sister Maria was the spitting image of Grace Kelly. My older brother Peter? George Clooney. And amazingly, there was some resemblance in a slightly out-of-focus way.

  Mom, however, never specified who I looked like—she just kept telling me I had a face for the movies. Which left me wondering if I had more in common with that Exorcist girl than just that incident with Kevin.

  But I didn't think so. Or at least I hoped not.

  Unlike my sister, I'd never be movie-star gorgeous. She was French baguette where I leaned toward . . . pumpernickel. But I'd never minded. My heart-shaped face had its own unique charm I've grown fond of during our twentynine years of cohabitation.

  As I looked at the picture, I realized I hadn't changed much since I met Kevin either. My shoulder-length brown hair was still styled in that same nondescript bob. My lips were still too full, my smile too wide. Though they could pass for brown most of the time, my eyes remained a dark muddy green, but nowadays they had tiny lines creasing their corners.

  Kevin had said I was beautiful.

  And I'd believed him.

  Until two days ago.

  Sighing, I split the photo in two. Tucking my half into my robe pocket, I dunked Kevin's half into the full sink, enjoying it almost as much as I would dipping a Krispy Kreme into hot chocolate. As I tried to figure out what to do about the sink full of water, the phone rang.

  I checked the clock. It was early.

  "Hello?" I said with an edge to my voice that was sure to frighten any telemarketers.

  "Nina?"

  Didn't sound like a telemarketer, and although the female voice sounded oddly familiar, I couldn't place it.

  "Yes." My tone still warned that I was in no mood to buy a time-share in Costa Rica.

  "It's Bridget," she said. "Tim and I got your message and your card. Thank you."

  My mouth dropped open. I'd called and left a message on her machine the other day, but I hadn't expected her to call me back. Not for a while, at any rate. Not with all she had going on.

  I wrapped the phone cord around my finger. "I was so sorry to hear about Joe."

  Bridget's father-in-law, Joe Sandowski—"Farmer Joe," as I used to affectionately call him—was found dead in one of his cornfields early last week. Ordinarily the death of a man as old as Joe wouldn't raise a plucked eyebrow, but ap parently, according to the local paper, there had been something (which was never specified, and left inquiring minds wanting to know) found at the scene that indicated his death had been anything but natural.

  "Thanks," Bridget said. "We're sorry too."

  An irrepressible sad
ness tightened my throat. Although I hadn't seen Joe Sandowski in years, he'd played a pivotal role in my life. His love for the outdoors had rubbed off on me to the point where I'd gone to college for landscape design.

  Soon after graduating I had opened my own run-of-themill landscaping business, which, through a quirky twist of fate, two years ago had morphed into what it was now: Taken by Surprise, Garden Designs. TBS was one of a kind in this area of Ohio, in the country really. We specialized in surprise garden makeovers. In and out in a day, hard work mixed with more than a little chaos, and in the end, a very happy customer.

  My job was extremely gratifying, fun and rewarding. And I'd have none of it if it weren't for Farmer Joe.

  I'd wanted to go to his funeral, to pay my respects to a man who'd shaped my life—even if he hadn't known it—but the paper had specified a private ceremony and I hadn't wanted to intrude. I sent one of Hallmark's finest to Bridget and Tim instead—a poor substitute, I know, but what else could I do?

  "Nina, do you think we could get together?"

  "I-uh—"

  Bridget Sandowski had been my friend since she'd shared her purple grapes with me in kindergarten. We'd been joined at the hip until she met Tim, her future husband, our freshman year of high school. Even then, we'd remained close. It wasn't until she and Tim went off to Stanford that we started to lose touch with each other. However, it was one of those friendships that was set in stone, despite the fact that we didn't see each other more than twice a year. At most.

  "Of course. Has something happened? Is this about Joe's death?"

  There was a slight hesitation before she spoke. "Nina, I'd rather not discuss it on the phone."

  Maybe Bridget thought I'd have inside information about Joe's case since I happened to be married to Freedom's lead homicide investigator. Unfortunately, my inside track with the police department had been roadblocked when I kicked Kevin out of the house. And I didn't think my landscaping skills would do her any good at this time in her life.

  My curiosity piqued, I said, "Lucky for you it's my day off. When and where do you want to meet?"

  "As soon as possible. And anywhere is fine."

  I eyed the soggy picture of Kevin and the water dripping off my counter. "I have a few things to take care of here, but I can meet you at Gus's, say eleven?"

  "I'll be there."

  I hung up the phone, not sure what to make of Bridget's tone. Something in it raised the hairs on the back of my neck.

  I tucked the rest of the photos back into my junk drawer and took a sponge to the water pooling on the countertop. As I devised nefarious ways to be rid of the rest of Kevin's images, I suddenly remembered I already had plans for a late breakfast with my best bud, Analise Bertoli—who also happened to be my first cousin on my father's dysfunctional side of the family.

  Ana and I'd been close since we were eighteen—which was when my Aunt Rosetta left my Uncle Sal after she caught Uncle Sal playing more than Marco Polo with the pool boy. She'd packed up Ana and my cousin Victor and moved them out of California, back to Ohio, and in with us.

  That summer still conjured up nightmares on occasion.

  To escape the madhouse, I'd snagged an off-campus apartment and Ana moved in with me. I like to think that move saved my sanity. Ana's, however, was still in question.

  I winced as I punched in her cell phone number. She wasn't going to be happy.

  She answered on the first ring. "Ana Bertoli, glorified babysitter."

  "One of those days, huh?"

  "Nina, my life is one of those days. What's up?"

  I bit my bottom lip, talked around it. "I need to cancel breakfast."

  "What? Huh?" She made static noises. "Don't think I heard you right." More fake static. Her phone was going to be a slobbery mess. Hope she didn't get electrocuted.

  When she paused for breath, I said, "I'm sorry. Bridget Sandowski called, said she needs to see me. She sounded weird."

  "As in, she's-hitting-the-bottle-at-eight-in-the-morning weird, or just-plain-strange weird?"

  "Plain strange weird, unlike you. Tell me you're drinking coffee."

  "I'm not saying a word." She laughed, sort of an evil sounding moo-ha-ha. "Self-incrimination and all."

  I heard a buzz of voices in the background, lots of phones ringing. Ana's a probation officer. Her desk sat smack-dab in the middle of the county's municipal building between four courtrooms and the local lockup. On a quiet day it was a madhouse. Today it sounded like a nightmare.

  I picked a chunk of Kevin's cheating smile from the sink, tossed it in the trash. "Let's just hope they're not drug testing today."

  Ana ignored me and said, "Who am I going to whine about my love life to?"

  "Your love life? What about mine?"

  "Me. Me. Me," she mocked, but I heard the smile in her voice.

  I laughed at how pathetic I must've sounded these last few days. The details of the Big Boxer Blowout could wait until later.

  "Lunch tomorrow?" I offered.

  "I won't hold my breath."

  "Smart a—"

  She cut in. "Buh-bye."

  I hung up, smiling. Neuroses aside, Ana always knew how to cheer me up.

  I supposed I should plunge. Get it over with. But the sway of the tail on the cat clock Riley had given me years ago reminded me that I had yet to see him this morning. At this rate he was going to miss his bus.

  Ignoring the sink for the time being, I yelled, "Riley!" at the top of my lungs. Anything less was ignored.

  "Ri-ley!"

  I took a peek out the window, and sure enough my neighbor Mr. Cabrera had craned his head in the direction of our house. The walls of our house were notoriously thin, and what was heard during any given week usually provided Mr. Cabrera with enough gossip to get him through the neighborhood's weekly cribbage game.

  My house sat in an established nook of Freedom, Ohio, affectionately nicknamed "the Mill." As in gossip mill. Unlike its booming surroundings, this neighborhood had been settled decades ago, and most of its occupants regularly received AARP mailings and insurance pamphlets with Alex Trebek on the envelope. I'd inherited the house from my aunt Chi-Chi just after Kevin and I married, which was why I was able to start up my own landscaping business without falling too seriously into debt.

  Gossip here was a way of life. The Mill, located smack dab between Cincinnati and Dayton, was a throwback to a simpler way of life. A place where people sat on their stoops every night, took their neighborhood watch duties seriously, and jumped at every opportunity to pass on information gathered in over-the-fence chats.

  At times, it was endearing. But knowing the whole neighborhood would soon hear of my marriage woes . . . Well, that was just annoying.

  I started up the stairs armed with a dish towel. In my maternal cache of weapons, this one meant business. "Riley Michael . . ."

  I paused outside his room. Bass thumped, vibrating the floor beneath my bare feet, but no music sounded through the closed door. I knocked. No answer.

  My hand trembled as I set it on the knob and I cursed my cowardice six ways to Sunday. I'm not big on confrontations, not with surly teenagers and not with the state of his room—which I'm quite sure must have at least five health code violations.

  The smell was the first thing to assault my senses as I slowly pushed open Riley's door. The pungency of teenagemale sweat, mixed with a slight odor of musk, hung over the room.

  The utter chaos was the next thing to knock me down a notch. But this time only my sense of style was wounded. Decorated in what could only be called by interior designers as "early adolescence," the room was strewn with clothes from wall to wall. I couldn't be sure, because it had been so long since I had seen it, but I thought the rug was shaggy green. I looked down to check, but saw a cup with what I hoped had dried chocolate milk in it and decided I really didn't need to know.

  Posters hung on every available inch of wall space. His art tastes varied: half-naked women, ball players, rock stars.
But it seemed, at least to my quick perusal, that the babes outnumbered the others. Not really surprising, considering his age.

  I refused to look at the glass tank gracing the wall to the right of his bed. What was in that tank was scarier than the cup on the floor. A chill danced up my spine as heebiejeebies made me want to run for the door.

  I had met Riley eight years ago, when he was seven. Back then, he was a four-foot-odd pudge, his blue eyes rounded with hurt and a healthy dose of scorn. I'd like to say our bond had grown over the years, but another one of my commandments was not to delude myself. I had no trouble with out-and-out lying, but self-delusion was a definite no-no.

  "Ry!" I shouted. No response.

  His long lean body stretched facedown across the twin bed, his feet dangling over the edge. There was a hole in the toe of his left sock, I noticed, as his foot tapped a furious beat through the air.