A Hoe Lot of Trouble

by Heather Webber

  "I tried that Star 69, but the number was unavailable."

  "What about Caller ID?"

  "Too expensive."

  Frustrated, I picked at my nails. I had a niggling suspicion that she was holding something back from me, that she still wasn't entirely comfortable talking about her family's problems to an outsider. "Do you still get calls?" I asked.

  She shook her head. "No. The calls stopped about a week after they started, and we were so relieved, but then the letters started showing up."

  "Bridget mentioned them. What were they like?"

  "They looked phony," she said, her voice a bit tight. "Like something copied right out of a movie. The letters were cut out of newspapers and magazines and glued onto a piece of paper, then the page was photocopied. That's what we got," she said with a frown. "The photocopied version."

  "What did the notes say?"

  "They always said the same thing."

  "Which was?" I prompted, almost out of patience.

  " 'Sell the land or face the consequences,' " she said, monotone.

  Pretty blunt. "Consequences" was a fairly fancy word, so I figured whoever was sending the letters was educated, although I'd been wrong before.

  I leaned in, hating the concern that wrinkled her brow. "And the police?"

  "Were no help whatsoever. We let it be, figuring it would blow over once whoever this was figured out we weren't going nowhere." She paused a moment. "Bridget tell you about the sheep and the fire?"

  "Yes. I'm sorry."

  "At first we didn't want to involve Timmy and Bridget in our troubles, but with the sheep we knew we needed help. Unfortunately there wasn't much they could do either. Especially after they went to the police and nothing was done. The sheep were the first real sign that we were in for the long haul. We're afraid to drink our water. We still have well water. Who knows what someone may have dumped in there?"

  That explained the bottled spring water. My blood pressure rose. This was why I'd volunteered to look into this. Whoever was terrorizing this family needed to be caught. And I just hoped I could be of some help.

  I had a few ideas where to begin: an old friend at the fire department, meeting with Chanson, maybe Demming . . .

  "I feel like we're prisoners in our own home. It's horrible."

  Again, the "we're" and "our." I shifted, uncomfortable. A buzzer sounded and Mrs. Sandowski rose. She removed a bread tin from the oven and placed it on the stovetop. After pressing her fingers into the dough to test it, she turned off the oven.

  "Smells good," I said, hoping she couldn't hear the rumbling of my tummy.

  "You can take it with you."

  "I couldn't."

  "Nonsense. I have a dozen more in the freezer."

  I brushed away that feeling of stealing from the poor. "Then, thank you."

  She wiped her hands on a dish towel and sat down. "Do you really think you can help us?"

  "I'm not sure if I can help, but I can try. Something has to be done."

  She tugged on her plain gold wedding band. Her grief creased her forehead, tugged at the lines at her mouth. I looked up at the clock. It seemed as though I had been in the farmhouse for hours. I'd been there twenty minutes.

  "Where would you start? What would you do?"

  A piece of corn silk clung to the end of the table. I picked it off. A hint of worry lined her eyes and maybe a bit of fear as I said, "I need to talk to Congressman Chanson, and Demming too. The paramedics, maybe, and some friends at the police station. I might even talk with a few of the resi dents of Vista View—they know my name through my business, so I might be able to get them to talk to me. I'll see what I can find out."

  She reached out, grabbed my hand, gave it a squeeze. "Thank you for helping. As much as I hate to admit it, Bridget is right. We do need help, but I just don't trust the police. Don't go to them, all right? And if they question you, you won't tell them about any of this, will you?"

  I thought of Kevin and those boxers. Frankly, at the moment I never wanted to speak with him again. But if I found myself in over my head, it was nice to know I could go to him. "Not if I don't have to."

  "Promise me."

  Her gaze burned into me. With the pads of my fingers, I wiped the perspiration from my upper lip. "I promise," I said with reluctance.

  "Please be careful."

  "I will."

  "And don't be worrying if you don't find anything. I have a feeling this will all be over soon."

  As I drove away from the farm, a loaf of freshly baked bread and a half dozen ears of corn seat-belted in next to me, I couldn't help wondering what Mrs. Sandowski had meant by her last comment. Did she know something?

  Feeling a little lost, I wondered what I had gotten myself into.

  Scanning the floor as I entered the house, I grabbed the hockey stick from against the wall. Still no sign of Xena, but I wasn't going to walk around unarmed.

  After finally plunging the sink and changing out of sweat-dampened jeans and into a pair of khaki shorts, I sat on the sofa, wondering where to begin my informal investigation. Chanson seemed my best bet. As a congressman and a resident of Vista View, he'd have a good overview of the whole situation.

  I allowed my head to fall back against the cushion. I kept the hockey stick tightly gripped while my thoughts flitted from Xena to Bridget to Kevin to Riley, and to—of all things—my missing hoes.

  The rumble of my stomach drowned out most of my coherent thoughts, so I gave up on trying to figure things out and went in search of lunch. I hadn't eaten all day and was beginning to get a bit dizzy.

  Out the window I could see Mr. Cabrera carrying lumber into his backyard. "So it begins," I murmured under my breath.

  From the fridge, I grabbed a Diet Coke. My stomach continued to yell at me. I was opening the drawer to grab a knife to cut into Mrs. Sandowski's bread when I saw the light blinking on the answering machine. Three messages. I figured they were all from my mother, but I decided to check. The first was from Kevin. No hello, just a tired, "What do you think you're doing?"

  The kitchen echoed with my laughter. The next message, though, erased all my good humor. "This is Robert MacKenna. I'm the vice principal at Freedom High. I need to speak to you about your son, Riley. If you could call me at your earliest convenience I would appreciate it."

  My mouth went dry as he read off the number. I made a quick grab for a pencil and copied it down. Oh, Riley, Riley.

  The third message was a lot of heavy breathing and a hang-up. It shouldn't have bothered me, but it did. It was too coincidental and I didn't believe in coincidences—it's another one of my personal commandments.

  My appetite vanished. I rewrapped the bread. And keeping a tight hold on the hockey stick, I checked the locks on all the doors.

  Six

  As I drove to the high school to meet with Vice Principal MacKenna, I tried to ignore the memory of the hang-up phone call. It was probably just a wrong number.

  Probably.

  Definitely.

  This wasn't merely an example of self-delusion—it really wasn't. I was flat-out lying to myself.

  After I had arranged to meet with Riley's vice principal, I had called Kevin. After dodging his questions regarding the Sandowskis, I told him about the call from the school and mentioned the magazine under Riley's mattress. Kevin hadn't seemed overly concerned, but agreed to meet the vice principal with me.

  Flipping on my blinker, I turned right into the high school's parking lot.

  It must have been between bells because the halls were filled with teens. I spied the office and was walking toward it when someone grabbed my arm.

  Whirling, I came face to face with a very angry Riley. His hand dropped as soon as I turned around.

  "What are you doing here?" he whispered, looking stricken.

  I stepped back. "I have an appointment to see your vice principal."

  "Why?"

  He seemed nervous, continually looking over his left shoulder. Foll
owing his gaze, I saw a group of boys huddled near a row of lockers.

  Troublemakers. Not smash-your-mailbox troublemakers, but the real deal: drugs, stealing cars, shoplifting . . . You could tell by just looking at them. What was Riley doing?

  I tried to control my temper, to not lash out and shake him until he came to his senses. I swayed slightly, a bit dizzy. "I don't know why he called me. Is there something I should know?"

  "No."

  My right eyebrow rose. My eyebrows were, as I liked to say, my built-in bullshit meters. The more crap I heard, the higher they arched.

  "Who are those boys?"

  "Friends of mine."

  "Since when?"

  "Since whenever."

  I stared at him. Blinked. "Those weren't the clothes you had on when you left this morning."

  Gone was the red and green, replaced now with black from head to toe.

  The bell rang.

  "Hey, man, you coming?"

  That from a boy wearing a charming metal-studded black leather coat and spiked dog collar. His lip was pierced and his hair was black with blonde polka dots. Very original. Now I knew where Riley's latest hairstyle had come from.

  Riley caught my gaze and muttered something under his breath I couldn't understand. He swiveled and walked away without answering me. My stomach twisted as he blended in with the group of troublemakers and disappeared down a corridor.

  I let him go.

  A second later, I stepped into the office.

  "I'm Nina Quinn," I said to the secretary, trying to keep the snap out of my voice.

  "Mr. MacKenna is running a bit behind, Mrs. Quinn. If you'll have a seat." She gestured to a bench against the wall.

  "You haven't seen my . . . er, husband yet, have you?" I nearly choked on "husband."

  "Oh, I forgot to tell you that Detective Quinn called and said he couldn't make it."

  I was going to kill him with my bare hands.

  "Did he say why?" I asked, my tone sugary sweet.

  "I'm sorry." She shook her head. "No."

  I slumped into a chair. Heat rose up my throat, dampened my armpits. I silently fumed. At Riley for getting involved with kids who were no good, at Kevin for leaving me to do what was rightfully his dirty work.

  How was I going to handle it all? And for that matter would I even get the chance to try?

  If I was smart, I'd start pulling away from Riley, not become more entwined with him. My heart was already broken from his father leaving. It was going to shatter when he left too.

  But I couldn't distance myself. Riley needed me. More now than ever. And distancing myself seemed so cold because, unfortunately for me, I loved the little bugger. Dammit.

  I knew one thing for sure. I didn't want to meet with the vice principal alone. To the secretary, I said, "I'll be right back." She nodded as I pulled open the door.

  In the hallway, I fished my cell phone from my backpack, punched in familiar numbers.

  Ana answered on the first ring. "Ana Bertoli, underpaid and overworked."

  "Still one of those days?"

  "You need to ask?"

  "Guess not. Hey," my gaze swept down the long hallway, past the trophy case and the standard artwork covering the white cinder-block walls, "do you have a few minutes? I mean, if you don't have the time it's okay, I know you're busy and all, probably on the lookout for those probationers out there running loose, needing your guidance."

  Swaying a bit, I leaned against the wall. The municipal center was just five minutes from here. Knowing the way Ana drove, she could be here in three.

  "What's wrong? You're rambling. I know something's wrong if you're rambling."

  "I need backup. Riley's in some sort of trouble and there's this meeting with his vice principal and Kevin bailed on me."

  "You're there now?"

  "Standing in the hallway looking at some really bad self-portraits."

  "I'll be right there."

  Before I could even say thanks, the phone went dead. Reluctantly, I dragged myself back inside the office.

  "Mrs. Quinn?" The secretary was waiting for me. She gestured to follow her down a carpeted hallway. "Mr. MacKenna's ready for you."

  "Thanks. I'm, uh, expecting someone. Could you point the way when she gets here?"

  "Sure thing," she said over her shoulder as she led me along.

  My legs went spongy as I dutifully followed. Incomplete thoughts swirled. I pressed a hand against the wall to steady myself when a wave of dizziness nearly knocked me down.

  I readjusted my backpack straps on my shoulders and took a deep breath, willing air into my lungs. The door at the end of the hallway stood open. I walked in, feeling the tension of my day rising like tsunami.

  "Mrs. Quinn? I'm Robert MacKenna."

  I heard the door close behind me as the secretary stepped out.

  "It's nice to meet you," I murmured politely. I was lying through my teeth. I didn't want to be here. I knew what he was going to say, and I didn't want to hear it. I didn't want to have to defend myself, my actions.

  "Have a seat." He motioned to a chair opposite him.

  I sat.

  Silence ensued. Was this some form of vice principal torture?

  Finally, I looked up from studying my shoelaces.

  His eyes were a light blue. There wasn't anything too unusual about the color, but what he was able to portray with just a glance was highly extraordinary.

  Sympathy. Empathy. Concern.

  Completely different from Kevin's heated, passionate looks that had made my knees quake when I first met him. But there was something similar to Kevin in this man's gaze. An underlying current ready to zap me from my seat and into his arms. I shifted my gaze to look out the window.

  My imagination was running wild, I reasoned. It was on overload. Robert MacKenna wasn't even my type. He was too all-American for me. I've always been drawn to the bad boys.

  His hair was too blonde and cut too precisely over his ears for my tastes. He wore a suit and tie that looked as though it had been designed—and made—in the sixties, and when he came around the desk to sit in the chair next to mine, I noticed he wore—of all things—cowboy boots!

  I needed some sleep, was all. About a week's worth.

  Pointing to a coffee pot on a small table near the window, he asked, "Coffee?"

  I noticed he wore a wedding band. I didn't know why I noticed—okay, maybe I looked for one. So sue me. But that settled whatever my overactive imagination had planned. He was off-limits. Not that I wanted him. I didn't. I was on the rebound. That's all this, this . . . reaction was about. I was trying to figure out if I was still appealing to the opposite sex. Speaking of sex, the lack of it might also be the cause of my raging hormon—

  My temples began to throb, and I shook my head, clearing my thoughts. I would not go there.

  I tugged at my V-necked collar. It had to be ninety degrees in his office. Didn't anyone have air-conditioning anymore?

  "Coffee?" he said again.

  I bet he was thinking he knew why Riley was so screwed up. Where was Ana when I needed her?

  "No thank you. What's going on?"

  He crossed one leg over the other, pulling his foot up onto his knee. The boots looked like they were made of snakeskin. My eyebrow arched, studying them. I instantly liked them better.

  "Mrs. Quinn," he began.

  That name grated on my nerves. Mrs. Quinn. Detective Quinn's wife. Nina Quinn, Nina Quinn, Nina Quinn. Blech! "Please, call me Nina." My voice rang through my ears.

  "Okay, Nina. I'm very concerned about Riley."

  Oh, he's very concerned about Riley. I wondered what he'd say if I told him about the gun magazine under Riley's mattress. Then I'd like to see how concerned he was.

  "Is that so?"

  My voice had an edge to it I couldn't identify. It sounded . . . snippy. Which caused immediate alarm. I'm never snippy. Perhaps sarcastic or smart-mouthed, but never snippy. My sister Maria was snippy. She could sn
ip about anything. From the smell of strawberries to the shade of platinum on her three-carat engagement ring. Snip, snip, snip.

  "Mrs. Quinn?"

  "Nina," I snapped.

  Snip, snap.

  The room whirled. Spots danced before my eyes.