A Hoe Lot of Trouble

by Heather Webber

  I'd seen that stance before. "Not another hoe!"

  She tipped her head. "No. Not precisely."

  "Then what?"

  "I just took the trash out . . ."

  Not surprising, since Tam seemed to empty the trash barrels at fifteen-minute intervals. "And?"

  "That missing wheelbarrow?"

  "Yeah?"

  "It's leaning next to the Dumpster out back."

  I came out of my seat. "Are we sure it hasn't been there all along?"

  "Nina, it wasn't there fifteen minutes ago."

  I pulled into a parking spot in the visitor lot of Station 6, the oldest firehouse in the county.

  An early heat wave had my clothes sticking to me, my hair in humidity hell, and my mood sinking fast. It was May—where was spring?

  I crossed the lot, thinking about that damn wheelbarrow. Upon closer checking, Tam and I also found one of the missing hoes and a shovel behind the Dumpster too.

  Who steals things just to return them two days later? A thief with a conscience? Or maybe—and this was much more plausible—my thief simply didn't want to risk jail time if caught with the items. Whoever took the tools had to have known their disappearance would be noted, and that I'd come looking.

  I shook my head, determined not to think about it for the time being.

  A stream of soapy water licked at my Keds. The tall muscular firefighter washing down the firehouse's driveway turned off the hose's nozzle as I approached. His eyes traipsed over me, head to toe and back again.

  "Is Dave in?"

  "Kitchen duty," he said, apparently finding nothing about me to sustain his interest as he hooked a thumb toward the stairs just inside the engine bay.

  A girl's ego could seriously get wounded.

  The metal stairs leading up to the second floor creaked under my weight. The air smelled heavily of ash and gasoline— not entirely unpleasant. I looked around at the staff hurrying about—fixing this, cleaning that.

  I pushed open the door at the top of the steps. Airconditioning slapped me in my face. Ahhh. I peeked at the large rec room. No one was around. Pots clattered behind slatted swinging doors. I pushed on one and it opened into a large informal eat-in area, the remnants of a late lunch— or early dinner—still out on the countertop.

  I smiled. "I never thought I'd see the day. Dave Mein doing dishes."

  He turned, a look of surprise taking over his face as recognition hit. "Nina Bo-bina!"

  I groaned. "Please. Not the Bo-bina."

  He swiped soapy hands down his dark blue T-shirt. I accepted his bear hug, losing my breath as he swung me around.

  "How the hell are you? How's Peter?"

  Dave had been my brother Peter's best friend since Pee Wee football. Their high-school years had been spent tormenting my sister Maria and me. And then they went off to college and became respectable.

  "Great. He just bought a partnership at an established pediatrician's office."

  "Good for him. He never answers my e-mails."

  "Mine either."

  "A girl?"

  "Undoubtedly more than one."

  His gaze hiked over me, though not in a make-me-squirm kind of way. "Still the same. What's it been? Ten years?"

  "I saw you at the Easter parade not a month ago."

  "Everyone saw me. I was riding the truck."

  "You waved to me."

  "Hell." He laughed. "I waved to everyone. How's Kevin these days?"

  "Quite well, I'm sure."

  "Shit. That doesn't sound good."

  "Let's not talk about it."

  "You look hungry. You hungry?"

  The smell of barbecued hot dogs tempted me. "I could eat."

  He gathered up a plate, some potato salad, an almost charred hot dog, and handed it to me. I dug in.

  A metal folding chair scraped against the floor as he pulled it out for me. I sat, the metal cool on the backs of my thighs.

  "What brings you here?" he said, sitting next to me. "I assume you came to see me, but I have a feeling it isn't to catch up on old times."

  I looked around the kitchen, stalling. I hated being here, asking old friends favors. I put my fork down. "I'm here about Joe Sandowski."

  He dragged a hand over his angular face. "Why?"

  "Do you know who drove the run to his house the day he died?"

  He let out a deep and ragged sigh. "Why, Nina? What does any of that have to do with you?"

  No longer hungry, I pushed my plate away. Luckily, I'd done some serious damage to that hot dog before this conversation turned my stomach. "I'm a family friend trying to get all the facts."

  "Nina, you know I'd do anything for you . . ."

  "But you're not talking."

  "I can't."

  "Says who?"

  His dark lashes fluttered closed. "Shit."

  "You did the run, didn't you?" When he didn't answer, I pressed. "Were you told you'd be making a run to the farm that day?"

  He slapped his hands on the table, the veins bulging. "What? No!"

  "Then why can't you talk to me? Why the secrecy?"

  "You need to stay out of it, Nina."

  "When have you ever known me to back away from a challenge, Dave? I'll get the information one way or another."

  He shook his head.

  "So, you're not going to help?" I batted my eyelashes all innocent-like. "It's just me, little Nina Bo-bina."

  He winced. "That's low."

  "I know."

  He looked around the kitchen. In a whisper he said, "Give me your number. I'll call when I get a minute." His chair squeaked as he rose.

  My thighs made suction noises as I stood. I pushed a Taken by Surprise card into his hand with my home number on the back.

  "I called you once, y'know," he said, glancing at my card. "To surprise Mish. But you've moved up in the world. I couldn't afford you."

  I smiled. "Call again. Have Tam put you right through to me. We'll work something out."

  Grinning, he looked about twelve. "Hey, remember when Peter and I put snakes in yours and Maria's beds? Wasn't that fun?"

  "Heaven on earth, Dave."

  I walked out of the station, ready to head home to a hot bath and a good book. I knew I still had to talk to Riley, but it could wait until after I soaked some of this day away.

  I'd just slid behind the wheel when my cell phone chirped. " 'Lo?"

  "Nina, it's Kit."

  The engine turned over on the second try. I pulled out of the lot, turned toward home. "Job go well?"

  "We've got a problem, Nina. I need you to come back to the Krauss house."

  I heard a long string of angry German in the background.

  "Now, Nina," he said in a voice I'd never heard before. He actually sounded scared.

  Cursing, I banged a U-ey.

  "I never did like you," Mrs. Krauss said to me. "Now look what you've done to my yard." She clucked like a big hen. A big, fat brick-shaped hen.

  I clenched my teeth and was an inch away from telling her exactly how I felt about her, but Kit's restraining hand on my arm stopped me.

  Claudia's tear-filled eyes shimmered in the sunlight. "Don't be mad at Nina, Mamma. This was my idea. I thought you'd like it."

  "What on earth would give you that idea?"

  Claudia blinked. "You did."

  "I would never!"

  I took a step back, out of the way of a wayward punch should one be thrown.

  "The way you go on and on and on—"

  Mrs. Krauss's head snapped to look at her daughter, one thick eyebrow raised up, nearly touching her spiked white hair.

  "I mean," Claudia cleared her throat, "the way you reminisce about the old gardens . . ."

  As they battled on, I looked around. The garden really had turned out beautifully.

  My design arched out from the back porch, the arbor standing proud at the top of the curve. Deanna had planted clematis at its base. By the end of summer, the arbor would be covered in big, beautiful blu
ish-purple blooms.

  A rounded bench was nestled in tall ornamental grass, overlooking the new goldfish pond filled with oxygenating grasses and water lily leaves.

  The tri-level border of the curve had a pink theme. The tall, daisylike pink blooms of American Dream stood proud in the background, the medium height of Bath's Pink filled the middle, and dusky pink begonias looked stunning against the dark mulch.

  The sound of trickling water from the pond seemed to echo as the Krausses paused for breath.

  I wished I'd thought to borrow one of Kevin's Kevlar vests as I said, "Mrs. Krauss, maybe you just need some time to adjust to the chan—"

  "Ich bin krank!"

  I didn't even want to know.

  "Oh, Mamma!" Claudia cried.

  "I want it out! All of it!"

  "Mamma!"

  I wanted out too. Peeking over my shoulder, I saw that Kit was already beating a hasty retreat. Coward.

  I swallowed. Hard. "I'm sure you don't, Mrs. Krauss. Claudia spent a lot of time, effort, and expense to make this yard special for you."

  "I thought you wanted a garden, Mamma."

  She clucked again. I could sense her softening. If a slight drooping of her rigid shoulders was softening.

  "I don't know how to care for this, Claudia. Not one bit." With a hitch in her voice, she added, "Your father took care of such things."

  For crying out loud! The last person I wanted to feel sorry for was Brickhouse Krauss. But that catch in her voice hit a little too close to home these days.

  Damn it all!

  Glancing over at Claudia, I remembered her telling me how lonely her mother had been. My jaw dropped as a thought came to me.

  "Maybe I can help," I said.

  "The last person I need help from is you."

  "Mamma! Don't be so rude!"

  I pushed on, even though my every instinct was to dunk Mrs. Krauss's head into the pond. "The help isn't from me, really."

  She brightened. "Oh?"

  "I have this neighbor, a very sweet man who likes to feel needed since he retired. He's excellent with flowers and such, and could teach you everything you would need to know."

  "A retired gentleman, you say?" Her thick eyebrows arched up.

  I nodded. I almost—almost—felt bad for siccing Mrs. Krauss on Mr. Cabrera, but anything that would delay his spy shelter and help heal his broken heart had to be a good thing.

  "Shall I have him call you?"

  "How tall is he?"

  "Oh, five nine or so."

  "Hair?"

  "Full head of shocking white."

  She clucked. "Yes, you give him my address. Have him come by around eleven tomorrow. I will fix a nice brunch."

  "I'll see what I can do."

  "It's the least you can do after what you've done here."

  "Mamma . . ."

  I backtracked out of the yard. Yeah, so I forgot to mention to Mrs. Krauss that women friends of Mr. Cabrera's tended to, uh, expire.

  I was willing to take that risk.

  All in the name of Mr. Cabrera's happiness, of course.

  Eight

  I woke the next morning determined to actually make progress on Farmer Joe's murder. How, I had no idea.

  Keeping my eyes peeled for Xena, I did some light housecleaning and ushered a reluctant, surly Riley off to school at seven, making sure he stepped onto the bus this time. He had been late getting home from his job bagging groceries at Kroger the night before, and I'd barely had time to say hello before he disappeared into his room. So much for the grand inquisition I had planned.

  After leaving Mrs. Krauss's yesterday, I'd called Congressman Chanson's office pretending I was interested in making a donation to his campaign. I had an appointment with him at nine. Amazing how money talked.

  Mrs. Sandowski's voice tumbled through my head. Easy on the eyes, if you know what I mean. I'd never met Chanson personally, but felt as though I knew him from all his face time on TV. He was easy on the eyes—in a Lawrence Welk sort of way, not a Brad Pitt kind of way. Thank God. I could only handle so much active testosterone. I was still humiliated over the way I had ogled Vice Principal MacKenna in his office the day before.

  I popped over to Mr. Cabrera's and, er, persuaded him (okay, so I used a little blackmail) to help Mrs. Krauss with her garden. I had just enough time left over to answer a few e-mails at work before heading over to meet with the congressman.

  The telephone book listed Chanson's headquarters in a mini-mall near Vista View. I was early so I decided to take a spin through the subdivision and see if I could scare up a clue as to who was behind the shenanigans at Sandowski's Farm.

  Construction on a gatehouse had begun, the first few bricks having been laid. Confidence that Mrs. Sandowski would soon be evacuating her farm?

  I drove through the maze of side streets, stopping occasionally to check in on the jobs I had done. These yards had been a particular challenge, not just because of the high quality the homeowners expected, but because the houses were packed together like sardines. Not a lot of elbow room.

  The houses stood two and three stories high. Elaborate masonry played a key role in the style of most of the homes. Every now and again, a house veered from the popular colonial style: a Spanish villa on one corner, a Mediterraneanstyle beach house on another.

  I drove out of the subdivision shaking my head. I just didn't see the appeal. But then again, I'd always been a little slow on the uptake.

  Finding a parking spot in the mini-mall wasn't too difficult. I parked in front of Domino's and walked two storefronts down, to where a large sign proclaimed congressman chanson hq in bold letters.

  Not one for modesty, was he?

  I straightened the skirt of my all-purpose dress and smoothed my hair. I hoped I passed for an extremely wealthy woman who had oodles of money to throw around at will.

  I donned an air of confidence and strode into the office. Workers had gathered at a table nearby stuffing envelopes. The receptionist looked up at me, a phony smile plastered on her face.

  I smiled brightly, talked through my nose. "I'm here to see Congressman Chanson. He's expecting me." My voice sounded as though I had gone to a prep school on the East Coast instead of St. Valentine's Parochial School.

  "Ms. Quinn?"

  "Yes."

  "The congressman is awaiting you."

  Awaiting me? It sounded so quaint, I almost wished I had a few hundred thou to bandy about.

  She led me into a small office in the back, where another receptionist, a buxom blond with mile-high legs, sat behind a slab of marble designed as a desk.

  I hated her instantly.

  And I hated that I was so callous and judgmental, so I tried, really tried, to find something to like about her. I studied her bloodred fingernails, her full lips, her perfectly plucked eyebrows, her made-for-earrings earlobes. Nothing. I couldn't find a damn thing.

  "Please have a seat, Ms. Quinn."

  Her voice was a high-pitched nasal whine. That I liked! Made her somewhat human.

  I sat in a nearby chair and crossed my legs. I figured people with scads of money wouldn't lower themselves to flip through the array of magazines on the glass coffee table before me, so I eyed them with disinterest and studied my fingernails. They were chipped and cracked and not at all the nails a high-society woman would have. Folding my fingers into a fist, I shoved them under my thighs.

  Ten minutes went by, then twenty. I started to fidget. My pantyhose itched. I hated pantyhose. The last time I had worn pantyhose was my wedding. I was a more natural type of girl. What you saw was what you got, except in this case, where I was trying to be someone I wasn't. Using my toe of my low-heeled pump, I surreptitiously scratched the back of my calf.

  Big-busted, blonde, and beautiful looked up.

  I froze in mid-scratch and pretended to find interest in a Thomas Kinkade painting on the wall.

  Blowing out a breath, I looked at my watch. Could Congressman Chanson afford to keep big
spenders waiting? Or was that his ploy? Keep them waiting and maybe they'll think he doesn't need them . . . Then the investor would woo him, wanting to become one of an inner circle.