A Hoe Lot of Trouble

by Heather Webber

  "You have any idea who would want to harm John Demming?" he asked.

  I immediately thought of Chanson but kept quiet. I didn't think Kevin would believe me if I told him my thoughts on the matter.

  "I can't think of anyone," I answered softly. "Can you?"

  "We're looking into it."

  Ana came storming out of the restaurant wearing a look that would scare a convicted felon—and had many times. "What's going on?"

  Reluctantly, Kevin filled her in. His voice echoed in my head as he repeated the story. Even the second time around it sounded unbelievable.

  Ana's lips turned downward into a tight frown. "I think you should go now. She's exhausted. Look at her."

  Kevin's gaze swept over my face. "Needless to say," he said, "don't leave town."

  "Wouldn't dream of it."

  Jaredo opened the driver's side of the cruiser and levered himself in. Kevin reached for the door handle, but stopped, his hand on the metal. "Oh, Nina, one more thing."

  I groaned. "What?"

  "I'll be over later, and I'll want the truth. The whole truth."

  "Do you have to be so dramatic?" Ana snapped, hands on hips.

  "Meaning?" I asked.

  "I don't think you are involved in Demming's murder, but you know more than you're saying."

  "Why would you think that?"

  "Despite what you'd like me to believe, there's no way you'd move out of your Aunt Chi-Chi's house. I want to know the real reason you went back to Demming's house, and it better not be a lie this time."

  Ana and I watched the police car drive away.

  "What have you gotten yourself into?" she said.

  "Damned if I know."

  Twenty-one

  My weak knees brought me to the ground. Leaning my head against the door of my car, I forced myself to stop shaking. Demming. Dead. I just couldn't believe it. All those Ws tumbled through my head. Who, why, when, weird. Good riddance. Okay, "good riddance" didn't start with W, but it was still floating around in there.

  Ana settled herself beside me.

  "Do you think he'll arrest me?"

  Her jaw twitched. "No, no, not at all."

  "You're such a crappy liar."

  Footsteps crunched on the loose gravel of the restaurant's parking lot.

  Ana peered over the trunk. "Bridget and Tim."

  I pushed Ana's head down, out of sight. I assumed Bridget and Tim would learn of Demming's death soon, but I didn't want them to hear it from me. And I certainly didn't want to hear them tell me one more time to stop looking into this mess.

  I frowned.

  It struck me as odd that they wanted me to stop at all. As far as they knew, I hadn't been placed in any danger, so their argument on that score was unfounded. Chanson had given me a bit to work with—not a lot, but some. Not to mention the information Dave Mein had. He was bound to call sometime. If he didn't I'd be forced to track him down and hurt him.

  Tim and Bridget walked in silence toward their Jeep, a foot of space separating them.

  Ana peeped over the car again. "They don't look very lovey-dovey."

  As Tim opened Bridget's door, he said to her, "Do you think she'll stay out of it?"

  "I don't know."

  Anger laced Tim's tone. "Bridget, you brought her into this. Now get her to stop."

  "And how do you expect me to do that?"

  Tim walked around the car, pulled open his door. "Find a way. Or I will."

  "Hmmmph," I said, as his door slammed closed.

  Bridget levered herself into her seat, and as they pulled out of the parking lot I imagined it would be a long ride home.

  "Seems you're getting on Tim's nerves."

  Nothing like pointing out the obvious. "I guess so." I flicked a pebble. "Why do you think that is?"

  She smiled. "You're irritating?"

  "Har-har."

  She stood, letting out a yelp. Her hair had been taken hostage by the Corolla's rust spots. After rubbing her scalp for a moment, she said, "Why do you think?"

  Gravel bits stuck to my rear. I swiped them off. "I don't know." My gaze followed the route Tim and Bridget's car had taken. I had an odd feeling in the pit of my stomach, one I couldn't quite name. Something like cresting a roller coaster's highest hill with a hangover.

  Tim's attitude hit me the wrong way. He should be doing everything possible to learn the truth about what's going on with his family, but instead he was throwing up roadblocks right and left.

  "Nina?"

  "Hmmm?"

  "You have a funny look on your face."

  "Just thinking."

  "Well, stop. You look like you're gonna hurl."

  I nodded. I felt that way too. I couldn't stop thinking about Tim. And how, with his being out of work, money would solve most of his problems. Money he could get if his mom sold her farm.

  Shaking my head, I told myself it just wasn't possible. Not Tim. No way.

  He couldn't have anything to do with this. Demming was behind it.

  Dead Demming.

  Oh.

  That certainly put a twist in my thinking.

  Chanson was the only one left.

  My annoying inner voice whispered Tim's name. Mentally, I whipped out a roll of heavy-duty duct tape to silence it.

  Ana stomped on my toe.

  "Yow!"

  Wagging a finger at me, she said, "You haven't stopped thinking. And if you upchuck on me, you'll be sorry."

  I believed her. And I supposed she was right. I was thinking too much. I needed to get my mind off suspicions I couldn't quite put into words.

  And I knew just how to do it.

  Digging my cell phone out of my backpack, I flipped it open. To Ana, I said, "You up for a little investigating?"

  "What kind? Is this about the hoes?"

  I checked my watch. It was just past seven. Kit and the crew were due to finish the Smythe–Weston job around eight, and as far as I knew, they were on schedule.

  I held up my finger as I made a quick call to Kit, who was

  still at the office. It didn't take long to set my plan in motion. Flipping the phone closed, I said to Ana, "I think we should split up." I told her what I had in mind. "Two birds and all that."

  Her dark eyebrows arched. "Wouldn't that be two birds with two stones?"

  I rolled my eyes. "Semantics. Kit's going to send Marty home now. He'll head back to the office to drop off the truck before heading home. Or I should say that's what he's supposed to do. Jean-Claude's still at the site. They're wrapping up now, so he'll be there another half hour or so. Which do you want?"

  "I'll take Jean-Claude. He lives closer, and really, I want to get to bed sometime tonight."

  I found a receipt at the bottom of my backpack and scribbled down Mrs. Smythe-Weston's address. "Call me immediately if anything comes up."

  Ana hopped in her tiny SUV in search of Jean-Claude. I turned my Corolla toward Taken by Surprise, thoughts of Tim, Demming, and Chanson still hovering foremost in my mind. I hoped tracking Marty would be just the thing to clear my head.

  After a block, that whole distraction thing hadn't kicked in yet. Demming had to have been in on the Sandowski terrorist plot. The presence of the rat poison implicated him, and now his mysterious death. If the poison didn't prove anything, his shooting at me certainly proved he had something to hide.

  Yet he was dead. And that left me with what, exactly? A box of rat poison, Kevin's and Dave Mein's tight lips, and a whole lot of suspicions about a certain politician.

  And Tim's strange behavior.

  Turning up the radio, I tried not to think of anything at all. I was giving myself a headache going back and forth between all the conjectures I had lined up in my mind.

  As I turned onto Jaybird, two floodlights illuminated Marty's trusty early seventies Impala sitting alone in the TBS lot. Parked closer to the garage on the other side of the lot were Deanna's hatchback and Kit's Hummer. There was no sign of Marty yet, or the TBS truck h
e was assigned. I flipped on my blinker and swung into the Mighty Tots lot next door.

  My cell phone chirped, scaring the bejeebers out of me. I fumbled around my backpack until I found it, read the familiar number on the caller ID screen.

  Wearily, I answered.

  "Nina? It's Bridget. I just wanted to apologize. I know Tim came off a little strong tonight."

  "It's okay," I said, keeping an eye out for Marty's truck. "I'm so sorry about dinner."

  "We really need to talk about this more. Do you think we could get together? It's early still, not even eight yet. We're at Tim's mom's, so it wouldn't take any time at all for me to meet you somewhere. And anywhere's fine, but we could meet for ice cream. I've been having a craving for pistachio. Although any kind will do."

  It wasn't like Bridget to ramble, so I knew she had to be really distraught, and I felt for her, but there was no way I could deal with any of the Sandowskis tonight. I needed some space.

  "Sounds great, but I can't. I have to work, paperwork, most of the night."

  "Oh. That's too bad."

  I could hear Tim's voice in the background and had the feeling he was behind this call.

  "Maybe tomorrow?" she said.

  I sighed. "Maybe. Give me a call in the morning—early. Saturday's a busy day for me, but I'll see what I can do." I'd planned to canvass Vista View, see if I could scare up a clue about Chanson tomorrow if I had the chance, but I supposed that could wait.

  "Okay. Well, then. Good night."

  Feeling slightly guilty, I stuffed the phone back into my backpack. Maybe getting together with Bridget would be a good idea. I could test the waters with my suspicions about Tim and see how she took to them.

  I slumped in my seat as a TBS truck neared, then slowed as it turned into the TBS lot, its utility trailer clattering as it bumped over the curb. Marty hopped out, strode up the walkway, and unlocked the office door. Inside, a light turned on.

  Using tactics I'd once seen on an Army Special Ops documentary, I crept through the Mighty Tots parking lot, making use of several large Bradford pear trees to hide behind as I made my way closer to the TBS office. My pumps snagged a clump of crab grass and I went flying, face first, air whooshing from my lungs.

  Breathing hurt, so I took small gulps of air as I pulled myself up, sat on the damp grass. No real harm done, except getting the wind knocked out of me—and my ego. Since no one was around to see my little tumble I'd just keep this incident to myself.

  I tugged off my heels, flinging them as far as I could. Good riddance. Wishing I'd worn pants, I crawled across the grass, hiding behind a large electrical transformer.

  After a few minutes, Marty came out of the office and paused to lock the door behind him.

  Instead of driving the TBS truck into the garage as he was supposed to do, he worked quickly to unhitch the trailer.

  Confusion rippled through me. He was supposed to unhitch the trailer in the garage. What was he doing?

  Dread built in my stomach as he unlocked the trunk of

  his Impala. I felt downright nauseated as he unloaded tools from his TBS truck and put them into the trunk of his car.

  I watched in complete sadness as he put a scythe into his trunk and two metal rakes into the trailer. The trailer he obviously intended on taking with him. I just didn't understand it. He was entering his second year of college, fighting the statistics. Why screw it all up now?

  The utility trailer was already almost full, filled with rakes, shovels, and a rototiller, but Marty made several trips to and from the garage, adding more equipment to his spoils.

  I needed to put a stop to this. Now.

  When he took the path that wound around the office, heading toward the storage barn, I scampered over to his car for a better look. Just to be sure.

  Unfortunately, along with the tools I'd just seen him put in, some of the missing equipment was in his trunk too. And his bumper looked like it had just recently been fitted with a trailer hitch.

  "Oh, Marty."

  What would I say to him? How would he react? That thought gave me pause. Did I really want to confront him out here? Alone? He didn't strike me as the violent type, but then again, with his wholesome good looks, he didn't look like a rake robber, either.

  I heard the cracking of wheels and panicked as Marty came around the corner pushing a spreader. I looked around, but there was no place to hide.

  My gaze darted back to the pear trees. A good fifty yards. Panicked, I couldn't move, didn't even think to run until it was too late. The rhythmic sounds of the spreader came closer. Having no other choice, I eyed the trunk. It'd be a tight fit. But desperate times and all that.

  I climbed in, cursing as my dress caught on a pair of snip pers, and tore. I scrambled into the dark shadows in the far reaches of the cavernous trunk, out of the fading sunlight.

  Trying to keep as still as possible, I listened as Marty wrestled the spreader onto the trailer. A few dozen curse words later, he apparently got the job done. He slammed the trailer gate closed.

  I jumped at the sound, banging my head. I borrowed some of Marty's colorful adjectives. Hope he didn't mind.

  Marty's trunk stank of loam and oil. I've smelled better, but I could think of worse, so I counted my blessings.

  The roar of Marty's Taken by Surprise truck startled me, and I banged my head yet again. Sheesh, you'd think I was on edge or something. But I also recognized that this might be my only chance to make a run for it. It would take him a few minutes to park the truck in the garage on the other side of the lot.

  Carefully, I tried to find some leverage. Just as I leaned forward, I realized that Marty was backing the truck into the garage. I was in plain view. I ducked backward, my dress ripping yet again.

  Breathing hard, I struggled to think of what to do. How did I get myself into these things?

  A few quick moments later, Marty's footsteps neared. Whistling filled the silent night. Hmmph. Glad he was so chipper, the pickax pilferer. Without warning, he slammed the trunk closed.

  Blackness engulfed me.

  The teeth of a hand cultivator bit into my bare leg as I wiggled, and I held back a yelp as the engine turned and caught.

  Faint sounds of Barry Manilow floated in from the back seat. Barry Manilow?! Marty just didn't fit the thief bill. Nothing about his stealing from me made any sense whatsoever.

  I fought back rising panic as Marty hitched his car to the trailer and drove off.

  After a few stops and starts, we spent a lot of time at a high rate of speed. I passed the time by lip-synching to the music. We'd gone through "Mandy," "Weekend in New England," "Copacabana" (twice), and "Could This Be Magic" before the car slowed.

  Marty lived in downtown Cincinnati, so I assumed that's where we were headed, though I'd made a lot of assumptions lately that had turned out like crap.

  The car slowed to a stop and started again a moment later. Stop sign? Red light?

  An interminable amount of time later, the car rolled to a halt. A door creaked opened, and the car rocked as it was slammed closed.

  I held my breath as I waited.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  What had possessed me to get into this trunk? This was precisely why I should mind my own business and let the police handle criminal matters. When faced with two choices, I always picked the wrong one.

  If I'd just confronted Marty in the TBS parking lot—and not been chick-chick-chicken—I'd probably be safe at home right now, and not cuddling with a flat-nose shovel.

  What if Marty didn't open the trunk tonight? What then? Why hadn't I thought of that? I patted my pockets, hoping I had my cell, but I didn't.

  Of course.

  I pushed on the back seat but it wouldn't budge.

  I wasn't claustrophobic by nature, but without Barry's soothing voice, I felt those first stirrings of anxiety.

  An image of a coffin jumped into my thoughts. My breaths came fast and shallow.

  The a
ir evaporated.

  Could I die in here? Was there enough oxygen to sustain a hysterical woman?

  I needed to get out. Now.

  I kicked. I screamed. I clawed.

  Using the flat nosed shovel, I banged on the trunk.

  A second later, it popped open. An overhead streetlight illuminated several sets of heads as they peered in at me, but I recognized only one.