Romancing the Gravestone

by Gena Showalter

  A shudder racked her at the mere thought. Family legend stated “a seed was sown in another’s field, and now the Ladling women must reap the harvest.” In other words, a Ladling ancestor had seduced another woman’s husband, ensuring the Ladling women were forever fated to lose their loves.

  The claim had proven itself true in every generation. Ladling sons married and thrived while the females died alone. Jane’s mother was dumped by her father right before Jane’s birth. Though Grandma Lily wasn’t a Ladling by blood, she’d lost her husband far too soon; a heart attack took out Pops in a matter of hours. Her great-grandmother had lost her husband a year after the wedding.

  Jane wanted to refute the curse, but how could she? No Ladling woman in recorded history had kept a partner. Not even the duds had stuck around.

  Her senior year of high school, Jane certainly hadn’t kept a guy. She’d thought she’d fallen head over heels for Clint Lennox, son of the best baker in town. He’d spent a solid year romancing her, only to ghost her a month after graduation. Then had come Christopher, a hotshot fireman who’d dumped her after two months. Apparently, the curse had kicked into hyperdrive for Jane, who seemed to have a thing for men with C names.

  “Ma’am?”

  The gruff voice snapped her out of her head. Dead body. Crime. Focus. She leveled her attention at the man near the SUV. The one who’d spoken. He had salt-and-pepper hair, tanned, weathered skin and a rotund stomach. He dressed more casually than his partner, pairing a blue-collared shirt with khakis.

  “I’m Jane Ladling.” She held out her hand, and they shook. “I’m the owner and operator of Garden of Memories, where your loved ones rest in beauty as well as peace.” She winced. The company motto? Really? “Sorry. Habit.”

  “No worries. I’m Special Agent Tim Barrow.” His neutral expression gave nothing away. “We’re told you found a body.”

  “Yes. That’s me. I’m the finder.”

  Porch babe jogged down the steps. His long stride ate up the space, and her breath hitched. Sorry, Henry. There’s a new man in my life.

  Forget this dude’s amazing good looks, though. The moment he stepped within sniffing distance, she noticed the most incredible scent. Dry cedar and refined spice.

  And he smells good, too? How was that even fair to the females of the world? Already she craved a fresh hit each day forever and probably for weeks after.

  No wonder he was the one selected to bang on her door. Who wouldn’t tell this man their deepest, darkest secrets?

  “Ma’am.” He held out his hand, the sleeve of his jacket lifting, revealing a close-up of his watch—a Rolex—and the hint of a tattoo. How…delicious. Though she tried, she couldn’t identify the image.

  Wait. Did he call her ma’am too? “I’m Jane Ladling.” She trembled as her fingers met his. Skin to skin. The heat! The roughness of his palm roused goose bumps. “This is my place.” She covered her uncharacteristic reaction to him by (expertly) faking a cough. The burn in her cheeks meant nothing. Everyone knew sunburns could come and go. “The cat is Rolex, in case you were wondering. He is the employee of the month.” Again.

  “Rolex?” he asked, briefly tracing his fingers over his watch.

  “Because he’s the world’s best watch cat. And don’t bother trying to win him over. He’s never going to like you. Not that you want to develop a relationship with my cat.” Moving on. “You want to see the dead body, I’m sure. I mean, I’m guessing he’s dead. I didn’t check for a pulse.” Was she rambling? It felt as if she rambled.

  “I’m Special Agent Ryan. I’d like to ask you a few questions first.” His voice was as wonderfully rough as his features, but also as smooth as molasses. The contradiction was kind of maddening.

  “So, um, nice to meet you. I mean, not nice, since someone died and all. But, um, yes. Also nice. Because you’re a great person. Or I’m guessing you’re great. I don’t really know you. You might kick puppies in your spare time.” Shutting up now.

  Special Agent Ryan canted his head to the side, as if he’d just deepened his study of her. Had he? Those glasses hid everything except his intensity. Tim Barrow had been deadpan, but this guy took it to a whole new level. Not a single twitch gave away his emotions. “You’re the woman who found the victim?”

  “Yes. That’s me. I was making my morning rounds, planning my chores for the day, when I came across a disturbed plot.” She waved to the cobblestone path. “Sheriff Moore is there now. Why don’t I answer your questions along the way?”

  Jane executed a sharp turn, if only for a reprieve. She marched off, expecting the men to follow. Which they did. Special Agent Barrow remained a few feet behind, but Special Agent Ryan’s long stride kept him a little too close for comfort. He was so tall he towered over her. She’d never felt so tiny. Or flustered. Maybe she should have worn heels instead of flats?

  As they walked along the grounds, he questioned her about the cemetery and her role here. Unlike most people who learned her occupation, he didn’t shrink back as if she had just crawled from one of the graves.

  “When we’re done at the site,” Special Agent Ryan said, “I’d like a copy of your security feed.”

  Oh, um… “Yes. About that. I absolutely, one hundred percent, will give you all the security feed I have. Which are my handwritten notes. A to-do list, really. I wrote it as I made my rounds.”

  He shot her an incredulous look, as if she’d just admitted to robbing three banks and eating the cash. “You live alone in a cemetery and you have no cameras?”

  “In my defense, it’s a small town. I really only deal with trespassers in October, so there’s not a reason to pay for…” She trailed off, stutter-stepping as he pivoted in front of her and removed his sunglasses.

  Whiskey. His eyes were the color of her Pops’s favorite whiskey and a thousand times more intoxicating. Jane gulped.

  He stared down at her, hard, before offering her a slow, lazy smile that didn’t reach any of his other features. She expected a stern talking to about her lack of safety. Instead, he nodded. “Thank you for the escort. I need to examine the site without you, however. Please return to the house with Special Agent Barrow.” Sliding his sunglasses back into place, he walked away.

  The other agent moved to her side, nodding as he did so. “Ma’am,” he said with a chilly undertone.

  Chilly? But why? The agents didn’t think she was guilty, did they? She owned the cemetery for goodness sakes; to hide a body, she had only to fill the hole. No one would have known. Not that she’d ever planned a murder or anything. Although, if she were honest, she would admit she’d had a passing thought here and there. But only out of curiosity.

  Anyway. What if the agents believed she was twisted enough to kill someone? No, surely not. What reason did she have? Other than playing cat and mouse games with the authorities. Or stroking her own ego by inserting herself into the investigation. Or boredom. Or ridding herself of an enemy. Good gracious! The reasons were unending.

  She gulped with more force and watched Special Agent Ryan. As he spoke with Sheriff Moore, he kept Jane in profile, as if he expected her to strike again.

  Oh yes. He and his partner suspected she was twisted enough to do the deed and phone it in, no doubt about it.

  Chapter Two

  Lucy Edgefield

  Here Lies the Best Gold Digger

  Plot 9, Garden of Memories

  Hours passed, each one more excruciating than the last. Special Agent Ryan remained at the crime scene while Special Agent Barrow kept Jane within sight. They sat on the porch together. She occupied the swing, sipping sweet tea, pretending to be at ease while he guzzled coffee in Fiona’s rocker and grilled her with questions. He wanted to know everything. Her routine. Her relationships. Her morning—and night—activities. And he wrote her every word inside a notepad, ready to use it all against her at a later date.

  Not that it would do him any good. There was nothing incriminating about The Cemetery Girl. Her nightlife comprise
d of snuggles with Rolex and rereading her favorite romance novels about military men with secrets and warriors with centuries-old grudges. Sometimes she tried on the hats she’d bought at a resale shop or crafters on Etsy. At other times, she worked on her latest knitting project with Fiona.

  Eventually, a sedan with new agents arrived. A ginormous truck pulled up only minutes later, the words Georgia Bureau of Homicide decorating its sides. Three other agents exited. A white coroner’s van entered the property soon after that.

  Her beautiful grass! Jane swallowed whimper after whimper, dining on a full seven courses of air. People with bulky equipment trekked everywhere. Booted feet trampled everything.

  Why hadn’t she set up shop in the main office, at the front of the property?

  Someone died, Jane. Whatever damage her little paradise on Earth sustained could be fixed. But oh, she longed to be out there, directing traffic. No one knew the layout of the land better.

  None of the new arrivals ventured to the house to ask questions, at least. Special Agent Barrow gathered the stack of maps Jane had given him, excused himself and strode off to confer with the newcomers. She’d have to remember to order more maps from the printer, a stretch to her already-stretched budget.

  When the last agent wandered off, Special Agent Barrow remained in the driveway, pacing. Were more agents due to arrive?

  Trepidation prickled the back of her neck. Time for a distraction. “Would you like more coffee?” she called.

  “No, thank you.” He paced at a faster clip.

  Her ears twitched as tires crunched over gravel. Yep. Another arrival. She shaded her eyes and peered down the drive. A bright-red convertible. Fiona!

  Special Agent Barrow stiffened, and Jane rushed to stand at the railing.

  The (almost) old woman parked beside Jane’s vehicle, which just happened to be a hearse. First of all, the car had come with the business. Second, Pops had been a mechanic at heart, and he’d rebuilt the engine himself, ensuring she couldn’t bear to part with the thing. Ever. Third, it was a Cadillac. The best vehicle ever made, according to Grandma Lily and Fiona.

  Fiona eased out, gaping at the fleet of vehicles before marching up the porch steps. The world’s most amazing woman was petite and curvy, with a short cap of black curls and dark skin. The only lines she bore were those she’d earned with love and laughter.

  “Jane Ladling, you tell me what’s going on right this second. Then you tell me why I didn’t receive a call right when this mess started? Whatever this mess is. Are you all right? Are you hurt? Or in trouble?”

  “I’m fine, I promise.” The trouble, though…

  “Ma’am,” Special Agent Barrow said in greeting, even while extending his arm to warn Fiona away. “This isn’t a good time to visit. Come back later this evening.”

  “She’s with me,” Jane told him, ready to fly down there and handle this if necessary. “She’s my family.”

  Special Agent Barrow hesitated before offering a clipped nod.

  Fiona humphed as she passed him.

  “Have a seat.” Fighting a grin, Jane kissed her friend on the cheek. “I’ll get you a glass of tea and tell you everything that’s happened.”

  “Yes, you most certainly will tell me everything.” A chiding tone couldn’t mask her friend’s continued concern. “You should have alerted me right away about the trouble you’re having.”

  “Next time I will, promise.” Next time? Jane winced as she rushed inside to the kitchen. The air conditioner was set ten degrees higher than her friend’s age—an incomparable 72—yet her damp, overheated body reacted as if she’d entered an arctic blast, shivering uncontrollably. As fast as possible, she selected Fiona’s favorite twelve-ounce glass from the cupboard, poured peach schnapps to the half-way point and added two splashes of sweet tea. Her friend’s special mix.

  Rolex had taken a break from guard duty and now slept on the table, curled in the centerpiece—an empty bowl. The excitement of the day had exhausted him.

  When she returned to the porch, a sizzling breeze enveloped her, making her miss the cold. Fiona already perched in her rocker. Jane reclaimed her spot on the swing, to the left of her friend.

  Today, Fiona wore her typical attire: a colorful blouse, loose slacks, and a chunky necklace. “Tell me everything, hon. Leave nothing out.”

  The endearment made her chest clench every time. The same endearment Grandma Lily had used.

  A consummate gossip—sorry, information gatherer—the retired school teacher liked to say, “If you don’t know what you’re doing, someone else will.”

  Jane explained the circumstances, withholding only two minor details that had no bearing on the situation whatsoever. Special Agent Ryan’s appearance and her reaction to him hardly mattered at all, really.

  Her friend’s eyes widened. “The dead man is blond, you say? Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit. I’m solving the murder even as we speak. This morning, Tiffany Hotchkins, Dr. Hotchkins’s wife—do you know her? She’s about your age, I think. Twenty-six. Maybe twenty-seven. Anyway, she posted on the Headliner, asking if anyone had seen or heard from her husband.”

  The AH Headliner, also known as “the Headliner” and “the Head’s Up.” An app used by town members to share recipes and exchange theories about everything going on in everyone’s life. Marriages. Divorces. Social events. Scandals. Issue guesses about the secret ingredient in a certain someone’s famous blueberry pancakes. And okay, yes, maybe Jane was the only one who’d ever posted about that last one. So what? The most popular section was known as Panning for Dates.

  “If that’s not enough to wet your whistle,” Fiona continued, “Sandy Whitaker also posted. She had an appointment with Dr. Garcia bright and early this morning. You see him too, don’t you? She said the office was packed to the brim, with poor Dr. Garcia sprinting from room to room, covering both his and Dr. Hotchkins’s patients.”

  Dr. Hotchkins. Also known as Dr. Hots. Some of his patients sometimes invented various ailments to see him. Jane flipped through mental files and found his photo. Late forties. A little over six feet tall. Lean. A full cap of blond hair. He and Dr. Garcia ran the local clinic.

  Jane’s thoughts whirled. Marcus Hotchkins certainly fit the victim’s description, now that she thought about it. Well, what she’d seen of his back fit, anyway. She’d never really interacted with the man personally. He’d only moved to town a few years ago. Once or twice she’d caught sight of him and his mop of blond waves when she’d visited Dr. Garcia. She’d also attended high school with his wife. They’d run with different crowds, though. Tiffany came from one of the town’s wealthiest families. She’d been head cheerleader, beloved by all, while Jane had been president of the book club and ignored by most.

  “I’ve never liked Dr. Hotchkins,” Fiona continued. Her expression shifted, as if she’d just smelled something rotten. “I’ve caught him eyeing my tush on more than one occasion, thank you very much!”

  “Doesn’t every man check out your tush?”

  “You aren’t wrong, hon.” Fiona fluffed her hair. “But the doctor… He’s got himself a roving eye. I bet he dabbled with someone he shouldn’t and a jealous husband or boyfriend decided to whack him.”

  The theory intrigued Jane, her curiosity fully engaged. Why had someone killed a well-respected doctor? If the dead man was, in fact, Dr. Hotchkins. What little she knew about him came from gossip, and no one agreed. A nice man. But also a not nice man. Charming and also off-putting. She remembered there’d been a big to do after he’d married Tiffany and moved into her ancestral estate. A mansion atop the hill that overlooked the entire city.

  She darted her gaze to Special Agent Barrow, who still paced in the driveway. Leaning closer, she whispered, “Should we tell the agents about our suspicion?”

  Fiona wiggled her nose, as if to say, Those amateurs? “We know more than they do. They’ll only add our names to the suspect list. No, thank you.”

  Too late. “I
think I top the list already.”

  “You what?” Fiona gasped out. “Oh no, no, no. No! That is unacceptable. We’re gonna prove your innocence to those fools.”

  Excitement bloomed and grew. Yes! She could absolutely prove her innocence. Which should be easy, considering she was, in fact, innocent. “I know just where to start. Excuse me a moment.” Bordering on giddy, she rushed inside the house to unearth the kind of notepad Sheriff Moore and the agents carried. Jane could keep track of her investigation, too. Better safe than sorry.

  She returned to the swing beside Fiona to write down her thoughts and findings.

  “Well?” Fiona prompted, exasperated. “Where do we start?”

  “With a notebook.” She waved the pad in the woman’s direction. “Where else? I’m calling this one Truth Be Told.”

  “Oh, good grief. They say we shouldn’t despise small beginnings, but girl, this might be the smallest beginning of all.” Her friend shifted, ice cubes clinking in her glass. “Just out of curiosity and no other reason, did Sheriff Moore happen to ask about me when he arrived? No, don’t tell me. I’m not ready to know. Not about him. Although it probably wouldn’t hurt to check in on him at the murder site. No, never mind. I don’t go to men; men come to me. Besides, I’d rather hear about you and why you didn’t call me the second you stumbled upon trouble.”

  Jane fought a grin. “I was waiting until I had more information. I knew you’d have questions, and I wanted to be able to answer as many as possible.”

  Fiona sipped her tea. “Not a terrible excuse, I suppose. But not a great one, either.”

  As a grin began to spread, from the corner of her eye, Jane noticed the approach of Special Agent Ryan.

  Her breath caught, and she sat up straighter. Her heart thumped double time. Triple time! At some point during his examination of the scene, he’d rolled up his shirtsleeves to reveal powerful forearms covered with tattoos and smears of dirt. He’d removed his watch and his sunglasses, his expression as hard as granite. Uh-oh. Her stomach twisted, and her pulse leaped. What did this mean?