Romancing the Gravestone

by Gena Showalter

  Had there been trouble in paradise? Fiona called earlier this morning to mention some rumors.

  A deep breath fortified Jane’s courage. After swinging her purse over her shoulder, she grabbed the still-warm casserole dish and exited the hearse. A soft wind scented with hyacinths and azaleas rippled over the pretty black-and-white dress she’d found at Très Chic Consignment for a steal.

  The home intimidated her more than the cars. Three stories of wealth and elegance.

  On the wraparound porch, Jane checked to make sure she’d remembered her notebook. Excellent. She forced the corners of her mouth to lift. A comforting smile, probably. The one usually reserved for those who visited the Garden of Memories. She rang the bell.

  To her surprise, Tiffany herself answered the door. Red-rimmed green eyes looked Jane over. The widow’s tanned skin was now blotchy from tears, but not one strand of her dark bob dared move out of place. A skintight black dress hugged her perfect curves.

  Am I looking at grief? Or guilt? Both?

  Jane remembered the other woman as an effortless trendsetter who always knew the right thing to wear and say. Based on the soft roar of conversation pouring from somewhere inside, guests packed the Hotchkins’s home. The number of guests proved double or maybe triple the number of cars outside.

  “Hello, Tiffany,” she began with her best Garden of Memories smile. An expression that said, I’m here to help. Everything will be okay. “You might not remember me, but we attended Aurelian Hills High together. Go, Miners! Anyway. I’m Jane Ladling, and I’m so sorry about—”

  “Another one?” Tiffany interjected, her tone both furious and overwrought. She glared down at the floor and stomped her foot. “You slept with Cemetery Girl, Marcus?”

  Someone remembered Jane, at least. “I never slept with your husband. I barely even spoke to him. I just thought—”

  “Whatever. It doesn’t matter anyway.” The scowling widow opened the door wider. “You might as well come in and join the others.”

  “I…thanks?” Jane’s low heels clicked on the black-and-white marble as she entered the foyer. As her hostess led the way deeper into the home, she asked, “What happened to the cars?”

  “What does it matter?”

  Okay then. Her first interrogation had earned a solid F- so far.

  The deeper she traveled, the louder the cacophony of voices became. Tiffany led her into a spacious sitting room overflowing with dozens of women. They lounged everywhere: the couch, the loveseat and even the uncomfortable-looking mahogany Queen Anne chairs someone must have dragged in from the formal dining room. Others stood here and there or leaned against the wall sipping a mimosa. A few guests openly cried.

  Abandoning Jane, Tiffany shouldered through the sea of mourners. She poured and downed a drink at the wet bar in the corner. Then poured another. And another. With every gulp, more fury vibrated from her slight frame. The alcohol appeared to fuel fires of rage inside her.

  A pretty, glassy-eyed brunette approached Jane. Someone she recognized from high school. An older woman who’d been a few years ahead. Abigail Waynes. No, Abigail Waynes-Kirkland now. “I’ll show you where Tiffany keeps the casseroles, desserts and…whatever that is. The fridge is currently full, but we’ve set some ice chests.”

  Abigail didn’t wait for Jane’s response, just plowed forward, escorting her into the kitchen. Foil-wrapped dishes covered every available surface.

  “Oh, wow, that’s a lot of food.” Available for the guests, too? Jane’s mouth watered. She’d forgotten to eat breakfast.

  “So,” Abigail said, propping her hip against a counter and crossing her arms. “The good ole doc and the corpse collector. Did he give you his famous vitamin D injections in his exam rooms, too?”

  What! In his exam rooms? “He never…I never…not with him, I swear!” With great effort, she managed to squeeze her culinary delight between what looked to be mango salsa and lasagna.

  You’re here to investigate. So investigate!

  Jane nibbled on her bottom lip before asking, “Did you receive his, um, injections?”

  The brunette gave her a wouldn’t you like to know eye roll before sauntering off.

  The answer was yes. Jane would very much like to know. Had Abigail slept with the doctor or not?

  Before following the other woman, Jane jotted a handful of names found on cards next to some of the dishes and added a few observations in the trusty notebook.

  Multiple confirmed affairs.

  Spouse upset. Or faking.

  Look into Abigail’s romantic history. Is she on or off again with her husband? What causes their breakups?

  Get recipe for mango salsa.

  After retracing Abigail’s steps, she returned to the lion’s den. The alcohol had hit Tiffany with a vengeance.

  She stumbled about, liquid splashing from the rim of her glass. “Did you not hear me?” she shrieked. “Anyone who slept with my husband can walk herself out of my house before I make her crawl out!”

  The room erupted in a symphony of protests.

  “I didn’t! Only kissed him a little. But so did Stacey!”

  “I would never! Not again.”

  “Don’t look at me. I told Tiff he was only using her for her money and she should kick him out. And not so I could snatch him up!”

  Women glanced around the room, some glaring daggers, others trying to blend into the background. Jane casually added another handful of names to her notebook. If her list of suspects kept growing like this, she’d soon need another notebook. Or several dozen of them. If she didn’t know a name, she described the face.

  One spectator’s reaction intrigued her more than any other. That of Emma Miller. A pretty nurse with a slender build and hair too light to be brown but too dark to be blonde. Jane recognized her from the clinic website. Emma worked with Dr. Hotchkins, so she wasn’t someone Jane had dealt with. Dr. Garcia worked one side of the office, and Dr. Hotchkins had worked the other.

  Cheeks red, eyes wide, Emma hurried from the room. Hmm. An action born of guilt or a need to escape the fireworks?

  Jane gave chase. Too late. From the porch, Jane watched as a sobbing Emma sped down the driveway.

  Drats! Well, no matter. Jane would call and make an appointment at the clinic. Wasn’t like Emma could avoid her there.

  With a sigh, Jane decided to return home rather than rejoin the party. Er, wake. She slid into the hearse, but she didn’t hurry off. Once again, the fleur-de-lys symbols caught her attention. Had the five cars been vandalized or had the girls hired an artist? Was this connected to the case? Or was she grasping at straws?

  Better safe than sorry. Jane exited and logged the license plate numbers of the tagged vehicles before heading home. Rolex greeted her from the living room couch. After offering him the requisite snuggles, she got to work, walking the grounds to shoo away any lookie-loos hoping to catch a glimpse of the murder site. Outside of a holiday and a tour, the cemetery rarely received more than three guests. Today, that number was doubled.

  When she returned to the cottage, she stopped by the kitchen for a drink of water and caught sight of Special Agent Ryan’s business card, resting beneath an apple magnet on the fridge.

  Why not call him and share what she’d learned?

  Yes, why not, Jane? Investigators solve more crimes when they share information.

  Unable to conjure a good reason not to share, she dug her cell phone from the pocket of her dress. For some reason, her fingers tingled as she dialed his number.

  He answered on the second ring. “Special Agent Ryan.”

  His deep, husky voice sent shivers down her spine. “Hi. Hello. I was calling to see if you’ve interviewed Tiffany Hotchkins. The wife.” Jane flipped through her notebook. “Tiffany is certain her husband had an affair with tons of locals. Abigail Waynes-Kirkland might or might not have been one of those women. Apparently, Dr. Hotchkins gave, um, vitamin D injections in exam rooms. Um…you know what that means, right? Anywa
y, most of the women are single, but some are married. You’ll want to look into their spouses too probably. I have a list of names and descriptions.”

  “Jane Ladling?” he asked with a tinge of amusement.

  Heat filled her cheeks, quickly spreading through the rest of her. Focus. “Right. Sorry. Yes, this is Jane Ladling. Why don’t I start over?” Deep breath in. “Have you interviewed Dr. Hotchkins’s wife? Or her friend, Abigail Waynes-Kirkland?”

  The agent’s sigh crackled over the line. “I’m currently pursuing several people of interest. That’s all I can tell you.”

  Several? Don’t ask. Don’t you dare. “Am I still one of those people?” Argh! She’d asked.

  A pause. Then, “There’s definite interest in you here at the bureau, Jane.”

  Wait. What? His words had a flirtatious edge—and so did his tone. She caught herself doodling Mrs. Special Agent Conrad Ryan and drawing hearts.

  Focus! Was she or wasn’t she in trouble here? “There’s something else you should know,” she told him, forging ahead. “Dr. Hotchkins’s nurse may or may not be one of the women who may or may not have had an affair with him. I’m not sure yet.”

  “Yet?” Another sigh, this one heavier. “Do not question anyone or look into the case, Jane. That’s my job. Do you understand?”

  Equally unwilling to lie or give up, she bypassed the question entirely. “Look, you missed a wild scene at the Hotchkins’s house this morning. Tiffany accused everyone of sleeping with her husband. Emma Miller, his nurse, rushed out crying and sped away. I’ve even heard Dr. Hotchkins argued with his staff the day before his murder. Don’t you find that the tiniest bit suspicious?”

  “What I find suspicious is your visit to the widow of the victim found on your property. A man you claim you’ve never spoken with. Why would you do that?”

  “Because it’s polite. I didn’t know the doctor, but I went to high school with Tiffany.” Rolex wove through her legs and meowed for a second breakfast. “Someone has to solve the crime, put a murderer away, and clear the good names of the innocent.”

  “That’s right. Someone has to, and it’s me. Trust me on this. I’m working as fast as humanly possible.”

  The fierce promise underlying his statement comforted and delighted her. But it wouldn’t stop her. “Everyone needs help now and then, and you could clearly use mine. You wouldn’t have this lead about Dr. Hot’s nurse without me. You’re welcome, by the way.”

  “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear you call him by that ridiculous nickname. And I’ve been looking into the clinic employees since day one.” He said no more.

  “Well? Have you found anything?”

  Sigh. “I’m pursuing several people of interest,” he repeated. The sound of papers rustling drifted to her ear. “Did you get someone out there to beef up security?”

  Using her shoulder to anchor her phone in place, Jane picked up Rolex and carried him to the couch. “I called a local business from…” What was the name of the company? Oh yes. “Peach State Security. We haven’t managed to connect. Apparently he just opened up shop, so I’m going to give him a couple more days.”

  “I instructed Sheriff Moore to have a deputy patrol the cemetery each night, but he doesn’t have the resources to spare the man much longer. Nor do I. If you don’t hear back from Peach State Security by the end of business today, let me know. I’m acquainted with several firefighters here in Atlanta who install security equipment on their off days.”

  “Okay, will do,” she said, trying not to melt into a boneless heap. Other than her grandparents and Fiona, no one had ever worried about her wellbeing. Not that anyone wanted her to die. Not that anyone in Aurelian Hills hated her. She was just…overlooked.

  When a loud knock echoed through the house, scaring Rolex, Jane closed her notebook and popped to her feet. “Gotta go. I’ve got a visitor. No doubt it’s someone else wanting a look at the crime scene. Don’t worry, though. Rolex and I are taking care of it.” She disconnected before he had a chance to do more than sputter. Oops.

  She rushed to the open door, a tower of strength suddenly standing before her. A white T-shirt hugged sculpted muscle. Denims and combat boots showcased a body built like a Mack Truck.

  A familiar face kick-started her heart, and a bright smile bloomed. “Beau?”

  He nodded without returning her smile. “That’s me.”

  Beauregard “Beau” Harden. This was the nice young man Fiona had mentioned? The one who’d just returned to town?

  Wow! The shy boy had grown into a gorgeous man. He was taller than she remembered, but he possessed the same thick pale waves and green eyes. Once warm, those stunning irises now appeared ice cold. A scar bisected one of his brows.

  “Hello Jane,” he said, a little gruff. Not quite the soft, eager voice she recalled from school.

  He remembered her. How wonderful. “Hello, Beau. It’s so nice to see you again.”

  “You called about security.” He rocked back on his heels. “I thought I’d visit rather than call.”

  “I’m so glad you did.” Beau had joined the navy right after commencement, leaving Aurelian Hills in his rear-view, but she’d never forgotten him. As children, the tow-headed kid had always offered her encouragement. He’d eaten every lunch at her side, and he’d never abandoned her on the playground, even when other kids teased him about being buried alive by the Cemetery Girl.

  When no one had asked her to dance during their senior graduation party, he’d taken her in his arms and swayed. Jane had never forgotten his kindness.

  He lifted a brow. “You going to invite me in?”

  “Oh! Yes, yes, of course. Please, come in, Beau,” she said, stepping aside.

  He wiped his boots on the welcome mat and entered the cottage far too small for his broad shoulders.

  “Have a seat anywhere you’d like.” Wait. “Where are my manners? Are you thirsty?” She hurried to the kitchen before he could respond and poured two sweet teas. Rolex watched from the table. By the time she returned to the living room, Beau had chosen the recliner next to the couch.

  Rolex followed her and jumped on his lap, gazing with adoration, as if he wanted Beau to pet him. A total psych-out. As soon as her childhood friend reached, Rolex hissed, scratched and darted off. His signature move. Two round punctures topped two bleeding lines on Beau’s hand, set in a zigzag pattern.

  He winced but didn’t complain or even tense, making Jane beam as she handed over his drink, then settled across from him.

  He eyed her with unwavering focus. “Tell me what you need from me.”

  No more pleasantries? No catching up? No warmth? Forget the Mack Truck; he was an iceberg.

  Was he married? Did he have children? So many of their classmates did. Or was he single?

  Good gracious. Fiona was the one who’d given Jane the card. Which meant she had set this up as a re-meet cute. Meet cute on repeat?

  Reeling, she placed her glass on the coffee table and patted her lap twice. Rolex jumped up and glared at Beau. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but there was a disturbance out here a few nights ago. A murder. When the agent from the GBH realized I didn’t have any security cameras, or any form of security at all, he suggested I contact a professional immediately.”

  “You have no security whatsoever?” Beau scanned the room, as if cataloging millions of access points available to every criminal in town. And out. Concern etched his harsh features. “He was right.”

  He? He who? “Here’s the thing. My budget is very limited.” Understatement of the year. She lived on the cemetery’s trust.

  He didn’t miss a beat. He simply nodded, as if her lack of funds were no big deal. “I’m sure we can work something out. I’ll feel better knowing you have protection out here.”

  Similar to what Conrad had said. Er, Special Agent Ryan. Or better yet, Agent Spice. Had anyone ever smelled so good? “What do you suggest I get?”

  Leaning toward her, he braced his elbo
ws on his knees. The scent of pine and soap wafted to her nose. And something else. A softer note she couldn’t quite place. She frowned. A flower of some sort? So different from Conrad but just as pleasant.

  “You need a better lock on the front door,” he said. “Also, a motion detector near every window. To start.”

  The air seeped from her lungs. “Anything else?” she squeaked. He might as well have listed the moon. No way she could afford that stuff, even if they “worked something out.” Whatever that meant.

  “I’ll need to inspect the grounds to get a better idea.”

  Of course, he would. “Let me grab a hat, and I’ll show you around.”

  Finally, his expression softened, a hint of his old smile teasing his mouth. “You still collect hats?”

  “Everyone needs a hobby,” she said, standing with Rolex in her arms.

  “Did you ever find the perfect fit?”

  “Not yet. But it’s only a matter of time.” She winked and strolled off with a lighter step than before. “Rolex, my love,” she muttered, setting him down inside her bedroom. “My friend is back in town, and he’s here to help us. Things are looking up. Surely!”

  Chapter Four

  Samuel Lee

  Taking My Secrets with Me.

  Plot 153, Garden of Memories

  Things were absolutely not looking up.

  After the tour—which did not involve the friendly chit chat she’d anticipated—Beau zoomed off to gather the necessary supplies, with a promise to return on Monday. But Monday came and went, and he never showed. And yes, he’d said, “Monday. Probably.” Still! A call wouldn’t be amiss.

  Special Agent Ryan hadn’t called, either, so he didn’t know she was continuing her investigation. That she’d scheduled an appointment with Dr. Garcia on Tuesday. Mr. Special Agent didn’t know the fleur-de-lys had become a thorn in her brain, constantly pricking her thoughts. What did it mean to the person who’d painted it? And why hadn’t the agent called her? Had the Ladling curse mutated and strengthened and now affected every relationship, big and small, romantic and nonromantic?