Romancing the Gravestone

by Gena Showalter

  Static crackled over the line. “I can honestly say I do not.”

  Her heavy eyes gained a hundred pounds and drifted shut, different muscles going lax. “Sleepy night-night time now. Zip those adorable lips.” Darkness fell over her mind, and she knew nothing more.

  On the fourth morning, Jane slowly cracked open her eyes. Oh, wow. Morning sunshine beamed through her bedroom window, but her eyes weren’t watering. Acid still leaked into her throat if she dared to swallow, but she wasn’t praying for death, so, improvement. Even better, her thoughts were almost clear.

  She eased into a sitting position, propped against a mound of pillows. Wadded up tissues and empty juice boxes formed mountains around her. She desperately needed to take a shower.

  Memories rose to the surface, and her jaw went slack. No. No, no, no. She hadn’t…she wouldn’t…she wasn’t foolish enough to call the boys and say those kinds of things. She wasn’t!

  Her stomach churned as she checked her cell phone’s call history. Oh, crap. She had. She’d called the boys and asked ridiculous questions. She had admitted humiliating things.

  Cheeks stinging, she searched the rest of the call log. Fiona had texted every day, worried. And filled with information about Beau and Conrad. Oh, wow. So many words. Jane’s eyes glazed over. Something about the boys working together. Maintenance. So kind.

  Jane shot her friend a quick text. It lives! I’ve risen from the dead and feel almost normal. We can resume business as usual.

  Fiona insta-responded, as if she’d been waiting for this moment with bated breath. Oh, praise the Lord! I will alert the troops at once! They’ve been desperate for the latest word about our patient.

  Her chest suddenly felt a little funny. She might have embarrassed herself, but those guys cared about her. They were her friends. Good ones.

  And she owed her good friend Beau a date. Excitement bloomed. The guy needed an upbeat ray of sunshine. Which meant Jane was already proving herself as a world-class matchmaker. Because yes, she’d pegged him accurately the moment she had discovered him on her porch. Now she only had to whip up a suitable candidate for him and arrange the perfect meet cute, then find herself a date.

  What was Conrad doing right now? Why not call him and—No! No more phone calls.

  Why not make herself useful and learn more about Dr. Hotchkins’s volunteer work? Or do some digging about the fleur-de-lys? Either one helped her case. And she needed to help her case. The cold had stolen so much of her time—time the killer had roamed free, unpunished for disrupting life at the cemetery. And for also ending a life.

  She took her next dose of cold meds, downed as much water as possible, then propped herself on pillows and settled the laptop on her thighs. She would start with—

  Bang, bang, bang. Beau must be hammering something nearby. No doubt Fiona had texted him as promised, informing him of Jane’s recovery. Wait. Fiona could have only texted him moments ago. To jump into action so quickly, he must have been at Jane’s house already. Waiting on her to heal? But why? He’d already installed the cameras and finished the security work she had yet to pay him for. What else was he doing out there?

  Perhaps she would forget her research right now and check the security feed for—

  No. No checking on Beau, either. Not now. Investigative work first, extracurricular activities later.

  With a little (better-than-expert) sleuthing online, she quickly discovered the name of Dr. Hotchkins’s volunteer program. Summerhill Community Pediatric would host a memorial for him this Saturday.

  Two days from now. Surely she’d be 100 percent racer ready by then. She could nose around. Maybe she’d find someone at the center who’d also toured the cemetery. Worth a shot, anyway. She hadn’t ruled out all the doctor’s coworkers.

  Bang, bang, bang. Louder than before. Meaning Beau had most likely changed locations. Forget waiting to check on him. What was even going on right now?

  She logged into the camera feed on her laptop. As she searched for him, she realized someone had tended to the cemetery while she’d been sick. Nothing was out of place. Not a single weed had been allowed to grow.

  Beau and Conrad had done this, hadn’t they? Working together, doing maintenance, just as Fiona’s texts had claimed.

  Maybe they were already fast friends?

  Jane discovered the tall Nordic-god-of-old lookalike working on a window shutter for the cottage. Hey! More labor on his part? At a discount, no doubt. Well, no more. No taking advantage of him. So, no home repairs. Except, what if he wasn’t doing it for her? Not fully, anyway. What if he attempted to distract himself from his internal struggles? A way to cope?

  Her chest clenched. Well, that settled it. There’d be no complaining from her. Let him do what he needed to do. But there’d be no more waiting either. She would find him the perfect woman ASAP.

  As she showered, she considered options. By the time she dried off and dressed in—gasp!—a T-shirt and jeans, she had a pretty good idea where to start. The Headliner.

  Feeling better by the hour, Jane searched the local message board, then social media pages. She followed links and connections until she had worked up a list of two eligible bachelorettes for Beau. Eunice Park and Tatiana “Ana” Irons. Jane had attended high school with both girls.

  Eunice was the former class vice president, who’d left for Georgia Tech on a soccer scholarship and returned as Aurelian Hill’s premier accountant. She even volunteered at the local animal shelter. Who wouldn’t love a woman everyone in town trusted with their money? Someone who took care of pre-adopted pets in her spare time?

  Ana actually ran the Headliner. The perfect job for her curious nature. In school, she’d taken responsibility for the paper and yearbook, pretending to be a hard-hitting journalist, willing to ask the tough questions. Namely, which students were cheating?

  If Jane could convince Beau to go to the community center with her and a double date afterward…if either Eunice or Tatiana happened to be free…talk about the perfect day! But who would be Jane’s plus one?

  Someone appropriate, of course. An acceptable candidate who wasn’t investigating her for murder. Ugh. Would she have to ask Fiona for help? Her friend would never let her live it down.

  A sharp double knock sounded at the door, and she yelped, startled. A knock she recognized. No. No way. Conrad had not driven out here. Because they lived an hour apart. He had not begun the drive before learning she was better. Except, he had.

  Her heart tripped as she checked the feed. A familiar SUV was parked in her driveway. Sure enough, Conrad stood at her door. He held a tote bag, and he looked better than ever in a plain white T-shirt and jeans.

  Jane leaped from the bed, racing to the vanity. Not that she cared what she looked like, but she freaking cared what she looked like. Okay. All right. Better than expected. Hair mostly air dried. The dark circles under her eyes had faded—slightly. Her formerly bright red nose was now only a vivid pink.

  Maybe a hat would complete—no. No hat with jeans. If Conrad truly wasn’t a romantic option, his opinion truly didn’t matter. She marched to the door, her head high, and opened up.

  Perhaps she was a little defensive when she barked, “What?”

  He canted his head in that detective-y way of his. If that smile he was fighting won, she might just smack it off.

  Oops. She could still be battling her sickbed rage. “I mean, what can I help you with, detective?”

  “Oh, wonderful. You didn’t threaten to feed me my own organs today.” A subtle hint of cedar and spice infused the air between them. “You must feel better. The red nose is a cute touch, though.”

  How dare he? “It’s pink!”

  “And the clothes.” He slid his gaze over her, and she bowed up, ready to rumble.

  “It’s my day off.”

  His gaze moved back up, another fever ravaging her veins. “And that thousand-dollars-an-hour voice.”

  Her brow furrowed. “That what?”

&nb
sp; He was absolutely fighting a grin as he swept past her front door, the bag dangling from his fingers.

  Wait. Was he bantering with her? Flirting and teasing? “I never said I would feed you your own organs. Did I?”

  “You most certainly did,” he called from deep inside the house. “Twice.”

  At least he didn’t sound upset about it. If anything, he radiated more amusement.

  Living people were so weird. Jane shut the door and tracked him down, Rolex on her heels, furious a man entered his home. They found their guest in the kitchen.

  Conrad looked fully at ease as he removed containers from the tote. Jane hadn’t seen a man putter around the kitchen since her Pops had died. Jane stopped abruptly, arrested by the sight and scents. The realization. “You went to Daisy’s,” she gasped out. “Her chicken noodle soup is a magic cure-all for everything wrong in everyone’s world.”

  He plucked a spoon from the bag and placed it on top of a container. “As you told me. A million times.”

  Oh yeah. She winced. Then she remembered something else and gulped. He’d called her sweetheart. “Just to be clear, you bought chicken noodle soup for me? Jane.” Your sweetheart. Something only Fiona and Grandma Lily had ever done.

  “That is what you requested, right?” Conrad tapped the takeout bowl, drawing her attention to the chipped countertop with yellow laminate straight out of 1967.

  Stray thoughts bombarded her. What did he think of her home? Where did he live? What decorating styles did he prefer? Had she really asked him to feed her? And he’d complied? Was she his “sweetheart” only while sick or also when well? Were they bantering?

  Her stomach fluttered. “Thank you, Conrad. I’m speechless.”

  “Don’t say that.” He winked at her. Actually winked. “I should be rewarded for my good deed, not punished.”

  Um. What the what?

  We are definitely bantering. He liked her liked her. Didn’t he?

  She shook her head like a Magic Eight Ball, an answer rising to the surface. Seems likely.

  Heart racing, she tripped to the counter and sat in one of the barrel back wooden chairs opposite him, watching him work. The muscles in his forearms rippled, but she barely noticed. Honest! “What else did I ask you to do?” What if she’d blocked the truly awful things?

  Rolex claimed the chair at her right, eyeing Conrad and brimming with malice. Even if the man had brought food.

  “Ask? No. You demanded I update you on the case. To save my very life, I’m here with information.” He pulled a loaf of Daisy’s famous sweet bread from the bag and placed it on the cutting board. A family heirloom Jane kept on the countertop, tucked behind the blender. “Here’s the thing. I’m human, and I’m due a lunch break. Why not eat it here with you and discuss the investigation? Two birds, one stone. All above board. Mostly. I promise I’ll tell you as much as I can.”

  Soup and information? “Yes, please and thank you.” She made grabby hands, and he slid her portion closer. A pop of the lid filled the room with a savory blend of herbs and vegetables. Her mouth watered.

  “Hungry?” he asked.

  “Starved. I didn’t know it until this moment.” She offered him a smile, determined to keep the emotion out of her eyes. It’s just soup.

  Please. This represented more than just soup—for both of them. But it shouldn’t. Hate the curse!

  Outside, a hammer crashed into a metal toolbox. The clang startled her, and she yelped. A moment later, she spotted Beau through the window. He stalked across the yard, his massive shoulders outlined through thin linen curtains the color of buttercups. Grandma Lily had loved decorating with flower themes to match her name. Jane kept up the tradition, adding violet knickknacks and rose-scented candles.

  He slammed the gate of his truck, clearly upset. Why? Was he leaving? But they hadn’t discussed the double date yet.

  “Butter?” Conrad asked.

  She jerked, returning her focus to him. Case—and bread— first. Beau’s meltdown later.

  “Yes, please,” she said. “Like Daisy’s soup, butter makes everything better.”

  “I’m beginning to believe there are people who make everything better too.” His gaze lowered to her lips. “What do you think?”

  Had he referenced her? “Um. Maybe?”

  Conrad seemed to give himself a shake before pushing his soup to the other stool. He stalked around the counter and sat beside her. “The case. We’re pursuing a couple different leads and motives and questioning several people of interest.”

  “Oh?” She propped her elbows on the countertop and dropped her chin on the back of her hands. “Tell me more,” she said, mimicking him.

  He took his sweet time, using a plastic knife to slather the bread with the creamy butter provided in a small cup. “The doctor had an active sex life outside of his marriage. Many of those women had a boyfriend or husband. On the other hand, we found evidence to indicate the doctor had recently developed a passion for hunting treasure.”

  “So the motive is love or money.” Just as her research predicted. She was nailing this investigation.

  “The motive is always love or money. One or the other.”

  “I don’t understand what either has to do with the cemetery, though. I mean, a graveyard rarely evokes feelings of romance or greed.”

  “You’d be surprised,” he muttered.

  Had he investigated other cemetery murders? Or was he referring to the here and now?

  The edge in his voice kind of sounded more personal, and she grew flustered.

  “And treasure?” she continued, sinking her spoon into the hearty soup. Steam coated the air, creating a dreamy haze. “Everyone knows the cemetery was once raided and stripped of any hidden gold. Unless new rumors surfaced?” What if someone had remembered the gold but forgotten the raid?

  He remained silent for a moment. Gave a little huff. “Has anyone mentioned anything about a connection between the fleur-de-lys that’s been showing up around town and the legends about the gold?”

  Her eyes widened. “No.” But was there? There must be. She would swear—yes! Dots began to connect. The fleur-de-lys, connected to the legends of gold. She had seen the symbol before, or something like it, somewhere. But where? The gold exhibit? Her family’s records? Both? Neither?

  Conrad leaned over and gently nudged her shoulder with his own. “C’mon. Finish your soup, and I’ll show you what I ordered for dessert.”

  Dessert! Gimme! Jane blew on a spoonful of broth before tasting. An explosion of flavor drew a moan from her. She closed her eyes and savored. Warmth spread through her.

  A thought caught her off guard, and she couldn’t not ask. “Why are you being so nice to me, Special Agent Conrad Ryan?”

  He lifted a brow. “Am I usually cruel to you?”

  “You’re usually closed off. Which is cruel to someone like me. So yes. You are usually cruel to me.” But there had been those few glimpses at an ooey-gooey center beneath his hard candy shell.

  “Let’s say my job leaves me unnaturally suspicious of everyone I meet. The actions they make. The words they use. Having a traumatic childhood doesn’t help matters.”

  An ache stung the back of her throat, and it had nothing to do with her waning cold. What terrible things had young Conrad survived?

  That he was opening up to her, sharing even the smallest bits and pieces about his life, affected her. Something told her he didn’t do this often. But what had brought on this change? And how should she respond? Would he shut her out if she pressed for more?

  “Conrad—”

  “Nope. I’m done.” Motions as brisk as his tone, he closed what remained of his soup.

  Fine. Maybe he’d finished talking, but Jane had only begun to offer comfort. She reached out slowly. He let her. Contact. Her breath hitched. They were skin to skin. Heat to heat.

  She trailed her fingers from his knuckles to his forearm, lightly stroking him. The muscles tensed beneath her touch. Conrad readjus
ted, moving out of reach, and her hand plopped to the counter. Where it belonged. She’d overstepped, hadn’t she?

  “Ready for dessert?” he asked as her cheeks heated. Once again, he donned an emotionless mask. And yet, he flexed his hand before leaning over to free a batch of old-fashioned peanut butter cookies from the tote.

  Trying to stop himself from touching her? Wait, who cared about illicit caresses right now? Cookies! “It’s as if you can read my mind,” she said, snatching a cookie from his grip.

  The corner of his lip quirked. “I think I can do anything but that. Reading you is tough. You show too much and too little at the same time. I’ve never struggled to read anyone like this.”

  He must be teasing, and she laughed. Her? Difficult? She was an open book.

  A knock sounded on her back door, and she jolted. Dang, she startled easily lately.

  “Beau?” Conrad asked with an arched brow.

  “Hopefully.” Cookie in hand, she hopped off her chair and opened the door. Sure enough, Beau stood there, shifting from leg to leg, discomfort stamped on his features. He held a small container.

  “Hi,” she said, happy to see him. “Please, come in.”

  “No, thank you.” He looked at Conrad, who leaned against the kitchen wall, watching, and a muscle jumped in his jaw. “I saw his car and thought you might need support.”

  Well. There he was again. The sweet boy determined to protect his childhood friend. She smiled in thanks. “That’s so kind, but I’m great. Conrad brought my favorite soup. We’ve been discussing the case.”

  “How are you feeling? Truly?” Beau asked.

  “Good enough to remember our deal. Don’t think you’re getting out of it. Oh! While I’ve got you, we need to discuss the bill you haven’t given me.”

  He rocked on his heels before stepping back. “Just haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

  Or he had no plans of charging her? “Beau, I insist on paying. And don’t forget to put your sign at the gate. If you haven’t already.” She hadn’t checked the grounds for days. No telling what changes awaited her out there. “Are you sure you don’t want to come in? We can discuss the coming date—”