Romancing the Gravestone

by Gena Showalter

  As Beau led Jane to the door, she cast a glance over her shoulder. Conrad stared at her, hard, never pulling his gaze, even when people passed between them. As if she held him captive, and he couldn’t muster the strength to look anywhere else. What a powerful thought.

  She smiled as she settled into the truck.

  “What now?” Beau asked.

  Good question. She fished her phone from her purse and hunted for Anthony Miller’s information on the internet. According to his social media, he’d just checked into a hotel bar only twenty minutes from their current location to celebrate his upcoming divorce.

  “That look on your face leads to trouble,” Beau said, sounding resigned. “But go ahead. Tell me. What are we doing next?”

  “Interrogating a lawyer over cocktails.”

  There he was. Anthony Miller. He hunched over the hotel bar, alone, swirling amber liquid in a short, round glass. Shadows and light twined over him. Mostly shadows. Dark gray walls and low-burn candles provided a dimming effect. Soft music played in the background. Only a few other people occupied the space.

  He looked anywhere from forty to sixty. His mostly pepper hair was disheveled, some of the short strands like spikes. Strain etched lines around his eyes and mouth. A wrinkled shirt was half tucked and half untucked. He had only rolled up one sleeve.

  Jane closed the distance before Beau attempted to talk her out of this. He remained close to her heels. At the bar, he darted ahead to pull out a chair for her—a chair two barstools over from Miller. Dang him. She’d hoped to snag the spot at the lawyer’s side. Nothing she could do now but accept.

  Beau, the most terrible partner in non-crime ever, claimed the seat between them, putting himself closer to the man Jane would be questioning.

  She leaned into her companion, breathing in a scent so different from Conrad’s but just as amazing, and whispered, “You are the best and worst friend of all time. You know that, right?”

  He bent his head to hers and whispered back, “You are the only friend I have, and I will always put your safety first.”

  Gah! How could she remain annoyed with him now?

  Mr. Miller sneered at them. “You guys in love?” He slurred his words.

  Already drunk? Perfect. Jane all but leaped over Beau to get closer to Mr. Miller. “Define love.”

  “The biggest mistake anyone anywhere can make,” he grumbled, then tossed the rest of his drink down the hatch. He focused on her while swaying in his seat, frowned and pointed. “You’re familiar to me. Why are you familiar?”

  Rather than admitting they lived in the same small town, she said, “Hi, I’m Jane.”

  “Tony,” he muttered.

  Beau urged her into her chair and ordered sweet teas for the two of them—teas she would be paying for.

  “I gotta say, Tony, your definition of love is, um, unique,” she said. “Are you having relationship troubles?”

  Beau arched a brow at her, all you did not just blurt that out. What? She’d cut straight to the heart of the matter.

  “Oh, I’m having troubles all right.” Tony ordered himself another round. The dirtiest martinis they had. “My soon-to-be ex-wife cheated on me with her boss. Someone killed the guy. I hope they made it hurt.” His beverage arrived, and he downed it, too.

  Okay. Wow. He’d answered so swiftly and eagerly, as if the words had been poised at the end of his tongue for ages and he’d only awaited a listening ear. Or he’d realized who she was and brilliantly laid a foundation to fit his innocence.

  “You know what we should do for revenge?” she said. “Spray-paint something on your wife’s car.” She winced inside at her poor and abrupt delivery. Oh, well. Onward and upward. “Do you happen to have any cans of spray paint handy? We can help you.”

  “Nope.” He belched into his fist and laughed. “Do you smell that?”

  No, he wasn’t laying a foundation for anything. Was he guilty of being disgusting? Yes. But he might not be guilty of murder. Emma maintained the number one spot.

  Maybe the doctor had ended things with her, and the rejection fueled a rage. Or maybe the reason was something else entirely. Maybe Emma wasn’t even involved. But either way, Jane wished to talk to the nurse again.

  Looked like she’d be paying the clinic another visit.

  Chapter Eight

  William King

  What matters? My foes died first.

  Plot 211, Garden of Memories

  The next day, Jane followed an older, no-nonsense woman through GBH headquarters in Atlanta. People milled around a maze of desks, some in uniform, some not. The scent of coffee infused every breath. Phones rang constantly. A big white board with bullet point descriptions and photos dominated half a wall, just like she’d seen on TV.

  She bit back her excitement as her guide stopped in front of a closed door.

  “Here you are. The office of Special Agent Conrad Ryan. Good luck,” the woman added in a murmur before striding off.

  Was the agent in a foul mood because of Jane’s conversation with Mr. Miller?

  Nerves twisted her stomach. She knew beyond any doubt the coming meeting would either rock her nonexistent socks off or knock her for a loop.

  He’d called her bright and early this morning to ask if raising his blood pressure was a new game she played. She didn’t want to believe Beau had snitched on her but...she kind of believed Beau had snitched on her. The two were clearly allies now.

  When she’d asked straight up, Conrad had redirected the conversation, telling her nothing. While she’d had him on the line, however, she’d invited herself to his office for a tour. Even though it was Sunday, the Lord’s day, he’d agreed.

  “Are you planning to stand outside or come in?” Conrad called from inside the office.

  “I’m debating.” Had she made a mistake coming here? She might have scored a tour and a scolding.

  Finally, she turned the knob. Her hand trembled. Head high, she swept into the room. The door closed behind her, sealing her within the agent’s private domain. He sat behind a nondescript, government-issued wooden desk, but she didn’t face him. Not yet. She examined the bigger-than-expected space instead. A large window overlooked the parking lot, where a Georgia state flag rippled in a mild wind. Only a few framed certifications decorated the walls. Or photos. None on the desk. Or anywhere. Huh. Not of his family and friends. Not of anyone.

  What did this mean? She’d seen personal photos on the desks she’d passed, which meant displaying of mementos wasn’t against governmental policy. The lack was by Conrad’s choice. But why?

  He’d mentioned a rough childhood. Was he alone now? She didn’t mean to, but she flattened a hand over her chest. Was Conrad lonely? Her gaze zoomed back to him, and she gulped. He watched her with more intensity than ever.

  Her heart leaped. He wore a dark suit and a fierce scowl. The imposing man rose to his feet and looked her over. Perspiration glazed her palms. For today’s mandatory meeting, she’d chosen a short black-and-white dress. Her favorite. Maybe she’d taken a little extra time with her hair. And actually applied makeup. Mascara. Blush. Lip gloss. What did he think?

  “Sit.” He motioned to the two chairs in front of his desk. Sharp tone, choppy action. Someone was not happy.

  Wait. Sit? “What about the tour?”

  He arched a brow, a man assured of his power. “There won’t be a tour.”

  What? “But I want to see the crime lab.”

  “Then you should have gone home after the memorial service. GBH tours are only offered to well-behaved murder suspects.” His dry tone took the sting out of the label.

  “Guess that means the cybersecurity unit is out, too,” she grumbled, trudging over to slump into the chair. Jane didn’t expect a response, and he didn’t give her one. “Am I here so you can scare me straight?”

  “Someone needs to.”

  Well, it wouldn’t work. She would be visiting Caroline Whittington and Emma Miller for a follow-up appointment, as plan
ned, and that was that. Instincts she hadn’t known she possessed were screaming, So close to the truth!

  His scowl deepened. “You have no business following leads. You’ll only go down the wrong roads, because you aren’t privy to all the facts.”

  “You’re right. I’m not privy to all the facts. And I think we can both agree that’s one hundred percent your fault. But I’m from the town, and I know the people. I’m a resource. Why aren’t you making use of me? Think about it. You’re a straight line, and I’m a squiggly one. More creative. I can help you see things from a different perspective.”

  “Like the flying turtles.” He steepled his fingers and sighed. “Go on. Elaborate.”

  Now we’re cooking with gas. She scooted to the edge of her seat. “Well, I’ve already worked up multiple motives for multiple people. I’m sorry to say I’ve just thought of one for you. And it checks out. Solidly. The logic is bulletproof.”

  He reclined in his chair, appearing more at ease. Even amused? “Please. Do tell.”

  Warming up to the topic, she leaned toward his desk. “Picture this. Weeks before the murder, you passed through my town, spotted me, and instantly became obsessed with me.” Stranger things had happened. “You would have settled for any excuse to spend time with me. When you couldn’t think of one, you supplied one with murder.” Her gotcha tone drew a grin from him. A there-and-gone grin, but a grin all the same.

  He rubbed his fingers over his mouth, eyes crackling with mirth. “Your bulletproof logic has a hole. The day we met is the first I’d heard of your town.”

  “So you say. We both know murderers can be liars, too. But okay. Let’s pretend you’re telling the truth. That just means you saw my picture online and hired an assassin to provide the excuse. Though I notice you aren’t disputing your attraction to me,” she pointed out.

  “I don’t think anyone can dispute my attraction to you, Jane.” He offered the mind-blowing statement casually before he continued on as if nothing had happened. “I gained permission to share other case details with you. But.” He pegged her with a hard stare. “I won’t be doing so until you agree to stop speaking with people of interest.” He extended his arm to offer her a stack of photos. “Consider the acceptance of these images agreement.”

  Fighting to maintain her composure—just breathe!—she did, in fact, accept the stack. But accept his terms? No. Every image showcased a paper on display at the museum’s permanent mining exhibit, Gold Fever! Exclamation point included. The exhibit kicked off two years ago and quickly became a town staple.

  “Wait.” Back to gold rather than romance? “You don’t suspect the fleur-de-lys is a merely being a decoy meant to distract from the murder? You believe Dr. Hotchkins was hunting for gold at my cemetery?”

  “It’s a possibility.” Conrad stood, strode around the desk and sank into the chair at her side. A stronger hit of his dry cedar and spicy scent infused her next inhalation, and she nearly whimpered. So good!

  Leaning over, his shoulder brushing against hers, he pointed to a highlighted name—Rhonda Burgundy. Plot 39. The spot Dr. Hots died. “Burgundy’s coffin was raided in the past, suspected of holding bricks of gold. She’s mentioned at the exhibit. So are several of your other residents. Maybe the doctor believed a stash of gold was overlooked during the raid.”

  “That rumor has surfaced in the past, but longtime residents know it’s false. Dr. Hotchkins is a longtime resident.”

  Conrad hiked a shoulder. “We believe he planned to meet a woman the night of his murder, but we don’t know which, only that she was a regular tap—his words, not mine. He tracked those regulars with a coded calendar in his office. We’ve identified some but not all.”

  Women reduced to a code? Gross. “How many, um, taps, are there?”

  “Eight. With an assortment of semiregulars and one-night stands mixed in. From what we’ve pieced together, he used the exam rooms as five-minute motels.”

  Jane cringed, remembering every instance she’d lain upon a petri dish—er, exam table. “Was Emma Miller one of the known regulars? Because they were definitely having an affair.”

  “Yes. But her alibi checked out.” With a harder tone, he added, “And so did her husband’s.”

  Her first genuine theory went up in smoke. Time to go back to the drawing board. “Give me a chance to identify the unknowns in Dr. Hotchkins’s code. If his identifiers reflect traits about the women, I’ll recognize—”

  “No. I’m sorry, but that’s out of the question.” Even harder tone.

  She didn’t have to wonder why. “You think I might be a member of his rotation? I assure you, I’m not. The doctor wasn’t my type. Which is unwaveringly single.”

  Conrad appeared chagrined, even irritated. “Until we’ve successfully identified everyone, I’m not allowed to fully rule anyone out.”

  “Why are you sharing any case details with me, then, if I’m still a suspect?” Unlike Nurse Emma, Jane couldn’t alibi out unless someone learned to speak Meow and Rolex corroborated her story.

  Conrad’s phone rang, but he ignored it. His expression softened. “I know what it’s like to feel as if questions claw at your mind, and I swear to you I will figure this out. You’ll have your answers. Just give me time. And peace. I’ll work faster—better—if I’m not always worried about you.”

  She had to hand it to him. It was a nice speech and almost convinced her to back off the investigation. But she wasn’t the one responsible for his worry. That was all Conrad.

  “I have a better idea,” she said as she stood. “You learn how to do deep-breathing exercises to control your fear for my well-being, and I’ll continue to aid you.” As he glared at her, she smiled sweetly. “Thanks for the nontour, Special Agent Ryan. Let’s not do it again soon.”

  Jane pondered all things Conrad the entire hour-long drive home. She only paused after gassing up and phoning Fiona to let her friend know she was running a few minutes late for their knitting hour.

  The agent had admitted to his attraction to her, and he’d made tentative plans to join her on a double date. His boss might suspect her of murder, but Conrad didn’t. He liked her as much as she liked him. But she had to wonder: Did he hope to fall in love one day and get married?

  Would she lose another guy to the Ladling curse? Guilt flared. Should she even risk dating him? The guy had lost his family as a kid. She might cause more trouble than she was worth.

  By the time she parked in her driveway, she was a legit ball of stress. To give him a shot, to not give him a shot? To run away from him or to him? She would have to decide soon. Or the decision would be made for her.

  She frowned when she noticed Fiona rushing from one side of the porch to the other, frantically waving her arms.

  Stomach dropping, Jane bolted out of the car and hurried over. “What’s wrong?”

  Features glazed with panic, the older woman grabbed her shoulders and shook. “I planned to wait for you on the porch, but your front door was ajar. I called for Rolex, but he didn’t come. I searched but…he…he’s probably just exploring.”

  Her door had been open? Jane remembered closing and locking it as always. Right? She had been preoccupied with Conrad. “Y-yes, you go search the grounds. I’ll look in his favorite hiding spots.”

  “Don’t worry, hon. Everything will be all right. We’ll find him.” Fiona rushed off as swiftly as her old bones allowed.

  Jane sprinted into the house. Barreled through every room. Checked under every raised surface. Scanned inside every nook and cranny. No sign of her house panther anywhere. When had he left and what direction had he gone?

  Think. The camera feed! Jane returned to her bedroom and fired up her laptop, loading today’s recording. Slowly fast-forwarding…There! A hand flew up to cover her gaping mouth, her heart slamming into her ribs. A woman approached the front door. She wore a dark jacket with a hood, and she maintained a swift pace. From this angle, Jane couldn’t see her face.

  She noted what
details she could. Slender. Average height. A skeleton mask often seen at Halloween hid her features. Locks of brown hair struck out through the sides of the hood. Real or from a wig? The hood remained in place throughout her crime spree, so it was impossible to tell. Considering she’d covered all her bases, the offering of a false clue seemed well within her wheelhouse.

  In other words, the hair told Jane nothing about her intruder. An intruder who might have stolen her cat. Acid burned her chest, her throat. If this person had harmed Rolex…

  The woman opened the locked door with ease—because she had a key. Jane panted as she disappeared inside the house. Time stamp: two hours and thirteen minutes ago.

  Sixty seconds passed, and nothing happened.

  Another thirty.

  The woman flew out the front door, her hood still in place. Rolex shot from the entrance, hot on her heels. Jane jolted. He lived! And he must be on the grounds as Fiona suggested. Protecting his home.

  Jane grabbed a knitting needle to use as a weapon—just in case—and jetted out the door herself, heading in the same direction as Rolex. The opposite of Fiona and the cemetery. The pair had aimed for the original office.

  “Rolex,” she called. “Where are you, baby? Momma’s here. You’re safe. You can come out now. Rolex.”

  She veered from the cobblestone path, ducking under tree limbs and hopping over stones. Panic kept her in a frenzied state, tears stinging her eyes. She needed help. Trembling, gaze constantly scanning, she dialed Conrad. He answered on the third ring.

  She wasted no time. “A woman broke into my house while I was gone. She had a key, Conrad. My brave Rolex chased her out the door, but now he’s missing. Fiona is searching the property, and I’m headed to the old office but if I can’t find him I’m going to burn the world down and dance in the flames.”

  “Jane!” Conrad barked. “Focus on me. Are you hurt?”

  “Are you kidding? I’m dying, Conrad! My baby is missing.”