Romancing the Gravestone

by Gena Showalter

  Mission Make the Cat Nabber Pay?

  Ghost Tour Takedown?

  Burial Bust?

  Or maybe Gold Collar, the longshot of the batch?

  Which codename would Conrad prefer? Or had he already selected one?

  After she showed the receptionist her ID, she received a visitor’s badge and a wave toward the correct path.

  A woman of importance, Jane held her head high, and okay, yes, she had a little hop in her step as she strolled the distance. She’d chosen a floral fit and flare with spaghetti straps that Grandma Lily had made for her. A special occasion dress. What was more special than planning to nab a killer who might also dabble in breaking and entering?

  Finding Conrad’s door open, she sailed inside. He leaned against the corner of his desk, his arms crossed over his chest. Had he been waiting (eagerly) for her?

  Different parts of her fluttered. He looked good. Better than good. Dark hair in disarray, whiskey eyes more intoxicating than ever as they slid over her. A new five o’clock shadow dusted his jaw. Too distracted to shave this morning?

  He’d already removed his jacket, unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt, and rolled up his sleeves. The tattoos drew her gaze. She’d never let herself study them before. Today, she thought, why not? The most adorable stick figures and rainbows and weirdly shaped animals decorated his skin. The images reminded her of a child’s drawings. Were they?

  Who had drawn them? What did the images mean to him?

  “You’re late,” he said, his rich voice raising goose bumps along her arms.

  Uh… “How?” She glanced at the clock hanging on his back wall. “I’m two minutes early.”

  “Yes, but ten minutes early is the new on time, which makes you exactly eight minutes tardy.” He straightened and stalked to his chair. “We should get started.”

  Jane rolled her eyes. “We should indeed.” She plopped into a chair, all but bouncing on the cushion.

  “You look beautiful, by the way.” He extended the compliment while searing her with his gaze.

  No longer an aloof special agent, Conrad made her toes curl. The tempting man who taught her self-defense, rushed to her cat’s rescue, called her sweetheart, and robbed her of breath.

  She offered him a shy smile. Wait. Her? Shy? And beautiful? “Thank you.” Before she threw herself at him, she cleared her throat and flipped through the pages of her notepad as casually as possible. As if she received such overwhelming compliments every day.

  “All right.” He braced, as if expecting some kind of blow. “Let’s get to business. The tour. You know we have the camera on Muffin’s marker. It is monitored twenty-four seven. There’s no need for a tour.”

  “Actually, there is. Your camera has caught a big, fat nothing, I bet.”

  He scowled. Translation: I hate when you’re right, Jane.

  Hey. Speaking of Muffin. “What happened with the crowbar?”

  “It is indeed the murder weapon.”

  A grin spread. “It is? I did it, then? I found the most crucial piece of evidence in the entire case?”

  He might have fought a smile. “The metal is splattered with Dr. Hotchkins’s blood and covered with his fingerprints.”

  Someone pat her on the back. Jane was made for investigative work. “Any other fingerprints?”

  “None.” He gripped a pen and tapped the edge against his desk. “I think I’ve made it clear I don’t want you to do the tour, Jane.”

  “You have, yes, but it always sounds like a you problem,” she said, batting her lashes at him.

  He pursed his lips. “But,” he continued as if she hadn’t spoken, “I can’t stop you from doing it. If you insist on putting yourself in the line of danger, I will insist on doing something as well.”

  Something to protect her? What a sweet thing to—

  “I’ll use you to draw the killer out,” he said, and she deflated a little. “I think anything out of the ordinary will draw undue suspicion.” He slid a piece of paper across the desk. A pamphlet she’d once handed out to drum up business for her tours. “Scheduling a tour like this fits your profile.”

  “Like this? A plain ole tour with no theme?” Her shoulders slumped. She’d hoped to do something different. Adventurous. “Where’s the drama? Everyone loves drama. Shouldn’t I give the people what they want?”

  “We don’t care about what the people want,” he reminded her. “We care about a killer. When should we ever cater to a killer?”

  “Never,” she grumbled.

  “Good girl. Now,” he continued, “you can make it seem like you’re capitalizing on the unsolved murder or claim you can prove there’s no hidden gold. Considering what you posted to the Headliner last night, the latter is the most believable. You’ve gotten over fifty comments, each one accusing you of being a liar.”

  She didn’t miss the censure in his tone and winced. “My bad.” Yeah, she’d gone over every comment before heading to the city. Apparently only Fiona and Beau believed her. “I’ll go with a gold theme.”

  His fingers twitched on the arms of his chair at the same time a muscle jumped in his jaw. “I will attend, of course, and I will—”

  “No! Are you kidding? The killer won’t come if a GBH agent is there.”

  “Nevertheless. I’ll be buying a ticket.” He offered her a smug smile. “As a paying customer, I’ll have every right to stand by your side, keeping you safe.”

  So he would be protecting her. Just as sweet as she’d originally thought. No, more so. But also beyond aggravating. “Beau will be there.” Thinking out loud, she said, “No one will try anything with him around. He’s playing the part of groundskeeper.”

  “Then I’ll be playing the part of Conrad, the groundskeeper’s helper. And you’re right. Many will recognize me. I want them to.”

  Argh! He wasn’t backing down. He knew everyone would recognize him, no matter what he wore. But she was feeling a little bit petty now. “I can’t wait to see you in the costume I plan to prepare for you.”

  “The groundskeeper’s helper doesn’t require a costume.”

  “He’s getting one anyway,” she said and humphed. “I’m putting a rush on this tour. Scheduling it for this weekend. You probably have plans—”

  “I’ll be there.” Sizzling brown eyes dared her to try and stop him.

  The way he was looking at her right now… Special Agent Conrad Ryan clearly had plans for her once the case closed. Do not shiver. Don’t you dare!

  “Fine,” she said, hating how breathless she sounded. “Come as a paying guest. You’ll not be getting a discount, so don’t ask. Actually, your ticket has an out-of-town processing fee. Add a hundred dollars to it.”

  He snorted. “Tell me who you expect to show up.”

  She flipped through the pages of her notebook until she reached a dog-eared page in back—her most up-to-date list of suspects. “Emma Miller is my number one. The day of the murder, she found out Dr. Hots was sleeping with other women. Dr. Garcia caught her crying. Of course, he’s on my list as well. As well as Caroline Whittington and everyone else at the clinic. And their significant others.”

  “Yes, but who’s second on your list?”

  So many! Basically a who’s who of Aurelian Hills. But, if she had to pick from the three-dozen or so remaining names, she’d go with… “Abigail Waynes-Kirkland.”

  His head canted to the side as he regarded her more intently. “Why her?”

  The infamous tilt. She almost grinned. She’d definitely intrigued him. Was he surprised by the name itself, or by that Jane considered the woman a suspect? “She was close to the doctor. At the wake she seemed bitter about his affairs. She visited Gold Fever! and she refers to Marcus as Mark.”

  “Which is suspicious why?”

  “She’s the only one who uses such familiarity. They might have had an affair.” But back to the gold. “Have you heard of the Order of Seven?”

  A pause. Then, “It may have come up in a meeting.�
�

  “Well, allow me to captivate your imagination with what I know about it. I did some digging.” Both literally and figuratively. “The Order of Seven was a secret society formed during the gold rush. An urban legend usually shared among teenagers. At the exhibit, Abigail studied one paper exclusively. A page referencing the Order. Here, I’ll text you the photos I took of her and the page when I visited the museum against your wishes. It’s the same base symbol that was spray-painted all over town.” Once found, she sent him a series of images.

  The more his phone dinged with the shared jpegs, the more irritation he projected. “Why am I just now seeing these photos?”

  “I didn’t know if the lead would pan out. Brilliant pun intended.”

  He appeared far from amused. “I want a copy of any documents you have.”

  “Sure. Because you requested so sweetly.” Anyway. “Abigail knew all about the new gold supposedly stashed in my cemetery, and she zeroed in on the clearest shot of the Order of Seven symbol. The same symbol is carved into the caskets of Rhonda Burgundy and Silas Ladling.”

  She scooted to the edge of her seat, getting into her story. “Silas Ladling’s son was rumored to be a member of the Order. But he took a devastating financial hit when our mines petered out and gold was discovered in California. In a matter of weeks, Aurelian Hills lost half its population, businesses suddenly without paying customers.”

  “And you think, what? That the Order is active again, the members searching for hidden gold?”

  “Not necessarily. But Dr. Hotchkins did dabble in hunting gold. You said so yourself. What if he had a partner who found some—outside my land—and didn’t want to share?” It was an angle she hadn’t fully explored because she’d gotten stuck on the doctor’s affairs. An angle she hadn’t abandoned. “To be honest, though, my gut is telling me a scorned lover did the deed.” As Conrad had said, the motive for murder was usually love or money.

  “Almost eighty percent of killers are male,” he informed her. “That favors the gold angle.”

  “Wow. A woman is as capable and likely of committing a murder as a man. We’re just better at hiding it.” She tried to hide how she relished competing verbally with him. Who was wrong about the murder’s motive, and who would have eternal bragging rights?

  He leaned back in his chair, locking his fingers behind his head. The glitter of amusement had returned to his irises. “That’s a brave thing for a former suspect to say to an officer of the law during an ongoing investigation.”

  “When did I become a former suspect?”

  He flicked his tongue over an incisor before admitting, “When you looked at me with those big blue eyes.”

  Gah! He needed to shut his sexy mouth. Already Jane feared melting into a puddle of goo. “Am I a former suspect who now qualifies for a tour of the crime lab?”

  The corners of his mouth twitched. “Your thought process fascinates me, but no. No tour. However, when this is over, I’ll exchange a visit of the building for a visit of your mind. I’m taking a vacation and sitting down with you. I will ask questions, and you will answer. For days. We’ll do other things, too, but one way or another, I will learn all of your secrets.”

  Mind blown. Her eyes widened, and her breath caught, speech impossible for a moment.

  His amusement only intensified. “Go home, Jane. Plan your event. I’ll see you soon.”

  She coughed to clear her throat and forced her mind on the matter at hand. Which wasn’t Conrad’s confession. “Right. See you soon.” Too soon. Jane had three days to find the perfect costume with a matching hat, write her script for the tour and spread the word about.

  As she stood, she winked and told him, “Don’t forget to buy your ticket and pay your out-of-town fee, agent. You won’t be allowed in the cemetery otherwise.”

  “Jane, I doubt anything can keep me away from you.”

  Jane reeled all the way home. Not ponder about Conrad’s confession? Impossible. He’d hinted at the big R. At a relationship. Getting to know each other. Spending days and nights together. Developing feelings.

  Losing everything.

  A lump formed in her throat, and she swallowed it back. Nope, it remained. Sweat beaded her brow. Why, why, why did the thought of a murder investigation invigorate her but the thought of caring for someone terrify her? Why couldn’t the Ladling women ever fall in love and be happy? Just for a little while?

  Deep breath in. Out. Jane pasted on a smile and offered Rolex his preferred greeting. As he purred, the fear faded, and her mind cleared. So much to do! She checked phone messages, looked over the graveyard trust, then sped through the day’s security feed. All was well at Garden of Memories. Excellent.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, she settled into her living room recliner with Rolex and a laptop to post to the Headliner. After several attempts, she came up with, Come one, come all! Take an adults-only midnight tour of the Garden of Memories. Hunt for ghosts...and gold. Glimpse a murder site... Order tickets today! No ticket, no entry.

  Along with the reluctant help of Sheriff Moore, Fiona helped spread the word, passing out the new pamphlets Jane printed.

  Each day, she grew giddier. Ticket sales climbed beyond her wildest dreams–and consternation. She’d wanted suspects to attend, not everyone in town. Even Tiffany Hotchkins had signed up. And okay, yes, Jane experienced a twinge of guilt when she imagined discussing the doctor’s death with his wife, but sacrifices must be made. A crime had been committed, and someone must be brought to justice.

  To Jane’s delight, she found the ensemble of the century at Très Chic Consignment. No doubt she would shine for Saturday’s performance. A flawless black gown touted as widow weeds. Lace and bustles abounded. She fell in love with the taffeta creation the moment she spotted the pagoda sleeves.

  The day of the tour, she donned the garment eagerly. At first.

  “Buttons are not for the faint of heart,” Fiona muttered from behind her, working another bead through its hole.

  They occupied Jane’s bedroom. She leaned into a bedpost, still learning to breathe while wearing a corset. No wonder Victorian ladies required fainting couches.

  She stared out the far window. A full moon tonight. What could be more perfect?

  Throughout the afternoon, she’d caught glimpses of Conrad and Beau setting up more cameras and hanging lanterns to light the way, taking measures to keep her as safe as possible.

  “The buttons just…never …end,” her friend huffed.

  “Can you imagine doing this every day? And night!” Jane finished the mother-of-pearl fasteners on her cuffs. “God bless the inventor of zippers.”

  “Indeed.” A pause. Then, “Hon? I want you to be careful tonight, okay? I mean it.” The older woman’s voice thickened. “You’re precious to me, and I promised your grandmother I’d always take real good care of you. Don’t go making me a liar, you hear.”

  “I won’t.” Her heart squeezed. “I’ll be careful. And you’ll be careful, too.” Fiona would be manning the gate, taking tickets.

  “Of course.” Her friend cleared her throat. “Now then. The buttons are done, but what are we going to do about the two-foot train? If left free flowing, those pleated edges will snag on the gravestones.”

  “No worries. The material tucks in to create a triple bustle.”

  “Oh yes. I see the hooks.” Fiona secured the designated fabric in place and patted Jane’s shoulder. “There. All done.”

  “Not quite. Wait until you catch a gander at this.” She glided across the room, her shoulders ramrod straight. What was it about an elaborate Victorian gown that changed your attitude along with your posture? She lifted the lid from a hatbox and slowly drew out a six-inch top hat, complete with netting the hue of raven’s wings. Were angels singing? “I didn’t tell you, because I wanted it to be a surprise, but I finally found it,” she said, awe all but dripping from her voice. “The hat.” A tulle bow. Netting that spilled over the brim and along her nape. What could be
better?

  Her friend clapped in true delight. “Are you telling me you’re done buying hats? That your collection is complete?”

  “Don’t be silly. Collections can’t be completed.” Jane turned to study her reflection in the full-length mirror hanging on her wall. She looked incredible, if she did say so herself. Dark hair in a severe knot. Bangs perfect for once. The corset gave her a sultry, hourglass figure.

  Motions careful, she secured the hat in place. Oh, wow. Yes. Yes! Even better.

  What would Conrad and Beau think? Almost time to find out.

  After one final glance in the mirror, she squared her shoulders. “I’m ready.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Denise Green

  Now I Know Something You Don’t.

  Plot 858, Garden of Memories

  Jane looked out over the growing crowd in horror. Considering the number of tickets she’d sold, she’d expected a throng, but this was a mob. People never quit coming. There were far more bodies filling the entrance to the cemetery than tickets sold.

  Had the entire population of Aurelian Hills decided to come tonight?

  Sadly, no one else had dressed in costume. Well, unless she counted Conrad, and she absolutely did not. Some groundskeeper’s helper. He’d arrived in full Georgia Bureau of Homicide regalia, obviously hoping to scare off bad guys. His way of protesting her involvement. He hadn’t wanted her to run the tour, after all. Guests continued to cast wary glances his way. Jane only prayed the killer cared more about hiding his or her crime than evading the GBH.

  “Did you have to bring the badge?” she whispered to him. Her nerves were slightly…frayed. At least he and Beau had built a small, makeshift dais to grant her added height. A queen who towered over her subjects. Well, most of her subjects. The two men who flanked her sides towered over her.

  Conrad stood at her right, the unmissable badge dangling from a chain around his neck. He’d even worn a jacket with GBH emblazoned on the back, the huge letters noticeable from space. Probably glowed in the dark, too. It surprised her to know he’d left his bulletproof vest at home.