Buried Secrets

by Irene Hannon

  She stared at him. The voice hadn’t changed—but Joe Andrews, his thinning hair more salt than pepper, looked a decade or more older than his forty-six years.

  Closing the car door with her hip, she summoned up a smile. “Good genes, I guess. I brought dinner, like I promised.” She lifted the disposable Styrofoam cooler.

  For a long moment he stood unmoving, as if he was having second thoughts about her visit.

  Not the most gracious welcome she’d ever received.

  Finally he angled toward the door. “Come in.”

  He let her precede him into the small kitchen, where a mammoth dog waited.

  Her heart skipped a beat, and she took a hasty step back, holding the small cooler in front of her.

  “Lucky won’t bother you. He’s more bark than bite.”

  She eyed the enormous dog. “What breed is he? Pony?”

  “A mastiff.” He crossed to the dog and patted its head. “Living alone in the country, a dog’s a necessity for both safety and companionship. But you don’t like dogs, do you? I forgot.”

  “I had a bad experience with one as a child.” More than bad. The fabric of her slacks might cover the scars, but the memory of the night her drunk father had kicked a mutt out of the way on the stoop of their apartment building—and the dog taking its anger out on her—had never faded.

  “I’ll put him outside. That’s where he’d rather be, anyway.”

  Joe returned to the door, opened it, and snapped his fingers.

  Instead of trotting out, the dog kept watching her, its tongue hanging out.

  “That’s weird. He usually bolts the minute I open the door. Come on, Lucky.”

  The dog spared his owner no more than a quick glance before padding toward her instead. She backed up until she hit the counter, angling away, protecting the cooler. But the mammoth canine stretched its neck to sniff the tote, not the food.

  “Lucky.” Joe walked over and took him by the collar. “Come.” He had to almost drag the dog outside.

  As the screen door slapped shut behind the two of them, Jessica forced herself to take a deep breath. Strange how she could be so calm in life-and-death situations, but put her within twenty feet of a dog and her heart stuttered.

  Chalk it up to the power of childhood memories.

  “Sorry about that.” Joe reentered the kitchen and closed the door. “You want a drink?”

  “Thanks.” A quiver lurked in her voice, and she quashed it before continuing. “A diet cola will be fine. We’re having poached salmon.” She tapped a finger against the cooler.

  “Fancier than my usual fare. You mind if I have a beer?”

  “Not at all.”

  He withdrew a Bud and a Diet Coke. “You want a glass?”

  “No, thanks.”

  He popped both tops. “You don’t strike me as a drink-from-the-can kind of woman.”

  She was tonight.

  “You know what they say about judging a book by its cover.”

  “Yeah? I think I always read you pretty well.” He took a sip of his beer. “But I have to admit, I can’t figure out why you drove all the way down here to talk to me when a phone call would have sufficed. Besides, I thought you didn’t want us to have any contact right now.”

  She shrugged. “Erika and I have met. It seemed only fair to keep you in the loop, and I feel more secure doing it in person rather than by phone. Not that anyone will ever find out about my trip down here, but even if they did, they couldn’t make a lot out of a visit between old friends.”

  “Hardly friends, Jessica.”

  “Whatever.” Why dispute the truth? “Where would you like to eat?”

  “Here.” He rested a hand on the kitchen table. “Or we could go out on the screen porch. It’s not too hot tonight, and it’s private.”

  “I like the porch idea.” That would dovetail nicely with her plan.

  “You want to leave your purse in here?”

  She smiled. “A lady never parts with her purse.”

  “Suit yourself.” He crossed the kitchen and led her through a living room furnished in modified-bachelor style. It was neat and clean, but nothing matched. Brown leather recliner, old crate for a coffee table, a couch draped with a checkered throw, shades but no curtains, green carpet.

  She tried not to wrinkle her nose.

  Joe had never had much taste.

  On the far end of the room he opened a door, holding it as she stepped through.

  The screen porch was elevated and looked out over the field. Neither the road nor any other sign of civilization was visible.

  Perfect.

  She set the cooler on a small side table and pulled out an extra-spicy salsa dip.

  “So what’s going on with Alena’s case?” Joe sat at a glass-topped café table for two.

  “Why don’t we talk about it while we have an appetizer?” She handed him the plastic grocery bag. “Tortilla chips—your favorite brand, as I recall. Would you open them?”

  “Sure.” He took another swig of beer. “Erika’s been keeping me up to speed from her end, by the way.”

  So the two of them had been talking, as she’d suspected.

  A spurt of annoyance shot through her—but she modulated her tone as she set the dip on the table. “Have you two always kept in touch?”

  “On and off. She said she was going to call me this week, but I never heard from her. Any idea why?”

  “Who knows? Erika’s never been the most reliable person. I saw her Tuesday, but I haven’t talked with her since.”

  “Of course not. The high-and-mighty Jessica Lee doesn’t waste time on people she considers beneath her—unless she needs them.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “You’ve certainly gotten cynical with age.”

  “No. I’ve just learned to see things as they are, both the good and the bad.” He maintained eye contact as he bit into a loaded chip.

  The man had become a complete boor.

  “Look . . . why don’t we focus on the reason for my visit?” He was halfway through his beer—no reason to delay things.

  “Fine.” He scooped up another generous portion of dip.

  While she recounted the sequence of events, beginning with the find on the construction site, she picked up her can of soda. No reason the same distraction technique wouldn’t work again.

  The instant he reached for his beer, she sloshed the can, spilling it on her slacks and the floor.

  She jumped up, and he stood too.

  “Wouldn’t you know it? These are brand-new.” She scrubbed at the fabric with a paper napkin. “Do you by chance have any liquid laundry detergent? Or even dish detergent and a cloth dipped in hot water?”

  “Sure. I’ll be right back.”

  Once he disappeared inside, she went into action. Given the small size of Joe’s house, she’d have less time than she’d had at Erika’s—and more to do.

  Moving quickly, she withdrew one of the small, clear containers from her tote. All three yellow jackets were moving about, anxious to escape the prison she’d consigned them to earlier in the day after attracting them in a roadside park en route with apple juice and a strip of bacon.

  She shook the container until they were all at the bottom, then positioned it over the opened tab on Joe’s beer. After removing the lid, she inverted it and tapped them into the opening.

  One . . . two . . . three.

  Done.

  Grasping the can with a paper napkin, she swirled the beer in case any of the bees were clinging to the side. As she dropped the empty container back in her tote, Joe opened the door to the screen porch.

  Very close, as she’d expected.

  “No liquid laundry detergent, but here’s a wet cloth and some dish soap.”

  “Thanks. Set them on the table for a minute, please.” She pretended to inspect the stain. “Go ahead and enjoy your beer. It’s going to get hot if you let it sit there.”

  After all those tortilla chips and spicy dip, he didn
’t need a second invitation.

  She watched out of the corner of her eye as he lifted the can and took a long gulp.

  Nothing happened.

  Hmm.

  Were the bees still floating in the liquid? Surely one of them would have—

  All at once, Joe gasped. His eyes bulged and his body went rigid.

  Excellent. They were back on script.

  She tipped her head, feigning innocence. “Joe? Is something wrong?”

  He dropped the can and grasped his throat. “I don’t . . . know. Can’t . . . breathe.” He looked down at the can as it rolled across the floor. One of the yellow jackets crawled out.

  All the color drained from his face, and he vaulted to his feet. Swayed.

  Jessica stood. “What can I do?”

  “EpiPen . . . injector . . . kitchen drawer . . . by sink. Hurry.”

  “Sit down. I’ll get it.” She pressed him back into his chair and pushed through the door into the house.

  Once inside, she stepped out of his line of sight, put on the latex gloves she’d tucked in her pocket before leaving home . . . and waited.

  When he started to rise, she opened the door. Already his lips were puffy, and red splotches were appearing on his cheeks. Amazing how quickly anaphylactic shock could kick in when you had a severe allergy to bee venom. He was reacting even faster than he had the time they’d all gone to a backyard barbecue at Erika’s parents’ house in their college days.

  Of course, stings to the mouth—or throat—accelerated the process. An injection of epinephrine wouldn’t help a whole lot in a case like this . . . not that he’d be getting one, anyway.

  “I’m not finding it, Joe.”

  His mouth opened, like a freshly caught fish gasping for air.

  He jolted forward, knocking over his chair in the process. She shifted aside as he staggered past her, then weaving like a drunk, trailed behind him while he lurched through the living room and headed for the kitchen.

  The EpiPen was in the drawer by the sink, just as he’d said.

  He grabbed for it, but his fingers fumbled. They, too, must be swelling already—like his throat.

  “Why don’t you let me help you?” She moved toward him and pulled the pen from his clumsy fingers.

  Then she backed away, smacked it hard against the ninety-degree edge of the counter, and handed it back to him.

  Through the panic in his eyes, she saw shock morph to understanding as the lifesaving liquid leaked onto his fingers.

  With a strangled sound, he dropped the pen to the floor and stumbled toward the hall.

  Of course he had another pen stashed somewhere. Joe was a numbers guy, meticulous about details. That’s why she’d trusted him with Alena’s ring—though if it turned out that steely-eyed police chief wasn’t bluffing, he’d blown that assignment.

  She followed him down the hall. Adrenaline and desperation could keep people on their feet past normal limits . . . but they couldn’t send air to your lungs.

  And his airway was swelling closed.

  Fast.

  All at once he staggered. Fell to one knee. Listed against the wall.

  When he blinked up at her, there was a faint blue tinge to his lips and he was sweating.

  “Still have that bad bee allergy, I see.” She folded her arms and propped her shoulder against the wall. “I hear that can be deadly.”

  He tried to speak, but no sound came out. His eyes were puffing up now too, and in slow motion he tilted sideways, onto the floor, his labored gasps the only sound in the silent house.

  For five minutes, she remained in place. He was still breathing, but he wouldn’t be for long. And there wasn’t much chance he was going to budge from where he lay.

  Leaving him in the hall, she returned to the screen porch. Their dinner remained in the cooler, since things had progressed faster than expected. But she picked up the dip. Before putting the lid back on, she helped herself to a couple of chips. It was going to be a long, hungry drive back. At least she could enjoy the gourmet dinner in the cooler once she arrived. Maybe she’d open that bottle of champagne she’d been saving for a special occasion. Celebrate the resolution of all her problems.

  By the time she’d packed up her things and finished off her soda, ten minutes had elapsed.

  Better check on Joe.

  She wrapped her soda can in the plastic grocery bag and fitted it into her purse, next to the second container of bees. The backup team. If they were alive once she got back to St. Louis, she might even let them go.

  Innocent creatures didn’t deserve to die.

  At the door to the house, she stopped and gave the screen porch a final scrutiny. Overturned chair. Bag of chips on the table. Beer can on the floor.

  It looked exactly the way she’d planned: Joe had come out to enjoy the pleasant weather, a bee had somehow infiltrated the screen porch and been attracted by the beer—and he’d made a fast exit in search of the EpiPen.

  Very plausible.

  She moved on to the kitchen. The drawer was open, the pen on the floor. In his panic, he’d dropped it. The medication had leaked. He’d gone for his spare pen.

  Shifting the cooler in her hands, she crossed into the hall.

  Joe was right where she’d left him.

  She eased closer and leaned down. The wheezing had stopped, and his chest wasn’t rising and falling. If there was any respiration, it was very shallow.

  And it wouldn’t last much longer.

  No reason to wait around.

  Except it wasn’t dark yet, and the risk someone would witness her departure was too high.

  Who’d have thought the whole thing would be over so fast?

  She sighed. Hanging around the house wasn’t smart. The less time she spent inside, the less chance of leaving any evidence of her visit, even with latex gloves on and her hair cemented in place.

  Best to wait for nightfall outside in the car.

  After retracing her steps to the kitchen, she opened the back door—and found the monster dog waiting for her on the other side of the screen door.

  He peered at her, emitting a low, ominous growl.

  Her heart stumbled.

  Calm down, Jessica. It’s only a dog. Joe said he wasn’t aggressive. Just let him in, walk out, and pull the door closed behind you. You can do this.

  The little pep talk didn’t calm her much—but what choice did she have?

  Taking a deep breath, she pushed the door open, prepared to skirt around the dog as he trotted inside.

  But the gargantuan canine stopped halfway in. Still growling, he bared his teeth.

  Big teeth.

  Her heart lurched, and she made a quick move to escape.

  Not quick enough, however.

  He nipped at her fingers, and she lost her grip on the cooler.

  It fell, half in, half out of the doorway, tipping sideways. The lid flew off, and she watched in horror as the container of salsa dip rolled across the floor.

  The dog bounded after it, batting at it with his paw as he skidded over the tile. Like it was some kind of game.

  For a fleeting instant she considered leaving it. But that would be stupid. Her fingerprints were all over the container. She had to retrieve it.

  Lucky continued to pounce and paw at the plastic tub. Then he grabbed it with his teeth and shook it.

  Any second the contents were going to spew all over the floor.

  She had to get it back.

  Now.

  Leaving her tote and the cooler on the back stoop, she rubbed her palms down her thighs. Maybe there was some dog food in the closet and she could distract him.

  One eye locked on the canine, she sidled in and opened the pantry door.

  Yes!

  A giant bag of dog food rested on the floor.

  She opened the top, pulled out a handful of the dried food, and tossed it on the floor on the opposite side of the room.

  That got the dog’s attention.

  Abando
ning his new toy, he bounded over and began scarfing it up.

  Jessica crossed the kitchen in three long strides, snatched up the dip, and ran out the back door, pulling it closed behind her.

  Heart pounding, she shoved the dog-slobbered dip container into the plastic bag with her soda can, grabbed her stuff, and hightailed it to the car.

  Only after everything was stowed, the latex gloves stripped off, and she was behind the wheel did her respiration slow. But her fingers continued to tremble.

  All because of a stupid dog.

  No matter. She was done here, and as soon as the light faded, she’d be on her way home—finally free of the past, with no impediments to the shining future that lay ahead of her.

  She rolled down her window, nerves beginning to calm . . . until the scent of fresh-cut hay wafted toward her.

  The same scent scorched into her memory from that long-ago night.

  Doing her best to ignore the smell, she drummed her finger against the wheel. How annoying, after all these years, to have to deal with reminders of that incident. The whole thing should be dead and buried—just as Alena had been.

  And if that lady cop hadn’t been so determined to get to the bottom of the mystery, it still would be.

  The wind picked up, and a faint rumble of thunder sounded in the distance. A moment later, a few splatters of rain plopped on the windshield.

  She inspected the sky. The storm clouds she’d seen earlier massing on the horizon were moving closer.

  But that was okay. Rain would wash away tire tracks on the gravel, if someone should happen to look for any.

  Not likely, though. Once again, there would be no sign of her presence at the scene of this tragic, accidental death.

  The rain intensified, and as she started to roll up her window, she detected the faint sound of barking from within Joe’s house.

  Lucky.

  She snorted. That dog was the only lucky thing in Joe’s life.

  Sinking back in her seat, Jessica left the window cracked. The way the heavy clouds were rolling in, it would soon be dark enough for her to leave.

  And once she was back home in her condo, she was definitely going to break open that bottle of champagne.

  The irritating Alena interlude was over at last.

  20

  Joe Andrews was dead.