Executive Dirt: A Sedona O'Hala Mystery

by Maria Schneider

  Someone called my name from behind me, but it was impossible to tell who with as hard as I was breathing. Besides, I could take the stairs way faster than Cary could ring the elevator up to the third floor. I’d be out of the building and in my car before he arrived down on the first floor.

  If you never look back, you can claim you never saw them.

  Of course, just sneaking out of work to bake a tiramisu wasn’t enough of a challenge. At six o’clock when Mark was due to show up, I was outside helping Dad install the last of the blueberry plants in my new raised bed. Darkness was already creeping into the yard.

  I didn’t remember gardening being this dim. “We could wait until morning,” I grumbled.

  Dad ignored me, of course.

  We dug about in the soil, unwrapped the roots and set them in the ground. The blueberry bushes were nothing but twigs, with no sign of spring budding whatsoever.

  Mom was busy puttering about inside, having generously offered to unbind the material from the serger and rethread it.

  We hadn’t finished installing the last bush when she bustled out the back door and leaned over to whisper. “Mark’s brother is here. It was very nice of you to invite him too.”

  Of course I hadn’t done any such thing. Huntington always invited himself places. “Steve?”

  “He looks just like Mark, but his eyes are blue. I think he’s taller too.”

  “What’s he doing here?” I slapped my hands mostly clean and then brushed them on my sweatpants.

  Mom said, “Well, of course I invited him in for cake. It was obvious he is family since he looks just like Mark.”

  “Yes, I know. Dad, are you coming?”

  “There’s still time to mulch these in. I’ll finish that. You don’t want them to dry out or for the roots to get too cold.”

  Mom rolled her eyes at me and tugged me to the back door.

  By the time we hurried back inside, Mark had also shown up. Steve, being Steve, had had no problem letting Mark in while we were out back.

  Mark had made more of an effort with his hair than normal. Instead of it just being combed, it had been gelled into place. I gave him my best smile before turning to his brother.

  “Steve,” I said coolly. “You’ve met my mother?”

  He smiled, ever assured. “The elegant and lovely lady who answered the door, yes. You look nothing like her. I’d never have guessed.”

  He was right, but it was rude to say so. Mom’s strawberry blonde curls were completely untamed, but gave her a soft, feminine glow. My brown hair was almost always pulled into a messy ponytail that bespoke my laziness. Mom had bright green eyes and a smattering of friendly freckles. My eyes were darker, nearly gray, and I had a tendency to frown a lot, especially lately.

  That changed when Mark moved to my side. Either because his brother had also shown up or just because, Mark put his arm around me and leaned in to give me a kiss. He left his arm around my shoulders.

  I grinned up at him. “I hope everyone likes tiramisu. I need to wash up.”

  Mom started pattering and asking mom-type social questions.

  I hurried to change clothes and was just out of the bathroom when Dad came in.

  Mom, ever the smooth social hostess, handled introducing Dad to Steve. Dad hadn’t washed up yet, but he shook Steve’s hand anyway. That was Dad; absent-minded and not too worried about a bit of dirt. As soon as he spotted me, Dad said, “Don’t over water, now.” I helped him finish with, “Just keep the root ball damp.”

  Steve peered around Dad’s shoulder at the backyard. “You already put in the garden bed? Great!”

  Dad gave a proud nod as he headed to the kitchen sink to wash his hands. He continued with his instructions. “You don’t need to fertilize for a few weeks. I made sure to mix molasses in there. I didn’t put in any corn meal because I knew you’d want to plant onions from seeds. Don’t put the tomato plants out until the nights are above forty. You can probably get away with slightly cooler, but you know those cold nights will drift in there anyway.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Mom busied herself cutting slices of tiramisu.

  She handed me a plate. Her eyes widened. “You better move the sewing machines. I’ll finish serving.”

  Dad grabbed two plates from Mom and handed one to Steve, leaving Mark to relocate the machines.

  “Did you boil the eggs?” Dad asked.

  I nodded dutifully. “Yes—”

  He interrupted around a mouthful of tiramisu. “For a minute at full boil.”

  I had probably cheated, but nodded anyway. I only bothered to boil them when Dad was likely to ask. Usually I took my chances with raw eggs, but with Dad, the only way to avoid a lecture was to follow his rules. This time, even my precautions failed to avert the lecture. He turned to Mark.

  “Food poisoning. Could die of the shits if you get it bad enough and can’t obtain medical help in time. Hell of a way to go. Of course,” he interrupted himself and faced me, “if you used eggs from a free-range farm, you probably wouldn’t have to boil them. Did you?”

  Mom blushed a bright red. Dad was spoiling another of her dinner parties, and at the rate he was spouting, his tab was going to run so high he’d never be able to make it up to her. If I didn’t intervene soon, Mom might make up an excuse to lure him back to the garden and then lock him outside.

  “Uh, no, they weren’t from a local farm. They were from the grocery so I—”

  Back to Mark, Dad’s original target. “If a chicken is allowed to peck along the ground and eat bugs and pebbles for digestion, and even some chicken poop from other chickens, it has a healthy digestive tract. They lay eggs with a protective barrier,” he said. “You don’t want to wash eggs unless there’s obvious shit on them and then just spot clean them. The chickens take care of the rest.”

  I smiled weakly at Mark. Steve inspected the tiramisu with sudden suspicion. I hurriedly reassured him. “Don’t worry, Huntington. Your egg came from the grocery. That chicken only ate grain right from the feed trough.”

  He glanced up at me before Dad took back over. “It’s a lot healthier to eat the eggs from chickens that roam. More protein, better natural antibiotics in the system, the whole nine yards. ‘Course it’s best to nab the eggs right after they are laid or you could end up cracking one and the bacteria—”

  Mom twisted her napkin in her fingers and pushed her chair back to stand.

  “Dad, they are from the grocery!” I yelled. “No issues with freshness. Plucked right out of the hen house. Fresh and boiled!”

  Mark grinned at me and spooned in another bite of tiramisu. Huntington frowned down at his plate, his doubt obvious. “All of this cake was made from the same batch?” he asked. “You didn’t make a special piece or two for anyone?”

  I hadn’t thought of that, but it made me smile. “Yes, Huntington, your cake is from the exact same batch as everyone else’s. Plus, I didn’t know you were coming.”

  He didn’t look as though he believed me, but the tiramisu was excellent so he didn’t refuse to eat it.

  Mom muttered something about making Dad’s with special eggs. “No, Dad is safe, too.”

  Mark laughed, but changed it to a cough when my mother glanced his way.

  The tiramisu and coffee disappeared despite Dad changing his lecture to how chicken poop was excellent fertilizer for the garden.

  When it was time for Mark and Steve to depart, and gosh, they wasted no time after eating, Steve handed me a piece of paper. “Garden club meeting time and place. Sewing ones too.” He smiled innocently, knowing I wouldn’t discuss a case in front of my parents since it was better if they remained completely in the dark about any case, past or present.

  “Thanks.”

  Mark shot him a cold glare and opened the door, urging Steve along in front of him. I followed them both out. My parents probably would have opted to allow me some privacy, but Dad spotted Steve’s new stealth car sitting in the driveway.

  “Is t
hat a Porsche?” he asked, his head tilting as he stepped outside. It was already past dusk, but because of my involvement with Huntington and his investigations, my porch light was more of a lighthouse beacon than a normal bulb. Good lighting might keep any escaped convicts or friends of Huntington who were roaming the neighborhood from wandering onto my property. If the glare of discovery didn’t stop them, I’d at least be able to see them clearly if I had to shoot.

  Steve failed to hide a note of pride in his voice when he answered Dad. “It’s the Panamera electric hybrid.”

  I looked back to find my mother leaning against the door jamb with her hand over her eyes. “Mark, you might want to come back inside and have another piece of cake. This could take a while,” she said.

  Mark glanced at me. “Car buff?”

  I shook my head. “Not really. But you know how I work at technology companies and like cool gadgets?” He raised an eyebrow in lieu of answering, but I continued. “I get that from Dad. I noticed Huntington’s new car the other day, but didn’t know it was an electric hybrid.”

  If it had been anyone other than Steve, I’d have gone and admired the car too, but there was no point in feeding his ego. To be fair, Dad also asked about Mark’s Lexus hybrid. Mark didn’t even have a chance to leave the porch, never mind answer the questions. Huntington knew every feature on Mark’s SUV as if he owned it himself.

  Mom retrieved her sweater, and we loitered while Steve extolled the virtues of his new hybrid, including the all-important zero to sixty in “just under five seconds.”

  Mark put his arm around me, and we leaned on each other.

  Just another night with my oddball family and eclectic friends.

  Chapter 13

  I fully expected Cary to read me the riot act for disappearing “early” two days in a row. Never mind that five-thirty was a perfectly normal quitting time, and never mind that I started work at seven. He would choose to recall that I hadn’t worked the previous weekend, so by his standards, I hadn’t shown up for a solid week.

  Huddled in my cube, I downloaded the latest code and started testing. My spreadsheet already listed several hours of completed tests.

  Now that I knew the secret, I activated the Pig Latin on one of my three test phones. “Yup. Still there.” Thankfully on these phones, the robotic assistant’s voice pronounced the words, rather than Joe’s voice. His nasal translations from the grave had been far too creepy. But it did beg the question of just why the phone that I had been given had contained Joe’s voice recordings. It had to have been his personal phone.

  I shuddered.

  All of my test phones readily went in and out of Pig Latin translation mode. If there were any coded messages on Joe’s phone, maybe Radar would find them, because as far as the Pig Latin went, it seemed to work the same—and perfectly on every phone in the bunch.

  The test for sending text messages worked fine as well. The phone assistant was supposed to be creative enough to handle a variety of tasks, including answering questions that relied on artificial intelligence to come up with an appropriate answer to miscellaneous questions. The AI was my favorite part of testing. “Recommend a good book to read,” I instructed.

  “Anything by Frank Tuttle.”

  “Tuttle? Who is Frank Tuttle?”

  “An author. Or Big Foot.”

  “Big Foot???”

  The phone repeated itself. I felt like shaking it, but stared at my test sheet instead. “I don’t know if this is a legit bug to report or if Borgot’s phone has solved the mystery of Big Foot. Big Foot? Who programmed this thing?”

  I tested Kovid’s new code for naming the phone assistant. It was a bit of a hassle at the moment because it required both typing in the name and speaking it into the phone. Without both steps, the robotic voice mangled the pronunciation. Despite my careful pronunciation, “Unicorn” still came out Un-I-Corn. Worse, the phone stuttered, making it sound like listening to rap music while popping popcorn.

  “You can’t say ‘unicorn’ but you can pronounce ‘Tuttle’?” Maybe Tuttle was some famous monster hunter or something.

  I tested the phones all day, completing all my usual tests and creating several new ones. Despite expecting Cary to stop by, he was a no-show. Without him around to nag me, I scooted out of work at five. It was almost like being on vacation. And my parents had left that morning. I called Mark before reaching the car. “Want to get together for dinner?”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “Who cares? We can get Chinese or I can cook. Mom left the pantry stocked.”

  “I could grab some steaks.”

  “Works for me. There’s tiramisu for dessert.”

  “That wasn’t the dessert I had in mind.”

  It hadn’t been the dessert I’d had in mind either, but I there was no way I would say that out loud.

  For once, traffic didn’t attempt to kill me on my way home even though I was in a hurry. This time, I left my backpack in the car because this was a “no phones” kind of date.

  Before changing out of my jeans, I stepped out back to ready the grill. I stopped cold in the doorway. “Oh, my God. Who? Why?”

  My beautiful garden and its neatly arranged rows was a mess. The blueberry plants were no longer in the ground. One lay on its side by the cute brick edge Dad had installed. Another was halfway across the yard. “Who?” The entire backyard had been sprayed with the garden hose. In fact, the water was still on.

  I hurried to shut it off, my shoes squishing in the mud. “Crap.” I was still in my work sneakers and jeans. No point in ruining them. I raced inside and changed into my oldest sweatpants and a shirt that should probably have been thrown out two decades ago. I never wore it anymore, but it had a picture of a cow skull and desert sun with the words, “But it’s a dry heat” across the front. I loved that saying.

  My oldest sneakers weren’t that old, so I grabbed up the beach water shoes meant for a trip to Hawaii. I’d never gone to Hawaii, but I had big plans for someday. My feet would be cold in the shoes, but at least I could hose the mud and dirt off.

  Back outside, I slogged over to the first blueberry plant. I grabbed the trowel that was practically still warm from Dad’s hands from planting the day before. “Huntington if you...” But that made no sense. He wanted me to garden. Why would he, or anyone for that matter, tear my garden to shreds?

  “Hmph.” With an energy that was mostly fury, I used the hand trowel to dig a hole in the corner where the blueberry bush had been. Whoever had gone through here had used a shovel and water to smooth everything inside the raised bed back to an even, muddy mess.

  I moved to the next blueberry bush, but that was a mistake. The dirt in the garden was soft. My water shoes were meant for traction on sand, not sinking into soil and swimming against loose dirt. Halfway across, I was buried nearly to my knees.

  I opted to step backwards onto the dirt already traversed, but my foot slid against an unsteady surface. My butt took the brunt of the fall.

  Thankfully the ground wasn’t wet enough to splash. Not so thankfully, as I scrambled to my knees, I realized the ground beneath me was wearing clothes.

  “Wha—?” I sucked in a worried breath. Maybe Dad had lost part of his sleeve? Tentatively, praying, I scooped dirt away from what had once been a gray or white shirt. Using the spade sparingly, I verified that the shirt was still on the body that had worn it. For the second time in a week, I felt for a pulse, knocking more dirt aside. Even mostly buried, I knew who was wearing the clothes. No one else had lips frozen into that botox expression, and his had been preserved like that long before rigor mortis set in.

  Like an angel with wings, I airlifted myself out of that garden plot, the ghost on my tail. One water shoe remained suctioned in the dirt. The other stayed with me as I flew to the back door, reached in for the phone and dialed 911.

  Chapter 14

  The 911 operator demanded that I stay on the line until the police arrived. That prevented me from c
alling Mark and annoyed my last nerve. I didn’t have a lot of remaining nerves to begin with, not after finding Cary in my backyard.

  When Detective Saunders finally arrived, I hung up without saying good-bye. Having already soiled the crime scene with my presence, I stomped closer to the raised bed to answer his questions.

  He ignored me for several minutes.

  When he finally stopped bellowing at his team about “taping off” and “watch your step,” he turned to me in disgust. “Could you have possibly contaminated this scene worse? You’re a mess.”

  I crossed my arms and glared. By a small margin I resisted tapping my foot. “Sorry. I didn’t stop to bathe before calling the police.” I blew my bangs up with a puff of air. My hair must have been well past “fashionably windblown” and more “matted down with mud” because it barely moved.

  The detective snorted, giving me another disapproving quick up and down. He turned around and grabbed a very large plastic bag from one of the technicians. He held it out with a smirk. “I’ll need to take those clothes as evidence. I need every speck of dirt that may have been in contact with the victim.”

  Was he implying that I should just get naked in front of everyone? My eyes narrowed and the foot tapped. Before I could verbalize my opinion of him, a stealthy male voice from behind me said, “I’ll make sure she gets these out to you with all the dirt intact.” Mark’s arm snaked around my waist.

  Then, to my embarrassment, Mark reached up and removed a clump of soil from my hair. He took the plastic bag from the detective and dropped the clump inside, shifting so that he was planted firmly between me and Detective Saunders.

  I sighed. “I was much cleaner before I found this mess.” I waved my hand at the taped off area. “Those prize blueberries cannot be replaced. My dad looked high and low before he found the varieties he wanted.” I refused to acknowledge that my voice was shaking. “I don’t imagine Cary is feeling all that fixable either.”

  Truth to tell, I was probably sorrier about the work lost. The gardening had been something Dad had helped me with, and after the police were done sifting through each molecule of dirt, I’d be left with nothing but sifted mud.