A Hoe Lot of Trouble (20 page)

He tugged on the bandana shading his head. "Very."

"All right, then. I'll see you on Monday."

I spent the rest of the morning elbow deep in mulch and peonies. Working soothed my nerves, though I couldn't help but wonder when the police would show up to cart me off.

Maybe Demming hadn't called them? Could a girl get that lucky? I'd pegged him as a man who liked attention, and shooting at an intruder was a perfect opportunity to get his face in the news. Of course, he might be a tad bit embarrassed that a girl outwitted him.

But I still couldn't come up with an explanation of how he knew my name. It didn't make sense. I hadn't told anyone connected with him my name.

I dropped my hand shovel. Holy Moises Alou.

I
knew
Demming had looked familiar! And now I knew

why. I had seen him before yesterday. He had been with Chanson at his office; the shorter man on his way out.

And what was it that Chanson had said to him?
It would
all be over soon.

I had nearly let Chanson off scot-free to focus on Demming. They must be in this together, which is how Demming had known my name, I suddenly realized.

Maybe Demming
had
recognized me during my pretend house hunt, and not from any TV spot featuring Taken by Surprise. He must have remembered that he'd seen me in Chanson's office. One phone call to Chanson would be all he needed to get a name to go with my face. Dammit all.

What, exactly, did I do with this information? Should I go to Kevin? My inner voice said yes, but I thought no. Better to wait and get more information so I didn't look like a screw-up when I went to him with all this.

But that was just my pride, I realized, groaning.

I decided I'd run things by Bridget and Tim at dinner, see what they thought. I'd bring the rat poison with me, see if it was the same kind that had poisoned the sheep. I sighed, looked at my watch. It was closing in on two o'clock now.

Kit shouldered up to me. "Go home. Get some rest. I can take care of things here."

I yawned. "You sure?"

"Positive."

I didn't need to be asked twice.

Back at home, I replayed the message I received from Pesky Pests telling me when they would be in the office. Playing phone tag was wearing thin. Xena still roamed free. Riley claimed to have seen her slithering past my bedroom door, but I was inclined to not believe him, because one, he would like nothing better than to scare me to death, and two, the thought of Xena in—or near—my room scared me to death.

I was really hoping that she had slithered right out of the house and made a nice home for herself in one of Mr. Cabrera's rose beds.

I changed out of my grimy jeans into shorts and a T-shirt. I knew I ought to go talk to Chanson. And I still hadn't heard from Dave Mein.

I slumped down on the couch, yawned. My eyelids dropped. Blessedly, I dreamed of nothing at all.

"Wipe the drool off your lips before we sit down," I said to Ana as we walked toward the table for four where Bridget and Tim were sitting.

Ana smiled, talked through her teeth. "It's so not fair."

"What?"

"That men get better with age."

I didn't have time to voice my agreement before we reached the table. Tim stood, gave us both hugs, kissed our cheeks. Ana's face flushed crimson.

Tim was one of those guys who just got better-looking. His boyish baby fat had long since faded into hard planes, smooth lines, and mouthwatering masculinity.

Not that I noticed.

I kissed Bridget's cheek before sitting across from her, leaving Ana to sit across from Tim. She'd thank me later, I was sure.

The skirt of my black all-occasion dress bunched around my knees, and I gave it a good hard tug as Ana went on and on about how good it was to see the two of them again.

"Boy or girl?" she asked.

Bridget smiled. "Don't know. We want it to be a surprise."

Tim sipped a foamy beer, then said, "
You
want it to be a surprise. I'm all for knowing."

Color tinged Bridget's ears. "Yes, well. I want it to be a surprise. So little in life is."

A sensed a smidge of tension between the two, so I searched for a change of subject but couldn't find one. Asking about family was out, asking about work was way out, and apparently asking about the baby was a touchy subject. I signaled the waiter and ordered white wine.

Tim plucked at his napkin. "Bridget said Kevin had to work tonight?"

Really, I had no idea if he was working or not. "Yes. Yes he is."

"How's he doing?" Bridget asked. "You never did say much about him the other day."

The waiter set down my wine. I gulped it down, and looked to Ana for help. She was giving Tim big moon eyes.

I held in a big sigh as I said, "He's great. Loves his work."

"Does he get along with his new partner?" Bridget asked.

Ana's head snapped up as if just hearing what we were discussing. She smiled. "Oh, they're like this," she said, crossing her fingers.

I choked on the wine and Ana thumped me on the back.

Tim's eyebrows rose in question, but he didn't comment. "Well, that's good." He pushed a hand through his dark blond hair. "It's always nice to have someone watching your back."

I blinked. For a second there I thought he said "washing your back." Ha! The wine must have gone straight to my head.

Ana apparently hadn't picked up on the whole babytension thing because she said, eyeing Bridget's large stomach, "Have you had an ultrasound, Bridget? Just to make sure it's not twins?"

Bridget laughed. "I get that all the time. And yes, I had one. Two, as a matter of fact."

Tim pulled out his wallet, took out a black-and-white grainy image. "Want to look?"

"Sure." Ana snatched the picture. Inwardly, I groaned as she made as much skin-to-skin contact with Tim as possible.

I took a look at the ultrasound picture. I had no earthly idea what I was looking at. I oohed and ahhed for good measure.

The waiter came, took our orders and disappeared again. Bridget and Tim kept sharing tense glances. We chitchatted about this, that, and the other.

I took a deep breath, deciding it was time I told them about what I'd learned so far. Lowering my voice, I told them about my run-in with Demming (leaving out the shooting part), the rat poison out in my car, and the connection I'd made between Demming and Chanson.

Bridget looked interested in the information, but Tim's expression had turned into a scowl. The corners of his lips tightened. "We actually wanted to talk to you about that, Nina."

Bridget lumbered to her feet, wouldn't look at me. "I need to use the little girls' room."

Ana looked between Tim and me, and apparently sensing conflict in the air, jumped up. "Me too. The wine—"

I glared at her for abandoning me. She shrugged and scurried away, like the rat that she was.

Tim stared at the bread basket as he said, "We want you to stop investigating, Nina."

This wasn't a surprise. "Why?"

"It's not your job, you have no investigative experience whatsoever, it's dangerous, and frankly, it's none of your business. Bridget shouldn't have said anything to you at all."

Hmmph. I kept my Clue-playing abilities to myself. I didn't think he'd appreciate them.

"I'm sorry," he said, "if that sounds harsh. That's just the way it is."

"Your mother okayed it."

Guilt nudged at my conscience. I still hadn't had a chance to help Mrs. Sandowski with Joe's gardens. It was going to the top of my priority list.

"Frankly, she's depressed since Dad's death, and can hardly be called on to make a decision like that."

"Frankly," I said, mocking, "I've been getting results. Demming with Chanson, the rat poison . . ."

He took a sip of his beer. "Stay out of it, Nina."

His adamancy confused me. Why was he so gung ho I stop looking into what's been going on? With wine fortification, I said, "I think you should take this evidence to the police."

"No."

I looked to the ladies' room door. Still firmly closed. What was going on in there? "It's getting too dangerous for them to be left out."

"I can't be sure their pockets aren't lined."

"You can trust Kevin. He'll do a thorough investigation."

Did I just say the words "trust" and "Kevin" in the same sentence? Had I gone mad?

His shoulders stiffened, his muscles bunching under his Polo shirt. His dark eyes narrowed. "You already called them?"

"What? Them who?"

"The police."

"No."

He motioned with his chin. "Then why are they here?"

I turned around in my seat and saw Kevin headed straight toward me, a uniformed officer dogging his heels.

Uh-oh.

Kevin stopped in front of our table, arms crossed, looking formidable and a bit scary. He and Tim shook hands, murmured "haven't seen you in a while" greetings. The officer with him had his hat in one hand—his other hand rested on his hip. Ginger was nowhere to be seen, and I was beyond grateful.

I smiled. Kevin didn't. I swallowed. "Here for dinner?" I asked. A girl could hope.

"No."

"Oh." My gaze snapped to his, and I saw how serious he was. I jumped to my feet. "It's not about Riley, is it?" He was supposed to be spending the weekend with Kevin. But if Kevin was here, where was Ry? With those Skinz?

"Riley's fine. Watching videos."

My knees wobbled a bit with relief, and a bit of fear. If not here about Riley . . . "Then what?"

"It's about John Demming, Nina."

"Demming?" I asked, my voice choked. I should have been expecting this. Hell, I
had been e
xpecting this all day, but I'd finally let my guard down. What would my parents say when they heard that I'd broken into a house? Been arrested, as my mom predicted?

"Why don't we go outside?" Kevin said, angling his head toward the patrons openly staring at us.

I made my apologies to Tim, and asked him to send Ana out when she returned.

"I'll call you tomorrow, Nina, to finish this conversation."

Weakly, I smiled. Little did he know that by tomorrow I'd probably be in the local lock-up and calling
him
to represent me.

Damp night air settled on my shoulders as we rounded the corner of the restaurant. I spotted a black and white blocking my Corolla.

"I want answers, Nina."

I tried for innocent. "To what?"

The officer—Jaredo, by the tag on his uniform—stood by my car door. Did he think I'd bolt? Guilty heat crept into my cheeks. I had to confess the thought crossed my mind.

"There's been a murder."

His words sucked the breath right out of my lungs. A

murder? What? Whoa! I thought Kevin said he was here about John Demming. Breaking and entering. Nothing that would warrant capital punishment. "A murder!?"

"John Demming was found dead this morning."

"John Demming?" I parroted, confused.

"Been dead about ten hours as close as the medical ex- aminer could tell. Happened around eleven last night."

I could feel the color draining from my face. Eleven? He had to have been killed soon after I pitched myself out the window of his unfinished house. My heart raced, my palms dampened. A million questions surged through my mind, but only one screamed to be answered.

"Why are you here, Kevin, telling me this?"

"We'd like to know why your prints were found all over the crime scene."

My legs went weak. My prints. The crime scene. I sat on the bumper of the patrol car. This wasn't happening. "How'd he die?" I managed to say.

"Gunshot to the head."

"No!" I shook my head. "It's just not possible."

"What isn't?"

"He was alive. He was shooting at me!"

Kevin's eyes widened. Officer Jaredo stood stock still, guarding my car.

Kevin put his hand on my shoulder. "Tell me what happened."

"Why?"

"Because you're a suspect, Nina. That's what suspects do. They tell the police what happened."

I shrugged out of his grasp. "Well, you don't have to be so condescending about it."

He let out a tired, "Nina."

"Could it have been suicide?" I asked. Maybe Demming felt such overwhelming guilt for his role in terrorizing the Sandowskis that he couldn't live with himself any longer.

"No."

Ohmygod, ohmygod.

My thoughts spun. None of this made sense. I looked at Kevin. Did he really think me capable of killing someone?

Lord, how did I get myself into this mess? "You really think I'm a suspect?"

His eyes were a light green. Not muddy like mine, but emerald clear. I looked for any sign that he thought I could murder someone, but he gave none. This Kevin I didn't know, the detective. I knew the man, not the officer.

"I need you to tell me what happened. We can do it here or at the station, Nina."

The hem of my all-occasion dress rode up as my knees shook. I held tightly onto the bumper so I wouldn't slide off. "Here's just peachy."

"You said Demming shot at you. When? Where? Why?"

Why hadn't I kept my big mouth closed? I promised Mrs. Sandowski I wouldn't involve the police. She'd have to understand that I needed to talk to prove my innocence. She'd understand . . . wouldn't she?

"Nina."

Rubbing my temples, I tried to think of how to phrase my answer. "He thought I was an intruder," I finally answered. There. That wasn't a lie.

"Why?"

"Because I was in a house he was building."

"Why were you there?"

"I had . . . forgotten something." True enough, I reasoned.