A Hoe Lot of Trouble (4 page)

My knuckles turned white as I gripped the hockey stick with undue force. The front door slammed.

I checked the drawer of Kevin's nightstand. Locked. It was a good thing. I had the feeling that if Kevin gave me any crap, I'd be tempted to grab the off-duty gun he kept in there and shoot him. The mental picture made me smile. Oh, I wouldn't shoot to kill. I'd aim for more . . .
strategic
points. Points south.

"Nina!" he yelled up the stairs. "I'm here. Is everything ready?"

This was just like Kevin. He didn't even know I was home. He just
assumed
I'd be waiting for him. I hated that about him. For all he knew I could be next door having a cup of lemonade with Mr. Cabrera. Not that I'd ever done so at nine in the morning before, but that was beside the point.

I straightened my shoulders and walked calmly downstairs.

"What the hell? Why on earth are you wearing goulashes and carrying a hockey stick?"

"Xena's loose."

He roared with laughter.

"It's not funny!"

"That snake wouldn't hurt anything."

Unlike myself. I itched to erase his cocky smile. I flexed my fingers, loosening them, so I wouldn't be tempted to take a swing. "What are you doing here?"

"Didn't Riley tell you I was coming? I told him I had to go out of town on a case and asked him to have you pack up some clothes for me."

I rolled my eyes. Imbecile. "Well, he didn't believe you. He knows."

"You sure?"

I glared.

Kevin dragged a hand over his face. "I'll deal with it."

Sure he would. Sighing, I said, "This isn't a good time for me, Kevin. I have things to do." I could only imagine what he'd say if I actually admitted I was about to snoop in his son's room.

"Like what? It's your day off." He walked into the kitchen. "Sink's full up."

My throat tightened. It was the same thing Riley had said.

Kevin took off his suit coat and rolled up his sleeves. "Did you try plunging it?"

"No."

His shoulder holster crisscrossed his muscled back. His gun nestled under his left arm. Shaking his head at my apparent lack of attempting the obvious, he picked up the plunger I had set out. "Weird things are happening in this town. Take the call I responded to this morning . . ."

I snatched the plunger out of his hand. "What do you think you're doing?"

"What?"

"You can't come in here and start plunging sinks." I jabbed him with the plunger, leaving a big wet ring on his shirt. "You can't come in without knocking. You can't come in and start telling me about your calls. You can't."

"Why not?"

"You. Don't. Live. Here. Anymore." I was becoming crankier by the second, especially after I felt moisture stinging my eyes.

Something swept across his features. Some emotion I couldn't identify. He backed away from the sink.

His voice was tight as he spoke. "I thought you might be interested in the call, is all. Especially since it involves a family you've been bugging me about for over a week."

I shouldn't ask. I knew I shouldn't. Not after my little speech, but my curiosity begged for conclusion. Coquettishly, I tipped my head. "Who?"

"The Sandowskis . . ."

"Oh no! What happened?"

He leaned against the counter. "Seems someone heard shots fired at the old farmhouse. Went there, but Mrs. Sandowski said she hadn't heard anything, but something was off. I'm sure she was lying. I just don't know why."

I backed up, using the counter for support. Lena Sandowski. Bridget's mother-in-law. I didn't think Bridget's out-of-the-blue call was coincidental. What was going on? Had Kevin said gunshots? Why hadn't I paid better attention?

"You don't think she had anything to do with . . ."

"I can't tell you that."

Oh yes, his newfound confidentiality rule.

"Nina?"

I looked up, caught an unexpected concerned look on Kevin's face. "You okay?"

"Fine."

"You don't look fine."

I dropped my gaze to look at myself. I had a plunger in one hand, a hockey stick in the other, and I was wearing muck-covered rubber boots in the kitchen. My stepson hated me, there was a snake loose in the house, and I was on the verge of divorce. I was definitely not fine.

"I'm fine."

"Fine."

Didn't I already have this conversation this morning?

"Look, Nina, about what happened, with the boxers . . ."

Shaking my head, I held up the plunger, stopping him. I didn't want to hear it. It was too much for me to handle right now. "I think you should go. Come back when no one's home to get your things."

"This is still my house too, Nina. You can't tell me what to do."

"Oh no?" I said softly. Too softly. When my voice dropped that low, it was a sign of danger, and he knew it.

Kevin snapped his mouth closed. "I'll be back later, then."

He started for the door. I followed him to make sure he really went.

On the front porch, he turned to face me. He opened his mouth, closed it again. He seemed to be struggling to find something to say.

Peering around him, I saw his partner in the car. Ginger Barlow. His lover. I held onto the hockey stick so tightly my knuckles turned white.

"Go," I said hoarsely.

He took a step out. Stopped. Again he faced me. "Nina . . ."

Taking a deep breath, I said, "Come for dinner on Thursday. Riley has the night off from work and we can talk to him then. I don't want to do it by myself."

"You won't need to."

"I better not have to. And don't bring Rosemary with you."

"Ginger," he corrected. "Her name is Ginger."

As if I didn't know. "Whatever."

He turned and walked away.

I closed the door and leaned against it, fighting for composure. D
amn him.

Wishing I had time to wallow in my self-pity with a box of Nilla Wafers and some chocolate milk, I ditched the plunger and ran up the stairs, huffing more than a bit. I'd gotten more exercise that morning than I'd had all year.

I paused in the hall outside Riley's room. I knew I shouldn't go in, especially with a snake on the loose, but that magazine, and Riley's odd behavior, ate at me. It was probably some skin magazine, but I needed to be sure.

With a turn of the knob, the door swung open. Peeking

in, I scanned the floor. Chills danced up and down my spine and I shivered. Who knew what lurked beneath all the junk on the floor?

Sure enough, the tank to the right of his bed was empty. A part of me had hoped Riley made up the story of Xena's escape so I'd stay out of his room, knowing I'd be curious about that magazine. Unfortunately, he'd underestimated my nosiness. And my ability to appropriately equip myself.

Using the hockey stick to clear a path, I crept to the bed. I lifted the pillow. Nothing. Maybe he took it with him, I reasoned.
Maybe not
, my inner voice said. Slipping my hand beneath the mattress, I felt for paper. Chances of Xena being under there were slim, so I felt reasonably confident as I slid my hand back and forth.

Finally, I hit something solid. Grasping it, I slowly pulled the magazine out, fully expecting to see a half-naked woman staring at me. After I glanced at the cover, I wished it
were
a half-naked woman staring at me. Even a fully naked-woman would be better than this.

My stomach turned. The barrel of a sawed-off shotgun greeted me from the pages of
Gun Pride
. What the hell was he up to?
Gun Pride w
as a small magazine which mostly sold to militia-type groups. There'd been a big report on the news about magazines just like this not all that long ago, about how these groups liked to recruit teenagers for their cause. Had they gotten to Riley? How else could he have gotten hold of something like this?

What to do? I needed to talk to him about this, didn't I? But that meant he'd know I snooped. Not that our relationship could get much worse, but still.

Blowing out a deep breath, I replaced the magazine under the mattress. I'd talk to Kevin and see what he thought. Maybe it was normal male adolescent fascination. M
aybe
not
, my inner voice warned. I told the voice to shut up and hurried out of Riley's room.

I checked the hallway. All clear. If Xena wasn't found soon, we'd just have to move, no two ways around it.

Checking the clock, I cursed my inability to be punctual.

The phone rang and I hurried to answer it, nearly tripping on the plunger as I rushed down the stairs, thinking it might be Tam reporting more missing hoes.

It wasn't.

"Nina, what's wrong?" my mother asked.

I wasn't in the mood to have her pry so I inserted a light lilt into my voice. "Nothing, Mom."

What was it about mothers and their ability to know when something was wrong—and why were stepmothers excluded from this gift?

"I don't believe you."

How did I argue with her when she was right?

I could hear her breathing, but she remained silent. "I'm fine," I finally said. Hopping on one foot, I tugged off one boot, then the other.

"You're lying to your mother. Tonio," she called out to my father, "your daughter is lying to me!" To me, she said, "This is what carousing with that cousin of yours will do."

"You're not fooling me. You love Ana."

She sniffed. "Nina, the apple and the tree, my darling."

I groaned. My mother had had an ongoing feud with my Aunt Rosetta from the day she'd moved in with us and proved to be a better cook, housekeeper, mother, than Celeste Madeline Chambeau Ceceri.

"Now, tell me no lies," she demanded.

"Nothing to tell at all."

I could hear muted whisperings, then my father came on the line.

"Don't lie to your mother, Nina."

"Yes, Daddy." Static crackled in my ear as the phone was passed back to my mother. I slipped on a pair of Keds, hoping the canvas was snakeproof.

"Now what's wrong?" my mother asked once again.

I could picture my father being hauled out of his favorite chair, dragged to the phone, then dismissed. I had to smile. My mother had been in the military in a former life. I was sure of it.

"Nothing's wrong, Mom. I'm fine." I stressed the word fine. It seemed to be the word of the day.

"Hmmph."

"Gotta run."

"Why?"

I didn't want to tell her about my meeting with Bridget or I'd never get off the phone. I looked around for an excuse, found one in the murky water pooled in the sink. "I have to fix the sink."

"What's wrong with the sink?"

"It's clogged." She didn't need the sordid details. "I have to go."

"Wait!"

"What?"

"Your fitting is next week. Write it down or you'll forget."

I didn't write it down. I wanted to forget. "I will."

"Do it now. You have Tuesdays off so there's no reason to cancel." She paused for effect. "Again."

I mimicked writing noises using the counter and the pads of my fingertips since my nails were practically nonexistent. "There," I lied.

"Your sister's counting on you. You're her matron of honor and you're the only one of her girls who hasn't gotten her dress yet."

Her girls
. She sounded like a pimp.

I had hoped if I delayed long enough, I'd miss the deadline and get kicked out of Maria's wedding altogether, but it was looking more and more like I'd be hogtied and carried to the bridal shop if I didn't get there on my own.

"You'll be there?"

"Mom!"

"Okay, okay."

We said our good-byes just as the annoying cat clock Ri ley had given me one Mother's Day meowed ten times. Crap. The sink would have to wait. I was late.

Mrs. Ursula Krauss lived in a brand spanking new landominium not all that far from the Mill. Landominiums were growing in popularity in the area. Basically, a landominium was a run-of-the-mill condo, but the owner also owned a small patch of land too.

I drove down a bumpy side road faster than my little Corolla liked to go. The clock on my dashboard blinked at me accusingly. I was pushing it, time-wise.

The nearer I got to Mrs. Krauss's, the more my muscles tensed. It had nothing to do with the missing equipment and everything to do with Mrs. Krauss.

"Brickhouse Krauss," as we used to call her back in the tenth grade at St. Valentine's. She used to torture her students by assigning long tedious essays on subjects like "The Relevance of the Middle English Translation of
The Can
terbury Tales
to Modern Society."

I shuddered at the memory.

Mrs. Krauss's evil personality lurked behind a benevolent Mrs. Claus (as in Santa's wife) kind of face. The "Brickhouse" came from her shape. Not an hourglass to be seen—Mrs. Krauss had been a thick rectangle with hands, feet, and face sticking out. Sort of like a female German Spongebob with spiky white hair.

We'd never gotten along. It was only because of Mrs. Krauss's daughter, Claudia, that TBS was doing this "mini" in the first place.

As I've mentioned, I'm a sucker for a sob story, and Claudia had a doozy.

With a flip of my blinker, I turned into the complex of landominiums, condominiums, and town houses, noticing the boring landscaping.

Seemed the bigger the complexes around here, the more the builder scrimped on landscaping.

I rolled past a man-made pond, wishing there were benches or even a dock to pretty it up. There wasn't even the standard fountain, for goodness' sake.

I turned left and pulled to a stop behind Kit's truck. All my employees drove white Ford F-250s, each with a discreet sign on the door that said tbs. Another TBS pickup was parked in front of his, and Stanley Mack's green Dodge was parked in front of that, its tailgate open.