Authors: Heather Webber

Tags: #Fiction, #Contemporary Women, #Mystery & Detective, #General

A Hoe Lot of Trouble (24 page)

BOOK: A Hoe Lot of Trouble

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"Tomorrow," Spike said.

"When?"

Spike scratched his chin. "Let's say two."

Let's not, I wanted to shout out the window.

"Man, if I cut class again, I'm dead."

Damn right!
That's the way to tell him, Ry.

"You gonna let that woman tell you what to do?"

Hmmph. I took exception to the way he said "woman"— as if I were the lowest form of scum.

"You're not the one who's gonna have her handcuffed to you if you skip."

"She's lying."

I shook my head. Don't fall for it, Ry. I really didn't want to relive my high school days, but I would—to make a point.

"I don't know," Riley said again. "She came to detention."

Spike stood. "Look, I thought you were cool, but maybe I was wrong."

Go away
, I silently urged.

He took a step off the porch.

I cringed as Riley said, "Wait!"

Oh, so close!

"Where?" Riley asked.

I whimpered as I tried to recall algebraic formulas. Tag

ging along with Riley in class didn't mean I had to do the work too, did it?

Spike grinned. "Here."

Riley looked panicked. "No way."

"Your mom won't even be home."

"Still . . ."

"Look," Spike said, the sun glinting off his collar, "you in or you out?"

Riley shifted foot to foot. "In. Two o'clock. Here."

"Yeah."

"And you'll bring it with you?"

"If you've got the cash," Spike said.

"I have it."

"Then I'll bring a selection. We're good to go."

Riley walked with the kid to his van. Ana came in from the kitchen and saw me sitting on the floor under a window.

"What are you doing off the couch? The doctor said to rest."

I had to grin. No mention of why I was on the floor— only that I was up and around.

"I needed a change of scenery."

She folded her arms across her chest, tapped her foot. "Lie the other way on the sofa."

I placed my hands on the floor to lever myself out of a sitting position. The door flew open.

Riley looked down at me. "What are you doing?"

"Looking for a contact?"

"You don't wear contacts."

"No wonder I can't find it."

"Don't mind her," Ana said. "She's taking some strong medicine."

Riley stared. I wanted to believe that he found my stitches fascinating, but I adhered to my commandment not to delude myself. Ana helped me up.

Riley looked at Ana. "Any sign of Xena yet?"

Ana shook her head.

A mischievous gleam appeared in his blue eyes. "She's probably getting hungry by now." He eyed my bare feet. "She might mistake toes for mice." And with that he ran up the stairs to his room.

The little bugger.

Twenty-five

I'd made a deal with the devil.

I needed to speak with Chanson, and he'd made it quite clear that the only way he'd speak to me again was if I agreed to a TBS makeover as a gift for his wife.

Which explained why I was—technically, on my day off—on my way to meet with the congressman at his quasi mansion in Vista View.

The early-morning sun was annoyingly bright as I wrestled with Mr. Cabrera's steering wheel. Since my car was at the giant Toyota factory in the sky, and my TBS truck was at TBS, I'd had to suck up to Mr. Cabrera to get him to loan me his for a bit.

It hadn't taken much to convince him to let me borrow the car, seeing as how he was deliriously happy with Mrs. Krauss, and my unsubtle reminder that I had played matchmaker had paved the way.

Well, that, and I had to promise to return the car with a full tank of gas.

So here I was. Cruising down Liberty driving a tank.

And the car was a tank, make no mistake about that. What I found particularly charming, though, was Mr. Cabrera's attempt to make the car look homey. The bench seat had a faded yellow afghan thrown over it. A little sprig of greenery sat on the cracked dashboard and two entwined hearts made from grapevine hung from the rearview mirror.

Amazingly my headache had vanished after a good night's sleep. The pain in my, uh, rear didn't feel nearly as bad as it had yesterday, but my face looked like I'd run smack-dab into . . . well, a train.

Somehow I'd managed to talk Ana into going back to work. Her mothering was killing me. Well, it was either the mothering or the soup—I wasn't sure which, but I knew both needed to go.

With a wince, I thought of the case of Almond Joys I received bright and early this morning along with a sweet letter from Robert MacKenna wishing me well. I wasn't even going to go down that road. I'd write a polite thank-you note, eat the chocolate, and that would be the end of that.

I hoped.

I rolled past the construction workers who were still hard at work on the Vista View gatehouse. Following the directions the congressman gave me, I drove down the beautifully landscaped streets, wondering who had done the work.

Trees dotted the sidewalks and canopied the street. The lawns were exceptionally well-kept, and flowers, everything from geraniums to petunias, were bright and cheery.

The tank clipped the curb as I pulled to a stop in front of Chanson's house. The LeMans continued to rumble even after I removed the key from the ignition, and slammed the door closed.

If I could absolutely rule out Chanson as a suspect, then I knew my suspicions about Tim might very well be true.

With my Polaroid, measuring wheel, sketch pad, and pencil, I headed up to the house.

It was a lot like the man himself—somewhat feminine, its stucco painted a soft pink, its trim a light turquoise. The Floridian colors somehow worked with this particular house.

Chanson pulled open the door as I climbed the tiled steps, his smile fading as I came nearer.

He clucked at me, much as Mrs. Krauss would have.

I fought back a growl.

"Ms. Quinn, you must really try to avoid collisions with locomotives. Your poor complexion."

I ponied up my own fake sincerity to match his. "I'm touched you care."

He smiled, led me into the house.

The decor had obviously been done by an interior designer, keeping with the South Beach style. An open floor plan, bright pastels, and colorful floor tile.

He escorted me through the double doors opening into the backyard. Remarkably, considering how squished these houses were to one another, there was complete privacy.

A tall line of conifers rimmed the perimeter of the yard. A small in-ground pool hogged most of the space, but there were pockets of land just begging for a little TLC.

Why I was really there nagged at me while I took a few pictures, sketched a little bit. We made small talk about what he was looking for (something romantic), how much he was willing to spend (a lot—which I planned to charge, except for my own labor), and his wife's tastes (tropical).

Finally, when I had a good vision in mind of what he wanted—a Caribbean honeymoon (which was enough to make my stomach protest)—I turned to face him, hoping that facing him straight on wouldn't send him running in fear.

Truthfully, I had scared myself when I looked in the mirror that morning.

I didn't have a lot of time to beat around the bush, with Riley's meeting with Spike just a few hours away, so I cut to the chase.

"I saw you and John Demming together that day I was in your office. You told him that everything 'would soon be taken care of,' or words to that effect, and told him not to worry. You were talking about Sandowski's Farm, right?"

He pulled out a patio chair, offered it to me. Reluctantly, I sat.

Chanson lowered himself into the chair across from me, steepled his hands under his chin. "Yes."

I was so shocked that he admitted it, I think I gasped.

He laughed.

I guessed that proved I did gasp.

"You're surprised?"

"Frankly, yes."

The pool filter kicked on, filling the air with a soft humming. "I have nothing to hide."

I sincerely doubted that. "That's easy enough to say with Demming dead. No one to corroborate your story."

"I don't know what you're trying to say, Ms. Quinn, but I don't think I like it." Even angry, he still looked peaceful, serene.

Tapping my pencil on my sketch pad, I said, "Do you deny being behind the acts plaguing the Sandowski family?"

His eyebrows dipped quizzically. Man, he was good. I almost believed that he didn't know what I was talking about. "Acts?"

"The sheep, the dog, the fire, Joe's death?"

"I don't have a clue as to what you are referring. I think I told you that the last time we spoke."

"Sure."

"I really don't," he said, leaning forward. "Has someone been harassing the family?"

My inner self told me to tell him. I opened my mouth and shut it again. He was behind this. I was sure of it.

Wasn't I?

Those nagging suspicions about Tim resurfaced with a resounding wh
oosh
. "Why would you have had that conversation with Demming the other day if you're innocent?"

"He's a concerned constituent.

My inner self believed him, and I was inclined to agree, which surprised the hell out of me considering I hardly ever agreed with anything my inner self had to say. With a start, I realized I had subconsciously judged the congressman before I even showed up today. I'd come here for confirmation of my theories and to get a few answers to lingering questions.

"Demming didn't call you, asking about me? Trying to put my name to my face? He saw me in the outer room the other day . . ."

"He may have seen you, but he never called me asking who you were."

Taking a deep breath, I tried to work my way through that information. It didn't make sense. If Chanson didn't tell him who I was, then who did?

Again, Tim's name popped into my head. I'd told Bridget about my meeting with Demming. It seemed a reasonable leap that she'd share that bit of information with her husband. And if Tim and Demming were in cahoots, it would have been a simple phone call from Tim to the developer to rat me out.

And he'd known about my working late last Friday night. Had it been him in that white car? Something Bridget said also came back to me, about Joe's cremation. Had he really wanted to be cremated, or had Tim just said that to cover up his crime?

My stomach turned just thinking about Tim being involved with all this. And some of it just didn't make sense. Like why was Demming dead?

Chanson leaned back in his chair, folded his hands under his chin. "Since you seem to think I'm evil incarnate, I'll tell you everything I know about the Sandowskis."

"Please do." Maybe some of it would make sense to me, because as of that moment I was lost, with too many questions and not enough answers.

"My investors and I made a second offer. Six point five million. I'm a businessman, Ms. Quinn. I know a good deal when I see one."

"But?"

He shrugged. I couldn't believe Mr. Perfect could pull off such a common gesture. "Still said no."

"Mrs. Sandowski said she hasn't seen you since the initial offer."

"The offer was in writing, as was the refusal."

It was enough to make my head pound. "So what did you mean when you told Demming that everything would be taken care of?"

"Just what I meant."

Wearily, I muttered, "Do I have to beg?"

Tossing his head back, he laughed. "I really like you, Nina Quinn," he said.

"I'm touched. Truly."

He smiled. "Initial paperwork is being completed for the county to seize the property."

Outrage tinged my words as I shot forward, gripping the patio table. "You can do that?"

"Eminent Domain. Ever heard of it?"

Unfortunately. I frowned.

"Anything's possible with the government, Ms. Quinn. Mrs. Sandowski will be compensated—the current market rate for that house and land."

"Which is?"

"About a million dollars."

Instead of six million. "That's crazy!"

"The county doesn't place much weight on exact location in the market analysis."

"It's got to be illegal."

"I assure you it's not."

"Does Mrs. Sandowski know?" She couldn't possibly.

"Of course. She had to have been notified."

I shook my head in frustration. "Mrs. Sandowski said nothing about it."

"The county would have sent papers to her. But I did have my secretary draw up a renewal of my offer to buy her land, mentioning Eminent Domain procedures as a possibility if she chose to stay. She could still sell to me instead of going through the courts to battle the state government."

"Why?" I asked. "Why not wait and buy the land after the eminent domain is executed?"

"Red tape," he said. "It would have been easier to buy the land ourselves as investors and then sell, or even better— donate—some of the land to the town in order to connect Liberty Avenue to Millson."

"Leaving you the rest of the land." Land worth a small fortune, land he could turn around and sell, part and parcel to the John Demmings of Freedom, Ohio.

"Exactly."

His words rang true. I saw no hint of deception in his face, and more important, my eyebrows hadn't so much as twitched. Why hadn't Mrs. Sandowski mentioned this to me? She had to have known. Why lie?

"Does that hurt?" he asked, rubbing a finger over his own forehead.

I gently touched the gash over my left eyebrow. My stitches looked hideous, like small spiders nesting. But I was grateful to be alive. Somewhat. "Not so much anymore. They itch."

"Well, don't scratch. They'll become infected."

Twenty-six

BOOK: A Hoe Lot of Trouble

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