"Riley—"
Ignoring the warning in my voice, he strutted out the door.
Maybe he was kidding. You know, just playing a prank . . . Biting my lip I thought back to the last time Riley played a practical joke. And couldn't remember one. Gulp.
Swallowing my fear, I scanned the kitchen floor, keeping my eyes peeled for a four-foot-long boa. Unfortunately, I had to get ready to meet with Bridget and I couldn't very well stay on the chair all day. Could I? While I debated canceling breakfast with Bridget so I wouldn't have to climb down from my safety zone, my gaze swept over the kitchen's nooks and crannies.
As I stared at the pot rack, a movement at the kitchen window caught my eye.
The chair wobbled beneath me as I turned quickly, fearing a sneak snake attack. My scream split the air as I spied a face peering in at me through the glass.
The chair gave one final shake and heaved me onto the tile floor.
Two
"Miz Quinn, you really oughta lock that back door." Mr. Cabrera helped me to my feet. He'd dashed into the house as soon as he'd seen my graceless free fall.
I tightened the sash on my robe, dusted myself off. When
was
the last time I'd washed the kitchen floor? "You really shouldn't peek in your neighbors' windows." I'd long ago given up on trying to get the old man to call me Nina. You'd think with all his spying we could at least be on a first-name basis.
"Seriously. There's been some burglaries lately."
He was right, but I wasn't about to own up to it. "The window, Mr. Cabrera?"
The baggy sleeve of his shirt, a fluorescent orange button-down covered in bright green bananas, flapped as he waved his hand. "Just checking to see if you were home."
Teeth clenched, I said, "Something wrong with my doorbell?"
The wrinkles on his face jiggled as he shrugged. He slapped a piece of paper on the counter.
I picked it up, saw a column of numbers. "What's this?"
"A bill."
"For what?"
"For the damage Riley caused in that overgrown steel
trap that takes him to school. Two hostas and a bed of New Guinea impatiens . . ." He snapped his fingers. "Gone, just like that."
Huh? "The bus? Why give this bill to me?"
He shook his head. A lock of snowy hair slid onto his forehead. "Riley didn't take the bus."
"He didn't?"
"Gray van, oversized tires, rust spots the size of New Mexico."
Didn't sound the least bit familiar.
"Kid wearing a dog collar driving."
"What?!"
"Maybe you oughta pay better attention, Miz Quinn."
I bit my tongue. Hard.
"Thanks for the visit, Mr. Cabrera." Herding him to the back door, I held up the bill. "I'll look into this."
"Be sure that you do."
I fairly shoved him out the door. He turned to look at me. "You don't happen to have a minute, do you, Miz Quinn? I'd like your opinion on something I'm planning out in the backyard."
My jaw dropped open in shock before suspicion snapped it closed. Mr. Cabrera was a natural-born gardener who needed no help whatsoever. Over the years I've tried to get him to work for me, but he's old and still clinging to his ancient delusions about men not working for women.
His asking for my advice about
anything
, but especially gardening, had me on the defensive. Warning sirens blared in my head, but curiosity got the better of me. "Uh, sure."
I ran back to the kitchen, used an I Love Lucy magnet to attach the bill to the fridge, and followed him out the back door.
The dew soaked grass squished between my bare toes. I was still trying to piece together what he was up to when he said, "I'm looking to make myself an oasis of sorts. A getaway."
I squinted as the sun reflected off his shirt, nearly blinding me. "A getaway?" This from a man who loved to be in the middle of it all?
"Someplace I can relax, unwind."
I winced as I stepped on a rock. Mr. Cabrera wasn't the relaxing kind, not in the least.
What w
as he up to?
He spun, his arms waving, bright green bananas flapping at me. "I thought maybe you could help me plan something out." He nodded knowingly and smiled, his dentures nearly slipping out. "It's best to stay busy during these trying times."
I should have known that's what this was about! This little field trip into his backyard was Mr. Cabrera's own special way of prying information out of me to pass on at his weekly cribbage game.
He wanted the dirt on mine and Kevin's falling out, the sneaky, sneaky man.
I smiled brightly, refusing to give in. "What kind of scale did you have in mind, Mr. Cabrera? Something small, hammocklike? Or your own personal pagoda?"
His smile dissolved into a grim line. "Nothing too fancy," he muttered. "Something peaceful. I'm thinking of learning some yoga. A man needs to be at peace with himself."
I rubbed my temples, fighting off a headache.
His eyebrows snapped together, forming one long, thick snowy line across his forehead. "I'd like some shade, too. Some privacy. A man also needs his privacy."
My eyebrows jumped up. He was definitely feeding me a line. I just wasn't quite sure about what.
"A hammock'd be okay, I guess," he said.
We'd stopped smack-dab in the middle of his backyard. There wasn't a single tree in this area and I really didn't care for the look of a freestanding hammock. "Then we'd need to move farther back," I said, "near the trees . . ." I started back toward the woods that served as a boundary for all the yards on this side of the street.
"No!"
Stopping in my tracks, I turned to face him. "No?"
His arms were flying out every which way. "It has to be here. Right here."
I sighed. "Why? There's no shade here. Or any privacy."
"I've been reading up on that Feng Shui stuff. It needs to be right here." He stomped. "Right. Here."
I knew very little about Feng Shui, so I couldn't dispute for certain what he was telling me, but I had the sneaky feeling he was making it all up.
He rubbed his hands together. "Whatcha got for me? I'd like to get started right away."
I tightened my robe. It was useless to point out to him how long it took me to perfect my designs, how many hours I spent poring over each detail. The draw of TBS was how quickly the job could be done. In and out in a day. Designs had to be relatively simple, yet stunning and dramatic. It wasn't as easy as it looked. Many, many hours went into coordinating and planning, not just inside the office, but with various contractors and craftsmen.
However, Mr. Cabrera wanted instant gratification, and I wanted out of there, so I gave it to him. I'd recently designed something similar to what he was looking for, so I used that.
"You could have a gazebo built, maybe with benches inside, or maybe that hammock, although that might take up a lot of room, leaving you with none for your
yoga
."
One bushy white eyebrow snaked up as he apparently tried to decide if I was mocking him.
I pushed on before he figured it out. "It'll have a roof, so that will provide shade. You can trellis or lattice the walls, or leave them open and plant some ivy or other vines that are winter hardy to fill in spaces and gaps. In the warmer months you can have flower boxes or hanging baskets too. You can add a path—gravel or flagstone—and have some shrubs around it . . ."
He was rubbing his chin and nodding thoughtfully. "That might do."
"Some quick-growing evergreens will help with the priva—"
"No! No trees."
"Ohh-kay."
"I'll go get me some lumber from that new Home Depot and start today."
The man was full of surprises this morning. I felt the need to warn him. "This is a big job, Mr. Cabrera, especially if you're doing it on your own—which I don't recommend."
"I've got the wherewithal. And the time."
"What about Margaret? What's she have to say about this?" Margaret was his latest in a long line of 'women friends.' He'd long since told me he was too old to have girlfriends.
He kicked at the grass. "Nothin'."
I gasped. "Oh no! She didn't die, did she?" I hadn't heard, but I'd been out of the gossip loop for a few days.
"No!" he snapped.
I winced. "Sorry."
"But she heard the rumors."
Everyone had heard the rumors. Seemed Mr. Cabrera never settled down and remarried because the majority of his 'women friends' kept dying on him. All of natural causes, or so the autopsies said. That didn't stop people from gossiping, though. Or from thinking Mr. Cabrera was one jinxed man.
"I'm sorry."
He waved the apology off, and we started walking back
toward our houses. He turned to me with a glint in his eye. "I haven't seen the detective in a few days."
So we were back to the fact-finding mission, were we? As I made a beeline toward my backdoor I didn't mention that I hadn't seen him either. "I'll give him your best," I said.
"You do that."
I pulled open the backdoor, wiped my feet on the mat.
"Oh, Miz Quinn?"
I sighed. I should have known I wouldn't escape his questions that easily. "Yeah?"
"Uh . . . thanks. For your help."
The man was actually blushing. I smiled. "You're welcome."
Closing the door, I made sure I flipped the deadbolt. I'd have to have a talk with Riley soon about leaving the doors unlocked. This wasn't the first time.
As I passed the kitchen window, I saw Mr. Cabrera out in the middle of his backyard coloring the area for his gazebo with orange marking paint. As he looked left and right to guide his markings, my mouth dropped open.
An oasis—what a fool I'd been!
It all made sense now. He didn't want a serenity zone. He wanted spy central. A gazebo smack-dab in the middle of his backyard would give him an unfettered view of the backyards of everyone on the block.
I had to laugh. I should've known. I really, really should have known. I shook my head. There was nothing to be done about it now, except maybe keep my blinds closed. Once Mr. Cabrera got an idea in his head, he went at it full steam ahead.
I checked the clock, sucked in a breath. I was running seriously late. The sink was still full of water, but it would have to wait a bit more.
After talking with Tam that morning, I decided I wanted to check on the missing hoes before meeting with Bridget. Kit, my foreman, was heading up a mini makeover today over at Ursula Krauss's new landominium. I'd just pop over and check things out without being too suspicious about it.
Yeah, that was me. Nina Colette Unsuspicious Ceceri Quinn.
On full snake alert, I tiptoed through the living room and rushed up the stairs. I paused at the top as the magazine Riley shoved under his pillow called to me. But there was, quite possibly, a reptile on the loose in his room. My cowardice won out over my inquisitiveness, and I ignored my impulse to snoop.
I debated for about two minutes on what to wear, before realizing I didn't really have a choice. All I owned were Tshirts and jeans—oh, and my all-purpose black dress. Not that it mattered. Not really. It's just that I hadn't seen Bridget, a Stanford-educated lawyer, in a while, and I didn't want her to think I'd gone all schlumpy, with my cracked, almost nonexistant nails, sun-freckled face, dull brown hair cut at the Clip and Curl, and my laid-back wardrobe.
But since I hadn't worn makeup in years, I decided the risk of conjunctivitis from tainted mascara was too great and ditched the idea completely.
My thoughts once again turned to Bridget and her reason for calling. She'd sounded so serious on the phone.
I scrubbed my face and pulled my hair back into a ponytail. Shimmying into my favorite pair of jeans, I topped the outfit off with a white V-necked T-shirt.
Bridget's wanting to get together had to be about her father-in-law's death, and I suspected it had a great deal to do with my relationship with Kevin. Unfortunately Kevin had kept everything about Farmer Joe's murder hush-hush, despite my constant nagging and quizzing.
Kevin's closed-mouth attitude should have been an obvi ous tip-off that our marriage was in trouble, since he had used me as a sounding board for years. Only I'd been oblivious. Nothing like a big neon orange suspicious behavior sign dangling above his tight lips to give a girl a clue.
I admit I'm naturally, uh, c
urious
. But Joe's death stirred up more than the usual amount of interest I had in Kevin's cases. It baffled me that anyone could harm the old man. Tim's dad was one of those people who kept his door open for everyone and an extra spot at the dinner table—a table I'd eaten many meals at during my teen years. Sure, Farmer Joe had been crankier than a newborn baby, yet he'd been just as lovable in his cantankerous kind of way. Truly a man with no enemies.
I guess I simply needed to wait and see, which irritated me to no end since I wasn't a big fan of patience.
Opening the door of my bedroom, I peered into the hall. No signs of snake activity. I tippy-toed downstairs and into the washroom. The hamper beckoned, and I threw in a quick wash while whistling "Puff the Magic Dragon" to keep my mind off Kevin.
From the utility closet, I grabbed, as protection from Xena, Riley's hockey stick and a pair of knee-high rubber boots I used for work. Appropriately armed, I ran back upstairs. The sink still needed plunging, but my curiosity over that magazine Riley had shoved under his pillow couldn't be quenched. Something was up with him, and I was determined to find out what it was. After all, it was my evil stepmotherly duty to snoop, right? However, as I reached the landing at the top of the steps, I heard a car door slam. Running into my bedroom, I peeked out the window, swore under my breath.
The unmarked assigned to Kevin sat in the driveway, parked next to my ancient Corolla.
Oh no, not now.
I hadn't seen him for two days. Two whole days my anger had had time to fester.