Executive Dirt: A Sedona O'Hala Mystery (2 page)

His pleased-with-himself attitude flew out the still open door.  His eyes narrowed, hiding nearly all the blue. “I’m all for equality, but that would not work.  I don’t see them confiding in me.”

He had that right. They might be more than willing to trade sewing for some manly chores, and a few would be thrilled to flirt with him, but Huntington did not inspire confidences.  Not that you’d worry he would tell, but Huntington’s personality ranged from impatient, competent businessman to shark. Sympathetic and helpful were not guises he could wear easily.

He shut the door with his foot and strode over to my small kitchen table. He set the bag on the table.  “Top of the line for a beginner model. It’s all computerized. You’re good with computers.”

“Radar’s better.  Why don’t you hire him for this job?”  Radar sewing had to be near the top of the most mind-boggling suggestions I’d ever proposed.  He was a highly intelligent computer geek, and as such, his idea of fashion usually included items that were old and frayed at best.  He’d even worn his t-shirt inside out to work without noticing because he simply did not care about clothing.

Huntington took a deep breath to answer and actually choked, the puff of air coming out in a cough.  “Radar.” He would have discarded the idea even faster had his brain not locked up at the idea. “Look, this is not a big deal.  All you have to do is befriend one lady and get her talking about her son. Women love to talk about their kids.  Once you’re in, I’ll provide a few pertinent questions. You don’t even have to sew anything.”

That’s where he was wrong. My mother sewed. My grandmother had been an esteemed member of a crochet club. Hobbyists did not know the meaning of “I’m not interested in learning.”  They were zealous.  They believed the world could and should be converted to their hobby.  “Huntington—”

“Steve.”

“Huntington—”

“How do you plan to address me if you marry my brother Mark?  You’ll then be Huntington.  You won’t be able to call me that.”

The idea of marriage was not foreign to me, but I’d learn to sew before I’d discuss marriage with Huntington, especially before such an idea was even on the table with Mark. “My own name will work just fine in all situations,” I snapped.

He frowned.

Before either of us could continue the argument, there was a rumble from the front drive, followed by a loud knock on the front door.

Huntington, who lacked the basic social graces to let me answer my own door, leaped to the doorknob.

A guy in jeans and a shirt smudged with dirt waited outside.  “Delivery for O’Hala.  You want this stuff on the front porch or out back?”

“Out back,” Huntington instructed.

“No, you don’t!” Okay, I had no idea what was in the delivery, but if Huntington was granting permission for someone to cart it to my backyard, it had to be a bad idea.

Huntington, once again feigning innocence, turned to me. “You want the plants on the front porch? I don’t think the neighbors will like that.”

“What are you up to?” I demanded, peering around his large shoulders.  A white delivery van was in my driveway.  The kid with the clipboard was already heading around the back of the truck.

“A long time ago, I promised you plants, remember?”

“That was for your condo, not my house!”  Of all my requests at the time, it was the only one he had promised to fulfill.  And the plants weren’t for me personally, they were to make his condo, which I was using for a case at the time, look as though someone lived in it.  “Have you lost your mind?”  My father was an agricultural scientist who had made it a point of sharing his vast knowledge with all family members, thus the two plants being carted to my porch were easily identifiable as tomato starts. Dad taught at the university, and gardening was not just his profession, it was his passion.  The only thing that superseded it was my mother, and there were times she had to take a sledgehammer approach to drag his attention away from a leafy frond.

“It’s too cold out for tomatoes to be planted!” I protested.

“You want them inside?” the kid asked.

“I don’t want them at all!”  Instead of being nestled in small growing pots, someone had taken the trouble to plant them in large ceramic pots. The seedlings were only about six inches tall.

The kid shrugged.  “We’ve been paid.  I can take them away.”

“No, we want them,” Huntington intervened.  “But I think I’ll order a rack so they can be kept in at night for a while.”

I flapped my arms. “Why not just install a greenhouse in the backyard?  Why not buy the lot next to me and tear down the house so I’ll have room for a half-acre plot?  Maybe you should buy me a farm. Or a ranch.”

While I was ranting, the kid didn’t waste time.  Four more plants arrived on my stoop, two of which were pepper plants.  He didn’t bother to have me sign for them.  He simply continued to unload more.

I stared down at the delicate greenery.  “These will not survive unless you plan on building a screened-in porch with plexiglass windows.”  I stomped inside and slammed the door, leaving Huntington to his delivery.

I pretended not to hear him call through the door. “The lady in question is in a gardening group too.”

Chapter 3

Huntington didn’t stick around.  As soon as the guy was finished unloading the pots of potential vegetables, Huntington climbed into a sleek, black car. The midnight beauty pulled away from the curb without even a whisper of a sound.  It was no wonder I hadn’t heard him drive up.  His current car was a gorgeous stealth model.

The plants on my porch waved back and forth in the gentle, but cold, breeze. Spring had not yet sprung in Denton, Colorado, especially at night.

I sighed. “Huntington, you are a pain in the ass.”

It’s possible there’s a little too much of Dad in me.  Even though they weren’t my plants, there was no reason to let them die on the porch just because I hadn’t bought them myself.

Maybe I could sell them. I rubbed my hands together.  “Ha, I’ll make a profit off of you yet, Huntington.”

After I finished arranging the large assortment in my entryway, I turned around and spotted the sewing machine. My glee evaporated.  “There isn’t enough money in a few plants to cover your tab of annoyance, Huntington.”

I had to wonder if Mark knew about this. I bet he didn’t. And Huntington would expect me to explain it all.

I tapped my foot impatiently while considering my options. Eventually I decided that my day had been long enough.  Tomorrow was Friday, and Mark was coming over.  I could tell him all about Huntington’s latest funny business then.

One good thing about the plants and sewing machine was that they didn’t require babysitting while the owner slept or dragged herself off to work the next morning.

Friday was my favorite work day, and this one more so than most because, no matter what, I was not working this weekend. Since I had started at Borgot, the “suggested” hours had put a huge dent in my relationship with Mark.  He had been trying to see me for two weeks in a row, but being new, I had been at the office all kinds of odd hours in order to make a good impression.

After slaving away for nearly a month at Borgot, I had started to wonder whether Mark’s choice of a job was as bad as Huntington’s assignments. Of course, that wasn’t possible.  But to avoid my boss’s incessant nagging, I planned to steer clear of him until at least noon. Once I ran into him, I’d have to mention my plans to skip coming in during the weekend.  The longer I put off notifying him, the better.

Luckily the restroom was on the way to the break room because my boss, Cary Waters, was on guard at the end of the hall pouring coffee from the dribbles of a nearly empty pot. His lack of a smile wasn’t because the pot was dry, either.  He spent a good portion of his paychecks on botox shots and face tucks. His skin was stretched so tight he
couldn’t
smile, not without looking like a feral dog. He generally acted like one too, making it quite clear that I and all other employees were his ticket to the top.

I ducked into the ladies room and slowed the door so that it closed silently. If I continued on to the break room there would be hints that my failure to work overtime this weekend would make for late nights all next week. Never mind that you cannot bake the cake in less time. Turning up the oven just burns the cake, but he’d crank the heat until the project incinerated.

Listening to make sure he wasn’t calling my name kept me from registering the smell of the bathroom for an extra nanosecond. “Good grief.”  Had the toilets backed up? Outright exploded? The stench wasn’t exactly urine and excrement.  It was more like someone had thrown up and left it to decay in a barnyard.

Our building was three stories; Borgot was only leasing the third floor. I’d have to use one of the bathrooms on the other floors and ask our admin, Kay, to call plumbing. Because boss-man was likely still lying in wait, I dithered over how to leave. It really stank in here, but it wouldn’t be much better if I had to face Cary. I lifted my hand to cover my nose and mouth and glanced toward the stalls to make sure that the sewage wasn’t anywhere close to reaching me.

A pant leg with a shoe attached stuck out from beneath one of the doors.

I gasped. The leg rested at a very disturbing angle.  The person had to be…laying down, collapsed…hunched over the toilet?

There is a sound to being alone in a room.  It is the absence of breathing, the absence of noise.  Not only had the smell led me to believe the bathroom was empty, but the very lack of any presence had given me the impression of being completely alone.

I was still staring at the shoe when the door opened behind me.  It was Doll Baby Monique.

“Oh, sorry,” she exclaimed when the door hit me.

I concentrated on breathing and not panicking.

“Oh my gosh are you—” Her face changed as the smell hit her.  She tried to cough politely over her shoulder in order to breathe in fresh air.

I swallowed hard, but it didn’t help anything. My brain slowly processed the smell of blood and underlying puke.  Without any intention of doing so, I kept parsing the facts.

Monique hadn’t spotted the leg yet. She kept talking, inane stupidities about the cleaning crew.

I pointed and then darted past her out the door.  Gagging, I leaned over, sucking in huge amounts of air.  My legs wanted to run.  Was there anyone else in there?  Up on the toilets maybe? Waiting? What if…

Monique babbled.  “Sedona? What on earth? Are you okay?”

“We need to call the police,” I heaved out. “There’s someone in there and…”  I hadn’t checked to see if the person was alive.  All I had seen was the foot.  What if they needed help?  The stall door was closed. Maybe the person was just sick. Of course, the person’s foot had been at a very awkward and uncomfortable angle.

My father is an agricultural scientist.  I knew the sickly smell of blood meal and a lot of other disgusting, decaying smells.  This smell was a taint worse than any and all of them.

“The police?” Monique whispered.  Her eyes locked on mine.

“And an ambulance.”  I was going to have to go back in there to make sure the body was dead and not in need of medical attention. Oh, this Friday had just slapped me right across the face with a Monday. “Call 911.” I straightened from my bent position.

Monique frowned, but she edged around me and headed in the general direction of cube city.

Where the hell was her cell phone now that it was needed?  “Please hurry,” I called after her.  Maybe she would phone it in, thinking I was ill if nothing else.

I sucked in a huge gulp of oxygen. It wasn’t enough, so I tried again.

Holding my breath, I ventured back into the bathroom. I edged forward as if walking along a cliff. You’re supposed to check the artery in the neck, but the bathroom stall appeared to be locked, and if this guy was dead, breaking down the door wasn’t going to win me any points with the police department.

I knew it was a guy.  The pant leg was pulled up enough to reveal an extremely hairy leg. He wasn’t wearing socks.  Trying not to touch anything and gulping shallow breaths through my mouth, I forced myself to search for a pulse on his ankle.  His face was clearly visible for half a second when I peeked under the door.

Monique must have decided I needed to be checked on.  I didn’t hear her until she started screaming behind me.

I nearly split my own eardrums with an answering screech.

I stood up so fast, dizziness enveloped me. The only thing that saved me was the single thought that I would
not
pass out in this disgusting, smelly pit where Joe Dork had died.

He had no pulse and his body was morbidly cold.

I flew out of that bathroom as if the devil himself were chasing me.

Monique was right in front of me all the way.

Chapter 4

My advice to the young and old:  Do not find dead bodies.  The police seem to think that if they ask enough questions, you will suddenly blurt out the killer’s name or perhaps admit to the crime yourself just so that you can go home.

Because my brother Sean is a lawyer who works with abuse victims, I was well acquainted with a couple of cops on the force. Adrian, one of the guys I knew, was helping the lead detective, a Detective Saunders.  Normally Adrian worked with Derrick, but for some reason, he was with the homicide division today.

When I entered the meeting room being used for the police interrogations, Adrian recognized me. He nodded his dark head of hair, and his tired brown eyes flickered with conflict.  Being friends with Sean put him in a difficult position.

Detective Saunders handled the endless questioning. His muscular frame reminded me of a bear—a grizzly, to be specific.  His hair was the right color too, a kind of dark brownish cinnamon mess that had probably started out military short, but was too long now.  It stuck up all the way around his head.

At first he tried for kind and comforting.  He didn’t play the role very well because he was more war general than kindly uncle. His attempt to soften his voice made the demanding questions come across like a stalker whispering threats.