Read The Diva Digs up the Dirt Online
Authors: Krista Davis
The Diva Digs up the Dirt (2 page)
At the Greene Homestead
Sunday at 4 p.m.
Chicken Lickin’ Attire
Roscoe Greene
Mindy Greene
Audie Greene
GREENE FAMILY PICNIC GUEST LIST
Roscoe Greene
Mindy Greene
Audie Greene
Cricket Hatfield
Violet
Francie Vanderhoosen
Nina Reid Norwood
Mars Winston
Natasha
Note: Picnic is an open house. Friends and family are welcome.
Per Mindy, Olive Greene is not invited this year.
CHAPTER ONE
Dear Sophie,
My mother-in-law is an avid gardener who makes her own herbal teas. She grows a lot of poisonous plants like rhubarb, lilies, irises, and bleeding heart. How do I know she’s not offering me poisonous tea?
—Suspicious in Lily, Kentucky
Dear Suspicious,
Bring your own tea bags.
—Sophie
“I’d like to hire you to find my daughter.”
The woman’s request caught me by surprise. I’d been deadheading geraniums in pots by my front door in the early morning and held flower snippers in my hand.
Pouffy dark hair framed her face. It wanted to curl but had been firmly set into a helmet by a hairdresser. Her clothes were equally impeccable. Full-figured from top to
bottom, she made no effort to hide her shape under black garments. Her skirt and matching short-sleeved top bore a festive purple, pink, and yellow print. I guessed her to be in her midsixties, but she oozed energy.
My hound mix, Daisy, sniffed the woman’s dainty purple and yellow shoes. Kitten heels weren’t the best footwear for Old Town’s uneven brick sidewalks. Daisy’s tail wagged with restraint.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “You must have the wrong person.”
“Aren’t you Sophia Winston?”
Close enough. “Sophie, actually. But I’m not an investigator.”
“That’s okay. I’ve heard about you.” She dug in a leather purse big enough to hold four large loaves of bread and pulled out an envelope stuffed with cash. “How much do you charge?”
I splayed my fingers and waved my hand at her. “You don’t seem to understand. I don’t know anything about finding people. I’m an event planner.”
“Please.” She tucked the money away and pressed her palms together. “Maybe I could tell you a little bit about my Linda?” Her gaze swept to the salmon-colored geranium blooms. “I called her my little Anemone because she loved flowers and gardening. She was such a gentle soul, almost timid. Her father and I made a mistake by pushing her to study accounting. I see that now. We wanted her to make a good living. We only wanted the best for our little girl. She would have been so much happier studying horticulture.” The woman plucked a tissue from her pocket and wiped her teary eyes.
I couldn’t help noticing that she spoke of her daughter in past tense, as though she didn’t expect to find her alive. I wasn’t in the habit of inviting strangers into my home, but this woman didn’t look like an ax murderer. I considered offering her a cup of coffee.
She looked up at the second story of my house. “This is quite a place for a single girl.”
Red warning flags jumped up in my mind. “How did you know I was single?”
For the most fleeting instant, panic crossed her face. So briefly that I wondered if I had imagined it.
She reached out to me. “Your finger, dear. No wedding ring.”
The red flags drooped. My mother would have made the same observation, and she would have referred to me as a girl. Still, the woman had crossed some imaginary line and left me wary. “I’m terribly sorry, but you must have misunderstood someone. I’ve never searched for a missing person. I don’t even know anyone who could help you. Good luck to you.”
Her mouth twisted to the side. She issued a huge sigh, turned, and trudged away, heading toward the center of Old Town.
My best friend and across-the-street neighbor, Nina Reid Norwood, crossed the street to my house, causing Daisy’s tail to spin in an excited circle. “Who was that?”
Without prompting, Daisy sat and offered a paw. “You’re such a good girl.” Nina pulled a treat from the pocket of her loose drawstring pants and offered it to Daisy.
“I have no idea. She wanted me to find her daughter.”
“Your reputation is growing. After all, you
have
solved a few murders.” She followed me into the house and stroked Mochie, my Ocicat.
“That’s way different from locating someone.” I stashed the flower snippers and poured each of us a latte.
“A lot of missing people have been murdered…”
“I’m not a private investigator. I wouldn’t dream of taking anyone’s money for something I’m not qualified to do.” I set the lattes and a white platter of chocolate croissants on a wicker tray and carried it out to the backyard.
Daisy and Nina followed me.
I set the tray on a small table in the shade. I’d found the old-fashioned wrought-iron furniture ages ago when I was still married, painted it white, and sewn bright floral
cushions for it that matched the gorgeous Blaze roses in bloom by the fence.
I settled back on a chair, cupping the latte in my hands and listening to the birds twitter.
“It’s going to be another scorcher.” Nina helped herself to a croissant. “This is the only time of day when the temperatures are still bearable. What are you wearing to Roscoe’s picnic?”
I hadn’t given it any thought yet. It had been a busy month so far. Everyone claimed that the event-planning business slowed down in the summer months, but that hadn’t been true for me. I had wound up a big Fourth of July extravaganza and run a weeklong international radiology expo. I was also working on Roscoe’s event, but his annual picnic on National Ice Cream Day was tiny in comparison. And when it was over, I was taking time off for two glorious weeks. I didn’t plan to do anything but laze around, with a margarita in my hand and flip-flops on my feet, and throw a cookout for my friends.
“The invitation said something cutesy, didn’t it?” she asked.
I groaned. “Chicken lickin’ attire.”
Low snickering arose on the other side of the fence.
“Do you want to ride with me, Francie?” Nina raised her voice to be sure my elderly neighbor, Francine Vanderhoosen, heard her.
“Not going,” came the response from the other side of the fence.
“Do you feel okay?” I asked.
“For pity’s sake, it doesn’t have anything to do with how I feel. Olive Greene is my friend. I wouldn’t dream of making an appearance there.”
She didn’t have to say more. A longtime resident of Alexandria, Roscoe Greene was CEO of
Planter’s Punch
, a catalog that catered to southern gardeners. His parents started the business, but he had expanded it to include
Backwoods
, for hunting and fishing enthusiasts. Roscoe had set tongues wagging all over Old Town when he’d
replaced his wife of forty-five years with one of his employees. Their destination wedding in Ireland ten days before had been the talk of the town. Roscoe had at least twenty-five years on his bride, who reportedly played the role of the trophy wife to the hilt, complete with tiara.
We heard Francie shout, “Hey! Can I help you?”
“Oh, pardon me. I must have counted the gates wrong. So sorry to intrude.” The voice seemed vaguely familiar to me, but I couldn’t quite place it.
I didn’t need to. Moments later the gate at the rear of my yard opened. Daisy loped toward the back as a full-figured, dark-haired woman stole inside. She closed the gate behind her and stepped gingerly across my lawn, evidently not having noticed us in the shady corner by the fence.
Her forehead creased, Nina threw me a questioning look.
I placed a finger over my lips. I wanted to see what the woman planned to do.
She patted Daisy in a dismissive manner and continued to pick her way toward my house. Almost comical, she hunched over and stepped carefully to avoid lodging her kitten heels in my lawn. She studied the windows like she was checking to see if anyone was watching.
When she reached the patio, I asked, “Are you planning to sneak into my house?”
Dear Sophie,
We moved into a new house and need to plant some decorative beds. My husband says buying the smallest plants is best. I think he’s being cheap. How can I convince him that big plants are the way to go?
—Mrs. Miser in Tightwad, Missouri
Dear Mrs. Miser,
Sorry, but I have to agree with Mr. Miser. Although large plants give you instant oomph, the roots of small plants have an easier time getting established when planted. In two or three years, they will have caught up.
—Sophie
She screamed and dropped her purse. Clapping her right hand over her heart, she threw her left hand into the air. “I didn’t see you there.” She staggered over to the table and slid into a chair. “You almost gave me a heart attack.”
I hoped that wasn’t the case. She seemed to be the dramatic type, so I assumed she was exaggerating.
She fixated on Nina. “Hello, dear.” She extended her hand, and Nina dutifully shook it. “I’m Mona.” She tugged her colorful top into place and patted her coif. “Desdemona, actually. I can’t imagine what my parents were thinking. Today you’d probably be reported for child abuse if you named an innocent little baby Desdemona.”
“Nina Reid Norwood.”
“Three names. You’re clearly a southerner.”
Nina laughed. I could tell she liked Mona.
Mona placed a pudgy hand over mine. “Sweetheart, I don’t like to impose…”
Oh no? What did she call prowling into my backyard?
“But do you think I could have a glass of water?”
Nina leaned toward her. “How about a latte?”
Mona held up both hands in protest. “Oh no. I couldn’t.” Her left shoulder lifted in a teeny shrug. “Maybe a little one.”
She was too cute. Like a nosy aunt that everyone adored. I reminded myself that people weren’t always what they seemed. Still, it wasn’t as though I didn’t have everything ready in the kitchen. It wouldn’t take long to make coffee for her. She’d left her purse in a heap on the patio, so I didn’t imagine she intended to pull out a gun. I left her with Nina while I fetched two more lattes. When I returned, Mona was mmm-ing over a chocolate croissant like it was the best thing she had ever eaten.
I set a latte in front of her, which prompted her to say, “Thank you, darling.”
I carried the other latte to the wooden privacy fence that separated my lot from Francie’s, stepped on a wobbly old stump, and held the latte out across the top. Francie’s hand readily snatched it.
When I returned to the table, Mona was gabbing with Nina, but her sharp eyes hadn’t missed a thing.
“Now see? That was such a nice thing to do—bringing a coffee to your neighbor. I can sense that you’re a kind person. Your friend, Nina, has been telling me about your
adventures solving murders.” She gestured toward Nina, who sputtered latte. “I’m certain you girls could find my Linda.”
I wasn’t going there. “Mona, I’m very sorry about your daughter. You have to understand that I have no expertise in finding missing people. You really should go to the police.”
“You think I haven’t talked to them?” Her mouth pulled back in irritation. “They have too many cases to care. She was an adult, so they won’t do anything. Meanwhile, I lie in bed every night wondering if she’s in a ditch somewhere, if she has food to eat”—Mona released a big sigh and her shoulders sagged—“or if her bones are bleaching in the sun.”
A shudder hit me full force. No matter how sneaky or forward Mona might be, she shouldn’t have to live with that thought hanging over her. “She lived in Old Town?”
“She lived in Alexandria, outside of Old Town proper, but she worked here in town. She disappeared one evening and was never seen or heard from again. Next week she will have been gone for five years.”
