The Diva Digs up the Dirt (7 page)

I grabbed a pair of small hoop earrings from my bedroom and put them on in the kitchen.

“Where are you going dressed like that?” ask Natasha. “You look like a young version of Francie! I really should go through your closet and help you weed out some of your homely clothes.”

Nina giggled until Natasha said, “I could do the same for you. Those pants aren’t even worth saving as dust rags.”

Mochie had nestled on the window seat for his post-breakfast snooze. I filled a small bag with a few gardening items and clipped a leash to Daisy’s collar. We left by the kitchen door, Natasha heading to the backyard while Nina and I went in the opposite direction. Nina crossed the street to her house, and Daisy and I turned the corner to the sidewalk that ran along my fence. We walked to the alley and came to a halt. I peered around the corner of the side fence and saw exactly what I had hoped for—the back of a woman in a yellow dress. Daisy and I sped across the opening of the alley. I looked back briefly to be sure Mona hadn’t seen us. We were in luck.

We jogged down the block and looked back to check on Mona one more time. No sign of her. Hoping I’d managed to dodge Mona, I tossed the bag in my car and took Daisy for her morning walk.

Just my luck, as we strolled by Café Olé, Wolf shoved open the door and stepped onto the sidewalk. There was no avoiding him. I tried to use a dazzling smile like Troy did, but I had a feeling it just looked goofy on me.

Wolf must have noticed because a twisted grin crossed his face, and he bent to kiss me on the cheek. “I’m sorry I was an ogre.”

“Me, too.”
Oops.
That wasn’t exactly what I’d meant to say. “I mean I’m sorry we had a spat.”

“Are you still going to meet with Roscoe?”

My breath caught in my throat.
Not again!
“I don’t want to argue about this, Wolf.”

“Can’t you just trust me?”

“I trust you more than just about anyone I know. But it’s not like I’m meeting a known drug dealer on a loading dock at midnight.” I lowered my voice, in case anyone was listening to our conversation. “Roscoe is a respected member of the community.”

“He’s trouble, plain and simple.” Daisy pawed at Wolf, and he rubbed her ears. “Is that good enough for you?” He didn’t wait for an answer. Something behind me distracted him.

I turned around to see Cricket, the bombshell copper-haired woman who’d been seated on Roscoe’s desk the day before, Audie’s fiancée. She strode with confidence, her chin high, her long legs elegant. Men stopped to stare at her. She didn’t return their gaze, but she tossed her hair as if she knew she was being admired. “Do you know her?”

He nodded. “Cricket Hatfield. We go way back. I haven’t seen her in years.”

“Way back? Like you dated her?”

He inhaled deeply and let out a slow breath. “It was a long time ago.”

Why did my skorts feel tight? Why hadn’t I worn makeup? I immediately scolded myself for being so insecure. Nevertheless, I turned my head and looked at her again. Nobody could compete with that. Either she’d had a lot of work done or nature had been stunningly kind to her.

Wolf still watched her. At least she’d distracted him from his anger about Roscoe. I wondered if he knew she was engaged to Roscoe’s son. Oh! Maybe that was the
source of the problem. He wouldn’t have wanted to tell me if there had been some kind of argument over another woman. Maybe Wolf had a run-in with Audie, and Roscoe came to his son’s aid.

I said good-bye and headed back toward my car.

In any event, I had no plans to cancel my meeting with Roscoe—no matter what Wolf said. Although my little vacation wasn’t turning out quite the way I had envisioned, I had the day to myself, and I looked forward to leisurely browsing through the nursery and finding a rose for Wolf. It would be less nerve-racking for me if I wasn’t home, watching as Troy hacked up my yard. Besides, while I didn’t feel I needed to apologize to Wolf, I thought he would appreciate it.

Daisy jumped into the back of the car and we were off, feeling the freedom of summertime without any immediate obligations. On the outside chance that Mona had miraculously managed to follow us, I drove through Old Town in a roundabout way before I hit Duke Street, watching the cars behind me to be certain she hadn’t followed us. The next time I saw her, I would have to turn the tables and tail her to her car so I would know what she was driving.

At the nursery, Daisy snuffled bark chips lining the grounds as we strolled through greenhouses that looked like there had been a run on plants. Nearly wiped out, they had tightened their supply of annuals into one greenhouse. Ribbons of color undulated as far as the eye could see. I strolled through but resisted the desire to buy. Troy would only tear it up.

In the rose corner of the nursery, I found exactly what I had in mind—a classic Blaze climbing rose. Bright red blossoms would bring some color back to Wolf’s garden, and the plant wouldn’t need much care.

I paid for the rosebush and placed it in the back of my car, crowding Daisy a little bit. I merged into traffic, Daisy
standing in the back, panting near my shoulder as I drove toward Wolf’s neighborhood. Heavily treed lots dominated the area. Most of the bungalows and colonials had been expanded over the years, making each house unique.

Wolf’s Arts and Crafts style home featured three stone steps leading up to the front door, which was flanked by two narrow windows. Fish scale shingles adorned the three gables in front, and cedar siding clad the rest of the house. A giant rhododendron that had bloomed purple in the spring hid the right front corner of his home. A sugar maple and azalea bushes blocked the view of the side yard on the left. The lawn was neatly mowed, and white-edged hostas thrived in the shade around the front steps.

I pulled into the driveway and let Daisy jump out of the car. Wolf was surely busy with work, so I could take my time planting, and the new rose would be a welcome surprise when he came home. I slung my bag over my shoulder and carried the rose to the rear of the yard, where the temperature was still bearable, thanks to the shade of towering yellow poplars. Although the grass had been neatly mowed, the gardens showed neglect. Wolf had dutifully dumped masses of mulch on them, but some plants had withered and died, while others seized the opportunity to grow out of control. A red trumpet vine had bunched over the top of a garden shed, and a wisteria had taken hold of a pear tree and climbed it like a trellis.

Bare branches of the deceased rosebush that Wolf had loved so much still stood in a bed in the very back of the yard near a trellis, with mulch heaped around it.

I set the new rose plant on a nearby bench, slid on my gloves, and grasped the old rosebush, hoping rotted roots would allow me to simply pull it out. No such luck. I grasped it closer to the base, chiding myself for wearing a sleeveless top. My arms would be scratched by the thorns. It still didn’t give. I needed a shovel.

Daisy followed me to the shed covered by the trumpet vine. The door squawked when I opened it. I peered into the darkness, snakes on my mind. How long had it been
since anyone had opened the door? My eyes adjusted to the lack of light, and I was surprised to find the little shed in fairly good order. I plucked a shovel from a corner that I could reach easily and hightailed it out of there.

But a movement to my left caught my eye. I froze in my tracks. A snake? I shivered at the thought. I held my breath and watched for any sign of life. A branch jiggled, and Daisy barked.

“Who’s there?” The voice was gruff, but it sounded like a woman. Blue eyes peered at me from under the brim of a grungy yellow hat.

Thank goodness. It was only a neighbor, not a snake. “Sophie Winston.”

“What are you doing in Wolf’s yard?”

“I’m his girlfriend. I’m planting a rose bush.”

The woman squinted at me before sliding on sunglasses and pushing past brush and overgrown viburnum. She wore a loose, long-sleeved shirt over golf shorts. Heavy lines cut through her face, and she sported a deep tan—Olive Greene, Roscoe’s ex-wife. I didn’t know her well. Olive avoided major social events, reportedly preferring the tranquility of her own garden. She had always made appearances at Roscoe’s picnics, though.

She kneeled by Daisy. “Well, aren’t you the sweetest thing? What’s your name, sugar?”

“Daisy.”

“My favorite dog name!” She laughed when Daisy licked her cheek. Still kneeling on the grass, she said, “Didn’t you do some work for my husband?”

“I usually arrange his annual picnic.”

“Oh, yes. Thank goodness you did that nonsense. I can’t stand all that hullaballoo. Give me a quiet garden and a pretty puppy like Daisy any day over all that pretentious fraternizing. So you’re Wolf’s girlfriend, huh? You’re either brave or stupid.”

She took me by surprise, even though she wasn’t the first person to make that sort of comment. What was I supposed to say? Thank you?

When I didn’t respond, she said, “You
do
know about his wife, don’t you? They say he murdered her.”

A gossip. Just what I needed. I knew very well what
they
said, whoever they were. But I had dated Wolf long enough to know that he wouldn’t kill anyone. Wolf didn’t like to dwell on the subject of his wife, and I fully accepted his explanation—his wife simply left one day. It had happened more than four years ago and was old news by now. Wolf said he had searched for her in the beginning, but as time passed and he found no leads, he’d moved on with his life.

It happened. He wasn’t the only person whose spouse had run away. Her unexplained disappearance had concerned me in the beginning, but Wolf had proven himself to be honest and gentle. Well, up until he got so huffy about
Roscoe. But then, I had my moments of anger, too. Everyone did.

“If you knew Wolf, you would know that he didn’t murder anyone.”

She looked toward his house. “He’s never home. He mows the grass religiously, but other than that, I never see him. Besides, as a homicide detective, he surely knows how to hide a body.”

That was what the gossips always said. Poor Wolf. It must eat at him to realize people viewed him that way. Why did everyone look past the fact that he worked hard and was a kind and decent man? I should have controlled myself better, but I couldn’t help tweaking Olive a little bit. “I know how to poison you with a plant in this yard, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to.”

Her hat fell off when she threw her head back and laughed. Without the hat, wiry salt and pepper hair fell around her face.

“Touché! A lot of people have asked me how I dared to buy a house next door to a wife killer.”

“Why did you?”

She picked up her hat and slapped it onto her head. “I liked the lot. These deep wooded grounds aren’t easy to find around here anymore.” She stood up and stretched before extending her hand. “Glad to meet you, Sophie.”

I slid off the gloves. “If I’m not mistaken, you were at the chicken lickin’ picnic yesterday.” I delicately omitted the fact that she had watched from the woods.

She smiled demurely. “What an awful name.
Mindy
has no taste whatsoever. What did you think of my replacement?”

She’d said Mindy’s name as though it tasted bitter. Nothing like putting me on the spot. “I thought she was threatened by you.”

Olive preened, evidently very pleased. “Was she? My presence as his wife certainly didn’t deter her from putting her moves on Roscoe during our marriage. I don’t know what’s wrong with that man. You’d think an old coot like
Roscoe would realize he’d been snagged by the worst sort of gold digger.”

She tilted her head to look at my hands.

I held them out to show her. “No rings. No plans to marry. You’ll have to come over sometime to get to know Wolf better.”

She scratched Daisy behind the ears. “Mmm.” Her mouth puckered as though the mere thought was sour. And then, as quickly as a cloud breezes past the sun, she was all smiles again. “I believe I’d like that,” she said as she headed for the brush separating the properties.

Returning to the stubborn dead rosebush I needed to remove, I pulled on my gardening gloves and planted the shovel about eighteen inches away from the trunk. Giving it a good shove with my foot, the shovel slid into the deep mulch easily. I tilted it backward to loosen the soil. Moving the shovel over a bit, I repeated the procedure. The soil and mulch didn’t pose a problem, but I didn’t seem to be moving the dead roots of the plant. On the fifth stab into the ground, the shovel hit something hard—a rock, I presumed. I backed up a few inches and tried again to see if I could slide the shovel around the edge of the rock and come up under it to dislodge it. I put more pressure on the handle of the shovel, using it like a lever. The mulch shifted.