Read Online A Hoe Lot of Trouble by Heather Webber - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Heather Webber
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help.
I had a few ideas where to begin: an old friend at the fire department, meeting with Chanson, maybe Demming . . .
"I feel like we're prisoners in our own home. It's horrible."
Again, the "we're" and "our." I shifted, uncomfortable. A buzzer sounded and Mrs. Sandowski rose. She removed a bread tin from the oven and placed it on the stovetop. After pressing her fingers into the dough to test it, she turned off the oven.
"Smells good," I said, hoping she couldn't hear the rumbling of my tummy.
"You can take it with you."
"I couldn't."
"Nonsense. I have a dozen more in the freezer."
I brushed away that feeling of stealing from the poor. "Then, thank you."
She wiped her hands on a dish towel and sat down. "Do you really think you can help us?"
"I'm not sure if I can help, but I can try. Something has to be done."
She tugged on her plain gold wedding band. Her grief creased her forehead, tugged at the lines at her mouth. I looked up at the clock. It seemed as though I had been in the farmhouse for hours. I'd been there twenty minutes.
"Where would you start? What would you do?"
A piece of corn silk clung to the end of the table. I picked it off. A hint of worry lined her eyes and maybe a bit of fear as I said, "I need to talk to Congressman Chanson, and Demming too. The paramedics, maybe, and some friends at the police station. I might even talk with a few of the resi dents of Vista View—they know my name through my business, so I might be able to get them to talk to me. I'll see what I can find out."
She reached out, grabbed my hand, gave it a squeeze. "Thank you for helping. As much as I hate to admit it, Bridget is right. We do need help, but I just don't trust the police. Don't go to them, all right? And if they question you, you won't tell them about any of this, will you?"
I thought of Kevin and those boxers. Frankly, at the moment I never wanted to speak with him again. But if I found myself in over my head, it was nice to know I could go to him. "Not if I don't have to."
"Promise me."
Her gaze burned into me. With the pads of my fingers, I wiped the perspiration from my upper lip. "I promise," I said with reluctance.
"Please be careful."
"I will."
"And don't be worrying if you don't find anything. I have a feeling this will all be over soon."
As I drove away from the farm, a loaf of freshly baked bread and a half dozen ears of corn seat-belted in next to me, I couldn't help wondering what Mrs. Sandowski had meant by her last comment. Did she know something?
Feeling a little lost, I wondered what I had gotten myself into.
Scanning the floor as I entered the house, I grabbed the hockey stick from against the wall. Still no sign of Xena, but I wasn't going to walk around unarmed.
After finally plunging the sink and changing out of sweat-dampened jeans and into a pair of khaki shorts, I sat on the sofa, wondering where to begin my informal investigation. Chanson seemed my best bet. As a congressman and a resident of Vista View, he'd have a good overview of the whole situation.
I allowed my head to fall back against the cushion. I kept the hockey stick tightly gripped while my thoughts flitted from Xena to Bridget to Kevin to Riley, and to—of all things—my missing hoes.
The rumble of my stomach drowned out most of my coherent thoughts, so I gave up on trying to figure things out and went in search of lunch. I hadn't eaten all day and was beginning to get a bit dizzy.
Out the window I could see Mr. Cabrera carrying lumber into his backyard. "So it begins," I murmured under my breath.
From the fridge, I grabbed a Diet Coke. My stomach continued to yell at me. I was opening the drawer to grab a knife to cut into Mrs. Sandowski's bread when I saw the light blinking on the answering machine. Three messages. I figured they were all from my mother, but I decided to check. The first was from Kevin. No hello, just a tired, "What do you think you're doing?"
The kitchen echoed with my laughter. The
I had a few ideas where to begin: an old friend at the fire department, meeting with Chanson, maybe Demming . . .
"I feel like we're prisoners in our own home. It's horrible."
Again, the "we're" and "our." I shifted, uncomfortable. A buzzer sounded and Mrs. Sandowski rose. She removed a bread tin from the oven and placed it on the stovetop. After pressing her fingers into the dough to test it, she turned off the oven.
"Smells good," I said, hoping she couldn't hear the rumbling of my tummy.
"You can take it with you."
"I couldn't."
"Nonsense. I have a dozen more in the freezer."
I brushed away that feeling of stealing from the poor. "Then, thank you."
She wiped her hands on a dish towel and sat down. "Do you really think you can help us?"
"I'm not sure if I can help, but I can try. Something has to be done."
She tugged on her plain gold wedding band. Her grief creased her forehead, tugged at the lines at her mouth. I looked up at the clock. It seemed as though I had been in the farmhouse for hours. I'd been there twenty minutes.
"Where would you start? What would you do?"
A piece of corn silk clung to the end of the table. I picked it off. A hint of worry lined her eyes and maybe a bit of fear as I said, "I need to talk to Congressman Chanson, and Demming too. The paramedics, maybe, and some friends at the police station. I might even talk with a few of the resi dents of Vista View—they know my name through my business, so I might be able to get them to talk to me. I'll see what I can find out."
She reached out, grabbed my hand, gave it a squeeze. "Thank you for helping. As much as I hate to admit it, Bridget is right. We do need help, but I just don't trust the police. Don't go to them, all right? And if they question you, you won't tell them about any of this, will you?"
I thought of Kevin and those boxers. Frankly, at the moment I never wanted to speak with him again. But if I found myself in over my head, it was nice to know I could go to him. "Not if I don't have to."
"Promise me."
Her gaze burned into me. With the pads of my fingers, I wiped the perspiration from my upper lip. "I promise," I said with reluctance.
"Please be careful."
"I will."
"And don't be worrying if you don't find anything. I have a feeling this will all be over soon."
As I drove away from the farm, a loaf of freshly baked bread and a half dozen ears of corn seat-belted in next to me, I couldn't help wondering what Mrs. Sandowski had meant by her last comment. Did she know something?
Feeling a little lost, I wondered what I had gotten myself into.
Scanning the floor as I entered the house, I grabbed the hockey stick from against the wall. Still no sign of Xena, but I wasn't going to walk around unarmed.
After finally plunging the sink and changing out of sweat-dampened jeans and into a pair of khaki shorts, I sat on the sofa, wondering where to begin my informal investigation. Chanson seemed my best bet. As a congressman and a resident of Vista View, he'd have a good overview of the whole situation.
I allowed my head to fall back against the cushion. I kept the hockey stick tightly gripped while my thoughts flitted from Xena to Bridget to Kevin to Riley, and to—of all things—my missing hoes.
The rumble of my stomach drowned out most of my coherent thoughts, so I gave up on trying to figure things out and went in search of lunch. I hadn't eaten all day and was beginning to get a bit dizzy.
Out the window I could see Mr. Cabrera carrying lumber into his backyard. "So it begins," I murmured under my breath.
From the fridge, I grabbed a Diet Coke. My stomach continued to yell at me. I was opening the drawer to grab a knife to cut into Mrs. Sandowski's bread when I saw the light blinking on the answering machine. Three messages. I figured they were all from my mother, but I decided to check. The first was from Kevin. No hello, just a tired, "What do you think you're doing?"
The kitchen echoed with my laughter. The
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