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Authors: Heather Webber
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baskets—petunias with flowing ivy.
The lawn sported a few clumps of crabgrass, which made me feel better. Lindsey wasn't a complete perfectionist.
I glanced toward the big picture window. It would be so easy to peek in.
Maybe see if there were any frames set out.
That might hold pictures of loved ones.
Dead loved ones.
I glanced up, then down the street. No sign of any HOA patrols.
The Lockharts had a side garage, and I decided to check and see if it was open before I played Peeping Tom. Trying not to look suspicious, I moseyed down the sidewalk. The two-car garage door was open wide, a Jetta parked on one side, the other side empty.
From her visits to my office, I knew Lindsey drove a newer model Escalade. So Bill was home. Odd. I'd have thought he'd be busy at work today, especially since he was now running Growl alone.
I abandoned my peeping ideas—for now—and turned my attention to the Grabinskys' yard.
It was a mess. Yellow crime scene tape still cordoned off the backyard, and I wondered why. The forensic guys should have been here and gone by now. Not that there was anything to find. Russ had had a heart attack, plain and simple.
Nothing's ever plain and simple, my inner voice warned.
I didn't want to listen to it, but couldn't help but hear the ring of truth.
By the looks of things, Russ Grabinsky hadn't been Man of the Year. But murder? Who'd want to kill him?
And how? Poisoning? An overdose?
Shaking my head, I decided not to go there. It had been a heart attack. I needed to stop playing Quincy, M.E., and get on with why I was here.
I needed to conjure up my inner Pollyanna and convince one seriously ticked-off woman not to sue me.
Since the yard was a mess anyway, I abandoned my manners and cut across the lawn. Three small concrete steps with a rusting black iron railing led to the front door.
The pansies on the front step looked in need of some water. I looked for the spigot, but raised voices coming from inside distracted me.
A man and a woman were arguing, but I couldn't make out what they were saying.
As usual, my nosiness got the better of me. I leaned over the step's railing and peered into the front window. The front room looked to be a small family room, straight from the fifties. There was an old-fashioned TV and radio. A rotary phone and a powder blue Smith-Corona typewriter sat on a rolltop desk in the corner. Bookshelves were stuffed full, but orderly. There were no pictures, I noticed. Not even an obligatory wedding one. A faded pink love seat with a tattered throw blanket balled into one of its corners sat diagonally from two worn La-Z-Boys. A TV Guide rested on the ottoman in front of a leather chair in front of the window. On a table next to the chair, I saw a stack of bound books. Oldfashioned accounting books, by the looks of the spiral bounds and red leather. I'd used them before Tam brought me into the computer age.
Beyond an arched doorway, I could see shadows coming from what appeared to be the kitchen area (the refrigerator was a dead giveaway), but still couldn't see who was arguing.
The woman had to be Greta Grabinsky. But who was the man? Did this have anything to do with Russ's death?
Had it been murder after all? A love triangle gone wrong?
I shuddered at the thought of Greta Grabinsky being in the middle of a love triangle.
Love is blind, my inner voice reminded.
Oh great. Now it w as sounding like my mother too.
I turned toward the street, looked left, then right.
Trying to look natural, I eased off the step, made a beeline for the backyard. Ducking under the crime scene tape, I looked over my shoulder to make sure no one was watching, then hurried around the corner, bumping into something hard. Someone, actually. A man.
He spun around, annoyed eyes widening when he saw me.
Half scared to death, I opened my mouth to scream, but only a gurgle came out.
"Shh!" Bill Lockhart warned, holding a finger up to his lips. He pressed on the top of my head, ducking
The lawn sported a few clumps of crabgrass, which made me feel better. Lindsey wasn't a complete perfectionist.
I glanced toward the big picture window. It would be so easy to peek in.
Maybe see if there were any frames set out.
That might hold pictures of loved ones.
Dead loved ones.
I glanced up, then down the street. No sign of any HOA patrols.
The Lockharts had a side garage, and I decided to check and see if it was open before I played Peeping Tom. Trying not to look suspicious, I moseyed down the sidewalk. The two-car garage door was open wide, a Jetta parked on one side, the other side empty.
From her visits to my office, I knew Lindsey drove a newer model Escalade. So Bill was home. Odd. I'd have thought he'd be busy at work today, especially since he was now running Growl alone.
I abandoned my peeping ideas—for now—and turned my attention to the Grabinskys' yard.
It was a mess. Yellow crime scene tape still cordoned off the backyard, and I wondered why. The forensic guys should have been here and gone by now. Not that there was anything to find. Russ had had a heart attack, plain and simple.
Nothing's ever plain and simple, my inner voice warned.
I didn't want to listen to it, but couldn't help but hear the ring of truth.
By the looks of things, Russ Grabinsky hadn't been Man of the Year. But murder? Who'd want to kill him?
And how? Poisoning? An overdose?
Shaking my head, I decided not to go there. It had been a heart attack. I needed to stop playing Quincy, M.E., and get on with why I was here.
I needed to conjure up my inner Pollyanna and convince one seriously ticked-off woman not to sue me.
Since the yard was a mess anyway, I abandoned my manners and cut across the lawn. Three small concrete steps with a rusting black iron railing led to the front door.
The pansies on the front step looked in need of some water. I looked for the spigot, but raised voices coming from inside distracted me.
A man and a woman were arguing, but I couldn't make out what they were saying.
As usual, my nosiness got the better of me. I leaned over the step's railing and peered into the front window. The front room looked to be a small family room, straight from the fifties. There was an old-fashioned TV and radio. A rotary phone and a powder blue Smith-Corona typewriter sat on a rolltop desk in the corner. Bookshelves were stuffed full, but orderly. There were no pictures, I noticed. Not even an obligatory wedding one. A faded pink love seat with a tattered throw blanket balled into one of its corners sat diagonally from two worn La-Z-Boys. A TV Guide rested on the ottoman in front of a leather chair in front of the window. On a table next to the chair, I saw a stack of bound books. Oldfashioned accounting books, by the looks of the spiral bounds and red leather. I'd used them before Tam brought me into the computer age.
Beyond an arched doorway, I could see shadows coming from what appeared to be the kitchen area (the refrigerator was a dead giveaway), but still couldn't see who was arguing.
The woman had to be Greta Grabinsky. But who was the man? Did this have anything to do with Russ's death?
Had it been murder after all? A love triangle gone wrong?
I shuddered at the thought of Greta Grabinsky being in the middle of a love triangle.
Love is blind, my inner voice reminded.
Oh great. Now it w as sounding like my mother too.
I turned toward the street, looked left, then right.
Trying to look natural, I eased off the step, made a beeline for the backyard. Ducking under the crime scene tape, I looked over my shoulder to make sure no one was watching, then hurried around the corner, bumping into something hard. Someone, actually. A man.
He spun around, annoyed eyes widening when he saw me.
Half scared to death, I opened my mouth to scream, but only a gurgle came out.
"Shh!" Bill Lockhart warned, holding a finger up to his lips. He pressed on the top of my head, ducking
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