Fourth Grave Beneath My Feet

“I was just over at the office. Dad tried to shoot me. Twice. So Uncle Bob pulled a gun. That man is way faster than he looks.”

Her eyes widened again. Then they narrowed in disbelief. Then widened yet again. Then narrowed. Then they did this little mushy thing as she tried to wrap her head around what I’d said. Then they widened some more. Then narrowed. And as entertaining as her eye movements were, I was in my boxers.

“Okay, so I’m going to take a shower. You let that sink in.”

“How did the offices look?” she finally asked, and I knew she missed them.

“They are really nice since Bobby Joe refinished them. I like the soft taupe he chose.”

“It’s so weird that he thought his girlfriend was trying to kill him with peanuts.”

“I know, right?” I took my coffee cup and headed that way. “It would have made more sense if he’d had a peanut allergy.”

* * *

After I got rid of Angel, telling him his shift was up, I took a quick shower and went over my agenda for the day. We weren’t any closer to finding out who Harper’s stalker was, and that saddened me, but I still had several leads to check out. Cook had already obtained the list of nonresident visitors at the Tanoan Estates, and none of them coincided with anyone from Harper’s past that we could deduce.

She also hit me with an address on the Lowells’ long-term housekeeper who’d recently retired. I figured I’d start there, then go to the abandoned mental asylum and check on my friend Rocket. I hadn’t seen him in a while.

“I also have a list of everyone who worked for the Lowells when they were married,” Cookie said as I munched on the breakfast of champions, leftover brownies, “but not many of them worked there for more than a couple of years. Their driver still works for them, and their live-in housekeeper worked for them up until a couple of weeks ago.”

“Right, their new housekeeper told me that much.”

“Took me a while to track her down. She worked for the Lowells for almost thirty years. You’d think they would know where she lived. I had to ask Donald.”

“Donald?” I asked, injecting a purr of interest into my voice. “You’re on a first-name basis with Donald?”

“Pffft. He’s the Lowells’ driver, he’s the only one who would give me a microsecond of his time, and he sounds ninety if he’s a day.”

“Maybe he’s a smoker. If he’s still their driver—”

“Sorry. Former driver. Now he just takes care of their cars or something. He said they just keep him around because they feel sorry for him.”

“Interesting. Did you find out anything else?”

She batted her lashes. “Well, he’s a Gemini, likes long walks on the beach, and is very attracted to men in kilts.”

I swallowed the last bite of brownie and chased it with a shot of lukewarm java juice. “That’s so weird. I’m attracted to men in kilts, too.” I elbowed her. “Can I get Donald’s number in case I have any questions?”

“You wouldn’t move in on my territory, would you?”

I gasped and put an innocent hand on my even innocenter chest. “I would never.”

She ignored me. “So, after you interview the housekeeper, you’re going to check on Rocket?” she asked, a knowing grin lighting her face.

Rocket was an invaluable resource when it came to finding out who had passed and who was still kicking. A departed savant who knew the names of every person who ever lived on Earth, Rocket could give me their status updates in seconds flat. And he was big and adorable and loved to hug. Hard.

But Cook wasn’t talking about Rocket, if that mischievous twinkle in her eye was any indication.

“Yes,” I said, memorizing the address of the housekeeper she gave me.

“And what about Rocket’s neighbors? Going to check on them, too?”

I crooked a brow. “I do have a weakness for guys on Harleys.”

She wagged an index finger at me, teasing. “Just say no.”

“You don’t understand,” I said before heading that way. “It’s a really strong weakness.”

* * *

I drove to the housekeeper’s residence on the south side, trying not to obsess about the fact that my father had tried to shoot me. Twice. The housekeeper lived in an older part of town. Many of the houses were considered almost historical and they were well kept, as was Mrs. Beecher’s.

After I knocked on the door, I took a moment to appreciate the beautiful flowers on her front porch. They were purple. That was about as categorical as I got. A squat elderly woman with light gray hair and soft gray eyes opened the wooden door but stayed put behind the screen of the storm door. The top of her head barely reached my chin, and she had to look up at me.

“Hi, Mrs. Beecher?”

“Yes?” she said, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She wore a floral dress that looked like it’d had more than its fair share of washings.

“I’m so sorry to bother you. My name is Charley Davidson.” I held up my ID. “I’m a private investigator, and I was hired to look into a case involving your former employer, the Lowells?”

Her heartbeat skyrocketed and her mouth did this little twitch thing where it thinned for just a microsecond before she caught herself. Then she plastered on her best poker face.

“Look, I understand it’s frowned upon to be talking about the Lowells. You were in their employ for many years. But I have their express permission to question their staff,” I said, lying through my whitening-stripped teeth. The Lowells had a strong hold on their staff. Mrs. Lowell was a tyrant if I ever saw one.