Free Digging Up Trouble by Heather Webber

find anything that stood out. Only man hands. Long fingers, short nails—not bitten. He must have worn a short-sleeve shirt because I couldn't see any cuffs.
    "Who is it?" Bill asked.
    "I can't see him," I whispered.
    The back door creaked open. "I want them back by—"
    I didn't hear the rest. I fell backward when Bill released his hands. I braced for a crash landing but was snatched up before I hit the ground.
    Bill pushed me around the corner of the house just as the back door slammed closed.
    I dragged Bill toward the front of the house, but he resisted.
    Breathing hard, I tried to keep my voice low. "What're you doing?"
    "Going back. I want to see who it is. I'll look casual."
    He was nuts. I was so out of there.
    As he stuck his hands in his pockets, started whistling "Yellow Rose of Texas," and headed for the police tape, I made a break for the front yard . . . and almost slammed into someone when I rounded the corner.
    What was it with me crashing into people today?
    "Who are you?" Suspicious eyes honed in. "What are you doing sneaking around? I'm going to call the police!" she said, shaking a finger at me.
    Backing up, I scrambled for an answer. She was a short rotund woman, with thick arms and thicker ankles. She wore orthopedic shoes, black stirrup pants from the eighties, a purple beaded shirt, and a strange glint in her eye.
    I quickly said, "I'm Nina Quinn. I'm the landscaper . . . I was just checking to see if the crime scene tape had been removed yet. I'd like to finish the job I started."
    I was such a good liar. I wasn't sure if this was a good trait or not. Probably not, but a girl had to make do with the gifts given her.
    Bill came whistling around the corner and stiffened when he saw the woman. "Noreen?" he said. "What are you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be at wo—"
    She cut him off. "Are you two together?" Her gaze jumped between Bill and me, suspicion still apparent. Potato-shaped, she looked to be about fifty, with a short graying bob with chunky bangs, chubby cheeks, and big Sally Jesse Raphael red glasses.
    "Us?" I said. "No. Definitely not."
    We all jumped when the front door swung open, banging against the wall behind it. Seemed I wasn't the only one on edge.
    A red-faced, perspiring Greta filled the doorway.
    "Greta, what's wrong?" Mrs. Potato Head asked.
    Greta still wore the same housecoat as yesterday. "What are you all doing here?"
    I swallowed hard. It was quite clear by her jumpy demeanor and angry eyes that she wasn't in the mood for visitors. This probably wasn't the best time to ask about dropping the lawsuit. "I, um, came by to talk."
    Bill said, "Me too."
    Mrs. Potato Head didn't say anything, but Greta didn't seem to be looking for an answer from her. Greta folded meaty arms across her huge chest. "I have nothing to say to either of you."
    Ohh-kay.
    I looked to Bill. He took a step forward, toward the front stairs. "Greta, I'm truly sorry about Russ, you must know that."
    Her shoulders stiffened. "I don't know anything right now."
    "Fair enough," he said. "But—"
    Greta glared. Her beehive 'do shook as she leaned against the doorjamb. "But what? What do you want, Bill?"
    I saw his pointy Adam's apple bob as he said, "Russ had taken some paperwork home with him from the restaurant. I need it."
    "It'll have to wait."
    "It really can't."
    "It has to." She wiped her forehead with the top of her hand. "Go home."
    Bill held out his hands, pleading. "Greta, please."
    I didn't understand the hint of desperation I heard in Bill's voice. Was he looking for the account books I'd seen through the window? Were they for Growl? Or was he looking for something else? Something so important that he'd leave his pride behind and beg a grieving widow?
    "No." Greta's jaw set stubbornly. "I don't wish to see anyone right now. Go away."
    She looked at wit's end. Russ's death had obviously taken its toll. Not to mention the conversation from the mystery man in her kitchen.
    Mrs. Potato Head climbed