Digging For Trouble Read online

  “Love ya too, Mom,” he said, reading the meaning behind my words. “Now. See ya round noon.”

  He’s still worried about something. Whatever he’s onto with this case must be sort of serious.

  Can’t wait to see for myself.

  Maybe with Cutter out of town we can actually get something accomplished. Then again, with his little minion running things it won’t surprise me if Kevin comes up against the same roadblocks and stupidity as always. Amazing anything gets done in this town.

  Funny thing is, it never used to bother me. Not before, when my hubby Richard was here and life was simple. Guess having to make my own way has made me more independent and aware of the things going on around me. Aware of the trouble some folks cause.

  There are good people here in Lakeshore, but there’s ratbags here, too. A few more than I’d like.

  But I guess that’s the same with small towns everywhere.

  I was busy doing paperwork for the rest of the morning, which kept me at the front desk. I had people to check out of their rooms, reservations to book, supplies to order, that sort of thing. The University girls were staying for the rest of the week... no, wait. I think most of them were checking out Sunday. The two in room three were staying through, that’s what it was. Kelli’s family was going to leave on Monday, which would leave me with room eleven free to book for this businessman who kept calling for an extended stay.

  It’s kind of like working a Sudoku puzzle.

  When the phone rang around ten o’clock I answered it on the second ring.

  “G’day, Pine Lake Inn.”

  Static.

  I used to joke that the hotel had phone trouble. Now I know that ghosts like to use telephones. So now when I get a call that’s nothing but white noise, I tend to listen a bit more.

  Because sometimes in the static you can hear voices.

  This time, I wish I’d hung up again. Maybe even disconnected the line.

  In the static, behind the hissing and crackling, I heard the man’s voice from my dream.

  “...had to...get your attention...you’ll find out...”

  I froze, listening to a voice that was barely there, but unmistakably chilling.

  “Soon.”

  A guest at the registration desk made me jump and fumble the phone receiver back into place.

  “Excuse me?” she asked politely.

  I hadn’t even seen her walk up. She stood there waiting for me to collect myself and find my voice again. Her eyes were a coppery brown, matching the highlights in her short hair. Sunglasses perched on her head. A breezy white dress that hugged her body in all the right places. Her dark tan of her skin marked her as being from Queensland, or somewhere up North like that.

  “Was looking for a room,” she told me, putting a heavy leather purse up on the counter next to our brochure rack. “Have you any left?”

  “You’re in luck. I can give you a room with a view of the lake. How’s that sound?”

  She sort of smiled. “I don’t plan to do much sightseeing, thanks.”

  “Oh? That’s what most people come to Lakeshore for.” I started up the computer and queued the reservation screen. I took another look at our guest as I did. She was dark and long and slim, the kind of woman who would be beautiful without those frown lines around her lips. “What brings you all the way out here?”

  She handed me her driver’s license and her credit card, never taking her eyes from me. I’m just guessing, but she strikes me as the type who stays at Inns and hotels a lot. Knows the procedure and such.

  After a moment of time, she answered the question I’d asked. “I’m here on business.”

  “Not a lot of business to be found here,” I said with a smile.

  “Enough for me.”

  Okay. Not the talkative type. Got it. Denice Aldrich, is the name on the license and the card. Address up in Brisbane. Confirms my guess of her being from up North. Well. I don’t need to make friends with all my guests, I suppose.

  “Is it alright to leave my car in the lot?” she asked me as I handed her back her cards.

  “Sure is. Might want to lock it up when you’re not with it. Can’t promise one of the local teens won’t get sticky fingers.”

  “Spiffy.” The word dripped sarcasm from her painted red lips. “Lots of crime in Lakeshore, from what I understand. Am I safe here?”

  “Safe as a newborn in a mother’s arms.”

  Her two perfectly sculpted eyebrows rose. “Seriously? I heard there’s a man in hospital that got beat upside the head.”

  My hand paused halfway across the registration desk, the key to Denice’s room dangling from my fingers. We use real keys here, not electronic keycards, because I think it gives us a more personal touch to use the real thing...

  Not the point.

  The point is, how did this stranger learn that Arthur got hit in the head? That was information that Kevin had only got from the doctors yesterday. As far as I knew it wasn’t public information. Certainly not for someone who wasn’t even from here. Not even the firemen who helped us get Arthur back off the trails knew that part.

  She pursed her lips in annoyance and reached out to take the key from me. “Which floor is this on?”

  Her lips.

  Painted red lips.

  Like the mark left on Arthur Loren’s coffee cup.

  “Uh,” I said, remembering that I’m staring and I’m not supposed to be staring because if this woman is the same one who left that lipstick stain then tipping her off that I know she was there might be bad. For me. “Your room? Oh. Yes. The room’s on the third floor, actually. Have you been in town long?”

  I was pushing my luck, I know, but I figure she probably won’t kill me just for asking.

  Right?

  “I got in yesterday morning,” she said. “My business is going to take longer than I expected.”

  Yesterday morning, she said. When Arthur was attacked. Could be just a coincidence, I suppose. After all, coincidences do happen.

  Just not in Lakeshore.

  Oh, snap.

  “Can I get you to sign the register for us, please?” I asked her, trying not to let my suspicions show on my face.

  She picked up the pen laying between the open pages of the heavy sign-in book. Just like the real keys we use, this has always been just another quaint touch here at the Pine Lake Inn. I never thought about it this way, but the book also comes in handy if you want to get a sample of someone’s handwriting without them knowing.

  I don’t know if that will be useful in this case or not, but I’m suddenly very certain that Denice Aldrich isn’t here in town for business.

  At least, not any sort of decent business.

  She picked up her bag again after signing her name, and with another sort-of smile at me, she made her way to the stairs. On the way she stopped to look at David Collins’ portrait on its tripod easel. “Nice,” I heard her say to me, even though she didn’t turn back around. “I like it when people remember their history. After all. Where are we without our past?”

  Then she was going up to her room, her high heels clacking on each step with purposeful rhythm.

  That was bizarre, to say the least.

  What were the chances that the person who attacked Arthur would just waltz into my Inn and ask for a room?

  Mine’s the only Inn there is in Lakeshore. Or for a hundred miles around. I’d say the chances are better than even.

  If Denice Aldrich was the one in Arthur’s house, though, then how did Myles Sinclair fit into things? Were the two of them working together? Did I have it all wrong about Myles? Or was I wrong to suspect Denice?

  No. They were both involved, somehow. Myles had admitted to being involved with Arthur. Denice knew way too much considering she only just got into town.

  Something was rotten with the both of them. I needed to find out what.

  Well, somebody did. I didn’t see anyone else stepping up.

  “Rosie!” I called int
o the dining room. “I’m going out. Can you...?”

  She waved to me from where she was inspecting a table’s setting, knowing what I’m going to ask. This was becoming a regular thing with me. Well. I’ll have to make it up to her. Give her a week’s vacation so she and her hubby can really start working on that baby they’ve been wanting. It’s the least I can do.

  Because right now, I really need to drop by and see Kevin.

  Just as I turned away I saw Rosie snag a candlestick with the sleeve of her coat and knock it over onto the white tablecloth.

  Thank God it wasn’t lit.

  ***

  Around back of the Inn is the storage shed where I keep some extra supplies, the Christmas decorations, and other stuff. Including my bicycle.

  The Wallaby is what I call her. She’s the little red ten speed that I’ve had with me since University. She could use a coat of paint, because it’s peeling off in red flakes in places and the back forks are purple where I had to replace them. Maybe she is showing her age a little, just like her owner, but she makes getting from one end of the town to the other a lot easier when I’m in a hurry.

  Like now. Twenty minutes by foot in the hot sun, or five on the bike. I know which one I’m picking today.

  White houses fly by as I work through the gears, and the water fountain in its little grassy island in the center of Main Street gurgles pathetically as I gain speed. The slope of Fenlong Street was getting harder and harder to get myself up but now that I’m on straight and level pavement I can get to the other end of town in no time.

  At the westernmost edge of Lakeshore, at the far end of Main Street where pavement gave way to the dirt stretch of Kookaburra Road again, the houses gradually became fewer as the Monterey Pines grew taller and thicker together. There were a few storage buildings out this way, and Oliver Harris’s towing and recovery business, across the road from the police station.

  Wheeling the Wallaby into the parking lot past the large round Lakeshore Police Station sign on the front of the building, with its emblem of a scraggly pine tree in the middle of three differently shaped lakes, I set my trusty bicycle into the rack and straightened out my long, windswept hair. Not that I care about anyone’s opinion of my appearance, especially here at the police station. I guess it’s just the girl in me.

  The building is one story tall, made of stucco and brick, and of course it’s painted white. The beat up patrol car that Kevin had been using yesterday was here, but no other cars. That should mean my son is the only one here. Good.

  Inside the front door is the small lobby with its three plastic orange chairs and posters about crime prevention and such. I never pay them much mind anymore. They haven’t changed in ten years. Instead I walk right up to the sliding glass service window in the one wall and ring the little metal bell for service. Lakeshore can’t pay to hire a secretary for their police department.

  After I’d hit the bell’s plunger it occurred to me that I should maybe have just called Kevin’s mobile to let him know I’m here, but too late now.

  Thankfully, it’s him who comes out to greet me. Guess we’re alone after all.

  “You’re early,” he said, before waving me in and opening the door from the lobby to the inside of the building. “Not that it matters. Haven’t seen Bruce Kay all day.”

  “No loss.”

  “Yup. That’d be right. Uh. You didn’t bring anything for lunch?”

  Just inside the door, I pulled a frown. Oops. “Sorry, Kevin, I totally forgot. Somebody came in the Inn and, well, I have a theory.”

  “Mom. I’ve told ya before, leave the policing to us cops.”

  He led me back to the room they use for interviews. It’s really not a big place here. Cutter has his office, and there’s the two holding cells to the back, and not enough space left over for a cricket to dance a jig. In here, on the wooden table that separates the two chairs, Kevin has folders and papers spread out and a yellow notepad full of his distinctive handwriting.

  “Besides,” he added as we sat down, “I’ve got a theory of my own.”

  The paperwork caught my eye. Land deeds. Lease agreements. Maps marked with topographical lines showing the area around Lakeshore, the elevations, and the lower areas as well.

  “You’ve been busy,” I commented.

  “Sure have. Search warrant came in for Myles Sinclair’s files last night.” He smirked. “Thing is, he had these folders on Arthur Loren ready and waiting for me when I got to his office. Guess he knew what was coming.”

  I looked up from the mess on the table. “You think he gave up that easy?”

  “I don’t think he had a choice.”

  My son is very smart. Sometimes, though, he can be a tad too trusting. Sure, this looked like a lot of information, but if Myles gave it up willingly, it would’ve given him the chance to edit the files anyway he saw fit.

  He saw the look on my face, and shrugged. “Well. It’s enough to go on, even if it ain’t everything. Come take a look at this.”

  For the next twenty minutes Kevin went through everything he had gotten from our town’s resident real estate agent. I don’t mind admitting that most of it went over my head, but the gist of it was pretty simple.

  Arthur Loren, poor old prospecting coot that he was, owned a tract of land out in the bush west of town. It was a sizeable piece of property down by Gallipoli Lake. Kevin wasn’t sure how he could’ve afforded it, unless maybe his family owned the land from back in colonial times and the deed to it has been passed down from generation to generation. Now Arthur owned it. Made sense.

  “I figure,” Kevin said, almost repeating my own thoughts out loud, “that Myles wants this land pretty badly. Can’t figure why, because I’ve been out that way before and there doesn’t seem to be anything there except dirt and scrub brush and snakes.”

  He turned the photocopy of a contract around for me to see. It was between Myles and Arthur, selling the land for an embarrassment of riches, as they say. It was unsigned.

  “Myles said he didn’t have a chance to show it to Arthur,” Kevin explained.

  “Do you believe him?”

  “Not a chance.”

  Well, now. Maybe Kevin wasn’t so trusting after all.

  “This is the way I see it.” He pointed to various papers on the table when making each of his points. “Myles wants this land. He’s got development ideas, thinks there’s oil down there, whatever. So he makes this offer to Arthur. Brings this contact over for him to sign. Arthur doesn’t want to sell. Again, who knows why? Not like he couldn’t use the money, especially the kind of coin this contract spells out. Arthur and Myles get into a fight, Arthur proceeds to spit the dummy, Myles ends up cracking Arthur in the noggin.”

  I pictured it in my head. It made sense. At the same time, it seemed to leave a lot unexplained.

  “Myles thinks he’s killed poor old Arthur,” Kevin finished, “so he runs before he checks to see if Arthur’s still breathing. Dazed and not in his right mind, Arthur goes traipsing about in the bush with his little shovel digging up holes until my amazing mom ends up in the right place at the right time to save him.”

  “But if he ran,” I asked, “when did he have time to break into the closet and steal those soil samples?”

  “I’m thinking right after he smacked Arthur, the ratbag used the same tool to open the closet door, took the jars, knocked some others off the shelf, and then he runs. He seemed surprised to learn Arthur was in hospital. It all fits.”

  I sat back in my chair, waiting for what I knew was coming.

  “Right,” he admitted. “All this is well and good. Just not enough to arrest him.”

  “So what would you need to put the slimy mongrel in handcuffs?”

  “Well, a confession would be great.” He laughed half-heartedly at his own joke. “Failing that, I’d need some physical evidence. If I can match the pry mark on the closet door to the wound on his skull, for instance. Or get a fingerprint from any of those jars.”
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  “The jars?” I asked. “You wouldn’t actually go and fingerprint every...”

  He dug under some other papers and came up with an official looking report that had several plastic-covered, smeared fingerprint impressions attached.

  “Forty-eight usable ones.”

  He sounded exhausted when he said it. I’ll bet he was the only one working this case. I could just picture him in Arthur’s house again last night, dusting each of those jars himself.

  Such was the state of law enforcement in the town of Lakeshore, Tasmania.

  “I’ll be sending this request to the crime lab up in Hobart today.” He wiped a hand over his face and started putting all of the papers back together. “Thing is, it’s the weekend, so the blokes up there won’t get my request ‘til Monday, and even then it’ll be back burner material because there’s no death involved, just an assault and the theft of two jars of rocks. Can’t call it anything more than that.”

  “So it might be weeks before we hear back on a fingerprint match.”

  He nodded. “Months, maybe. Even then, it’s likely that most of the ones I got are Arthur’s own prints. Maybe even all of them. So. That’s where I’m at.” He paused long enough to give me a calculating look. “What made ya rush all the way down here without any food for your poor famished son?”

  I looked at him apologetically. “I know you’re stressed out, Kevin. I’m sorry I forgot the lunch. Come back with me to the Inn. We’ll get a feed together.”

  “What makes ya think I’m stressed?” he asked me defensively. “Just ‘cause Senior Sergeant Cutter’s due back in two days and the yobbo’s prob’ly gonna wreck this whole case and blame it all on me? Or ‘cause Bruce Kay got handpicked to be in charge while Cutter’s off prancin’ about even though I’ve closed more cases than Kay’ll ever dream of?”

  “It’s not just that,” I argued, very certain that I’m right.

  “Then what’re ya on about?”

  “Heh. You’ll never learn, will you? A mother knows these things. It’s in the way you talk. Little things you do.” I made my accent match his, deepening my vowels and stretching the consonants out. “Ya went to Uni and got all cultured up and lost that back of Bourke lingo of yers. Comes out again when yer feelin’ the pressure.”