Romancing the Gravestone (A Jane Ladling Mystery 1)

When the last agent wandered off, Special Agent Barrow remained in the driveway, pacing. Were more agents due to arrive?

Trepidation prickled the back of her neck. Time for a distraction. “Would you like more coffee?” she called.

“No, thank you.” He paced at a faster clip.

Her ears twitched as tires crunched over gravel. Yep. Another arrival. She shaded her eyes and peered down the drive. A bright-red convertible. Fiona!

Special Agent Barrow stiffened, and Jane rushed to stand at the railing.

The (almost) old woman parked beside Jane’s vehicle, which just happened to be a hearse. First of all, the car had come with the business. Second, Pops had been a mechanic at heart, and he’d rebuilt the engine himself, ensuring she couldn’t bear to part with the thing. Ever. Third, it was a Cadillac. The best vehicle ever made, according to Grandma Lily and Fiona.

Fiona eased out, gaping at the fleet of vehicles before marching up the porch steps. The world’s most amazing woman was petite and curvy, with a short cap of black curls and dark skin. The only lines she bore were those she’d earned with love and laughter.

“Jane Ladling, you tell me what’s going on right this second. Then you tell me why I didn’t receive a call right when this mess started? Whatever this mess is. Are you all right? Are you hurt? Or in trouble?”

“I’m fine, I promise.” The trouble, though…

“Ma’am,” Special Agent Barrow said in greeting, even while extending his arm to warn Fiona away. “This isn’t a good time to visit. Come back later this evening.”

“She’s with me,” Jane told him, ready to fly down there and handle this if necessary. “She’s my family.”

Special Agent Barrow hesitated before offering a clipped nod.

Fiona humphed as she passed him.

“Have a seat.” Fighting a grin, Jane kissed her friend on the cheek. “I’ll get you a glass of tea and tell you everything that’s happened.”

“Yes, you most certainly will tell me everything.” A chiding tone couldn’t mask her friend’s continued concern. “You should have alerted me right away about the trouble you’re having.”

“Next time I will, promise.” Next time? Jane winced as she rushed inside to the kitchen. The air conditioner was set ten degrees higher than her friend’s age—an incomparable 72—yet her damp, overheated body reacted as if she’d entered an arctic blast, shivering uncontrollably. As fast as possible, she selected Fiona’s favorite twelve-ounce glass from the cupboard, poured peach schnapps to the half-way point and added two splashes of sweet tea. Her friend’s special mix.

Rolex had taken a break from guard duty and now slept on the table, curled in the centerpiece—an empty bowl. The excitement of the day had exhausted him.

When she returned to the porch, a sizzling breeze enveloped her, making her miss the cold. Fiona already perched in her rocker. Jane reclaimed her spot on the swing, to the left of her friend.

Today, Fiona wore her typical attire: a colorful blouse, loose slacks, and a chunky necklace. “Tell me everything, hon. Leave nothing out.”

The endearment made her chest clench every time. The same endearment Grandma Lily had used.

A consummate gossip—sorry, information gatherer—the retired school teacher liked to say, “If you don’t know what you’re doing, someone else will.”

Jane explained the circumstances, withholding only two minor details that had no bearing on the situation whatsoever. Special Agent Ryan’s appearance and her reaction to him hardly mattered at all, really.

Her friend’s eyes widened. “The dead man is blond, you say? Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit. I’m solving the murder even as we speak. This morning, Tiffany Hotchkins, Dr. Hotchkins’s wife—do you know her? She’s about your age, I think. Twenty-six. Maybe twenty-seven. Anyway, she posted on the Headliner, asking if anyone had seen or heard from her husband.”

The AH Headliner, also known as “the Headliner” and “the Head’s Up.” An app used by town members to share recipes and exchange theories about everything going on in everyone’s life. Marriages. Divorces. Social events. Scandals. Issue guesses about the secret ingredient in a certain someone’s famous blueberry pancakes. And okay, yes, maybe Jane was the only one who’d ever posted about that last one. So what? The most popular section was known as Panning for Dates.

“If that’s not enough to wet your whistle,” Fiona continued, “Sandy Whitaker also posted. She had an appointment with Dr. Garcia bright and early this morning. You see him too, don’t you? She said the office was packed to the brim, with poor Dr. Garcia sprinting from room to room, covering both his and Dr. Hotchkins’s patients.”

Dr. Hotchkins. Also known as Dr. Hots. Some of his patients sometimes invented various ailments to see him. Jane flipped through mental files and found his photo. Late forties. A little over six feet tall. Lean. A full cap of blond hair. He and Dr. Garcia ran the local clinic.