Cold skin. Nonexistent heartbeat.
Confirmation.
Poor Ana Irons was indeed dead. But why? What had killed her? The heat? A medical condition? Foul play?
Jane’s shoulders slumped. Whatever the answer, this was a bona fide tragedy. Once editor of the school newspaper and lead contributor for the high school yearbook, the über-curious Ana used to question everyone about everything. An endearing quality in Jane’s book. The inquisitive beauty would be missed by many. And, honestly, she would have positively vibrated with glee at the thought of covering a story like this. The second death to occur on Jane’s property in only a handful of months.
The first had brought Special Agent Conrad Ryan to her door. Both a blessing and a curse. What would this newest demise bring? For that matter, why had Ana visited the Garden of Memories in the first place? And to visit this morning of all mornings—the very day she died? What were the odds?
Rolex continued to paw at the window from inside the house. Her darling watch-cat had sensed trouble long before Jane.
“You are this week’s employee of the month,” she told him through the glass. “You deserve a raise.”
He meowed his agreement.
She anchored her hands on her hips. “You’d think there’d be enough dead bodies here, but someone always wants to add another. Hey! Do you suspect Ana’s family dropped her off, hoping to avoid a burial fee?” Hadn’t Grandma Lily used to complain about such shenanigans?
Focus, Jay Bird, Grandma Lily’s voice chided inside her head. There’s a mystery to solve.
Right. She should call Sheriff Moore. The old grump had jurisdiction here. Although, he would only turn around and alert Conrad, so, probably better to save everyone a little time and go straight to the source herself. She might be at odds with her special agent, kind of, maybe, possibly, but he cared for her well-being. And his job. Not necessarily in that order. He’d want to know what happened.
So. Yes. She would call him first. After she’d assessed the situation to the best of her ability, of course. He would ask questions. Better to have ready answers.
Jane shifted her weight from the heel of one flat to the other as she slipped into “investigation mode” and scanned the potential crime scene. No one seemed to lurk nearby. No discarded weapon waited in plain sight. Near the rocker, a large designer handbag lay on its side.
Back to the victim. Ana had chosen professional clothing for this visit. Had she come from an early meeting? Or had she dressed for Jane or maybe Beau? Maybe an appointment afterward?
Had Ana worked on a story?
Pensive, Jane studied the body more thoroughly. No obvious injuries. No specks of blood. No bruises or disheveled garments. No foul play?
Ready to answer questions, she withdrew her cell from her pocket, a feature she required for every work dress. She liked to look her best for the cemetery’s residents, but also insisted on practicality.
Deep breath in. Out. She dialed Conrad’s number.
He answered after the third ring, a bit out of breath. “Hello, Jane.” To her surprise, humor tinged his voice.
Had he forgiven her for ignoring him since the thorn apple incident?
Her cheeks flooded with heat as a memory tinged the back of her mind. Had she mentioned her panties to Conrad? “Hello,” she shrieked at a much louder volume than intended. Deeper breath in. “I’m sorry to say this is a business call.” Better. She’d sounded professional.
“Business? Do tell.”
“Well. There’s a dead body on my porch.”
He cleared his throat. “I need you to repeat that. You didn’t just tell me—”
“There’s a dead body on my porch, yes.”
Silence crackled over the line. With a mix of hope and dread, he asked, “Have you been pulling weeds again?”
“I wish.” Then the implication of his question hit, and her cheeks heated. Fiona must have told him what happened because Jane certainly hadn’t explained.
“Tell me everything,” he said, using his flat, no nonsense special agent-detective tone.
That, she could do. “After my morning rounds, I got busy cleaning the house. You know, straightening, running the sweeper, dusting. Not because I needed a distraction from a certain conversation centering around my urinary health or anything.” Or dozens of other phone calls she’d made that fateful day. “I prefer clean quarters, that’s all. Like any normal person. And this is Scrub Up Saturday. As I toiled over the dusting portion of my chores—”
“Jane,” he interjected. “Jump ahead. Tell me about the body.”
Right. Now wasn’t the time to indulge her tendency to ramble. “It’s Ana Irons. I mean Tatiana Irons. Well, Ana to her friends, but we hadn’t spoken in years, so I might not qualify as a friend. Though I did try to reconnect with her recently. You know, for our double date. She died before rendering a verdict on my use of her name.”