“It’s possible.”

  “Great.” I hung up. I recalled an earlier conversation with Fernando about Sarah. He had lied. He wasn’t Sarah’s third husband. He may have been the third man she’d lived with. Maybe they’d planned to marry, and she had backed out? What else had he lied about? And there was Randy’s confrontation about Sarah’s possessions. Fernando claimed she’d wanted to get rid of the boxes, and tossed them in the dumpster. Sarah’s death had genuinely wounded him, and his eyes misted when he talked about her. Was he embarrassed that she didn’t want to marry once he’d brought her to Minnesota? Maybe I was being paranoid. I’ve been accused of worse.

  I Googled Randy Jackson and followed the bread crumbs to people associated with him. Randy Jackson, Sr. was listed in Arizona and Minnesota. That had the ring of a snowbird. It was June. Randy’s father should be back in Minnesota.

  Chapter 21

  I spent the next morning trimming bushes around the renovation. The day warmed while I worked; I slipped off my hoodie and left it on the front stoop, then went back to my task. I lugged the wood ladder around the back to get at a willow tree. After I finished clipping stray branches, I returned to the steps, about to enter the house.

  “What the heck is this?” I grabbed my bundled sweatshirt and unfolded it. “A fish? It’s a dead fish!” I dropped the shirt. “Eewee! It smells!” I shuddered. Chilled, I dug out my cellphone and called Don. “You have to see this,” I sputtered, panicked.

  “See what?” he asked. “Never mind, I’m in the neighborhood.” He drove in, and met me at the steps. Leaning over, he flipped a corner of the sweatshirt, and studied the object. Stroking his chin, he said, “It’s an Asian carp. They’re found at the river.”

  I winced, “Remember when you said the rat was a brown Norway rat, and I said I didn’t give a fig about its ancestry?”

  “Yes?”

  “Same deal.”

  “Yes. But someone could be sending you a message.”

  “What?” It puzzled me. “Why on earth would someone wrap a fish in my shirt and leave it on my steps?”

  “Don’t know. It’s a sign––‘swimming with fishes,’––as in someone might want you dead. Like in the Godfather movies, where the character receives a dead fish. It could be a threat.”

  “That’s a mob thing. Okay, now you’re just plain freaking me out.”

  “I want you to be aware of what’s happening here. I’ll make a report and beef up patrols. We’re still getting reports of prowlers.”

  “Good grief. Are there really mobsters? In sleepy Crocus Heights?”

  “Organized crime is still around. It may be disguised as an ordinary business to launder money from illegal dealings.”

  “Like drugs?”

  “Yes. But let’s not get carried away. It could be a joke.” He massaged his temple. “How’s Eddy?”

  “It’s not Eddy.” As much as he could be a thorn in my side, he knew better. He’d be the one swimming with the fishes, if he thought leaving a dead carp was funny.

  “You’re sure?” He looked at me, skeptical.

  “Yes. I’ll ask him, but it’s not Eddy.” I shrugged.

  “Okay. I’ll take the fish.” He went to his car and came back with a paper sack.

  “Please!” I watched him snap a photo and bag the fish with the shirt. “No need to return the sweatshirt.” I winced.

  “No problem.” he smiled.

  “What kind of legitimate business would be a front?” I asked.

  “All kinds––bars, restaurants, real estate, the construction trades.”

  “Like plumbers?”

  “Yes, and electricians, painters, framers, carpenters, you name it.”

  “Well, as long as we narrow it down.”

  “Glad to see you still have a sense of humor. It must’ve been a shock.”

  “Yeah.” I sighed. “Thanks.”

  “I’ll take this in. You know the drill.” He gave me a stern look.

  “No private investigating,” I said.

  “What else?”

  “Keep the doors locked,” I recited.

  Don left, clutching the smelly bundle, and loaded it in the trunk. He waited, expectantly.

  I gave a salute, closed the door, and threw the deadbolt. I headed upstairs to the main level and surveyed the premises. It was coming together, with deep cleaning, fresh paint, and ready for carpet. Why would anyone want me dead? What had I gotten into with this project? It wouldn’t matter how good this rehab looked, if I were a dead house flipper.

  I futzed in the house. My thoughts were whirling as I mindlessly stored supplies in the garage until mid-afternoon. Frustrated, and more than a little nervous about working alone, I called Myra.

  “Hey, Myra. How about a glass of wine, or two, maybe three?” I asked.

  “Oh, oh. What happened?”

  “It’s a long story,” I sighed. “It ends with someone wants me dead.”

  “What? No! Do you want to meet at Ivan’s?”

  “Would you mind coming to my house? I’ll pick up a bottle of chardonnay.”

  “Is five o’clock, okay? I’ll get pizza. Hawaiian?” she asked.

  “Perfect! You know me so well. Thanks, Myra, appreciate it.”

  I stuffed my cellphone into my bag, locked up, and ran to my Ford. The weather had turned overcast and rain splatted against the windshield as I buckled myself in. I locked the car as an extra precaution, knowing as I did, it was unlikely anyone would take me out in broad daylight. I sat back, the windshield wipers slapping back and forth, and collected my thoughts.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Randy’s plumbing truck parked on the street in front of Fernando’s residence. Don’s admonition that organized crime was all around, in legitimate businesses and in the construction trades, registered. Construction? That would mean plumbing. Fernando had been a house painter in Arizona. Sarah’s ex-husband had been a builder until he sold.

  My mind raced, and I took a deep breath. You’re being paranoid again, Katelyn. This is little Crocus Heights, Minnesota. Hardly big enough to support a mall, let alone organized crime. But what was Randy doing at Fernando’s? I flipped my visor down and strained to see any movement in the vehicle or inside the house. Fernando’s living room window coverings were closed. The van sat quiet. They must be inside.

  I waited a few minutes until the neighbor who walked her dog every day, rain or shine, approached. Her hood was up on a yellow rain slicker and the little white dog sported a coat and galoshes as they passed my car. She looked at me as though she wondered what I was doing.

  I nodded and drove off, with one eye on my rearview mirror, and headed home, making a quick detour to the liquor store, where I bought the economy-size bottle of wine.

  Once home, I breezed in; Boots greeted me with a meow. I deposited my bag at the kitchen table and stashed the bottle in the fridge to cool. The cat was uncertain why I was home early, and nuzzled me, and I lifted him for a cuddle. Having none of that, he squawked, and I let him down.

  Myra knocked promptly at five. I let her in, collected the pizza, and poured wine. I’d had a head start with a glass and was relaxed, talking myself down from the fish carcass.

  “What happened?” she asked, taking the plate with food and a glass of wine.

  “I was trimming trees in the back of the house, and found a dead fish wrapped in my sweatshirt on the front stoop. It freaked me out. Oh, dang!” I slapped my head. “I forgot to put the ladder away.”

  “The ladder will be okay.” She shrugged. “But someone left a fish?” she asked, settling in the sofa. “Why?”

  “Don’t know.” I grabbed my plate and sat across from her. “I called Don.”

  “And?” Her eyes lit up.

  “He said it could be mob language. “Swimming with the fishes.” As in someone wants me dead.”

  “Okay. Let’s talk this through,” she said. “The house is within walking distance to the river, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “People fish on the banks of the river.”

  “Yes.”

  “Where was the shirt?”

  “I took it off while working. It got hot. It wasn’t raining, then. I left it on the front step.” I frowned. “Where are you going with this? Some random person was fishing, stops and wraps a fish in my hoodie?”

  “Well, maybe not just any person. It could be someone who knows you have a cat. It might be a gift for Boots?”

  I looked at her like she’d lost her mind. “I don’t think that makes any sense at all.”

  “Okay, but let’s not jump to conclusions.” She sniffed, peeved.

  “All right. I’m a little touchy. I’m trying to figure this business out. Between the dead rats and now the fish. Something, somewhere is a little nutty,” I reasoned. I didn’t need to tick off Myra. There were too few people in my life right now.

  “Yes. When you consider the rats, along with the fish, I agree. Something is afoot.”

  “So, what is it?”

  “I think you’re getting under someone’s skin.”

  “I don’t doubt that.” I fingered my glass. “But these seem like serious threats.” My nerves were frayed.

  “Fernando?” she asked. “He’s close by.”

  “He’s been very nice to me. He seems very sad about Sarah’s death.”

  “Or your plumber?” she asked. “He has access to sewer rats.”

  “I saw his truck outside of Fernando’s when I left. I’ve been a good customer; I don’t know why he’d want to threaten me. His dad was forced to sell to his partner in Mesa. He called the guy a crook.”

  “Huh. But, he’s in Arizona?”

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe they’re just pranks?”

  “Yeah. Maybe.” I took another swallow of wine.

  On the heels of Myra’s departure, the phone rang. It was Wayne, and it was a relief to hear his voice.

  “How are you and Gillie doing? Still loving Vegas?”

  “It’s great. But Gillie has this hankering to take a road trip. She complains about getting fat eating the danged buffets. She wants to see that rose garden in Mesa.”

  My ears perked up. “Mesa?” I had an idea.

  “Yeah. They have over 10,000 rose bushes. You know how Gillie is with her flowers,” he chuckled. “So, we’re taking a road trip, see a few sites. It’s at the Community College.”

  “I do. Gillie will love it.” I’d given up on growing rosebushes in the northern region. “Would you do me a favor while you’re visiting the city?”

  “Name it, Kiddo.”

  “There’s a plumber that works here. His father owned a construction company in Mesa. Just wondering if the firm is still in business. He said his dad went bankrupt during the housing crisis; a guy named Vincent Deala took it over. Fernando Garcia worked for the same company.”

  “Is Garcia the guy with the dead wife?”

  “Yes.”

  “Small world, ain’t it?”

  “It sure is.”

  “Whatcha looking for?”

  “Not sure. Anything that looks illegal.” I chuckled, uneasy. I could Google. But if Wayne would be in the city, his up close and personal view would be more valuable.

  “Whoa, you think Deala’s involved in the gal’s death?”

  “I don’t know,” I hesitated.

  Wayne heard the uncertainty in my voice. “Spit it out.”

  “It’s almost too farfetched,” I gulped. “I’ve had two rats left in the rehab, now someone put a dead fish in my sweatshirt. That gem was left on the stoop.”

  “Uh huh, ‘swimming with the fishes,’ Godfather movie,” he said. “Forget which one.” Was I the only one who didn’t know the connection?

  “I don’t want to sound paranoid, but....”

  “Sometimes, there’s a good reason to be paranoid.” He laughed. “There was always talk of funny business, corruption, when I was working. I never got close to it. But plenty of guys did. Somebody got a kickback for using a vendor, or paid somebody off to get a job. I’ll be glad to check it out. It’ll be a hoot while Gillie looks at every danged rose.”

  “Not a fan of roses?” I asked.

  “Nah, it’s not that. But they’re a mite high maintenance in Minnesota. I just can’t look at every bush, like she can. You gotta love that woman. She loves gardens.”

  “You’re enjoying yourself?” I asked, sensing some friction.

  “Having the time of my life, Kiddo. Could make it legal,” he chortled.

  “That’s great.” I was pleased. I wanted Wayne and Gillie to be happy when they got back to Minnesota. “Let me know how it goes touring the rose garden, and if you find Vinnie.”

  Chapter 22

  The next morning, I headed back to Warbler. I’d calmed down and laughed out loud at the possibility someone had left the fish as a gift for Boots. Maybe they had and I shouldn’t be so cynical. I parked at the rehab, grimacing at the ladder I’d left outside in my funk. I dragged the eight-foot wooden ladder inside to clean the light fixtures. I’d replace the outdated dining fixture. I had to shop it out, but wanted to wash the rest of them before the carpet installation.

  I carted the heavy ladder to the bedrooms and the kitchen. Note to self, buy a light-weight fiberglass model next. The entry fixture would be the biggest challenge. If I couldn’t reach it, I’d ask Eddy to clean it. The other lights I could reach by standing on the second rung. Finished with the upstairs, I tackled the entry ceiling light.

  I positioned the ladder and eyed the span between the top of the ladder and the fixture. It would be a stretch and I wasn’t a fan of heights. I set the spray bottle of ammonia and water on the attached table that holds the paint pan, and climbed the treads. When I reached the fourth step, I steadied my hand against the wall, took a breath and stepped on the top rung. It snapped.

  In a surreal moment of slow motion, my arms flailed. Thrown off balance, my body plummeted, and my head slammed against the wall. The rest of my weight hit the basement steps. The last thing I heard was the bottle of cleaner hitting the floor, while the ladder toppled over as I slid.

  “Katelyn? Miss Katelyn?” Fernando stood over me. His face was anxious as he peered at me. “Please. Wake up.” He shook my shoulder, and I moaned.

  “What happened?” My vision was blurry and every muscle and bone in my body ached.

  “You had an accident. You fell. I heard you scream. I will call the ambulance.”

  “No. Let me rest.” The last thing I needed was another big bill. I lay still for a moment, then gingerly moved my arms and legs. I felt the back of my head. “Ouch!”

  “You must see a doctor. Please, Katelyn. I insist.”

  I sat up. “I got the wind knocked out of me. I’ll be okay.” I leaned against the wall and wiggled my fingers and toes. “See?”

  “I do not like this answer. You could have a concussion?” He hovered, watching closely.

  “Shouldn’t you be at work?” I winced, looking up at him. Midday sunlight from the doorway flooded the entry.

  “Yes. I came home for lunch. Do not worry. You are hurt.”

  “I must have been loud.” I stretched and raised my arms and shifted my feet.

  “It is no problem. I will take you to your doctor.” His hands buried in his jean pockets, he leaned over, surveying my head.

  “No. Fernando. Thank you. I will be okay.” I moved the ladder from my legs.

  “Katelyn! What’s going on?” Don called from the doorway. He pushed past the ladder and entered the small vestibule. “What happened?” He crouched, brushing hair from my forehead, and scowled at Fernando.

  Fernando’s eyes widened, and he moved aside, tense. “She fell. I heard her scream.”

  Don looked at him quizzically. “How did you get in?”

  “The door was open. The ladder blocked the entry, but I pushed it aside.” He flinched under Don’s questions, and said, “I will leave. You have help now, Katelyn,” and he sidled out the entry.

  “Door was open,” Don repeated and looked after Fernando, releasing a sigh.

  Not again. I groaned. “I guess I didn’t lock up when I brought the ladder inside. Why are you here?” I winced and rubbed my temples.

  “I thought I’d take a spin through the neighborhood on my way back to the station. Guess it was a good thing I did.” He examined the ladder that lay next to my legs. “Rung is broken.” With a scowl, he viewed the side of a tread dangling, attached by a few wood fibers. “Was this the step you were on?”

  “Yes.” I winced, my head beginning to throb.

  “I’ll take you to the doctor. Can you stand?”

  “Yes. I’ll call my clinic. I need my phone and purse, please.” He retrieved the items and helped me up and out to his squad. “You should’ve called 9-1-1. You could have a concussion!”

  “I can walk. My vision has cleared. I probably need an x-ray, which my clinic will do. I don’t need a lecture.”

  “You can say thank you, anytime,” he responded.

  “Yes. I’m sorry,” I gulped. “My head aches.”

  His forehead furrowed, he drove silently to my clinic.

  “I’ll get a cab home,” I said, as he helped me out of the back seat.

  “No need. I’ll wait. My shift is over.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you, Don.”

  He smiled a full grin, and his gaze softened.

  Feeling pampered, I met with my doctor; she took x-rays and checked every body part, recommending rest for two days to two weeks for a mild concussion. I protested that I had a house to finish, but it fell on deaf ears. As much as I hated to admit it, I felt as if I needed a good long rest.

  I lay on the sofa with Boots for the next five days. Don, Eddy, and Myra took turns checking on me. Myra had driven Eddy to the Warbler renovation, where he locked up and drove my Ford back to the townhome.

  By Sunday night, I felt back to my old self. It was Don’s turn to check in, and I announced in his call, “I’m good now. Time to get back to work.”

  “There’s something I need to tell you.”

 

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