Digging Up Death (A Mari Duggins Mystery) Read Online Free PDF

toward the thick book. Something crunched under my boots. I halted and set Basti down. She stalked back and forth in front of the tan granules, resembling a mini cheetah on the prowl. Then without warning, she scurried past me out the door.
    A glance around the room didn’t turn up other piles or metal trays filled with dirt. Henderson treated his soil samples better than his family. He wouldn’t have carelessly left his precious dirt on the floor. I squatted to inspect the soil, but refused to touch it. Someone else must have made the mess. I shook my head. Only one person came to mind. “Fletcher.”
    “Who’s Fletcher?”
    The Spanish accent sparked my memory. Either Antonio Banderas stood behind me or my past had returned to torment me. Surely fate wouldn’t pour acid on my open wounds.
    “Miss?”
    I slowly looked up into the startled eyes of an overweight, middle-aged Latino who appeared well beyond his forty years, a shard of the younger man I had known. My insides ignited. When we first met over twenty years ago, I believed he was Zorro coming to my rescue. To save me from the hell also known as my life. But I was wrong. He didn’t come to bring solace. He came to cut out my heart and feed it to the devil.
    Bile rose.
    Today, seeing him in his cheap black suit and tie, wearing his overcoat like a trophy, I wanted to spew. Instead, I shot him my best Malocchio , the Italian evil eye that promised misfortune. A similar glare, though now more intense, as the one I gave him ten years ago. And from the look of his weather-battered face in desperate need of re-shingling, I’d say the years were stormy. Good. Life hadn’t been all sunshine for me either.
    “Marianna Capolla?” He extended his hand, slow at first, then fully committed.
    I let it hang. “It’s Mari Duggins, Officer Lopez.”
    Wiping his hands on his slacks, he avoided my eyes. “I made detective years ago and joined Lyndon Precinct.” He flashed his badge as if the worthless piece of tin added value to his words. “It’s good to see you looking so well.”
    “What are you doing here?”
    “I’m working a case …” He squirmed.
    My eyes narrowed, tightening the chokehold.
    “… and you’re standing in the middle of my crime scene. So please don’t touch anything.”
    “Crime scene?”
    Lopez ushered me into the hall past a younger man with a crew cut who stood in the doorway snapping pictures.
    “Theron Henderson’s daughter gave us sufficient evidence to suspect foul play.”
    “You’re homicide? And I’m Cleopatra. Aren’t you a little late?”
    Lopez peered over his shoulder at the crime scene analyst photographing the room from different angles. Avoiding my eyes, Lopez rubbed his forehead. “I don’t know what else to say that I haven’t said already. I’ve been over it a thousand times. There’s nothing I would have done differently.”
    My gut exploded. “Nothing? Nothing you would have done differently?” Sweet vendetta floated to the surface, carrying images of dead fish and old flatfoot fitted with cement shoes. But my thoughts sunk in the undertow of my own guilt.
    He pulled out his little pad and pen, averting my eyes. “I know you’re still angry, and I don’t have time to rehash the past. I did what I knew to do at the time. I followed procedure. Now if you can set aside your feelings for a while, I need to ask you a couple of questions.”
    “Why? Am I a suspect in this murder investigation?”
    “It’s routine.”
    “Fine. Let’s get it over with.”
    “Do you know who found the body?”
    “Cherilyn St. Jean. She’s an intern at the studio. You should talk to her.”
    “Do you know where I can find her?” Lopez scribbled in his notepad.
    “Probably in class. Check the registrar.”
    “Did you touch anything when you arrived?”
    “No.”
    “How many people had access to this room before you got here?”
    “I have no clue.” I crossed my arms. “I honestly don’t know how I can help. I