Page 2 of The Body in the Backyard

Riley Thorn’s ex-husband hurling himself at her feet and begging for help hadnotbeen on her bingo card for this sunny Halloween afternoon.

The day had started off nicely enough with champagne, cake, and family for Nick’s birthday.

And then about ninety seconds ago, the questionable roof on the crumbling mansion next door had collapsed, sending up a dust cloud that could be seen for blocks. Nick and Riley’s historic house wasn’t in much better shape, but at least it still had a roof. Which meant the migratory path of their elderly neighbors brought them and their dusty belongings right through Nick and Riley’s front door.

But these were things Riley had grown accustomed to dealing with. Problems she could solve, discomfort she could weather.

And then her horrible ex-husband had appeared and ruined what had been, until that point, a salvageable day.

Now, Griffin Gentry, morning news anchor and lousy human being, was wrapped around her legs like an entitled boa constrictor while Riley waved her family off as they pulled out of the driveway. In her experience, fewer things ended a party faster than the sudden appearance of her ex-husband.

“You have to help me! Use your weird psychic mumbo jumbo or whatever you have to do. Just don’t let me get murdered,” Griffin whined against her thighs. He looked worryingly pale beneath the orange of his spray tan.

“Want me to poke all his pressure points at the same time?” Nick’s cousin-in-law, the ferocious Josie Chan, offered from her battle stance next to her husband, Brian, on the front porch.

Riley shoved at Griffin’s blond head and got a palm full of pomade for her trouble. “Not yet. Maybe later. Who’s going to murder you, Griffin?”

Burt, Riley’s pony-sized dog, trotted off the porch to sniff at Griffin’s fussy suede boots. Apparently not liking what he smelled, Burt curled his lip in a doggy sneer and pranced off to pee on Griffin’s car tire.

“Hey, Riley, I meant to ask, is that mean friend of yours around?” Kellen Weber called as he wandered out of Nick and Riley’s front door. He winced, then leaned against one of the porch columns and used one hand to block the sun. The homicide detective was on day three of one hell of a hangover.

“Gentry, if you don’t get your grubby child-size hands off my girlfriend in the next point three seconds, I’ll be doing the murdering,” growled grumpy PI and birthday boy Nick Santiago.

“What’s this about murder?” Weber demanded. Even hungover, he was a no-nonsense, rule-following kind of man. Riley had a hunch he’d been the class tattletale in kindergarten.

“The guy’s got his badge back for five seconds and instantly turns into the fun police,” Josie complained. “I wanted to watch Nick beat the shit out of Griffin.”

“Come on, babe. Let’s go inside and make out instead,” said Josie’s husband and Santiago Investigations resident tech genius Brian Kepner. He patted his lap, and she hopped on before he guided his wheelchair around the porch toward the side entrance.

“We don’t rent rooms by the hour,” Nick yelled after them.

“Excuse me! I said I need your help, and you didn’t automatically offer it. Now I’m confused.” Griffin’s off-air voice was two octaves higher than the one he used on camera, and it grated Riley’s nerves like no other sound on earth.

“Point three. Point two. Point one,” Nick counted down before shotgunning the rest of his champagne and tossing the glass into a pile of leaves. He grabbed the groveling Griffin by the scruff of the neck and hauled him to his feet.

“Nick, what are you going to do?” Riley asked in exasperation. She wasn’t particularly worried for her ex-husband. After all, the man had sued her almost into bankruptcy for breaking his nose after she found him cheating on her in their own bed. But she didn’t want Nick committing any crimes in front of an actual cop who would enjoy arresting him.

“I’m just gonna introduce his face to the river until the bubbles stop,” Nick said as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world.

“Did you get new shoe lifts, Griffin?” Riley asked, frowning at Griffin, who looked ever so slightly taller. Though it could have been the fact that Nick was holding him on his tiptoes.

Mrs. Penny, followed by the rest of the dust-covered next-door neighbors, trooped out of Riley’s house onto the front porch. They were all over the age of seventy-five, all eating birthday cake, and only some of them had managed to wipe the drywall dust from their bifocals.

“Somebody saymurder?” Mrs. Penny barked. She was eighty years old, had purple hair, and had stopped giving a shit about thirty years ago.

“How about we all calm down?” Riley suggested.

“I won’t hesitate to arrest you, Nicky,” Weber warned.

“I’d like to see you try,” Nick muttered as he grudgingly released the squirming news anchor.

“Darn it! I was hoping for some shirtless wrestling,” Lily, the man-crazy octogenarian, lamented. Lily was a good cook, a great bridge partner, and a handsy admirer of the male form.

“Let’s go get the rest of our stuff, and then I’ll cue up some old WWF reruns for you,” her twin brother, Fred, said. His crooked toupee was sloping over his forehead. Little dust bunnies hung from the bangs.

“Gabe, go with these guys and bring back my favorite couch and all my liquor. I need to get to the bottom of this murder business,” Mrs. Penny said, gesturing at her aged cohorts.

Gabe was Riley’s friend and spiritual guide, who worked with her to hone her psychic gifts. He was tall and muscular with flawless dark skin and a kind, Zen-like attitude that made him unrufflable.