The Body in the Backyard: A Riley Thorn Novel (Riley Thorn, 4)

1

11:17 a.m. Saturday, November 2

“T hey’re coming.”

The message vibrated with crystal clear intensity.

Trusting her spiritual adviser Gabe to handle the slow-­moving roommates, Riley Thorn ran from the office, wiping dog slobber off her hands onto her jeans as she went. She needed to warn Nick, her tattooed, dimpled PI boyfriend, before it was too late. She flung open the front door in time to spy him parking her Jeep nose-­to-­nose with homicide detective Kellen Weber’s police issue SUV across the driveway.

“Woo-­hoo! Finally some action! Lemme at ’em,” the ghost of Riley’s long-­dead uncle Jimmy crowed from the Jeep.

Weber was already hunkered down behind the wheel well of his vehicle, wearing a bulletproof vest and loading a rifle with deadly-looking rounds.

“They’re coming,” she said through cupped hands.

“Get back in the house now, Riley,” Nick ordered, hopping out of the driver’s seat and rounding the back of the Jeep.

Just then, the distant pop pop pop of gunfire exploded, followed by the faraway whine of sirens.

“They’re not going to get here in time,” she whispered to herself as she was closing the door.

But she didn’t do it fast enough. Burt, her burly dog, bolted through her legs, out the door, and off the porch.

“Burt! No!” she cried.

Tires squealed on the street.

Pop. Pop.

Swearing to herself, Riley slammed the door and raced into the yard after her idiot dog.

“Damn it, Thorn!” Nick growled.

She tackled Burt to the cold ground two feet from Nick as tires squealed again before giving way to the crunch and scrape of metal.

In an impressive show of strength, Nick grabbed her and Burt and dragged them behind the Jeep’s fender. “Stay down,” he ordered.

Burt’s tail thumped happily against Riley’s leg. “You’re in big trouble when this is over,” she told the dog.

Nick put a knee to Riley’s back, holding her down. From her belly-­level view under the Jeep, she watched as Harrisburg’s morning news anchor and her regrettable ex-­husband Griffin Gentry’s snazzy sports car smashed through their gate…again. On his tail was a powder-­blue Fiat with guns hanging out of both windows.

“Ready?” Weber yelled.

“Kick ass on one,” Nick said. “Three…”

Free of the gate, Griffin’s car accelerated, sending gravel flying.

“Two.”

Riley watched in horror and braced herself as the car fishtailed before smacking soundly into the driver’s-side door of the Jeep.

“One,” Nick shouted.

2

Two days earlier

1:41 p.m. Thursday, October 31

Riley Thorn’s ex-­husband hurling himself at her feet and begging for help had not been 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 say murder?” 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.

“It will be my pleasure,” he assured Mrs. Penny before following Lily and Fred in the direction of their disaster of a house.

“You people can’t just walk into a collapsing building,” Weber announced, pinching the bridge of his nose.

The neighbors pulled the hard-of-hearing card and made a beeline toward the looming dust cloud despite the official police warning. Weber looked back and forth between the departing pack of fogies and Nick, who still looked like he was about to commit a crime.

“Shit. Do not assault anyone until I get back,” Weber ordered before jogging off after the elderly pack.

Sirens sounded in the distance.

Nick sighed and hooked a thumb in the direction of the roofless mansion. “Should I…”

“Oh yeah. Let me check.” Riley closed her eyes. It took her more than a few seconds before she could shut out the multitude of external distractions and finally drop into her psychic Cotton Candy World. It was a dreamy, peaceful place that existed…well, somewhere that was definitely not reality. The fluffy pastel clouds served as home to her spirit guides, who passed mostly convoluted messages to her about the living, the dead, and everything in between.

“Hey, spirit guides. Is the house going to collapse on my friends and turn them into walking pancakes?” she asked.

The clouds pulsed a warm, cozy pink in response, and a sense of giddiness swooped through her. Riley guessed this meant a pancaking was not imminent. Suddenly, the clouds transformed into radiant sparkles.

Frowning, she opened one eye. “I don’t think there’s any danger. I’m feeling happy and seeing sparkles.”

“Better not be another damn glitter bomb,” Mrs. Penny said. She had icing smeared across her chin.

“You must be seeing this asshole’s funeral,” Nick quipped, nodding toward Griffin.

“That’s really not very nice,” Griffin complained.

“I’m not talking to you,” Nick said. “Because if I were talking to you, I’d remind you that last time you were alone with my girlfriend, you asked her to be your mistress. I don’t care if you’re being hunted down by ISIS. Hell, I’ll sell T-­shirts that say Ding Dong, the Dick Is Dead at your crime scene.”

“But you have to help me! I’ll pay you,” Griffin squeaked. “How much do you want? A thousand dollars?”

“Pfft. I don’t get out of the bathroom for less than twenty K,” Mrs. Penny said.

“Fine. Twenty thousand dollars it is,” Griffin said, reaching into his suit jacket pocket and producing a checkbook and pen.

“I’ll take the case!” Mrs. Penny said, wielding her plastic cake fork in the air.

“The hell you will,” Nick barked.

Mrs. Penny tossed her empty paper plate and fork over her shoulder. “Let’s step into my office and discuss this primo case.”

Nick stomped up to her. “A, you don’t have an office here. B, we’re not wasting our time on a nonexistent case. And C, no one here cares if this human sack of fertilizer gets whacked.”

“Hey!” Griffin said, sounding offended.

Mrs. Penny crossed her arms over her generous bosom beneath her roomy Harrisburg Senators Baseball hoodie. “Bullet point number one, I’ll share Riley’s office. We’ll get those cool partner desks and push them together like in the movies. Bullet point number two⁠—­”

“You don’t have to say it like that. Pick one. Bullet point or number. Not both,” Nick complained.

“The man said he’s got twenty Gs. I don’t know about you, but I get off the john for that kind of moola.”

Riley quickly did her best to slam her mental psychic doors shut to prevent any accidental sightings of that particular scene.

“Great. Now I’m going to have that picture in my head for the rest of my life,” Nick said.

“You’re welcome,” Mrs. Penny shot back. “Bullet point number three, last time I looked at my checkbook, it said you and I were partners, and this partner says we take this human bag of fertilizer’s case.”

Nick’s blue-­green eyes landed on Riley.

She shrugged. No one in the history of Mrs. Penny had been able to dissuade her from doing anything. “I don’t know. He sounds upset. And it’ll give Mrs. Penny something to do. I’ll keep an eye on her.”

Besides, not only did she not need Nick going to prison for murdering her deserving ex, but he’d promised to clean his office, and she was really, really invested in not attracting more vermin.

“Fine. Have at it, partner,” he said to Mrs. Penny, then turned back to Riley. “I’m gonna go clean my office and pretend none of this mess exists. If this weasel breathes funny in your direction, you let me know. I’ll take care of him.”

Griffin swallowed audibly and sidestepped to the right until Riley was between him and Nick.

“My hero,” she said on a sigh. “Come on, Griffin. Let’s go inside.”