One O'Clock Hustle: An Inspector Rebecca Mayfield Mystery (Rebecca Mayfield Mysteries Book 1) by Joanne Pence

was white and pale, the color of someone who did most of her work indoors or at night. His skin was olive and deeply tanned, and half-again as broad as hers. It made her wonder once more how he spent his days.
    She averted her eyes from him altogether. Any good detective had a duty to notice details about people, places, and things. That was all she was doing.
    She turned her attention to the simple but well-tended yard. The sun felt good on her face, and the smell of the lawn, flowers and shrubs a reminder that life offered more than dead bodies and finding murderers. In a corner she noticed a small vegetable garden. “Did you plant that?”
    “Sure. You can't buy tomatoes that taste good anymore. Same with peppers and zucchini. Even artichokes. They grow easily here, except the artichoke, but I'm working on it. I like to grow my own herbs as well. Over there, to the right, you'll see basil, oregano, garlic, onions, and fennel.”
    “It's nice,” she said, then added, “We used to have a farm in Idaho. My father grew potatoes and corn. That's how he supported us. At harvest time, everyone in the family helped. We also had a vegetable garden.”
    He faced her. “You were a farm girl?”
    She gave a small smile. “I left because it was too much work. I wanted something easier, like being a cop in San Francisco.”
    He smiled at her attempt at a joke. “Do your parents still farm?”
    “No. My dad passed away when I was twenty-three, and my mom sold the business to my uncle, my father's brother. She lives in Boise, my sister in Los Angeles, and I'm here.”
    “Do you ever miss it?” he asked.
    She thought a moment. “I loved it as a kid, loved the way my dad would strut around, so proud of how tall his corn grew.” She smiled at a memory. “My sister and I would sometimes hide in the cornfield and then jump out when we thought our parents couldn't find us. Thinking back now, I'm pretty sure they knew exactly where we hid, and went along with our game.”
    “Don't get me started on ways to torment a parent.” Richie said with a laugh.
    She liked his laugh, liked the way expression filled his whole face, especially his eyes, as he spoke, and laughed, and smiled. She found it hard to look away from him. “I guess you did a bit more than hide,” she said.
    “My mom would have been on her knees thanking God if that was all,” he said, then his face fell, and she imagined his thoughts turned to the police contacting his mother last night, and to his father's picture on the floor, the glass cracked.
    Despite herself, she sympathized with what had happened to him, and his loss. “Your home looked like it was lovely.”
    “Yeah. It was . You got that right.”
    “At least it wasn't destroyed. Furniture is easily replaced.”
    “Thank God.” He reached over to the box hedge beside him and rubbed a leaf. “I surprised my friends and relatives when I bought this place, it being outside of the old neighborhood and all. But sometimes a guy likes to have a little peace and quiet, you know. Nobody living upstairs or down, a little garden. I thought I'd found a refuge. No more, though.”
    “You'll fix it up. It'll be fine,” she said.
    “Maybe.” Brooding, he stared out at the lawn. “I'm going to find whoever's behind this, Rebecca. They'll be sorry they decided to mess with me.”
    “What were you hiding in the house?” she asked. At his sudden harsh stare, she added, “Don't tell me nothing. It's time to come clean about everything that's going on. It's the only way I can help you.”
    “Damn!” he murmured, then louder. “You're way off base.”
    “I told you, don't say that!”
    “What do you want me to say?” He scarcely moved, and his voice had turned so cold, so hard, it hit deep in her gut. All in all, she preferred her fidgeting, emotional Richie to this icy one. “Do you think I want somebody to blow up my home? It's bad enough they trashed the place. I don't know what they're looking for. I