Digging Up Death (A Mari Duggins Mystery) by Gina Conroy Read Free Book Online

also had a movie. I hadn’t been able to watch The Princess Bride since we broke up.
    He grabbed an Egyptian artifact from the top shelf. Shaking off the passion blossoming within, I walked to Henderson’s desk, then started rifling through the mess. “I don’t believe it.”
    “Did you find the photos?” Fletcher jogged to my side.
    “Not the ones you’re hoping for.” I held up a photo of a little boy, probably six-years-old, barefoot and caked with dirt, standing outside a shabby home. “I never would’ve guessed Henderson would be involved in something like this.”
    Fletcher peered over my shoulder as I shuffled through twenty years of files documenting hundreds of thousands of dollars donated to this child and other little boys like him.
    Fletcher shook his head. “Henderson shelling out money for young boys. I knew Henderson was into some questionable extra curriculars, but this?”
    “Don’t even go there. We don’t need more rumors slandering Henderson’s name.” I studied the faces of each needy boy and flipped the photos over, searching for a name or some other identifiable mark. Each one was stamped with a number and the name Crowell IOP. Probably some charity. “Seems like Henderson had a soft heart after all.”
    “Maybe that’s what killed him.”

CHAPTER SIX
    11:30 a.m.
    Henderson’s Office
    “WHAT ARE YOU TALKING about?” I looked at Fletcher as if someone had spiked his orange juice.
    He grabbed the photos of the young boys, sat on the corner of Henderson’s desk, and thumbed through the pictures. “We know Henderson had a weak heart physically, but maybe he had a weak heart emotionally. What if the blackmail photos aren’t about Henderson’s philandering? There could be something in his past that threatened to ruin him or someone he cared about.”
    “Great theory, Sherlock. But we have to find the blackmail photos first.” I returned the papers to the file.
    “Maybe you already have. See these numbers on the back. The first one: 29. The next: 221. 235. 244. All these numbers are in the two hundreds except for the first. Why the big jump?”
    “How should I know?”
    “Maybe you should check it out. Google Crowell IOP and see what you find.” He handed me the photos.
    “Sure, I’ll do that in my spare time, between midnight and five a.m.”
    “I’m serious. It could be a clue.”
    “If you’re so interested, then why don’t you check it out?”
    He took the folder with the photos from my hands. “Maybe I will.”
    I grabbed it from him and dropped it in the box on Henderson’s desk. “Maybe you should get back to work and leave the investigating to the detective.”
    “As you wish, boss lady.”
    Fletcher returned to the shelf and I continued sorting through the desk, not giving his theory much credit. Why should Henderson’s donations to needy boys be under scrutiny? So the man seemed aloof, and often oblivious to the needs of others. That shouldn’t taint his generosity.
    After organizing the papers on his desk I started emptying the drawers. My left pinky nail caught on the inside of the last drawer, popping off the acrylic tip. I grimaced. Good thing I had an appointment with my nail tech later. I searched for the wayward fingernail and found it wedged in the corner of the drawer. As I tried to pry my nail out, the bottom of the drawer loosened and lifted. Underneath the fake bottom lay a stack of envelopes, bound with a rubber band.
    My heart fluttered like I was seven again, uncovering my father’s rusty box in the shanty. If I had known playing with his old trinkets would land my mother in the emergency room, I would’ve thought twice. Just like now. But how could letters hurt anyone? Unless … could I have stumbled upon Henderson’s buried pleasure?
    I fanned through the envelopes, front and back, for a return address, but they weren’t even postmarked. Tremors, barely noticeable at first, started at my fingertips, warning me not to pry. A sweet