* Thanks so much for the reviews. I usually try to reply to each one, but we were out of town and reentry into our routines has been a little crazy. I so appreciate you all following along with the story!

Chapter 11 — If a body meet a body…

Nancy stared blearily out her kitchen window, cradling a cup of strong Irish Breakfast tea. The steam rose and curled in a beam of sunlight. She'd left work at noon, leaving George to finish out the day and close up. The events of the week had both exhausted her and left her feeling wound up and jumpy. Even putting aside the quasi-flirtation with Frank, which under normal circumstances was enough to throw her brain into a tailspin, he'd indicated that Micah and Marisol had still been together, that their relationship was probably less than stellar, and in all probability her dumpster had been chosen intentionally.

She set her cup down and stretched, cracking her neck, and feeling the tension gripping her down through her shoulders. When he'd first walked into the store yesterday she'd hoped for a moment he was going to say the case was all wrapped up. Then she'd hoped he wasn't going to say anything, that he'd drop the laundry, take his ticket and leave, like he'd done a hundred times before. That at least would have helped her feel normal, even just for a moment. But Frank had had to go and open his mouth and start talking like he cared about more than just the case. And she'd spilled her guts, which had felt like a relief in the moment and a horrible decision the morning after. Her lawyer would certainly not be happy with how things had played out. And then she'd practically told him to ask her out for drinks?! Nancy groaned and let her head fall on to the table top. Reluctantly she lifted her head, picked up her phone, and dialed the number.

After speaking with the receptionist and being put on hold for a few minutes, she heard the other end of the line click and the staticky jazz music stop abruptly. "Ms. Drew, how are you holding up?" Mr. Morton asked pleasantly.

"I need to confess," she sighed. There was silence on the other end of the phone, and the echo of her words finally reached her brain. "Oh! No, sorry, I didn't mean confess to the crime! I'm all out of sorts. I did something potentially stupid yesterday and I figured you should know about it."

She heard him blow out of a breath on the other end of the line. "Well that's a relief. I was afraid there for a minute you were going to spoil my perfect record of only defending the innocent," he said dryly. "What did you do?"

"Detective Hardy came by the store yesterday. He…well, he asked about tea and we started talking and I'm afraid I may have shared more than was prudent…and more than I've shared with you. It wasn't anything damaging," she hastened to add. "I don't see how they can have any evidence suggesting I was involved, but if they're going to focus on motive and worry about evidence later, I probably gave him plenty to work with." Nancy sighed and rubbed at her eyes, the arm that cradled the phone to her ear propped against her kitchen table.

"I probably should have warned you," Mr. Morton said after a moment. "The two of you were so cold in the interview room I thought you might be immune to Joe's charms, and he knew it. But maybe he was just biding his time. He has an uncanny knack—"

"Oh…no, not him!" Nancy interrupted. "It was Frank. He's been coming to the store for well over a year and he brought his laundry yesterday, and well, he…he sounded like he really cared," she finished lamely, rolling her eyes at her own stupidity.

There was a long silence on the other end of the phone, and then Mr. Morten said, "I see. I—" he cut off and Nancy heard a slight cough. "Why don't you come down to the office this afternoon and we can go over what you talked about?" he finished. "Three o'clock?"

"That would be fine, thank you. I'll see you then," Nancy said, relieved he didn't lecture her right then and there. She hung up the phone and stared once more out the window at the bright afternoon. She had a couple hours before then, maybe some yard work would clear her head.

Or she could take a nap. Part of her exhaustion was from walking all over the neighborhood last night trying to help a neighbor find their little schnauzer. She'd come home from work to find the place in an uproar, Mrs. Reiner going on and on about little Jaques. Nancy had gamely joined in the search, the party giving up and Mrs. Reiner being led home by her husband in tears after midnight. George's grandmother had appeared with tea and coffee and cookies for the search party and the neighbors had sat on her porch for another hour chatting. George and Nancy had stayed to help clean up and had to endure almost another hour of George's grandmother, Carmen, ranting about how terrible the situation was, but what more could a person expect with the state of the world today and all these godless young people? It was the absolute last place Nancy wanted to be, but she couldn't duck out and leave George to deal with the dishes and the woman all on her own. Carmen Fayne was the first to bring a meal or help any neighbor in need, but she could also be a rather gossipy busybody.

Nancy had fallen into bed frustrated and exhausted, only to be woken by her now customary nightmares. Sheer determination had gotten her out of bed and to work on time that morning, and when George showed up for her shift just after lunch she took the afternoon off the first time in years. And she now decided that some outdoor therapy would probably do her more good than dream-plagued sleep. It was still a bit early to really tackle the garden; always best to wait until after Easter and not be surprised by any late frosts. But she could trim things back, rake out the dead leaves that had accumulated over the winter, and turn over the soil in the flower beds.

Gloves on and tools at the ready, Nancy attacked the garden with gusto. The early spring sun was warm on her back and shoulders as she pulled her rake over and over again through the flower beds and piled up leaves. Taking slow, deep breaths of the fresh air, the tension began to ease from her shoulders. As she trimmed back the scraggy roses she even found herself humming a little song as she went. Taking a step back and admiring her work, Nancy checked her watch and was pleased to see she could finish up the yard and still have time to clean up and get downtown to meet Mr. Morton. She felt so much better about things that she wasn't even dreading sharing yesterday's conversation with her lawyer. She'd talked too much, shared way more than she'd intended about her own feelings, but she'd just been honest. If she'd been pushed under oath she probably would have said the same things. She grabbed the rake to get the last of the debris from under the roses, dragging out the bits of leaves and branches that she'd just cut.

As she reached the last bush the rake pulled over a strange lump in the soil. After pulling at it for a few minutes, thinking it was rocks that had worked their way up, Nancy dropped to her knees and dug into the dirt with her hands to see if it was a root growing up too close to the top. Her fingers found an edge of fabric, and she wrinkled her nose in confusion. She hadn't put the fabric weed barriers under here, had she? Maybe the previous owners had.

Tugging on the fabric she managed to unearth a shirt sleeve, long, in a green and cream colored plaid flannel. Weird. Who would bury a shirt under a rose bush? She dug around the edge with the trowel, trying to unearth more of it. A longer edge of the shirt was finally free and she grabbed it with both hands and yanked. The shirt pulled loose and Nancy fell back onto the ground with a yelp. The pitiful, dirt-covered body of the neighbor's schnauzer had tumbled out of the shirt with a soft thump. Nancy sat there and stared at it in disbelief. Why would anyone bury the dog in her flower bed? Had someone hit it with a car and thought it belonged here? She peered closer at the body, and the sun glinted off something beside the dog. She reached for it, thinking it might be the dog's collar and tags. But her gloved hand pulled out a serrated kitchen knife, covered with rust spots.

Nope, Nancy thought grimly. Not rust. That's dried blood. She laid it and the shirt gingerly on the ground beside the dog and studied them, thinking furiously. As she looked it became obvious that there were splotches on the shirt that matched the color of the dried blood on the knife. But the shirt wasn't damaged. Not your blood then, she mentally told the shirt's owner. Is it the dog's blood? She forced herself to reach for the cold, furry body, grimacing at the idea of someone deliberately killing the little dog and then wrapping it up and burying it. She gingerly turned it over to examine the opposite side, but there weren't any injuries or even any dried blood on its fur that she could see. Now think, girl. What does that mean? It means the dog wasn't killed with the knife. And it means the blood on the knife and the shirt had to come from somewhere else…someone else. For the life of her Nancy couldn't imagine what the dog had to do with anything, but she had a terrible feeling the bloody shirt and knife were buried in her yard for the same reason a body had been left in her dumpster. Someone wanted her tied to Marisol Williams' death.

Swearing under her breath, Nancy pulled off her gardening gloves and dropped them to the grass beside the rake. She marched into the house, grabbed her phone and marched back outside to stand guard over the evidence. Ignoring the fact that her hands were trembling, she dialed the first number. "I need to leave a message for Mr. Morton," Nancy said in response to the chirpy voice of his secretary. "This is Nancy Drew. I can't make it to his office this afternoon, but I would be grateful if he could still meet me. I expect I'll be down at the 114th Precinct for questioning." There was a pause and then in a much subdued voice the secretary said she would give Mr. Morton the message. Nancy ended the call and then hesitated before making the next one. She could call the station and not have to talk to him at all, but that felt cowardly. She could call his brother and not have to talk to him at all, but that felt…well, kind of cold. Like a deliberate snub. "Darn you, Frank Hardy," she muttered, punching the screen of the phone much harder than necessary.

"Detective Hardy." His voice was calm and business-like, holding none of the warmth from yesterday.

Nancy was silent, wondering what to say next.

There were the faint sounds of the phone being moved and then he spoke again. "Nancy, is that you? Is everything ok?" That voice was even more steely than the first, and she wondered whether he was worried about her or angry with her.

"Yes, it's me," she finally said abruptly. "I think I may have found the murder weapon."

It was Frank's turn to go quiet.

"I was working in my garden," she added, dropping down to sit on the grass. "And someone buried the neighbor's dog under one of my roses with a bloody shirt and a knife. And before you ask, the knife wasn't used on the dog," she added, irritated now that he had yet to say another word."

She heard him exhale sharply. "I'm on my way," he said. "Make sure you call Chet."

"I already did," Nancy snapped, ending the call and dropping the phone onto the grass beside her. "Darn you, Frank Hardy," she muttered again as she closed her eyes against the sun and prepared to wait for the inevitable.