Cunning Attractions

by Christy Barritt

  “How’s Whitney?”

  He squinted. “Whitney?”

  “Your girlfriend?”

  “I don’t know if I’d call her that.”

  I suppressed a sigh. “How’s her kidney stone?”

  “Oh, that . . . I guess it’s fine.”

  “You haven’t talked to her?” What had he been doing for the past twenty-four hours?

  He shrugged, acting like I’d just asked him something casual, like if he’d seen a new TV show. “Not in a couple of days.”

  “Aren’t you concerned with how she’s doing?” Don’t nag, Gabby. Don’t nag. But really?

  He stared at me, snapping out of his earlier stupor. “What’s with all the questions? I just woke up. Can’t I just chill for a minute?”

  Irritation pinched at me. “I see. Anything else new?”

  “Nah, not really.

  “So, any idea how long you’ll be staying here?” I hoped he didn’t hear the tension in my words.

  “Not really. Since you’re not using the place any more, I didn’t think it was a big deal.” He scratched his head again.

  Lice. I really hoped he didn’t have them. Ew . . .

  “I didn’t say it was a big deal. I was just curious.”

  “As soon as I know my next move, I’ll let you know.”

  I could accept that—for now. But eventually, like by the end of this month, I would most likely need to give up my lease. He would need to be out, and I didn’t care what kind of guilt trip he gave me.

  He straightened. “Alright, Sis. I’ve gotta go. And could you ask people to keep it down out here?”

  My irritation turned to anger, but I held it back. “Of course.”

  “Thanks. See ya.”

  Riley and I were tired, to say the least, when we arrived at church the next day. The excitement of the previous night had kept us up talking into the early morning hours. Who would go so far as to shoot at Bill? It just didn’t make sense to me.

  Maybe we were looking at two different crimes: The murder of Emma Jean, and someone else who was intent on attacking Bill and, by default, Katarina. Or had someone killed Emma Jean and tried to frame Bill? Everything didn’t quite make sense yet.

  It had taken everything in me to concentrate during worship and the sermon and not to think about this case. When church was over, we had to tear down the chairs, tables, and sound equipment.

  The church we attended met at a school. We arrived early every Sunday morning so we could set up and stayed late so we could tear down. I wasn’t going to lie—I loved my church, but I was ready to not do the set up/tear down thing anymore. Until we could find a permanent building, though, this was how it had to be.

  As I finished putting away a table, I paused when I saw a friend from Bible study coming my way. Leona Hemsley. I smiled—until I noticed the stormy look in her eyes.

  “Hi, Leona,” I started, sliding the table onto a cart. “How are—?”

  The thirty-something woman raised her finger. In my face, at that. Her eyes were buggy and her nostrils flared.

  “If you support Ed Stead and the people who support Ed Stead, then you can’t possibly call yourself a Christian,” she snapped.

  I blanched. There were very few things that could take me by surprise or throw me off-kilter. But her words cut so deep that I had no idea what to say for a brief second.

  Then indignation blared to life inside me. I tamped it down and remembered I was in church. Unlike Leona, who apparently knew no boundaries. “Say again?”

  Certainly, I hadn’t heard her correctly. I should at least give her the benefit of the doubt. To keep my hands occupied so they wouldn’t fly in the air to drive home my point, I grabbed a chair and folded it. Then I squeezed the metal, willing myself to remain level-headed as I waited for her to explain.

  “I can’t believe you would support the viewpoints of someone like Stead. I thought more of you.”

  “What are you talking about?” I was seriously not following this. Nor was I following how someone who seemed so sweet and genteel at Bible study was acting like someone who’d contracted mad cow disease. Or maybe politics made people act slightly demon-possessed.

  “I saw you on that video protecting Bill McCormick. I can’t believe you’re on board with someone like him. Viewpoints like his set America back by a hundred years.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Trying to help someone and keep them safe doesn’t mean my viewpoints and his align with each other.” I squeezed the chair tighter.

  “Your friendships say a lot about you. That’s in the Bible. And if you’re friends with Bill, then we’re obviously not friends.” Her finger flipped from me to her and then back again.

  Had this woman lost her mind? She still looked bug-eyed and crazy. Maybe that was just what politics did to some people.

  “So you’re essentially telling me right now that this election and politics are more important than our friendship?” I finally said. One of my hands slipped free and flew up in agitation, almost like it had a mind of its own. “I’ve never said who I supported politically because that’s no one’s business.”

  She narrowed her eyes, apology nowhere to be seen. “You’ve made it obvious whom you support.”

  “I can’t even have this conversation with you right now.” I couldn’t. I was going to say something I regretted—and at church nonetheless. It was better if I just kept quiet until my emotions simmered down. The old Gabby would have given her a piece of her mind.

  “Well, I’ve said all I needed to say. I’m disappointed in you, Gabby Thomas. And your husband, too, for not keeping a better rein on you.”

  I watched her walk away, my mouth gaping open. It wasn’t that I necessarily cared that she was disappointed in me. I only cared that she had the nerve to just have that conversation. And did she really expect my husband to keep a rein on me? That took some nerve.

  Riley joined me, his gaze following Leona. “You okay?”

  I pulled my eyes away and grimaced. “I’ll tell you later. But you may have to rein me in.”

  His forehead wrinkled. “I’m not really sure what that means, but how about we talk about it over lunch?”

  I nodded. “Over lunch.”

  “You want to go with Pastor Randy?”

  “Can it just be us this time? I mean, I love Pastor Randy and everything, but life has been so busy lately with everything. It would be nice to just hang out with you.”

  “Of course.” He laced his fingers with mine as we walked toward the door.

  Thrills still ran through me at his touch. I hoped that never changed.

  “Mexican?” he asked.

  “Sounds scrumptious.”

  Ten minutes later, we were seated at our favorite Mexican restaurant, The Red Burrito, a place with live mariachi music and festive paper lanterns strung across the ceiling. As soon as we ordered, I rehashed my conversation with Leona to Riley.

  “She really said that?” Riley said.

  He looked as dumbfounded as I felt.

  I nodded first in confirmation, then I shook my head in disgust. “I was pretty stunned. I mean, why are politics so volatile?”

  “People get fired up and passionate. Other people see the injustice of the process with media bias and people in power pulling strings, making deals. People are fed up. They’re taking a stand . . . but not always in the right way.”

  “You can say that again. It’s bringing out the worst in people and making me lose my faith in humanity.”

  “Our faith was never supposed to be in humanity to begin with,” Riley said.

  I just got owned.

  But Riley was so entirely correct.

  I nodded. “True enough. Okay then. Enough about Leona. Let’s talk about something else.”

  “Do you know what I find interesting?” He poked his straw into his ice water.

  “What’s that?” I grabbed a chip, unable to resist their salty goodness.

  “The very first case you were
working when we met involved Detective Adams and a politician. Not so dissimilar to this one, no?”

  “I guess you’re right. I never thought about it. It’s kind of funny how it’s all coming full circle.”

  And it was. And I was so glad it was coming full circle with Riley by my side.

  Riley nodded toward the TV in the corner. “It looks like The Crispy Biscuit being a crime scene is no longer a secret.”

  I turned and watched the news story, which featured the headline: “The Crispy Biscuit and The Frozen Corpse.” Clever.

  The reporter talked about Emma Jean’s death. About how she’d been found at her place of employment. How the police still hadn’t named any suspects but that many speculated about her former husband, Bill McCormick.

  My bets, at this point, were on Greg Borski. I just needed to find some more evidence against him. The whole organic/non-organic thing was very interesting. However, was it worth murdering over?

  I wasn’t sure. Nor was I sure why he was in so much debt. Had Emma Jean discovered something about his finances?

  I needed to get into that restaurant again. Talk to some employees. Investigate more.

  The waitress came and took our order. I ordered a pumpkin burrito, and hoped I didn’t regret it. I mean, I loved pumpkin just as much as anyone else, but really? I ordered it anyway.

  I turned back to Riley. “I heard you’re representing Bill.”

  He shrugged. “Unofficially, I suppose. He called and put me on retainer, just in case he needs me.”

  “What do you think? Were you able to review anything?”

  “There’s no evidence, right now at least, to prove he’s guilty. It’s like Detective Adams said last night—there’s no murder weapon. We don’t know where the murder occurred. Last I heard, we don’t even know when the murder happened. Unless the police discover something new, I’m not sure he needs representation.” He leaned closer. “What do you think?”

  I sighed, trying to sift through my thoughts. “The only person I’m leaning toward at this point is Greg Borski, the owner of The Crispy Biscuit.”

  I explained what I’d discovered about him.

  “Anyone else?” Riley asked.

  Well, since he’d asked . . . “I feel like Emma Jean was holding a lot of information over a lot of people. That means any one of a number of people could be guilty.”

  “Even Bill?”

  “Maybe. You threaten people and risk ruining their relationships or career or reputation? That will make people mad. Mad enough to kill.”

  “So you’re not convinced it’s Borski?”

  “I’m trying to trace his footsteps. And Emma Jean’s.”

  “Have you considered that Borski and Katarina might be connected?”

  “Why?”

  He shrugged. “Well, they both share Russian surnames.”

  Brilliant! Why hadn’t I thought of that? “You’re amazing.”

  He shrugged again. “I have to feel useful sometimes.”

  I leaned across the table and gave him a quick kiss. “All the time. I’m going to put this all together yet.”

  “You will. You always do.”

  I smiled. “Thanks.”

  I was at home, contemplating how to find out more dirt on Borski or if there truly was a connection between him and Katarina. Riley was working out, and the gunshot yesterday seemed to have scared the protesters away. For now, at least.

  I sat on the couch, trying to get into the right headspace to think this through, but I really felt like I needed to go back into my old apartment to properly muse. However, Tim was most likely there. Possibly with lice, which I just couldn’t even handle thinking about.

  Give me blood and guts to clean up any day.

  I missed seeing my crime scene cleaning knickknacks—the fake blood on the table, the crime scene tape pencil holder, the pad of paper that looked like a body outline. Most of the items had been gifts. They were quirky, but they fit me. They didn’t, however, seem to fit the motif of a married, professional woman.

  As I stared at a piece of paper on my lap with various circles and arrows and scribbled words, my phone rang.

  “Gabby, we got the call,” Chad said.

  “The call?” My mind was in a different place. A political polling call? A call from the doctor about Sierra’s knee? To serve overseas as a missionary?

  “To clean the crime scene. Emma Jean’s.”

  I sat up straighter. “Oh. Emma Jean’s. You did?”

  “We did. The bad news is that the owner wants us to clean it today. And to use tact. He doesn’t want anyone to know why we’re there.”

  “Everyone already knows.” We’d just seen it on the news two hours ago.

  “If it makes this Borski guy feel better to think we’re being especially discrete, then so be it. He seems tightly wound, to say the least.”

  “Understood. When are you leaving?” I glanced at my watch, even though I didn’t have any real plans for the rest of the day. I’d drop them to get back into that restaurant.

  “In about an hour.”

  “Borski liked Clarice, didn’t he?” I knew he would. They didn’t call me the master people reader for nothing.

  Okay, so no one actually called me that—except maybe me.

  “No idea, but I’m going to let you and Clarice handle this. Are you okay with that?”

  “Me and Clarice? It’s been a while. Sure. We can do this.” With any luck, I wouldn’t end up strangling her.

  An hour later, Clarice and I showed up at The Crispy Biscuit. Greg Borski’s truck was out back, which presented an interesting problem for me. Of course, he’d recognize me if I went inside, which could make things very awkward.

  The last thing I needed was to start doing a shoulder shimmy again to break the tension.

  “What are you thinking?” Clarice turned toward me with wide, doe-like eyes.

  The answers were clear to me. For now, at least. “You go in first. I’ll organize stuff out here and kill some time until Borski leaves.”

  Her eyes widened even more. “What do I do? I’ve never been the point of contact before.”

  I patted her shoulder, trying to ease her out of Bambi mode. “You’ll do fine. Just introduce yourself, explain that we’ll be cleaning and that the job should last about three hours, etc.”

  She nibbled on her bottom lip. “What if this guy doesn’t leave? I can’t do this whole job by myself. Remember that paint thinner incident?”

  That would be a problem. “We don’t need paint thinner for this job—or paint. Let’s just take this step-by-step. We’ll figure it out.”

  An hour later, Borski was still there. I really should have thought this plan through a little better. I knew I had to dive into Plan B. Clarice had already been back out to the van several times, asking for my advice on what to do, what to say, and to grab a few supplies.

  She’d given me updates each time. So far, she’d talked to the staff, signed a contract, brought in equipment, and prepped the area for our work.

  It was time for me to move in. Otherwise, it really wasn’t fair to her.

  Just as I’d suspected, Borski had already gotten Clarice’s number and wanted to ask her out, which didn’t do much to put Clarice at ease.

  “He’s a creep, Gabby. And I’m dating Nate!” she whispered to me in the back of the van.

  I raised a hand, urging her to calm down. “Just stay on his good side. I’m coming in.”

  “But he’ll recognize you!”

  “I’ve got a plan.”

  I grabbed one of Chad’s old hats from the back. It had sweat stains on it and smelled disgusting, but I couldn’t think about that. I pulled my hair up, concealing it, and shoved the Norfolk Tides—a local baseball team—cap on my head. Then I climbed into a white Tyvek suit. As the final touch, I pulled on my goggles and a facial mask. It wasn’t flattering, but it would work.

  Even Riley wouldn’t recognize me in this getup, which always left me feel
ing half like an astronaut and half like a Teletubby.

  Something about wearing the Tyvek suit made me feel like I was waddling instead of walking. When I stepped inside, everyone seemed to stop.

  I waved, a little too widely.

  The good news was that I didn’t do any shimmies.

  “This is my associate, Gab—” Clarice cleared her throat, and her gaze shot across the room to a propane tank. “Gassy. This is Gassy.”

  Gassy? Really? You couldn’t think of anything else?

  “My mom had a wicked sense of humor,” I said with a weak laugh and slight scowl toward Clarice.

  I quickly observed the people staring at me. First, there was Borski, who looked disgusted at my complete lack of style and my name. Then there was the blonde cook I’d seen when I was here before. Selena was embroidered on her lapel. She didn’t look any happier today than she had earlier as she stomped around, tossing pots and pans back into the cabinets. Perhaps the dishwasher had quit?

  Finally, I spotted a new person wearing a traditional chef’s uniform. He had to be the sous chef. What was his name? Julian, if I remembered correctly. He appeared to be in his early thirties and had spiky black hair and multiple earrings. A tattoo crept up the side of his neck and he held a knife in his hand.

  He might look scary if it wasn’t for the friendly smile on his face.

  “You need to sign this.” Borski thrust something toward me, looking away as if I made his eyes hurt. “Gassy.”

  I glanced at the paper. My voice was muffled by my facemask as I said, “What’s this?”

  “A nondisclosure statement. My recipes are proprietary, as are the practices of this restaurant. If you share anything you’ve seen here, I’ll sue you. That’s what it boils down to.”

  “O . . . kay.” I picked up a pen and signed my fake name. I mean, I couldn’t really sign my real name, since I’d just introduced myself as Gassy. And there was the fact that I might very well share something I’d seen here today. Was that how he’d kept it quiet that his organic produce was anything but?

  He took the paper back, examined my signature, and stomped into his office.

  Somehow I needed to get in there. I wanted to look at his books. I had to wait for just the right opportunity, though.