The Man For The Job

by Marie-Nicole Ryan

  "It doesn't seem real. I mean, I saw his body, but I guess it hasn't sunk in."

  Marina leaned over and patted Gwyneth's hand. “It's going to be all right. You'll see. Michael will take care of everything."

  "Thank you. I'm sure you're right.” Gwyneth wondered how the young woman could be so confident. “You've been very sweet. I know my being here isn't easy for you.” If their places had been reversed, Gwyneth was certain she wouldn't be so resigned—and definitely not so nice.

  "It's easier because you've been so understanding.” Nervously Marina smoothed the skirt of her gown over her knees.

  "Understanding? Actually, I've been pretty rude."

  "Well, Adam and I were a surprise.” Marina gave Gwyneth a rueful smile. “Put you off balance, but you listened."

  "Still, I don't think I would be so gracious."

  "No, I feel better than I have in a long time. It's like I needed something to smack me in the face—a reason to give up. But until I saw you with Michael today, my pride wouldn't let me."

  "Look here, I don't know where this relationship with Mike is going. We've only known each other a couple of days. I still can't believe it. I mean, one minute I was hiring a private detective, and the next, I was...” Gwyneth let her voice fade, not wanting to pour salt in Marina's wounds.

  "You are getting along famously, I see.” The sound of Elinor Carlton's cultured tones snapped Gwyneth out of her reverie. “How lovely. Somehow I knew the two of you would be friends."

  Gwyneth shivered again. There was something about Mike's mother—something deep, perhaps even devious—that unnerved her. Was the regal Elinor the real power in the Carlton clan?

  Marina spoke, then stood up. “Yes, we are. And if you wouldn't mind staying with Gwyneth while I get her something warm from the kitchen?"

  "Of course, my dear. How thoughtful,” the lady of the manor intoned.

  After Marina had left the room, Mrs. Carlton turned her pale blue gaze on Gwyneth. “Now then, dear, why on earth did you do it?"

  "D-do what?” Does she think I actually killed him? What will the police think? Genuine panic sent her into another spasm of shivering.

  "Why spoil my dinner party? The police will be here for hours. Dinner is ruined, and my guests will go hungry. Couldn't you have just taken a deep breath and come back inside without screaming at the top of your lungs?"

  "But he was dead."

  "Well, he would have been just as dead after dinner, wouldn't he?"

  * * * *

  Marina eased open the door to the kitchen. A tall, thin woman, wearing a towering chef's hat, was shrieking at the new housekeeper, whose eyes were wide with alarm. “What the hell's going on here? Why can't we serve dinner now?"

  "I told you,” the housekeeper replied, her hands clenched and held tight to her body. “There's been an incident."

  "What kind of incident? Surely nothing's more important than serving food at the proper temperature?” The caterer glared around the room. “And while we're at it, who's the SOB who stole my best knife?"

  Unable to get a word in edgewise, Marina winced. She had a very good idea about the location of the caterer's best knife.

  The housekeeper took a deep breath and spoke again, obviously trying to maintain a semblance of order in the kitchen. “There's been a murder—outside. I'm afraid dinner will have to wait."

  "A murder?” the caterer screeched, then glanced about wildly. “I've got to get out of here. A murder? I might be next."

  "You might do, if you don't put a sock in it, luv,” one of the catering assistants replied. The short, balding man shot a cheeky smile at Marina. “Now then, me pretty little bird, wot can I do for you?"

  "Tea,” Marina croaked, “and something warm, perhaps some soup—for Miss Wells. She's in shock."

  "How about some lobster bisque?” he suggested.

  "Y-yes, that would be fine. Thank you.” At least one person in the kitchen had kept his head amid the chaos.

  * * * *

  Still shivering when Marina returned from the kitchen, Gwyneth looked up and smiled her gratitude for the tray Marina carried so carefully. Mike's mother was wearing on Gwyneth's last nerve. Imagine the woman's suggesting she should've waited until after dinner to find Richard's body.

  Marina set down the tray. “Here's some tea. And the only sane person in the kitchen also dished up a bowl of soup."

  Gwyneth reached for the tray. “Mmm. Thank you."

  "It's lobster bisque. I hope you like it."

  At the word lobster, Gwyneth dropped the tray. “Are you trying to kill me, too?"

  Confusion raced across Marina's face, followed by a hard gaze. “Kill you? W-what do you mean? I was just..."

  Realizing she'd reacted too quickly, she apologized as she bent to pick up the tray. “I'm deathly allergic to shellfish. Nearly died once."

  "I-I didn't know. How could you expect me to know?"

  "I don't. I'm sorry for losing it like that. It was a knee-jerk reaction—really."

  Marina heaved a sigh of relief. “I thought you'd had a personality change. It was a bit sudden."

  Lady Elinor stood up. “So sorry, my dear. I did inform the kitchen that we had two guests who were allergic. They were prepared to make substitutions, but I suppose someone misplaced the seating chart. “If you will excuse me, I must have a word with the caterer."

  After Mike's mother had left, Gwyneth turned to Marina. “Is she for real?"

  Marina gave Gwyneth a sad little smile. “I'm afraid so.” An expression of concern followed. “You said ‘kill me, too.’ Why would you think that?"

  "Mike brought me to Virginia for the weekend—to get me away from whoever is stalking me in the city."

  "Will you tell me more? If you want to, that is."

  Leaning forward, Gwyneth began her tale. “It started one night after my ex-fiancé...” The realization of Richard's death hit her full-force. Her stomach clenched and threatened revolt. She swallowed hard. “If it weren't for me, he'd be alive.” Verging on hysteria, she wavered irrationally between tears and giggles. Richard might've been a real jerk, but he didn't deserve to die. There wouldn't be any men left on the planet if that were the case.

  * * * *

  In the salon, Lilith Sand sat on the tapestry-covered sofa with attorney Paul Winston on her right and her son on her left. The rest of the guests were scattered around in groups of twos and threes, discussing the evening's shocking events.

  "Edmund, I do believe that's your lovely cousin in the study on the proverbial hot seat. I think she's just gotten her skinny posterior into a bit of trouble. Killing her ex-fiancé. How gauche, but how wonderful."

  "Really, Mother, you find joy in the simplest things."

  Paul leaned across Lilith to whisper conspiratorially, “Edmund, if your cousin is convicted of murder, she'll go to jail. Do you understand?"

  "Now, Paul, no need to be insulting. Gwyneth may have made her will in someone else's favor—her uncle or some charity. She's such a humanitarian with her pro bono law practice,” Lilith's tone dripped with the scorn she felt for her niece. “I can't wait to see that she gets exactly what she deserves."

  "Maybe she didn't do it,” Paul suggested.

  "Don't be ridiculous,” she insisted. “Of course she did it. She's covered in blood."

  "Circumstantial, so far."

  Lilith sniffed. “You're just dazzled by her long legs, like the rest of the men here."

  Paul raised an eyebrow and had the nerve to agree. “They are rather awesome."

  * * * *

  "In here, Sheriff Bauer.” Gwyneth looked up from her second cup of hot tea at the sheriff's entrance. He strutted and puffed out his chest, trying in vain to hold in his middle-age paunch.

  "So, little lady. Looks like you've gotten yourself in a big heap of trouble."

  Tight-lipped, and jaw clenched, she insisted. “I found his body. That's all."

  "And all that blood got on you, how?"

/>   "Are you arresting me, Sheriff Bauer? If you are, you need to read me my rights."

  "Now, now, little lady. There's time enough for all that. You're a material witness, not a lawyer."

  "You're quite wrong. I am a lawyer, and I know my rights, obviously better than you do."

  "Why damn. I'm so sorry, little gal. Out here in the sticks, we're not used to having pricey lady lawyers commit murders. Whaddya say you strip off them bloody clothes so I can have one of my deputies bag'em for evidence."

  Furious, Gwyneth stood up. “Shall I strip here, Sheriff, so you can prove the chain of evidence?"

  "Chain of evidence.” He shook his head as if he couldn't believe she really was an attorney. “Lord amighty, I do love it when a lady talks all legal and everthang. It fair turns me on."

  "Screw you.” Gwyneth was pleased to see Bauer's beady eyes go beadier and his face flush until it matched his sparse red hair. She set her chin and folded her arms across her chest. “I'm not doing anything until you read me my rights."

  "If that's the way you wanna play it.” The sheriff dug in his pants pocket, taking so long he could've been playing pocket pool, for all she knew. Finally, he retrieved a wrinkled card. “All right, you asked for it. ‘You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney ... ‘"

  Twenty-seven

  Powatchee County Detective Moira McKenzie drove along the winding, narrow road and grumbled under her breath. “Of all nights for Sheriff Bauer to call me out. And on a murder, no less.” It was bad enough that her less-than-exciting evening of oven-cleaning and hair-coloring had been spoiled, but the slimy slug of a chauvinist was making a point of attending the scene as well. ‘Lots of important people at a dinner party. Need a female along.'

  Holy shit. Bauer hated having women in the Sheriff's Department, and he especially hated her. He showed it by being as obnoxious and misogynistic as possible.

  Just because these people were rich and important, he'd dragged her out. Not that she was all that crazy about cleaning ovens, but coloring her hair—that was a different matter. She had a date Saturday night with the tallest deputy in the sheriff's office—the only one who wasn't fifty-something and running to fat. So it was absolutely vital that she annihilate every white hair in her black-already-turning-prematurely-gray hair.

  Damn. Silver-white hair looked fine on her Dad and on her older sister Siobhan, but Moira would be damned if she'd let her hair turn white before she landed a husband. At least that's what her mother said ad nauseam. And she always listened to her mother.

  McKenzie pulled up to the gate. She flashed her badge and told the black-suited guard, holding a weapon sufficient for elephant hunting and barring her way, “Detective McKenzie. This the Carlton’ estate?"

  "Yes, ma'am, go on in. Sheriff's already here."

  "Thanks.” The gate opened, and McKenzie drove through it. Damn. Bone-head Bauer was ahead of her. He'd be sure to give her an extra measure of his special brand of torment. Needless to say, the leading lawman of Powatchee County wasn't up to speed on the finer points of sexual harassment. The upshot of putting up with his guff was that she didn't plan on spending much more time in Powatchee County Sheriff's Department.

  No indeed, she had her eye on a bigger pond where her experience in law enforcement would look good on her résumé. Period.

  She drove up the winding drive to the Carltons’ neo-fake, Tudor monstrosity with enough room to house five families, which to her mind was totally wasted on an old man in a wheelchair and his pretentious crone of a wife, who occasionally deigned to open the county fair as a demonstration of noblesse oblige. Other than appearing at the flower shows, the grand dame didn't waste her time with the locals. The old man was supposed to be a retired spook from the CIA. Moira hadn't heard much about the son, but local wisdom had it that he preferred to live in New York City and that the parents preferred it, too.

  She pulled into a space next to the sheriff's car, shut off the motor and opened her car door, making sure it banged into the side of his. She smiled. Make that one for the home team.

  She strode across the pea-gravel drive to the front door. It was opened by what had to be a man who had to be either a security guard or a refugee from the World Federation of Wrestling.

  "Sheriff Bauer is in the study, ma'am.” He motioned to the right.

  She flashed her badge. “Detective,” she corrected. “And thank you."

  Yes, there he was. Redheaded, fox-faced pig, preening and strutting around like the cock of the walk. Sorely tempted to stand back and watch the old fart make a fool of himself, she finally announced her presence. “Sheriff."

  "Detective McKenzie, how nice that you could join us."

  "Thank you.” Jackass, she finished silently. After all, getting fired tonight wasn't part of her game plan.

  "So, where's the DB?"

  "Outside, McKenzie. Entrance to the maze."

  She turned to leave, but was stopped by Bauer's drawling voice. “I want you to remain here with the perp."

  A tall blonde dressed to the nines in a bloodstained evening gown jumped up from the sofa where she'd been sitting quietly. “I am not the perp, you jerk."

  As much as she liked the blonde's taste in clothes and her epithet for the sheriff, McKenzie thought better of saying so, at least while oink-oink Bauer was in the same room.

  "Yes, sir,” she replied tamely, more to give him a false sense of security than anything else.

  "Get the dress off her, her underwear. Everthang. Bag it for evidence."

  "Shall I question her, too?” As if she really needed his instructions!

  "Natcherly. Don't go dumb on me, McKenzie."

  "Has she been read her rights?"

  "Do you think I'm incompetent?"

  McKenzie awarded Bauer with a wide smirk. “Do you really want me to answer that?"

  Beady-eyed Bauer narrowed his gaze. “I reckon I already know what your answer'd be, De-tec-tive McKenzie. Just follow instructions and see you don't screw it up."

  She watched him strut from the room. More likely, he'd need a map to find the DB.

  "That's the bad thing about bosses. Can't work with'em. Can't kill'em."

  * * * *

  Mike crouched beside Klein's body, not touching the remains, but checking the ground. Depressions in the grass led up to the cobbled entrance of the maze—Gwyn's tracks easily discernable from the apparent divots dug out of the turf from her spike heels. He prayed for another set of footprints—other than his own.

  "Everley, see anything from where you're standing?"

  "All I see is some jerk who thinks he's Sherlock Holmes."

  As much as Mike wanted to shove his fist down Everley's throat, he resisted. Not that he wouldn't find it satisfying to shut the little creep up, but the twerp was just too small. No sport in that.

  Mike shook his head as he stood up. “Put a sock in it."

  Everley braced his slight body and clenched his fists. “You and whose army?"

  Before Mike could answer, his response was cut off by a shout.

  "Just what the hell do you think you're doing?"

  Mike turned in the direction of the voice. A uniformed man with a big badge and potbelly strutted across the lawn. His old nemesis had arrived, flanked by a couple of Neanderthals, the Tweedle twins who Mike remembered from his summers spent in Virginia. Tweedle-dumb and Tweedle-dumber he'd always called them.

  "Maintaining the crime scene, Sheriff."

  "Well, move your ass, boy. Looks like you're contaminating it to me."

  Everley spoke up. “He hasn't touched anything. I've had my eye on him the whole time."

  Mike couldn't repress a grin. The kid was such an ass. Bauer would make mincemeat of him.

  "Edmund Everley, sir.” He offered his pasty-white hand. “Financial genius."

  The look Sheriff Bauer gave Everley could've stripped paint, but it warmed Mike's heart.

  "Why ain't you in the house with the rest of t
he guests? Are you a witness?"

  Everley looked nervously over his shoulder toward the house. “Well, no, but—"

  "No buts. Get in the house,” Bauer ordered, his face right in the young man's. “Get!” he repeated with more force. Everley backed away, turned and scurried toward the house.

  The sheriff turned his attention back to Mike. “Don't I know you?"

  Here goes nothing. “Mike Carlton. This is my parents’ home."

  A grimace twisted Bauer's mouth into his approximation of a smile. Mike's stomach sank to the region of his knees.

  "I remember you now. I used to give you tickets for speeding around in your expensive sports car—and general hell-raising. I also recall you had a real smart mouth."

  "I don't deny I was a little on the wild side—years ago,” Mike admitted.

  Bauer glanced down at the body. “I knew you'd come to a bad end. Heard you moved to New York City, became a cop."

  "Yes.” Mike shoved his hands into his pockets, waiting for Bauer's next words.

  "Well, you don't have jurisdiction here."

  Mike stifled a groan. He'd been right—to the letter. “I'm a P.I. now. I thought you'd appreciate someone maintaining—"

  "What I'd appreciate is you shuttin’ your mouth and lettin’ me do my job. I don't need a washed-out cop telling me what to do."

  "Then maybe you ought to watch where you're walking, Sheriff. You're about to step on Gwyn's footprints."

  "Gwyn?"

  "She found the body."

  "Oh yeah, the skinny blonde up in the house—the one covered in blood. She's got a smart mouth, too."

  "Yeah, that's Gwyn,” Mike agreed, unable to keep from grinning. He could just imagine her flaying Bauer with her razor-edged tongue.

  "Well, her high-toned airs don't sit well with me. A murder suspect is a murder suspect."

  "Suspect?” Mike advanced on the sheriff, ready to defend his woman. “Don't be stupid. She found—"

  Like a well-practiced drill team, Tweedle-dumb and Tweedle-dumber stepped between Mike and Bauer.

  The sheriff warned, “Hold on there, boy, or you're gonna find yourself in worse trouble than that little gal up there."

  Mike took a deep breath and swallowed his rage. “She found the body,” he repeated in measured tones. “She couldn't have killed him."