Hazardous Duty

by Christy Barritt

  I stared at the woman in front of me, curious about her life. It seemed so different from mine, with my endless struggles to make ends meet. What would it be like to have no worries?

  “What does your husband do, Barbara?”

  Her eyelids fluttered until she looked down. “We’re separated, actually. But he’s a banker.”

  “Thanks for your time. You’ve been very helpful.” I stepped out the door, ready to leave.

  “What was it you do again?” Barbara asked.

  “I’m a crime-scene cleaner.”

  Just as I took a step away, a brown truck pulled up the driveway and a deliveryman appeared on the porch. I slowed my walk.

  “I’ve got a package for Mrs. Barbara O’Connor,” he said.

  Barbara signed for it and took the box. I was halfway down the steps when I froze.

  “Is there a return address on that package?”

  Barbara looked it over. “No, there’s not.”

  That block handwriting on the front, the size of box. It kicked my memory into overdrive.

  “Put the package down, Barbara.”

  She raised her eyebrows, as if considering the possibility I was crazy. “Why?”

  “It’s a bomb.”

  Her face went white, but she did as I said.

  “Is anyone inside your house?”

  She shook her head. “It’s just me. The kids are at school.”

  “I need you to come toward me. We’re going to walk down the driveway, away from the package. Understand?”

  She nodded and tiptoed down the brick steps. Arm in arm, we hurried to the end of the drive. Then we turned and stared back at the deadly delivery.

  “I’m going to call the detective.” I pulled the phone from my waist. “He’ll send the bomb squad out.”

  “How do you know all of this?”

  “Because someone sent me a package just like that.”

  ***

  Detective Parker walked up the drive, his tie flipping behind him in the wind. His scowl deepened when he saw me. Had the stunt double job fallen through? Did he figure out there were actual killers in jail?

  “You can tell me what you were doing here later,” he mumbled as he brushed past.

  “It’s good thing I was here,” I called to his back. “Or we might have another dead body on our hands.”

  He stopped and glared. “There is no ‘our hands,’ Nancy Drew. You’re not a part of this investigation.”

  “I’m free to talk to who I want.”

  He stepped closer, his brows furrowed. “You need to stay away from Michael Cunningham.”

  “I just went over to offer condolences.”

  “Your innocent little façade might work with some people, Gabby, but not with me. You were snooping and sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

  “You afraid I’m going to find out what really happened and make you look bad?”

  His jaw muscle flexed and he leaned closer, lowering his voice. Only it didn’t sound alluring, like I imagined it might. Instead it sounded harsh and arrogant. “You’re going to get hurt if you don’t back down.”

  I licked my lips. “That sounds like a threat, detective.”

  “It’s a warning. There are people in this world who wouldn’t think twice about hurting a lady like you. Some might even enjoy it.”

  “If you recall, someone has tried to hurt me twice this week. Kill me, actually.”

  “The third time might be a charm.” He turned on his Kenneth Cole heel and walked toward the house, leaving me with an ice cold chill. What exactly did he mean by that?

  My gaze followed the detective as he sauntered up the porch, acting immune to the bomb threat. The bomb squad, all dressed in black, huddled over the package on the porch. To my left, Barbara talked to two officers, giving a report of how everything happened. The woman’s arms flailed and her voice cracked. She had to use a lot of body language to make up for her total lack of facial expression.

  Why would someone send Barbara a package bomb? Unless they were sending one to everyone they suspected knew too much. But what did Barbara know that someone would want to kill her for? That Cunningham had returned to his house on the night of the arson?

  My head ached. How would I ever make sense of everything? Maybe Riley had found out something helpful, something that would offer insight and give my racing thoughts a rest.

  I climbed back into my van and pulled out my cell phone. Riley answered on the third ring, right after Lucky squawked in the background.

  “It’s me. Did you find out anything good?”

  “Gabby?”

  Heat filled my cheeks. Why did I assume I was the only female who’d be calling him? He was an attractive guy. Certainly lots of women would find him interesting.

  “Yeah, it’s me. What did you find out?”

  “I’d prefer not to talk about things over the phone. When will you be home?”

  I glanced at the bomb squad working on the porch. How long had it taken at my house? Three hours? I had at least two hours to go, maybe more. “Probably not soon.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Cunningham’s neighbor got a package bomb just like the one I got,” I blurted.

  Did I imagine it, or did Riley sigh? “How do you know this, Gabby?”

  “I was at her house when it came in the mail.”

  After a pause, a chuckle filled the line. “You never fail to amaze me, Gabby. You’re pretty remarkable, you know that?”

  I’d expected another lecture, similar to the one I’d received from Parker. Riley’s words soothed my heart instead. “Thanks, Riley.”

  “Find me tonight when you get home, okay? Lucky and I will be here hanging out.”

  I smiled, imagining the two of them playing cards together and eating pizza. He was quickly winning a place in my heart . . . Riley, too.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Back at my apartment three and a half-hours later, I changed into some exercise pants and a red T-shirt before knocking on Riley’s door, bowl of popcorn in hand.

  A lot of redheads rebelled against wearing red. Not me. I was proud of my fiery curls. How could I not be when it put me in the same category as other famous redheads, greats like Lucille Ball, Pippi Longstocking, and Ronald McDonald? Well, maybe not Mr. McDonald, but still, red hair made a statement.

  Riley’s door opened, and he stood there, shaking his head with an amused expression on his face. I batted my eyelashes innocently. “What?”

  “How do you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “Find trouble.”

  “I’ve always heard I have a nose for it.”

  “You’ll get no arguments from me.” He stepped back and let me inside.

  “Hope you don’t mind. I brought my own popcorn. Funny how easy it is to forget to eat when you get busy.” I dropped onto the couch and let the cushions absorb my weary, achy muscles. Even the smothering heat in his apartment didn’t bother me.

  “Have you had anything to eat today besides popcorn?”

  I mentally ran through my day. “I did have a candy bar at lunchtime.”

  Riley stood. “Let me fix you something. You need to eat.”

  “Oh, no. You don’t have to do that.”

  “I want to.”

  “You’re not going to make acorn brownies, are you?”

  Riley laughed. “Do you like stir-fry?”

  The thought of real food made my stomach grumble. “I don’t want you to go through any trouble.”

  “I don’t mind. You just relax for a few minutes.”

  Starvation beat out guilt any day. I stretched my legs over the pine coffee table and wiggled my toes. I definitely wasn’t used to being in heels all day. Nor was I used to someone looking after my needs. I could get used to this.

  But I wouldn’t.

  I wasn’t good at depending on others. In college, I’d depended on a lab partner in physics 101 and ended up getting the first and only B
of my college career. From there on out, I decided to do all the work myself. I had to keep up my GPA in order to fulfill my dreams of getting multiple job offers after college. I wanted to accept the one farthest away from here. Maybe Alaska or Hawaii. Anywhere but Virginia.

  My gaze roamed the apartment. Riley had done quite a bit of work since I helped him unpack. In fact, there were no boxes in sight.

  He had a casual decorating style, one that fit him. Simple navy blue curtains covered the windows, the couch was beige and oversized. The bookcase, dining room table, and TV armoire were all simple designs, made from pine. A stripped navy blue and beige rug warmed the wooden floor, and an acoustic guitar rested in a corner. I imagined Riley sitting around a bonfire on the beach, strumming his guitar. I liked the image. I could even see good old dad joining in the fun.

  Every once in a while, I’d run into someone who knew my father during his glory days. They’d tell me about the waves he’d conquered, the women he’d wooed, and the parties he’d thrown. The end of his surfing career had been like someone taking his T-bird away. There was no fun, fun, fun after that. Even working at a surf shop didn’t ease his restlessness. Only visits to Margaritaville made him feel better.

  The scent of sizzling vegetables and soy sauce floated into the room. I abandoned popcorn on the coffee table and closed my eyes, anticipating my coming meal.

  It was amazing how much life could change in one week. For better or for worse.

  Better: a nice new neighbor.

  Worse: my one and only employee now called jail home.

  Better: I’d survived two attempts on my life

  Worse: two attempts had been made on my life.

  I sighed. What a week.

  “One chicken stir fry and a glass of water on the side.” Riley’s voice cut into my thoughts.

  I opened my eyes and sat up straighter as Riley placed the steaming food in front of me.

  “You do eat meat, don’t you?”

  I smiled. “I do. Looks great.”

  “I wish I could take the credit, but it’s from a frozen mix, chicken and all.” Riley sank into an overstuffed chair across the coffee table from me.

  “You won’t hear me complain.” I took a bite, grateful that Riley offered to do this. I owed him one. I owed him several, actually. Quiet fell as I enjoyed my meal.

  A muffled song broke the silence. It almost sounded like an old rock song from the 1980s, only it wasn’t coming from a radio. It was too off-key for that.

  I glanced at Riley, and he shook his head. “Your friend downstairs sings in the shower. Every morning. Her voice travels up through the vent and I get serenaded. Even Lucky is learning the words to ‘We’re Not Going to Take It.’”

  I giggled and took another bite of food.

  “So, I finally heard Bill’s radio talk show today, on the way home from talking with Cunningham,” Riley said. “He’s still talking about the acorn brownies.”

  “Yeah, well I’m still thinking about them, so who can blame him? I didn’t even know you could eat acorns, let alone ground them into flour.”

  Riley leaned forward, hands clenched between his splayed knees. “Living in an apartment building like this, you hardly need a TV for entertainment.”

  “There’s never a dull moment.”

  “Listen, missy, most of these non-dull moments are your fault. Don’t sound like you’re innocent.”

  I paused my fork in the air. “Whatever are you talking about? I’m as normal as normal can be.”

  Riley burst into laughter. “You’ve got the curiosity of a cat. There’s no stopping you once you get something into your head.”

  “You’re saying I belong here with the bin of loons? I’m not sure how I feel about that.” A smile twitched the corner of my mouth.

  “I like people who aren’t afraid to be themselves. It’s refreshing.”

  I scraped at the plate, chasing after every speck of the stir fry I could get, then pushed the empty Fiestaware onto the table with a contented sigh. “That was great. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I’ve never gotten to know someone and not thought they were weird, actually. Some people just hide it better than others.”

  “I can’t argue with that.”

  I stared at a print of Van Gogh’s “The Café Terrace on the Place du Forum, Arles, at Night” hanging above the TV. I only knew that because its title stretched across the bottom. The painting made me want to jump onto the canvas and sit in one of the cozy café chairs.

  Riley leaned closer, and I knew the conversation would turn serious. “Tell me about your visit with Cunningham’s neighbor.”

  “Barbara O’Connor is positive she saw Cunningham at the house on the night of the arson.”

  “Did Cunningham see her?”

  “She doesn’t think so.” I recounted what Barbara told me. “Did Cunningham tell you where he went during the two hours he was missing at the hospital?”

  “Said he was walking the halls.”

  I held my breath, unsure if I wanted to hear the answer to my next question. I asked anyway. “Do you believe him?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “No, I don’t.”

  “You mean, someone’s actually on my side? Someone believes me?” I tried to sound sarcastic so he wouldn’t be able to tell how relieved I was.

  Riley’s confident gaze held mine. How was it that the slight bump on his nose, his strong, masculine jaw, and his need-a-trim hair were etched into my memory like a lifelong friend’s? I’d already memorized the rolling tones of his voice, his smooth, deep laughter, the way his blue eyes crinkled when he smiled, and the stern set of his jaw when I aggravated him.

  “Just because I didn’t agree with you, didn’t mean I wasn’t on your side, Gabby.”

  “I know, but it feels good to know I’m not losing it.” I let out a deep breath. I wasn’t sure that was right. Maybe it would be better to imagine someone was trying to kill me, than for it to actually be true. “What happened to change your mind?”

  “Most of what I asked Cunningham, he was prepared for. He breezed through his answers, not the least bit ruffled. But when I asked about those two hours, it took him by surprise. He said he wouldn’t say anything else without a lawyer present.”

  I grabbed Riley’s arm, delighting for a moment at the startled expression on his face. “He pulled the lawyer card?”

  “Like a guy with a losing hand.”

  “I’m surprised he had a meeting with you at all without his lawyer.”

  “I think I caught him by surprise, then made him so mad he forgot the first rule of guilty people—lawyer up!”

  I tilted my head. “Isn’t the husband always a suspect when the wife is murdered?”

  “Usually. But with Newsome right there to be a prime suspect and Cunningham’s so-called iron clad alibi, they didn’t look closer. And all the evidence pointed to Newsome. His shoe print was found outside their home, he threatened Mrs. Cunningham numerous times, his hair was found in their bedroom.”

  I sat up straighter. “That’s a huge red flag. Could it have been planted?”

  “Yeah. It’s no wonder they suspect him. Planting evidence, though. Who had one of Newsome’s hairs?”

  I held back a sigh. “What good does it do to know all of this, when the detective on the case disregards everything I tell him?”

  “Why do you think he’s disregarding what you say?”

  “Because he’s arrogant.”

  Riley smirked at me. “Glad to see you’re keeping an open mind.”

  I rolled my eyes. “We had a little confrontation today. He told me the ‘third time is a charm’ when I mentioned I’d almost been killed twice.”

  Riley stayed silent for a long minute as if he was turning things over in his mind. Finally, he said, “Tell me about the bomb.”

  “Same make up as the one sent to me,” I said. “Same handwriting and packaging, no return address. It sounds like someone
thinks Barbara knows something she shouldn’t. They want her to be quiet.”

  “Just like they want you to be quiet.”

  “Which must mean I’m on the right track, right?”

  “Yes, Gabby. It means you’re so much on the right track, that someone’s willing to kill to keep you quiet.”

  gh

  I hardly wanted to get out of bed the next morning. The covers were a warm barrier from my hyperactive AC and, though the sunlight filtered cheerfully through the wooden blinds, telling me it was a beautiful day, there were killers out there. Staying in bed seemed like a much safer bet.

  Third time’s a charm.

  Like a scratched record, it repeated itself over and over.

  It seemed a promise I would die.

  There you go with that imagination again, Gabby. The detective was probably just trying to scare you into staying away from the case.

  It wasn’t completely true, though. Someone didn’t send me a pipe bomb just for kicks. They wanted me hurt, out of commission, climbing Led Zeppelin’s stairway to heaven.

  My cell phone rang on my wicker nightstand, and I grabbed it. “Gabby St. Claire.”

  “I’m looking for a cleaner and you were recommended to me,” a man with a slight Northeastern accent said.

  I forced myself to sit up. “What do you need?”

  “I work at a garage downtown. I’ve got a car with an awful lot of blood covering the seats. I need it cleaned so we can put it on the market.”

  Maybe wading ankle deep into someone else’s blood would get my mind off of how precarious my own life had become. Plus, I had bills piling up. I couldn’t turn down any jobs unless I wanted to put in some minimum wage hours at The Grounds. It wasn’t my cup of tea, at least not today. “Sure, I can do that.”

  He gave me an address, and I agreed to get there as soon as possible. Slapping the covers back, I skipped taking a shower—no sense wasting a clean body on a blood bath—and slid some jeans on, along with a white T-shirt. I pulled a baseball cap over my mop of curls. After brushing my teeth and applying light cover up, I was ready to go.

  I stepped out the door the same time as Riley. “Morning,” I said.

  “It’s actually past noon.”