Gwyneth's bottom lip trembled, even as she shook her head in disbelief. “You know you're certifiable?"
"Maybe,” he admitted. Certifiable or not, frustration wracked him. Damn. That Bauer was such a prick. A man like him still holding office—it didn't speak too highly of politics in Powatchee County. “I'll find out who did it,” he promised.
"I know you will. I trust you, Mike."
Thirty
Mike followed Detective McKenzie out of the cellblock, Gwyneth's words echoing in his mind. ‘I trust you.’ He wished he had as much faith in himself as she did. “Detective,” he began, “will you—I don't have any right to ask, but—"
McKenzie interrupted, her tone pained. “Would I mind losing a night's sleep and keeping an eye on your girlfriend?"
"The—uh, sheriff,” Mike hesitated, trying to find a polite way to say something damn impolite. “He seemed to dislike her on sight. I thought you might—"
"Spit it out. Here, I'll help you. You seem to have a problem saying you're afraid the sheriff will take advantage of your girlfriend's being a prisoner."
"It wouldn't be the first time something like that happened."
"Well, as irritating as the sheriff is...” A frown furrowed her brow as she placed her hands on her hips. “...I don't think he'd dare to molest a prisoner."
Mike set his jaw, while he clenched and unclenched his fists. “He'd better not."
She reached out and touched his forearm. “Don't worry. As long as she's here, I'm on duty. I'm the only female officer in the sheriff's department."
"Has she made a statement?"
The detective nodded. “I still have to type it up, then she'll have to review it. I don't know why I'm explaining this to you. You know the drill."
Mike nodded. “I'm heading back to my parents’ house. See if the sheriff's made any progress."
"And do a little private investigating on your own?” A knowing half-smile worked its way across her angular face.
"Yeah."
Detective McKenzie's eyes darkened. “If Bauer thinks you're horning in on his investigation, there'll be hell to pay."
"Guess I'll have to worry ‘bout that later."
"Just what I figured."
"If you were in my place?"
The detective's gaze narrowed. “I'd do the same thing."
Vindicated, Mike told her, “Training runs deep. I can't let this go."
"I never thought you would."
* * * *
An hour later, Mike was scanning his notes. He'd already questioned three of the catering staff, as well as their supervisor. Only one more to go.
A short man, whose clean-shaven appearance included his head, looked up.
"Reginald Gruhn?"
"See here, mate. I've already answered the sheriff's questions. What d'you think you're going to find out that I ‘aven't already told ‘im?"
"You're British?” Why was Gruhn copping an attitude? Mike wondered.
"Yeah. I'm legal. Got me green card and everything."
Gritting his teeth, Mike resisted the impulse to smack the jerk on his shiny head. “Why don't you tell me what you told the sheriff, then I won't have to trouble you anymore."
"Well, it was that tall, blond bird. ‘Ad to be. She was in ‘ere skulking about. Very toffee-nosed and suspicious like."
Mike's stomach knotted. “Which tall blonde?” Gwyn wasn't the only one who fit that description.
"Just the one they took out of ‘ere, covered in blood. Really you'd think if a bird was going to knife her old boyfriend, she wouldn't wear white. Crime of passion, I s'pose."
"Get back on track, fella. What did she do in here?” How had Gruhn learned Klein was Gwyn's old boyfriend?
"Just whizzed through—maybe she was looking for that knife."
"Wait a minute. Was she skulking or was she whizzing?” Mike jumped on the discrepancy in the caterer's story.
"Well, now, when I say whizzing, I just meant she came in and left quickly. It was more like skulking. Really."
Not satisfied with Gruhn's response, Mike decided to let it go, but filed it away in his memory bank. “How long was she in here?"
"Not more than a minute or two."
"Show me."
"Show you wot, mate?"
"Where she was, what she touched."
"Well, she blows in, then jumps like a flushed quail when she sees me—like maybe she was expecting the kitchen to be empty. She waltzed over by the counter—over there."
Gruhn stopped to scratch his head, as if pondering the event. “Now that I think about it, that's where the knife was last seen."
Mike already knew that. Dammit. “What were you doing while she was in here?"
"Well, I was a bit on the busy side, stirring the lobster bisque."
"Was she in your line of sight the entire time she was in the kitchen?"
"Not exactly. ‘Cause, you see, the bisque started to lump up, so I ‘ad to give it a vigorous stir. Know wot I mean?"
Every word the man uttered was another nail in Gwyn's coffin. Not that Mike believed a word. Gruhn's gaze was just a little too direct and he was a little too helpful. The man was lying, but why? What was he hiding? Was he fingering Gwyn to shift the suspicion from himself? Mike would make sure he ran Gruhn's fingerprints through AFIS. And why was he the only one of a busy catering staff who'd seen Gwyn in the kitchen?
"Thank you. Would you send in the housekeeper?” Once he questioned her, he'd start on the guests.
The housekeeper sauntered in, her jaw set and disdain written across her face. “Mr. Carlton?"
"Just call me Mike. Mr. Carlton is your disagreeable boss,” He smiled, more to disarm her than anything else. “I appreciate your humoring me. I have a few questions of my own. I hope you don't mind.” He gestured for her to be seated.
The housekeeper sat, then settled her gaze on him, her wide, blue eyes hooded. She reminded him of someone, but who? “Miss Grayson, have we met before?"
"I don't think so. Do you really have questions, or are you just trying to pick me up?"
Mike permitted himself a self-conscious laugh. “Sounded like it, didn't I? I'm just trying to clear my friend. It's obvious she couldn't have killed anyone, especially with that knife. I was with her only moments before she found Klein. And she didn't have it then."
"Well, then...” Miss Grayson gave him a not-very-encouraging smile. “I'm sure you'll clear her without any trouble."
The housekeeper was one cold fish. Any minute, he expected frostbite to wither his softer parts. “I understand you've been working here for a month or so."
"Four and a half weeks. Tonight was the first big dinner party."
"Hasn't turned out too well, has it?"
"It's a disaster, and I was anxious for everything to go well. Prove myself.” She ran her fingers back through her dark blond hair.
"I'm sure my parents won't hold the murder against you.” Charming this iceberg was a slow go.
At his words, her eyes widened. “Why would they blame me? I'm not responsible for anything that's happened here tonight. I don't even know the man who was killed. He wasn't a guest, was he?"
"No, he wasn't.” Mike looked at his notes again, pretending to study them before asking, “As housekeeper, you mingled among the guests and oversaw preparations in the kitchen?"
"More or less."
"See anyone in the kitchen who didn't belong?"
"No, just the catering staff."
"None of the guests?"
"Of course not. Why would one of the guests come into the kitchen? It isn't done."
"You know, you puzzle me."
"How so?"
"You're beautiful. Intelligent. Why are you a housekeeper, a servant in someone else's house?"
"I didn't grow up with a lot of advantages, Mr. Carlton. It's a job."
"Sorry."
"No need to apologize. That's just the way life is. Some people are born with a silver spoon, and others have to
work for a living."
"Yet you speak as if you're college-educated."
"I am. I had a scholarship. I worked hard."
Touched a nerve that time. “Thank you for your time, Miss Grayson."
"No need to thank me. You're the son of my employer. I'm happy to be of assistance.” She rose, straightening the slim skirt of her blue-gray dress.
Still puzzled by the impression that he'd met her before, Mike watched the housekeeper march from the kitchen, her back straight and her shoulders rigid. She'd sauntered into the kitchen. What was her problem? Was she just a servant with a chip on her shoulder? Or was she hiding something, too?
* * * *
Mike cursed under his breath, then glanced around the living room. He'd already interviewed at least five people who'd been standing in or near the foyer and heard Gwyn threaten to kill Klein before she went out to meet him. Only three more to go: Paul Winston—an old friend of his father's, Winston's client and newest conquest—if Mike was any judge—and the little jerk who'd been outside at the crime scene. Mark down another one who'd heard Gwyneth threaten Klein.
"Mr. Winston,” Mike began formally, as if he'd never met the attorney before.
"Mike.” Winston acknowledged him with a grim nod, flicking a piece of lint from the sleeve of his Armani. Mike had never seen Paul Winston less than impeccable. Damned irritating, it was.
"So, where were you?"
"That's the trouble with you private detectives. Straight to the point. No, ‘How's the family?’”
"I'm sure you'd like to get home sometime tonight."
"Why?” Paul raised an eyebrow and grinned. “Pretty exciting stuff. I've a room upstairs. Think I'll stick around."
"Don't waste my time, Paul.” Mike's impatience grew with each minute that passed, and his father's old friend wasn't helping. “An innocent woman is spending the night in jail."
"And not in your bed—what a shame.” The auburn-haired woman at Winston's side spoke, her voice had a low, melodic quality—soft and definitely seductive.
While she studied him, Mike took her extended hand. “Mrs. Sand, we meet again.” Gwyn's infamous aunt. What the hell was she doing here anyway?
Like a reigning queen accepting the attentions of her courtiers, she nodded. “Yes. I see from your reaction, you've heard of me."
"My reaction?” Years of experience as a police officer had schooled him too well to react to her name.
She continued,” You blinked when you said my name. A muscle in your jaw twitched.” Reaching over, she touched his wrist with long, elegant fingers. “And your heart rate is faster than normal."
"Perhaps it's because I'm in the presence of a beautiful woman."
A roll of low-pitched laughter emanated from her throat as her mouth pulled into a Mona Lisa smile.
"You find me amusing?” He didn't find her amusing. Just downright scary.
"Not at all. I find you delightful. What would you like to know?"
Shit. The woman was a piece of work, all right.
* * * *
For the first time in her life, Gwyneth paced back and forth inside a jail cell. Her breath caught in her throat; her palms were clammy. And self-control was almost a thing of the past. How could she stay locked up all night? What if there were a fire? Would anyone try to free her?
What cosmic jokester had seen fit to send a claustrophobic attorney to jail?
At least the sheets looked clean, even if “Property of Powatchee County Jail” was stenciled in black ink across the top hem. She didn't want to think about who'd last slept on the narrow bed. Not that she'd get a minute's sleep.
The clean, modern architecture of the facade proclaimed the jail was new, but the air of misery was as ever present as any cell in the Big Apple.
She pulled her blazer tight, as if she could actually stop the shivering that threatened to wrack her body any minute.
Take a deep breath, she told herself. Breathe in, breathe out.
Letting Mike—or anyone else—take care of everything didn't sit well. Not at all. As an attorney, she was used to charging ahead and taking no prisoners when it came to protecting her clients from abusive spouses.
But tonight, she had to sit in a jail cell and wait...
Damn.
But she trusted Mike. In the space of two and a half days, she'd entrusted him with her life, then her heart and now her freedom.
In spite of her first impression, Mike had proved he had his own personal sense of honor. He adored his son—and treated Marina with honesty. In the depths of her heart, Gwyneth knew he would do everything in his power to clear her of Richard's murder.
Richard.
Somehow, it was her fault. A man was dead. No, she hadn't plunged a knife into his back, but he wouldn't have been there if he hadn't been following her. “I'm sorry, Richard. I never meant for it to end this way,” she said half-aloud.
"That's as good a confession as I ever heard, little lady."
Startled, Gwyneth looked up. Sheriff Bauer stood leering at her from the other side of the bars. In the depths of her phobic introspection, she hadn't heard him enter the cellblock. “That's not what I meant."
"I think it's ‘xactly what you meant.” He waggled a pen and a familiar, yellow legal pad at her. “Care to make it official?"
* * * *
"Even though I've pledged my full cooperation,” Lilith Sand told Mike in what he assumed was her most charming manner, “I have to tell you, I didn't even know my niece was here until after the murder occurred."
"You didn't know Gwyn was here?” Somehow Mike didn't quite believe her.
"I'm afraid I came down quite late—just before she—"
She placed her hand on Paul Winston's knee. “I should say, we came down late—together."
"So you had no idea Gwyneth would be here?” Yeah, right.
She smiled. “No. Paul invited my son and me for the weekend. It was very gracious of him, don't you think?” The woman fluttered her eyelashes at Mike.
Thick and dark her eyelashes were, but he found her cold and calculating despite her seductive demeanor.
"I heard her threaten to kill someone,” the son spoke, squirming in his seat as if he couldn't wait another minute to implicate Gwyneth. He reached out and set his martini on a Hepplewhite side table.
Mike sighed. He could hear his mother screaming about the ring it would leave. Of course, she wouldn't dream of inconveniencing her guests. She'd wait until they'd left, then threaten her new housekeeper with dismissal if she didn't have a remedy in her bag of tricks.
"Yes, Everley, I believe you mentioned that before—outside.” Mike narrowed his gaze.
"Told the sheriff, too.” A wide smirk spread across the punk's face.
"Not surprised."
"Edmund, why couldn't you have kept that to yourself?” Lilith asked her son, then sipped daintily from her champagne flute. “There's no need to cast suspicion on your cousin."
"I told the truth, Mother. As you've always taught me."
Yeah, right, you smarmy, little bastard. Aware he'd learn nothing more from the three stooges, Mike offered, “Refills?"
"Yes, please.” Lilith passed him her glass.
Mike took it casually, but carefully to keep from smearing her prints. “And you're drinking Scotch, Paul?” Might as well pretend to play gracious host to his mother's guests—while he collected their fingerprints.
"Yes."
"One moment.” Mike headed to the salon where the bar had been set up. Under the guise of searching for a serving tray, he opened a door in the Sheraton sideboard and left Lilith's glass inside. He prepared a scotch straight up and a dry martini, then poured another flute of champagne. Carrying them back into the living room, He handed out the fresh drinks, then retrieved the men's glasses and secreted them alongside the champagne flute in the sideboard. They should be safe until Sid arrived and dusted them for prints. He'd already obtained print samples from the kitchen and catering staff. All h
e had to do now was be patient—not his best event.
Thirty-one
Gwyneth leveled her gaze at the sheriff. “Detective McKenzie already has my statement. That's all I'm signing."
Damn the man. Who did he think he was? Just a big frog in a little pond. Why, he wouldn't last fifteen minutes in New York. A big-time mobster like Gianni Damico would eat him alive—not such a bad idea.
"Well, little lady, if you just showed a little remorse, the DA would probably go easy on you."
What an ass. Jutting her chin at the sheriff, Gwyneth cast caution to the wind. “Never mind the fact that I'm an attorney. Anyone who's ever watched an episode of NYPD Blue would recognize your tactics. It's a no-brainer. Besides, I can't show remorse for something I didn't do."
"Well, I think you did. And I got more than one witness who heard you threaten the victim. Clear-cut case of murder—that's how I see it. Now maybe, just maybe, it was a crime of passion. It's easy to see that a fine-lookin’ gal like yourself might get all emotional and passionate. And you got a hell of a temper. If it wasn't for you sneakin’ that big, old, butcher knife out of the kitchen, you might get by with manslaughter.” Bauer shook his head sadly. “But that there knife business shows premeditation. Com-pren-day, blondie?"
"I didn't take a knife from the kitchen,” Gwyneth told him between clenched teeth.
A canny grin replaced his leer. “You weren't quite careful enough. Someone saw you."
Someone saw me? Disbelief hit her like a fist in the stomach. “Impossible. I don't even know where the kitchen is."
"Honey, ever’ woman knows where the kitchen is, or she ain't much of a woman."
Gwyneth rolled her eyes. The sheriff ought to be on a sitcom, instead of taking up precious air in the cellblock—and driving her absolutely nuts.
"Little lady, anybody ever tell you that you got a bad attitude?"
"Bad attitude? I didn't say a word."
"You don't have to. What you think is written all across that purty face of yours."
"Don't you have something better to do than harass me? Isn't anyone running a stop sign or red light?"
The Man For The Job Page 20
