The Man For The Job

by Marie-Nicole Ryan

  Once more, she settled down on the bench-like bed and pulled her knees up, resting her chin on them. She glanced down at her wrist to check the time, but of course, she didn't have a watch. The detective had taken it with the other valuables at the time of the arrest.

  At least she was the only prisoner in the cellblock. That was a small blessing. Wasn't it?

  How did this weekend get so messed up? But Mike couldn't hear her. Besides, it wasn't just the weekend that was totally screwed. It was her life.

  All her ideas about love had taken a ninety-degree turn. She'd been happy—or so she'd thought. A law practice and an uncle and aunt who'd treated her like the daughter they'd never had.

  Of course, there was the little problem of someone's stalking her and just maybe trying to kill her, too. A trifling inconvenience, to be sure.

  Then she met Mike, hired him, got kissed in the back of a cab and mugged—all in very short order. And the very nanosecond she found herself in bed with her own private eye, her whole life turned upside-down.

  It was probably all those orgasms. Having one climax after another must have affected her brain. It wasn't used to all that blood flow, and the rest of her body wasn't in the habit of receiving that much attention either.

  Making love with Mike was definitely a quantum leap from anything she'd ever experienced before. He was powerful and tender and sexy, and he made her feel like she was the most desirable woman on the planet. And that, sure as hell, was a unique experience.

  All right, Gwyneth, confess. Is it the mind-blowing sex, or is there a future for you and this man?

  Trust. It all boiled down to trust. Did she trust him? She'd already given him her heart. But ... Maybe all the abused wives she'd represented had colored her judgment.

  On the other hand, Marina seemed to think a lot of Mike, even after all they'd been through. But his son's mother didn't seem very experienced or worldly.

  Okay, she'd just list his good points—aside from his dynamic performance in her bed. Too bad the sheriff didn't leave the pen and paper. She could use them right now.

  On the plus side: He was a good father, kind to Marina and honest with her. Then there was his intelligence—no need to dilute the gene pool—not to mention, he was handsome. And his sense of humor—a real smart-ass when it suited him, but she liked him that way. She'd never get bored. And she certainly wouldn't be watching Letterman over his shoulder while they made love.

  Negatives? Well, he had the most dysfunctional family she'd ever seen—outside her own. Dangerous profession—he could get killed. Oh, no. Please be careful, Mike. Whoever killed Richard might still be hanging around.

  Hot tears stung her eyes. Okay, as horrible as finding Richard's body had been, the very thought of losing Mike hurt worse. The remorse she felt over Richard's death couldn't compare to what she'd feel if she lost Mike.

  In a bare couple of days, he'd become a part of her, like an extra rib or an extension of her soul. As corny as it sounded, it was true. Mike Carlton was indelible ink on the map of her heart. He was the gum she couldn't scrape off the sole of her shoe. He was her man.

  And what she wouldn't give to have his strong arms around her right now. Morning couldn't come too soon.

  * * * *

  As the door to the library opened, Mike glanced up from his computer in surprise.

  Millie, the housekeeper, stood there, holding a tray. “Would you like some café au lait, Mr. Carlton?"

  "Thanks. Just set it down.” He indicated a free corner of the desk. Since Rocky had struck out with the housekeeper, maybe Mike ought to have another go at her.

  "It's late. You look exhausted. Have a seat.” He gestured toward a high-backed, Queen Anne chair.

  Her eyes widened, but she hesitated long enough for Mike to hope she was tempted by his offer. “Go on. Take a load off. I won't tell."

  But Millie shook her head. “No, thank you. It wouldn't be appropriate."

  He rolled his eyes. “Appropriate or not, you look like you're ready to drop. Take a break. It's an order."

  "Well, since you put it that way.” Giving him a tight smile, she sat down, then nodded in the direction of the laptop. “What're you doing?"

  "I'm running backgrounds on some of the guests and staff."

  The housekeeper straightened up. “You're doing what? I mean, how?"

  Mike gave her his cagiest grin. “Just takes knowing a few shortcuts.

  "You can hack into what?"

  "Federal databases. There's always a backdoor,” he bluffed. He wasn't a hacker—that's why he was so anxious for Sid to show up with his bag of tricks.

  "But isn't that illegal?"

  Mike shrugged. “Sure, but who's to know?"

  "But I thought you used to be a cop."

  "Used to be is the operative phrase. They have rules. I don't.” To his delight, Millie's left hand developed a slight tremor. “Don't worry.” He let out a low, conspiratorial chuckle. “I'm sure you don't have anything to hide."

  "Of course, I don't.” Standing abruptly, she blurted, “I have to go. I need to—"

  "To what?"

  "It'll soon be time to serve breakfast. You're such a smart guy. You figure it out."

  She rushed from the room. More than pleased that he'd made the elusive housekeeper so nervous, he leaned back.

  Wonder what she's hiding? He glanced at his watch: four o'clock. Damn. He grabbed the telephone and dialed Sid's cell phone.

  "Yeah?” Sid answered, breathing heavily.

  "ETA?"

  "I'm at the airport. Clearing security right now. Flight's at five. I should be in DC by no later than six."

  "Gwyn's uncle is coming in about the same time."

  "Cool. Any suspects?"

  "One or two."

  "That's it? I thought you'd have the case solved by now."

  "Just get your ass down here. There's plenty to process."

  "Right."

  Mike disconnected. “Soon, Gwyn, soon.” Damn that creep Klein. How dare he get himself killed and manage to incriminate Gwyn at the same time? That took talent.

  Whoa. The man was dead, wasn't he?

  Mike closed his eyes. Lack of sleep was making him feel somewhat blurred around the edges.

  Blaming the victim for his own death was beyond the pale.

  A faint sound made Mike open his eyes. He could've sworn he heard a cat. He spied a large yellow tabby perched high on a shelf. But no sooner than he'd seen the creature, than she leapt from her resting spot onto the desk right in front of him, sending the fresh cup of café au lait flying.

  "Damn. How long were you up there? Just taking it easy, were you? Keeping an eye on me?” The green-eyed cat cast him a bored glance, then bounded from the desk to the hardwood floor. She stopped long enough to give the spilled contents a disdainful sniff, then, perhaps attracted by the cream, licked at it.

  Mike watched as the cat stiffened, gasped—and collapsed. Fuck.

  "Rocky!” Mike shouted and jumped up from his chair. He stared down at the cat. Poor kitty.

  But instead of the security guard, the obnoxious Everley glided in. “What's up?"

  "I think I've made someone a little nervous, and that someone just had a go at poisoning me. The cat's dead."

  "Damned if it isn't,” Everley remarked dryly, sparing a fleeting glance for the hapless animal at his feet. “You're so observant. Think I can be a smart detective like you when I grow up?"

  Mike again resisted the impulse to smack Everley's smirking face. “Spare me your juvenile humor. Find the security guard and get the housekeeper back in here."

  "Oh, dear. I think there's trouble afoot. Does that mean I've been promoted to investigator status?"

  "No, it just means I won't have to knock you on your sorry ass."

  "Hmm.” Everley smirked. “Guess that cup of joe was a little on the strong side."

  Mike glared at the punk and knelt down beside the cat.

  "I think it's a little late for CPR
, Mikey."

  Ignoring Everley, Mike sniffed the cat's mouth. “Cyanide,” he pronounced on catching the scent of bitter almonds. “Get Rocky and the housekeeper,” he ordered between clenched teeth.

  "All right. Jeez, you act like someone gave you a wedgy."

  "That's it.” Mike jumped up, grabbed Everley by the front of his shirt and slammed him against the wall—just to get his attention. “Listen, shithead, I've had enough of your smart mouth. One more word, and it'll be your last. Understand?"

  Everley's white face turned deep red, but he managed a nod. Mike released him and watched, with no small amount of satisfaction, as the punk slid down the wall until his butt hit the floor.

  Okay, so he had some weight and height on the kid, but Everley was long overdue for an attitude adjustment.

  The younger man scrambled to his feet and, straightening the jacket of his tuxedo, he fled the room only to run straight into Rocky in the hall.

  "Hold on, kid. What's the rush?"

  Everley's reply didn't bear repeating.

  Rocky stared at the cat, then shot Mike a look of disbelief. “What the hell's going on here?"

  "The cat got something that was meant for me."

  "I'll say. Who did it? Everley?"

  "The housekeeper brought it in, which is suspicious enough. I want to question her—see if she left it unattended."

  "Yeah, I'd be real interested to know where our little friend Everley was, too. You gonna notify the sheriff?"

  Mike shook his head. “Hell, no. Given the lack of ability he's already demonstrated, he'd only add to the confusion. I'd rather keep it quiet for the time being, give—"

  "Give'em another shot at killing you? Mike, you're nuts."

  "Whoever it is will slip up sooner or later."

  "You've got to call the authorities."

  "Not until I talk to our not-so-friendly housekeeper."

  Rocky shot Mike doubtful look, then shrugged. “Okay. You're the boss."

  Mike grinned. “Not exactly."

  Grinning back, Rocky admitted, “Well, I doubt your father could tolerate another visit from the sheriff."

  * * * *

  The noose tightened, cutting off her air. Her feet scrabbled for purchase, but found none.

  Gwyneth awoke in a full-blown panic, her head pounding until she thought it would explode. She gasped for breath, then forced herself to envision the image of an alpine lake, surrounded by snow-covered peaks and topped by an unclouded, cerulean sky. The pulse pounding in her ears slowed until the muscles in her throat finally relaxed and the pain in her chest faded.

  In spite of all her heavy breathing with Mike, she hadn't had a true panic attack in several years. Why now? Just because she was in jail and suspected of murder? Good enough reason, she supposed.

  What time is it? she wondered. How could they arraign her for murder when they didn't have a single shred of real evidence. She was certain she hadn't touched the knife. Everything was circumstantial. She'd found the body and managed to get Richard's blood all over the front of her dress as she'd knelt beside him. Circumstantial, damn it.

  The entire case was full of holes. She'd have loved to have such an easy case dropped in her lap—not that she took murder cases—but it would have been a pleasure to smear the sheriff's face in it when she defended herself and was found innocent. The case probably wouldn't even go to trial. There wouldn't be enough evidence to arraign her. She was sure of it—almost.

  But this was the sheriff's turf, not hers. Who knew how things might actually work in Powatchee County, Virginia? Still, the law was the law, and she'd based her life on its principles. She'd trust it. She had to.

  * * * *

  "What happened?” the housekeeper's voice rose to a surprised screech—a well-bred screech, Mike conceded, but a screech nonetheless.

  "The cat died from the coffee you brought me. Please explain."

  "But I can't. Surely you don't believe I'd try to murder you. Twenty-four hours ago, I didn't even know you."

  "Then retrace your steps from the time you prepared it. Who was with you? And was the tray always in your sight?"

  Millie Grayson's face turned as pale and gray as her long dress. He watched for any sign that she was lying. Her long, thin fingers worried at her collar. A nervous gesture? Or was she used to wearing something there? Had she been wearing something there earlier in the evening?

  Hell, with Gwyn around, he really hadn't paid much attention to the housekeeper's accessories. If Gwyn were here now, she could tell him in a heartbeat. Accessories were her thing, not his.

  "I prepared it in the kitchen."

  "Anyone see you?"

  "Yes, two of the caterer's people were packing up. They're gone now."

  "Which ones?"

  "The supervisor and that droll fellow with the Cockney accent."

  "Did either of them know where you were taking the tray?"

  She hesitated, then admitted, “I might have mentioned it."

  "I see. And after you left the kitchen?"

  "I brought it through the dining room and passed through the salon. Your mother called me over. I set the tray down on a table in the foyer."

  "My mother called you aside? What did she want?"

  "Just making sure that arrangements had been made for all the guests. We only spoke for a minute or so. She left to retire for the evening, and I brought you the tray."

  "Long enough for someone to add poison—if you're telling the truth."

  An angry flush stained the housekeeper's face. “I'd have to be pretty stupid to try to poison you with coffee that I brought you myself,” she said through clenched teeth. “I'm afraid you'll need to look a little farther for a suspect—sir."

  Mike nodded at Rocky. “We'll check your story with the catering staff tomorrow."

  "My story? I've had enough of your interrogation. I quit."

  "Listen, doll. You can quit. But you damn well won't leave, if I have to call the sheriff and accuse you of attempted murder.” He flashed her his most insincere smile. “Hey, you can keep Gwyn company."

  "Gwyn!” Millie spit. “To hell with precious Gwyn. I'm sick of her. You'd like to blame all this on me, wouldn't you? Just to get her out of jail. Well, I think she's right where she belongs. At least the sheriff got that right."

  "You don't know anything about Gwyneth,” Mike responded. He'd touched a nerve, but why?

  "I don't have to know her. I know her type. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm through answering questions. I'm going to bed. In case you haven't noticed, it's nearly five in the morning. I've been up for almost twenty-four hours."

  Mike gave her a dismissive wave. “Go on. I'll check out your story while you have a nice nap. Sweet dreams."

  He watched with amusement as the housekeeper marshaled her self-control before she fled the library.

  He turned to his friend. “Well, Rocky?"

  "She's hiding something."

  "Yeah, but what?"

  Thirty-three

  By six in the morning, Gwyneth had her opening planned. Not that a real opening statement could be used at an arraignment, but the judge might grant her some latitude. After all, if Uncle Wil didn't arrive in time, she'd be forced to act as her own attorney.

  She wasn't sure the grand jury would return a true bill against her. The evidence was pathetic. Or did this one-horse town even have a grand jury? Perhaps there would simply be a preliminary hearing, followed by arraignment if the judge felt there was sufficient proof.

  Naturally, she would argue for a dismissal of charges based on lack of evidence. As her own attorney, she could be heard. Would bail be set or denied?

  She paced back and forth in the cell, rehearsing. Concise and direct. Most of all, she couldn't act guilty. She had to separate her emotions from the situation. In other words, she had to present herself as a consummate professional—nothing more, nothing less.

  Intent on the proceedings to come, Gwyneth started as the door to the cellblock
clanged. Good Cop McKenzie walked in, carrying a Styrofoam cup and paper plate.

  "I see you're wide-awake, counselor. I brought you some coffee. It's not much, but I can vouch that it's hot and fresh. Sorry I can't say the same for the biscuit. I think it's left over from the early nineties."

  Flashing the detective a smile, Gwyneth nodded. “Thanks. Coffee'd be great."

  "Careful, it's hot,” McKenzie warned.

  Gwyneth accepted the cup of coffee and the questionable pastry through the bars, then knocked the biscuit against one of the steel bars. “It's hard enough to use as an antiaircraft missile. Maybe the government could use more of these. Be a lot cheaper than those smart bombs."

  "At least a night in jail hasn't dulled your sense of humor."

  "My sense of humor?” Gwyneth snorted. “Listen, Detective, I'm not exactly known for my sense of humor. Ask anyone who's been up against me in court."

  "Well, at least you've gained some perspective of what it's like on the receiving end of the law."

  Gwyneth blew on her coffee, then took a cautious sip.

  Hot.

  "Yes,” she gasped, but she'd been warned. Wondering if she'd ever swallow again, she set the cup down on the edge of the lavatory. “This experience isn't on my top ten list of anything, and I doubt it'll do much for my résumé."

  "There you go.” McKenzie's mouth kicked up in a half grin. “There's that sense of humor again. You'd better watch it, or people will find out that you actually have one."

  "Well, there's one thing for sure. Sheriff Bauer doesn't appreciate it."

  "That's because the sheriff...” The detective leaned her head forward and spoke in a hushed voice, “doesn't have one at all—no disrespect intended, of course."

  "Of course not.” Gwyneth resumed her pacing, considering her options should the sheriff manufacture evidence unrelated to the blood on her gown.

  The detective turned to leave, then stopped and turned. “By the way, are you going to act as your own attorney?"

  "Yes. I don't know if my uncle can get here in time, so I'm prepared."

  "Well, I'll leave you to it."