The Man For The Job

by Marie-Nicole Ryan

  Eyes and ears indeed. Only Gwyneth's long experience with clients and never revealing what she really thought kept her mouth from dropping open.

  Mike turned to her cousin. “And, Eddie, have you taken after Mommie Dearest? Would you like to inherit the lovely Gwyn's sizable fortune? Surely you know, what her father left her makes her mother's inheritance look like chump change."

  "Really?” Edmund smiled. “Cool."

  "Cool, huh? Cool enough to shove her down a staircase? I mean, if your cousin broke her neck, who would inherit?” His attention whipped to Gwyneth. “Who stands to inherit your estate?” he asked without warning.

  "Until Richard died, he was. We rewrote our wills, making each other the beneficiary...” her voice faltered as the truth hit her; she'd omitted a very necessary legality. “And I haven't rewritten mine yet."

  "You're Klein's heir?” McKenzie interrupted, surprise written across her face.

  "He said I was."

  "We're right back where we started. That gives you a motive.” McKenzie frowned and shook her head. “Now I have to check into the will issue."

  "No, it doesn't. I have more money than I could spend in three lifetimes. Richard's estate ... It isn't—wasn't an issue."

  "No, it's more likely that Gwyneth's estate is the issue."

  "Now wait a minute, guv,” the caterer interrupted from where he hovered in a corner, “wot the ‘ell am I doing ‘ere? I never saw this bird before last night in all me life."

  "Then why did you try to kill her with the lobster bisque?"

  Indignation swept across his plain face. “Nothing wrong with me bisque. Wot you mean?"

  "Gwyneth's allergic to shellfish, and it's a known fact that you were aware that two guests were allergic to shellfish. And you had the seating diagram."

  "W-well—” Reggie stuttered.

  Mike made a sudden turn toward the housekeeper. “As did the housekeeper, you, Miss Grayson."

  "Now, why on Earth would I want to kill Miss Wells with the lobster bisque—of all things? I'd like to think I could be more creative than that."

  "Why? I can think of at least one reason. Why don't you tell everyone your real name?"

  "Millicent Grayson.” Her tone developed a definite sarcastic edge, like maybe she was ready to bite someone. “You already know my name."

  "No, I mean your given name at birth."

  The housekeeper glared at Mike. “Caitlin."

  Caitlin? The name sent Gwyn's head spinning. Caitlin was...

  "And, Mrs. Sand, wasn't your first husband's name Gray?"

  "Hmm. It was so long ago...” Lilith hesitated, appearing to give the question due consideration.

  "I can tell you what his name was, if you can't remember,” Uncle Wil sputtered from the foyer, his face red and fire in his eyes.

  Gwyneth hadn't noticed his arrival.

  Hail, hail, the gang's all here.

  Her aunt cast a venomous glance at Uncle Wil. “Why, yes, I believe it was,” in a tone so casual, you'd have thought she was ordering a salad at the Four Seasons.

  Uncle Wil arched an eyebrow. “Gwyneth, meet your cousin."

  "My cousin?” Confused, Gwyneth looked from her uncle to the housekeeper. “Caitlin Gray, but that's the name of my half-sister."

  "Very good, Gwyneth.” Lilith smirked. “About time you caught on. Your father was such a charming man—so charming, I had to find out for myself."

  Gwyneth took a deep breath and fought the nausea roiling in her stomach. “Y-you slept with my father and passed his daughter off as your husband's?” Still confused, she continued aloud. “I always knew about Edmund, but I never knew you had a daughter."

  Her aunt tossed her hair and laughed. “After my first husband ... died, I fell on hard times, so I gave her up for adoption. Your father saw to it that she had a good home and education."

  "No wonder my mother hated you."

  "Enough, Gwyn.” Mike leveled his gaze at her. “You can tell her how you really feel later. We need to continue. I knew there was something familiar about our efficient housekeeper. You both have the same blue eyes and bone structure."

  Mike continued, smiling at them all, “And now we have another person who has good reason to wish Gwyneth harm. Framing her for murder would do the trick, wouldn't it?"

  Reggie Gruhn tapped Mike on the shoulder. “Now see ‘ere, mate. I've nothin’ to do with this dysfunctional family of murderers. Looks like I'm off the ‘ook."

  "Not so fast. Detective McKenzie, I think you might want to investigate Mr. Gruhn's connection to Gianni Damico."

  "No way. I ‘ad nothing to do with Unc—” The short, stocky man clapped his hand over his mouth.

  "Care to finish that statement?"

  McKenzie whipped out her handcuffs. “Mr. Gruhn, I must advise you of your rights."

  Gruhn's face blanched, then deepened until he was a dark red. “No, it's not my fault. I told ‘im ‘is plan was starkers, but ‘e wouldn't listen."

  "Accessory before the fact,” McKenzie finished, then jumped in with a question of her own. “What else did your uncle have planned?"

  "I'll tell ya, but not without a deal from the DA."

  "Nice job, Mike,” Paul Winston spoke. “You've connected everyone in this room to Gwyneth, but she's still alive. Klein's the one who's dead. Who killed him?"

  "In a minute, Paul. There's one more connection. Funny you should be the one to bring it up. As Mrs. Sand's attorney, you would stand to receive a fat retainer and a good percentage of any spoils should Gwyn meet with an unfortunate accident."

  Shivers shook Gwyneth to her very bones and settled in the pit of her stomach. Nearly everyone in the room had a good motive for wanting her dead. Not a comforting situation. Not at all.

  "But,” Paul argued, “what about Klein? Or are you still fishing?"

  Mike grinned at his father's old friend. “Guess I can't pull the wool over your eyes, can I?"

  "All this blathering about Gwyneth and how everyone would be better off with her dead—a fact with which I can't argue—but who killed that unfortunate young man?” Aunt Lilith asked.

  "Someone who loved him and feared losing him.” Mike turned and stared at Gwyneth.

  Her hand went to her throat. “Me? Have you lost your mind?"

  Forty-seven

  Gwyneth swallowed the lump in her throat. But Mike wasn't looking at her—he was looking beyond her at ... Caitlin, her eyes, widening at the accusation and the color draining from her face.

  Surely not.

  "Caitlin, why don't you tell us how you and Richard planned it? Once Gwyn made Richard her heir, she was dispensable, wasn't she? At least, that's how your plan was supposed to work."

  "This is bogus,” Caitlin hissed. “You don't know what you're talking about. And you're ready for the funny farm if you think you're going to pin this murder on me."

  "Shut up, Caitlin,” Lilith warned. “Paul, she wants a lawyer."

  "We traced a call to this house that took place before Klein showed up, demanding to see Gwyn. Was he asking for directions, or was he just lonely?"

  Caitlin's face flushed red.

  Mike continued, advancing toward her. “Give it up. We already have records of your calls from here to Klein's apartment. You were in love with him. So why kill him?"

  Her mouth tightened into a thin line. “I didn't."

  "Were you afraid he wouldn't share Gwyn's estate after all? Your father paid for your education, didn't he? But he didn't leave you anything in his will like he did Gwyn—his legitimate daughter, the one he really loved."

  Gwyneth used years of control to hold back her admiration. Damn, he would've made a great prosecutor. The man had a definite flair for the dramatic. Juries would love him.

  "That galled you,” Mike continued. “Didn't it? Your father ignored you, and you didn't trust your lover to share the wealth either, especially if you thought he was falling in love—with your half-sister.” Mike rammed each point home by
pointing at Caitlin.

  "She had everything, didn't she? Everything you ever wanted. The love of your father. All that money. And finally, Richard. It was more than you could stand. So you slipped into the kitchen, stole the knife and plunged it into your lover's back."

  "No!” Caitlin drew back, glancing from side to side.

  Would her half-sister try to run? Wild hope faded from Caitlin's face as two more officers stepped into the salon.

  "Y-you don't have any proof.” Caitlin straightened and took a deep breath. “You need proof to arrest me."

  Mike shrugged and took a nonchalant step closer. “I'm sure all we have to do is search your room and find the gray dress you wore when you stabbed your lover."

  "I was here all evening. There were guests everywhere. Surely someone would have noticed if I were wearing a blood-soaked uniform. We certainly saw his blood all over her dress,” Caitlin's voice rose with a note of hysteria.

  "But, you're just a servant. No one would notice if you slipped away for a few minutes. You had just enough time to kill Klein and change. And that's what you did. The only thing you forgot was the cameo pin you wore on your collar earlier in the evening. You didn't have it on later."

  Mike glanced at Gwyneth. “You have your sister's sharp eyes to thank for that bit of information."

  "You bitch. This is all your fault.” Tears welled in Caitlin's eyes. “I never would—” She stopped a second before incriminating herself.

  "Detective McKenzie, do you have a search warrant?” Mike asked.

  "Oh, yeah."

  "The DNA evidence will confirm everything. And it doesn't take weeks like it used to."

  "Miss Gray, I'm taking you in for further questioning.” McKenzie proceeded to read Gwyneth's sister her rights.

  While Gwyn struggled to process the information Mike had dumped on everyone without warning, she nibbled thoughtfully on a fingernail.

  Aunt Lilith shrugged and made the symbolic gesture of washing her hands. “Well, I guess that's that."

  "She's your daughter!” Gwyneth jumped up and faced her aunt, “And ‘that's that'?"

  "Well, I mean, I'm no longer under suspicion.” Lilith turned to her attorney. “I'm ready to leave, Paul. This weekend has lasted long enough. Perhaps we could have dinner in DC."

  Mike stepped in front of her aunt. “Not so fast. Your entire family was part of a conspiracy to murder Gwyneth. Detective, I think we're going to need more than one squad car to haul these people."

  "As you suggested, they're outside."

  Lilith turned to Edmund. “Keep your mouth shut. It's all circumstantial."

  Paul Winston sidled up to Mike. “Now, Mike.” The attorney's tone was quiet and measured as if he were remonstrating with a jury. “Surely you don't mean me as well? I only met Mrs. Sand three days ago."

  Mike shook his head. “Be glad. She's hell on husbands. Her estate-planning problems are the least of her worries. She needs a criminal attorney now."

  Before Caitlin was taken away, Gwyneth turned to her. “You really wanted to kill me? For money? And Richard? He wasn't worth it."

  "Shut up. Yes,” Caitlin hissed, “it was all about you. Everything's always been about you. I've hated you all my life—precious Gwyneth who had everything, while I was just a dirty, little secret."

  Hatred had poisoned and destroyed her half-sister. Gwyneth shook her head. “I'm sorry.” If she'd just sought out her sister before all this, would Richard still be alive? Was she partially responsible? She couldn't deny it. She was.

  * * * *

  As the last of the squad cars disappeared, Gwyn leaned against Mike's strong shoulder and sighed.

  "Your aunt's too smart. She'll lawyer up.” Mike added with a wry grin, “But Eddie will spill his guts. He's as spineless as a jelly fish. The authorities will get something close to the truth from him, provided he's granted immunity from prosecution."

  "He's an accomplice before the fact.” Gwyn rubbed her forehead and frowned. “Okay, but who tried to poison you and who pushed me down the stairs?"

  "I'm guessing your sister did both. Little Eddie doesn't strike me as the physical type. Your sister is spontaneous—impulsive."

  "Family trait?"

  "I'd say so."

  "So Edmund was actually giving Caitlin an alibi instead of giving himself one?"

  "That'd be my guess."

  "Hmm.” Gwyn chewed her bottom lip for a second before blurting, “You know what I have to do, don't you?"

  Mike rolled his eyes. “Don't tell me, counselor. You're going to represent Caitlin. I'll go with you.” He took Gwyn by the arm and guided her back to the house. Her skin, warm and soft, enticed him. Her scent filled his senses, reminding him of their last time together. And if he knew his woman, her mind was strictly on the case. It would be hours before...

  Apparently oblivious to his gathering desire, Gwyn picked up her pace. “I'm not licensed in Virginia, but I can do the initial prep and see that she's represented properly. All I need is a legal pad and a briefcase."

  Mike sighed. “Shouldn't be a problem. There's plenty of office supplies on hand. My father could outfit a publishing company with his bulk buying."

  Gwyn stopped and shot him one of those looks. He knew what came next.

  "You know, you have to make peace with him."

  "Peace?"

  "Well, a truce at least."

  "Easier said than done, counselor."

  "Just try, because if it doesn't happen this time, it might never happen. Even I can see your father's not in good health. You wouldn't want to live with that regret on your conscience the rest of your life, would you?"

  There was some truth to her words, he had to admit. Could he swallow his pride and attempt to heal the breach between him and his father? “You have a point. It'd make my mother happy."

  "She's not the only one."

  "Now wait a minute. He was damned rude to you."

  "That's old news.” She gave him a knowing smile. “He approves of me."

  "How do you know?"

  "I know,” she replied archly.

  He backed her against the front door. “Self-confident lady, aren't you?” He snaked his arms around her waist and pulled her closer.

  The door swung open. His mother. “Ah, there you are. We're about to have what's left of dinner."

  "Thank you, Mother, but we're going down to the jail. May Gwyn borrow a briefcase and a legal pad?"

  "Of course.” His mother glanced over her shoulder, opened her mouth, then closed it. “Silly me. I was about to call for Grayson or whatever her name is. I suppose I'll just see what I can find myself."

  "Thanks.” Amused, he doubted his mother could find her way to the kitchen, much less the storeroom.

  "Michael, your father would like to see you. He's in the study.” She gave him an encouraging smile then rushed off. Maybe she didn't want to witness the carnage.

  He took a deep breath. “Guess the time is right."

  "You know it is. I'll just wait here."

  "This won't take long. He'll yell at me, and I'll get mad—about thirty seconds."

  "You have to make an effort. Be the bigger man."

  "I don't know if you're a good influence on me or not, but you're a good woman."

  "I know."

  Resisting the urge to take her against the wall, he kissed the tip of her nose. “Behave yourself."

  The feline, self-satisfied smile of every woman who knows her power over her man crossed Gwyn's lips. “You know it, big boy."

  Mike pulled away, squared his shoulders and clenched his jaw. He might as well get it over with.

  To his surprise, his father met him at the door. “Come in, Mike."

  Mike nodded. “Sir."

  Instead of taking his usual place behind his desk, George Carlton motioned for Mike to have a seat on the soft, leather sofa at the end of the room and followed him.

  "Would you like a drink, sir?” Mike asked.

  "You don'
t have to play bartender. I was impressed by your performance. You did a good job.” He hesitated a beat, then added, “You made me proud."

  Proud? Mike shook his head. Maybe his hearing was off.

  "Did you hear me?” his father asked.

  "I thought I heard you say you were proud of me, but I'm sure I'm mistaken."

  His father cleared his throat. “I know we haven't gotten along. I'm a cranky old man. Cut me some slack."

  "Uh, of course.” His father's comment was almost humorous. Had his old man had another stroke? “Are you all right, sir?"

  "You're making this damned difficult, Mike."

  "This what?"

  "This peacemaking thing your mother insisted on."

  "So, it wasn't your idea?"

  "Not exactly, but she's right. You've made your own life your own way—much like I did. I've been harsh at times—all right, more than harsh—but I've always wanted only the best for you."

  "And Gwyn? You've given up on my marrying Marina?"

  "I have. Your Gwyn's ... a keeper."

  Mike eyed his father. “You're a leg man, too. That's it, isn't it?"

  George sputtered, “Don't be ridiculous.” But the twinkle in his father's eye told the truth.

  "We have that trait in common, sir."

  "Stop the ‘sir’ crap. Why don't you call me ‘Father’ or ‘Dad'?"

  "I thought ‘sir’ was more respectful."

  "Bull! We both have to compromise. If I stop busting your chops every time you set foot in this house, I think you can call me ‘Father'."

  Mike swallowed the lump in his throat. And his eyes were absolutely not ready to tear up. “I can manage that—Father."

  "Good.” His old man's voice grew gruff and husky. “I don't think I can take any more of this warm, fuzzy stuff right now. Find that girl of yours and show her how much you love her."

  Mike laughed. “That's one order I won't have any problem following."

  He left the study. And his old man was actually laughing. Amazing.

  He found Gwyn in the foyer, briefcase in hand. “I take it things went well."

  "Yeah, they did. But I'm gonna be real pissed if I dreamed it."

  "You didn't. I hear him. He's still laughing."