Hazardous Duty

by Christy Barritt

  The two men shook hands. After the front door slammed, quiet fell over the outside. Harold plopped into a wooden rocker, and I took the other one. Riley leaned against a post.

  “What did they say?” I swallowed, bracing myself for whatever the news.

  “I guess they didn’t have enough to hold me, but I’m not off the hook yet. They’re searching for anything they can find to frame me for this.” His wide, watery eyes met mine. “I don’t want to go back to jail, Gabby.” He reached for his temples and lowered his head in despair. “I don’t want to go back to jail.”

  Chapter Nine

  I cleared my throat, trying to hold myself together. I grabbed Harold’s sweaty, thick hand. “Harold, why didn’t you tell me that you had a criminal record?”

  He raised his head, but that same pained expression still remained. “I didn’t think it was important. I was with the wrong people at the wrong time. I figured it would only work against me to tell you, especially since I didn’t do anything, except have a lapse in judgment.”

  Riley crossed his arms, his forehead wrinkled. “What did the police say?”

  Harold’s shoulders stooped. “They said for me not to leave the city, that they may need to talk to me again.”

  “They say anything about motive? About why they would think you’d do something like this?” Riley continued.

  Riley’s stance was casual, but his voice said otherwise. He seemed interested in Harold’s fate, for some reason unknown to me.

  “They claim maybe I stole things from the house and burned it to conceal the evidence.” He shook his head. “You know I don’t want a lot in life, just a happy family and some place to keep warm. I didn’t steal nothing, Gabby.”

  “They’re not going to be able to frame you, Harold. You have witnesses who saw you at Donovan’s T-ball game. That will prove you’re innocent—” I paused as Harold swung his head back and forth. “Why are you doing that?”

  His fingers laced and unlaced in front of him. This was a man that I didn’t believe could get rattled less than five hours ago. Now, he was close to crumbling.

  “I got caught in traffic. Then I decided to stop by the house and shower. You know how the smell of blood just saturates you—”

  I touched his arm. “I know.”

  “I’m the perfect suspect.” Harold lowered his head into his hands again.

  “I believe you, Harold.”

  “Now you just have to make sure the police believe you.” Riley uncrossed his arms and stepped closer. “Did they say anything about a search warrant?”

  “They’re trying to get one right now.”

  “Do you have a lawyer?”

  “Not yet.”

  Riley began pacing. “You need to get a lawyer. You should have had one in the first place. They did tell you that, didn’t they?”

  He shrugged. “I was so overwhelmed, I don’t remember what they told me. I just knew I wanted to get home. I wanted to wake up from this nightmare.”

  As if on cue, a police car pulled to a stop in front of the house, followed by a black sedan.

  Detective Parker, I realized. My stomach rolled with nausea.

  The Brad Pitt look-alike stepped out of the car, sunglasses on and hair gelled in place

  “I guess that search warrant came through pretty quickly,” I mumbled, standing. I stepped between Harold and Parker as the officers approached.

  Parker’s smirking gaze fell on me, and I wished I’d never mentally complimented him with the Brad Pitt comparison. “Well, if it isn’t Nancy Drew. Why am I not surprised to see you here?”

  “Tell me, is it that you’re stubborn or ignorant that prevents you from admitting the truth?”

  His eyebrows shot up and, though I couldn’t see his eyes, I would bet he was scowling beneath those dark glasses.

  “I’ve told you to leave the investigation to professionals.” His words were as clipped and tight as his expression.

  “You guys are as professional as Bozo on his first day at the circus. Do you need me to remind you of what a lousy job you’ve done so far?”

  Harold laid a hand on my arm, but my heart still raced with adrenaline. “It’s okay, Gabby. Let them go on and search the house. They won’t find anything.”

  Parker slipped his movie star glasses up and gave me a smoldering glance before following the officers into the house.

  “What did you mean by all of that, Gabby?” Harold’s eyes contained the first touch of hope I’d seen since this ordeal started.

  I should have kept my tongue in check, I realized. I sucked in a breath. It was too late to take back what I’d said. I just hoped Harold wouldn’t get his expectations up. Parker obviously breezed through school on looks alone. He offered nothing in the brain department.

  “I found some evidence after you left, Harold. A gun. With blood. On top of that, I talked to a neighbor this morning who said she saw someone walking around the house last night.”

  The hope in his gaze deepened. “And you told the detective?”

  I nodded. “He doesn’t seem to take what I saw too seriously, though.”

  “This isn’t an investigation for amateurs, Gabby,” Riley said. His gaze drifted behind me, and I glanced over my shoulder. My scowl intensified when I saw Parker in the doorway.

  “I know what I saw, and I know what that woman told me,” I whispered quickly. “Something’s not matching up in this case, and I’m not about to let Harold get framed for it.”

  The detective stomped onto the wooden porch, his steps reverberating the flimsy floorboards. His eyes burnt a hole through me, and his jaw clenched as he walked toward Harold. Music for “Send in the Clowns” played in my head.

  “Harold, you’re under arrest for arson and theft.” Parker pulled handcuffs from his belt and jerked Harold to his feet.

  “You’ve got to believe me, I didn’t do this!” Harold pleaded, panic flashing in his eyes.

  I stepped between the two, my hands clenched in fury. I had to stop myself from using one of those fists to punch Parker in his button nose. “What are you talking about? Harold didn’t do anything and you know it.”

  “We found stolen items in the trunk of the car parked in his garage.” The detective shoved past me, pushing Harold along with him. “Now, don’t make me arrest you, too.”

  Riley nudged me until I stepped back. My heart felt numb as I watched the detective lead Harold to the squad car. Harold’s eyes met mine as the door slammed. The sound of Keisha weeping inside broke my heart.

  Harold was being framed for something he didn’t do. His innocent family would pay the price. And I was powerless to do anything about it.

  Chapter Ten

  By the time Riley and I said good-bye to Mildred, stars pinpricked the sky above. A magnetic force seemed to draw me back to the house. But Mildred insisted I should go, and I knew I could do nothing more. Her sister had driven up from North Carolina to help out, so she was in capable hands.

  Riley escorted me to his car. Around us, crickets sang with abandon and the full moon offered a mocking smile. Didn’t nature know the torment this family was going through? Shouldn’t it mourn with us over this injustice? I mentally chanted, “Down with nature. Long live industrial development.”

  I slid inside the car and dropped my aching head against the seat. Riley’s door slammed, the sound reverberating at my temples. I gritted my teeth, wanting to be back with Mildred, as if she’d be safe under my care. I waited for Riley to start the car, but instead he touched my shoulder.

  “You going to be okay?” he asked.

  Even inside the shadowed car, I could see the concern on his face. I could hear it in the mellow tone of his voice. Still, my sarcasm fought to be voiced.

  Of course I wasn’t going to be okay. Harold, one of the nicest men I’d ever known, was going to jail and somehow it felt like my fault. With a deep sigh, I fought for control and said evenly, “It’s not me I’m worried about.”

  We sat in s
ilence a moment. Finally, Riley started the car and pulled from the drive. I stared out the window, watching the world go by. Nothing had changed, and yet everything had changed. Where was justice? Where was the loving God Riley had spoken of? Harold certainly wasn’t feeling the kindness and protection of a merciful God tonight.

  “What do you think about all of this?” I asked, turning my gaze on Riley. “Do you think Harold’s guilty?”

  “Finding the evidence in the car sure makes him look that way.”

  I shook my head. “Even if Harold is a thief—which I don’t believe—he’s not a killer. Harold knew I was in the house. He wouldn’t try and burn it down with me inside.”

  Riley leaned back in the seat, watching the road. Tight lines pulled around his mouth. “What’s your theory, then?”

  “I think the husband burned down the house.” I paused, collecting my thoughts. “But the detective says he was in the hospital at the time of the arson.”

  “Which is a pretty good alibi.”

  “What if he sneaked out of the hospital?”

  “What if he didn’t? What if the neighbor is mistaken?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t really know what to think right now. I only know Harold. They’ve got the wrong man.” My cell phone began Do-Re-Mi. I jerked it from my belt and grumbled, “Gabby St. Claire.”

  A man needed a crime-scene cleaner to scrub his grandmother’s house after she passed and they found 15 cats inside. It was a crime against common sense, maybe even a crime against humanity to have 15 cats. And surely a crime against those poor cats. But cleaning up cat doo-doo sure was a far cry from being a forensic expert.

  This is what I’d sunk to.

  When you’re plagued by cat hair

  Turn to Gabby St. Claire.

  If you sang it to chopsticks, it even rhymed—sort of.

  When the smell makes you hurl,

  Gabby’s your girl.

  Forget the radio spot. I wondered if Chuck Norris and Christy Brinkley might do the infomercial for me.

  When the litter box overflows—

  Oh, never mind. I made a mental note to buy a clothespin for my nose and said, “Yeah, I’ll be there.”

  I had rent to pay and new equipment to buy. Now wasn’t the time to get particular.

  I clicked the phone shut.

  “Another job?” Riley asked.

  “Life goes on.”

  “What are you going to do about your equipment?”

  “This job doesn’t involve any blood, so I should be okay. I had extras of all my cleaning supplies, so I’ll just have to run to the store and pick up a few things before I go in tomorrow morning.”

  Riley wove in and out of traffic. Something about having him in the driver’s seat brought me comfort. I spent so much of my life fighting to be strong that it was nice to let someone else have control.

  My mom had been weak, and I vowed never to be like her. I always said I’d never work to support someone else’s habit, nor would I ever let a mythical God, who told me to turn the other cheek, dictate how I lived my life. At least I’d kept the latter vow. I just couldn’t bring myself to cut Dad loose, though.

  I did remember some good times, times when my dad had let me skip school, and we drove to the beach where he taught me to body surf. Or once he took me on a hike through the Blue Ridge Mountains. That was dad at his best, when his free-spirited nature emerged. That was the dad I loved.

  I didn’t quite understand the control my dad held over me. The only thing I could figure was I’d lost my brother, then my mom. Dad was all I had left. Maybe I held on to the hope that one day he’d start acting like a father. Or maybe I was just as weak as mom.

  But, unlike my mom, I refused to be trapped in a marriage with a freeloading husband. Men got one chance with me and then they were out the door. Sierra always said I was too hard on my boyfriends, but I didn’t care. No man was worth the heartache my mom went through.

  I wondered about my “Riley Thomas, the Freeloader,” theory. He seemed smart, even knowledgeable about things. And when I was with him, I always felt better. But every once in awhile, I saw that haunted look in his eyes, like he was running from something. A wife and kids maybe? Responsibilities? The law?

  He didn’t offer much in the detail department, which in some ways made him even more intriguing. Who needed details when you had an imagination like mine? I could fill in all the blanks or at least have fun trying.

  Maybe he was a famous actor trying to escape the paparazzi. Or maybe he was on the FBI’s most wanted list. Or he was an obscure prince trying to figure out what a normal life felt like.

  If so, he moved into the wrong apartment complex.

  We pulled up and, no sooner had we stepped into the building than Sierra’s door flew open. “Good, you’re here. I thought you’d forgotten that we were having brownies tonight. Remember?” Her eyes darted between Riley and me.

  “It’s been a long day—” I started.

  The last thing I wanted was to be social. I needed to be alone, to think, to strategize, to bake a cake with a file in it.

  “A long day deserves a brownie.” Sierra grabbed my wrist. She had a wild, hunted look in her brown eyes that made me curious . . . and slightly frightened. “Besides, you promised.”

  Before I could object, she pulled me through the beads adorning the doorframe. Glancing behind me, I saw Riley grin and wave good-bye.

  Sierra had a spare hand and a will of iron. She snagged him by the little polo player on his shirtfront. “You too, Riley.”

  His grin disappeared as Sierra dragged him through the beads also. Bill, the talk show host, sat on the couch mumbling about the horned, pitchfork carrying woman who had divorced him. I never understood why he hadn’t noticed her hooves and a goatee when they were dating.

  “He’s been here two hours already.” Sierra’s desperate whisper sliced a thin hole in my eardrums. “I can’t get rid of him.” Her grip tightened on my arm until I could feel my heart beating in my fingertips.

  She raised her voice and sang out with a pleasant tone so false, she should have used some Fix-o-Dent to hold it in place. “Have a seat, guys. The brownies are still warm.”

  I sat on the edge of the couch, not willing to get comfortable since I wouldn’t be staying. Riley took the chair across from me.

  Bill wiped the crumbs from his dirty white shirt and extended a hand to Riley. “Bill McCormick from America Alive, the radio show.”

  “Riley Thomas.”

  “You single?”

  “Yes, sir.” Riley sat rigid in the overstuffed chair, as if anxious to leave.

  “Count your blessings, young man.”

  I slumped in my chair. Bill was drunk. The man could talk your leg off sober. Drunk, you should say good-bye to your leg, the rest of your day, and probably your mind.

  “All a woman will do is mess up your life.”

  His words slurred together. Fresh off a nasty divorce, I knew he was having a hard time. But tonight wasn’t the night I wanted to hear about it. I didn’t have any sympathy left.

  “Take my advice and avoid them like the plague. They’ll ruin you.”

  “I’ve got brownies.” Sierra set a plate before us with a flourish, clinking her knife as she laid it on the table.

  “Have any milk?” Riley asked.

  I caught his eye and shook my head.

  “Milk is a by-product of a cow and I’m a vegan.”

  Too late. Bill’s divorce stories were like

  Sesame Street compared to Sierra giving her vegan speech.

  “Cows are enslaved by humans. They are oppressed, abused, wrung dry for a short bitter few years, then killed after their faithful service.”

  “And, we’re off,” I muttered to no one. I glanced around, desperate for an out. My friend was in prison, and I was stuck here in something playing out like a bad sitcom. Watch out Seinfeld, here comes The Weird and the Curious.

  “Did you know there are studies th
at prove people are better off not eating dairy? In the end, it will kill us all. Scientists have proved that the hole in the ozone layer is caused partly by methane gas generated by herds of captive cattle, force fed massive, unneeded amounts of unnatural food, just so man—”

  “So, how about those brownies? They’re looking good,” I said, hoping for a change of subject.

  With a sweet smile completely at odds with her fanatic soliloquy, she said, “Yes, please try a brownie. They’re my special recipe.”

  Another time bomb. Sierra and her special recipes. Afraid to set her off on being a vegan again, I bit into the cake-like square, noting the strange texture and flavor. Holding a smile on my face that dynamite couldn’t have shifted, I chewed away. What had my friend made these out of? I was used to strange ingredients, especially since Sierra didn’t use milk or eggs, but there was something even stranger about these.

  I took another bite. “These are good,” I lied.

  “I’m not telling what my secret ingredient is—”

  I resisted the urge to either thank her for sparing me the awful truth or begging her to tell me, so when they asked at the emergency ward, I’d be able to clue them in to what antidote to use.

  “—until you’re finished.”

  Which meant, if I wanted to know the anti-serum, I had to finish the ghastly thing.

  She sat down and grabbed a brownie. “What have you guys been up to today?”

  Riley and I glanced at each other. Such a simple question. Such a complicated answer.

  “Nothing exciting,” I said. Arson, murder, police corruption, toxic brownies. Same old, same old.

  I ate the last bite of my brownie and wiped my mouth with a napkin. “Okay, so fess up. What’s the secret ingredient?”

  Sierra grinned, a little too wide. “Acorns.”

  Squirrel food. I looked at Sierra. Chipper, hyper, caught her climbing a tree last night. The woman was one bushy tail away from being one with her furry friends. Narrowing my eyes to study her face, I checked for any sign she’d stowed acorns away in her cheeks for later.