I lifted stacks of putrid newspaper off the countertops. Today’s heart stopping deadlines, tomorrow’s discount kitty litter. Stuffing the newspaper in garbage bags, I wondered why I should have expected him to be concerned about me? We’d only know each other two days. But I’d felt a connection to him from the first. Did he feel it, too? Could there be something between us?
Knowing my past track record with men, probably not. I always seemed to fall for the ones who were no good for me, the jerks. Riley was a nice guy. Except that he thought I was a moron who hired criminals. He seemed to like and respect a man I’d accused of murder. And he seemed to be unemployed. So maybe I was on track as usual.
So what was I going to do with these feelings?
Considering the stress I was under, the best answer was, “do nothing.”
My cell phone rang. Detective Parker.
“I just talked to the bomb squad. They told me what happened last night.” His voice sounded surprisingly kind and relaxed. Yeah, right. I sucked in a breath, waiting for the lecture to come. “I’m glad you weren’t hurt.”
I raised an eyebrow. The detective sounded genuinely concerned. He must be having a good hair day. Or maybe Hollywood had called and asked him to be a stunt double. Better yet, maybe the BTK Strangler had been cleared of all charges and released. Parker seemed to like having guilty men on the street.
“Yeah, I’m glad someone stopped me before I opened the package. It could have taken out more than just me, or so I’ve heard.”
His voice seemed to soften. “Look, I just wanted you to know we’re doing everything we can to figure out who sent you the package.”
I felt like I was in an episode of the Twilight Zone. Why was the detective being so open and nice? Quite the change from the hostile man I’d talked to yesterday. Maybe I’d just caught him on a bad hair day.
My best friend was turning into a woodland creature. A man I had feelings for thought his parrot was smarter than me. My only employee might be going up the river. I didn’t have it in me to alienate Parker just because he’d had his body snatched and been replaced by someone with manners. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”
“And Gabby?” His voice sounded warm enough to toast acorns. Maybe I should introduce him to Sierra.
“Yeah?” I stopped scraping cat mess off the mob board to pay attention to the only person on the planet still speaking to me.
“I just want you to know . . .”
I took a deep breath. Emotion clogged my throat. Well, emotion and cat hair, but who was keeping track at this point? Brad Pitt was worried about me.
“I’m here for you. Any time. Day . . .” A long lingering silence, full of promise stretched between us across the phone lines. “Or night.”
After hanging up, I stared at the phone.
What do you know? I thought. Maybe the detective did have a heart and a brain, after all. But I’d have to watch the news for that report on the BTK Strangler, just in case.
Chapter Thirteen
The next morning, the garage working on my van called. They’d changed the tires, replaced the windshield and a whole bunch of other things that I didn’t understand. It seemed a near miracle to get my van back so quickly. Sierra had dropped me off and I found my mode of transportation looking as good as new.
And now that I had my own set of wheels, I was determined to get some answers. Starting with Michael Cunningham.
I’d thought about it for the entire evening. Okay, I’d thought about it most of the time. Thoughts of Riley had slipped in there a few times, too. Thoughts of his smile, his eyes, his total lack of confidence in my judgment. I scowled.
It would only make sense to stop by Cunningham’s mother’s house. After all, she was the one who hired me to clean the house. Strictly business. Totally innocent. Brilliantly devious. If I could oh so subtly grill the old lady, maybe I could find something to prove Harold was innocent.
It was the only thing I could come up with.
I pulled out the phone book and searched the c’s.
“Cunningham, Cunningham,” I mumbled.
There it was. Susan Cunningham,
367 River Rd., Portsmouth. I knew exactly where she lived.
Stuffing the phone book back in place, I hurried to my van. As I started down the road, I pulled out my cell phone and dialed Mildred’s number. She answered on the first ring. “It’s been terrible, Gabby. Reporters keep calling.”
“You don’t have to tell them anything, Mildred.”
“I know. But Harold is going to be found guilty by the press before he’s even tried.”
“What are they saying today? Any updates?”
“They said his fingerprints were all over the evidence.”
I thought about that for a moment. If Harold hadn’t stolen those things, then someone had come in the house and picked up things Harold had touched, planning to frame him for arson. It had to have happened while I was there alone, because with two of us there, no one could have sneaked in. How long had I been alone in that house with a murderer? Had they known I was still there? Was my presence a surprise to the arsonist, or did they intend for the charge of arson against Harold to include murder? Or did they just need to get rid of the evidence in the house and not have the patience to wait for me to leave? A man in a hurry to get back to the hospital before he was missed might be willing to kill, especially if he’d done it before.
“Of course, his fingerprints were on the evidence. We were cleaning the house. He probably touched things along the way.” I shuddered to think of a murderer watching us. Picking up things Harold had touched. Tucking them into Harold’s car later that night.
Mildred sniffled. “It’s not looking good, Gabby. Everything seems to point to him. It’s almost like he was set up or something.”
It was exactly like he’d been set up, but I wasn’t going to tell Mildred that now. She had enough to worry about. “How’s he doing?”
“As well as can be expected. We have a lawyer. You didn’t tell me that’s what your friend did for a living.”
I didn’t have any lawyers as friends. I religiously stuck with blue collar workers, eccentrics whom no one else liked, and psychos. Me and lawyers didn’t mesh. “My friend?”
“Yes, the young man who was with you yesterday. Riley.”
I started forward. So much for my freeloader theory. “Yes, Riley. He is a nice guy.”
“He certainly is. He promised he would take care of us. What an answer to prayer. We didn’t have the money to hire anyone, otherwise.”
Warmth filled my chest. “Let me know if I can do anything for you, Mildred. You know I’m just a phone call away.”
“Thanks, sweetie. With my sister here, we’re doing okay, for now.”
I hung up and shook my head. Riley a lawyer? Why hadn’t he mentioned that? My heart softened. It was kind of him to take on this case. Perhaps I’d passed judgment too quickly.
The traffic became heavier on the interstate as rush hour began. I turned the vent toward my face to cool off, unsure if it was the heat or what I was about to do that had me sweating.
Don’t think about it, Gabby. You’ll only talk yourself out of it.
I turned on the radio to an AM station, hoping to catch the news. An anchor came on, and I turned the volume louder.
“A trial date has been set for William Newsome, the man accused of armed robbery and the death of Gloria Cunningham. The original trial date was set for this week, but it was delayed when Gloria Cunningham turned up dead in her home. Newsome is accused of murdering Cunningham, the only witness that placed him at the scene of an earlier crime, a convenience store robbery.”
A different voice came on the radio. “There’s no question that Newsome is guilty. It’s just a matter of whether or not he’ll receive the death penalty.” It had to be the prosecuting attorney speaking, I mused.
“In a bizarre twist, the Cunningham’s house was burned down earlier this week. Harold Morris, a cleaner who
was at the home, has been accused of the crime. The motive appears to have been robbery.”
I hit the off button. I couldn’t listen any more. I went through the downtown tunnel and crossed into Portsmouth. Only a few more turns and I would be there.
What would I say? Hi, Mrs. Cunningham? Did you know there was a sale on ammo at Wal-Mart this week? I’ll bet your son needs to restock.
Any un-investigated trail of dead bodies in your family, just since your son was born?
Has your son, the senator-to-be, ever tortured small animals?
Don’t think about it, I told myself. Just go with it as it comes.
The more I planned, the bigger the explosion when things blew up in my face. Like when I confronted my former neighbor about his loud music. I’d planned out exactly what to say, but when the conversation was over, my neighbor promised to turn his music up louder so I could better hear his personal Top 40. I thanked him and went home. Later—like two days later—I came up with great responses that I should have used. Of course, in fairness, before he finally moved, I’d developed a taste for Metallica and The Rolling Stones that remained with me to this day, so the experience wasn’t a total loss. In fact, it helped broaden my tastes and shape me into the person I am today—one who can annoyingly quote the lyrics to thousands of songs of different styles and generations. Who said I couldn’t get no satisfaction?
No, the best plan seemed to be the natural one, the one that required no planning. Let ’er rip. Fly by the seat of my pants. Let the chips fall where they may.
I pondered that. Lots of flying and ripping and falling in that plan.
But I was out of time to come up with a better one. I pulled to a stop in front of the old Victorian house, a grand structure that still maintained its dignity. After cutting the engine, I stared at the house, wondering how the future would play out.
What was it that Riley had said last night? If something’s out of my hands, I don’t worry about it.
Now there was a plan. Let God handle it. That sounded good. If only there was a God.
I climbed from the van and started toward the house, my respectable black sequin-topped flip flops clunking against the sidewalk. Before I lost nerve, I pounded on the door. A white-haired woman cracked the door open.
“Can I help you?”
I tucked a hair behind my ear. “Hi, Mrs. Cunningham. My name is Gabby St. Claire. You hired me to clean your son’s house after . . .” I couldn’t finish the sentence.
The woman’s shoulders eased. “What can I do for you, Gabby?”
“I wanted to express my sympathy for what happened. I assure you that my associate and I had nothing to do with the house burning down.”
Her red lips pulled down in a frown. “I’ll leave that for a jury to decide.”
“You’ve got to believe me, Mrs. Cunningham.”
Her eyes looked weary and her motions seemed weak. The poor woman had been through a war the past month.
She shook her head. “You have to understand what a difficult time this has been for all of us.”
How could such a sweet woman have raised a man like Cunningham?
“I can’t imagine what you must be going through.” I paused, tempted to end the conversation and hurry home. So far, no feathers had been ruffled. I mentally stiffened my backbone, determined to see this through. “I was wondering if I might give my condolences to your son.”
His mother paused and drew her brows together. “I can pass the message along to him. What did you say your name was?”
No, no, no. A message wouldn’t work.
“Actually, I’d really like to talk to him myself, if there’s any way possible. Uh . . . at a time like this, he needs to know people care enough to say so personally.”
I did my best not to roll my eyeballs at the lameness of my statement. Even I wanted to boot myself to the curb.
The woman’s lips tightened into a line. “You have to understand he’s not doing that well right now.”
Killed his wife, shot himself, burned his house. Not well might possibly have a home in the Guinness Book of World Records in the Understatement category.
“He’s been through so much. We all have.”
I wondered if by we all, she counted Harold and me?
“And I don’t want to impose on you. There’s something I really must tell him, though.”
His mother pulled the door all the way open. Her features seemed too tight for her to be convinced. “Come in for a minute, get out of this heat. I’ll see what he says, but I can’t make any promises. He’s meeting with his campaign manager right now.”
There’s a man in mourning for you. All right, men, murdered wives are real grabbers in the polls. Let’s see if “Entertainment Tonight” will send Mary Hart and a camera crew to the autopsy. This could be as big as O.J.
The AC hit me at full force as I stepped into the entryway to wait. A picture of Gloria and Michael on the wall made my stomach lurch. They looked so peaceful, so happy. What had happened to make Michael kill his wife?
How had this world gotten so mixed up?
Footsteps echoed down the wooden hallway in front of me. Michael Cunningham. His cleft chin held at a steady rise and his eyes never wavered, despite his limp.
“How can I help you?” His voice sounded clipped and tight.
Oh, man, the chips were falling. I squared my shoulders. “I want to offer my condolences. I’m so sorry to hear about your loss.”
“And who are you again?” He squinted and studied my face. Either he was a good actor, or he hadn’t seen me before. But that didn’t fit my theory.
“I’m Gabby. I was at your house the night of the fire.”
And I know you killed your wife. You won’t get away with it.
“Why exactly were you at my house?”
“I was cleaning it.”
And I found evidence you tried to conceal, you little liar.
His gaze darkened. “You were the one whose company set my house on fire.”
Instead of flying, the seat of my pants looked to be headed for skid marks on the driveway. I shook my head, knowing I had to take charge of the situation before it got out of hand. “No sir, you’re wrong. My employee had nothing to do with the fire.”
You know you were behind it. Stop trying to hide it.
“Then why is your employee locked up? You have a lot of nerve coming here, young lady.
“Harold would never do something like this.”
“Then tell me who would.”
I let ‘er rip. “I think you already know the answer to that question.”
His gaze darkened. “What are you implying?
“I know what you hid in your closet, Mr. Up-and-Coming Senator. Wouldn’t it ruin your campaign if people found out their decorated war hero killed his wife?”
His mother gasped and guilt pounded through me. I hadn’t meant for it to happen this way. His poor mother could have a heart attack over news like this.
Cunningham stepped closer, his eyes lit with anger. “I did not kill my wife.”
“Then how did the gun end up hidden in your closet? Surely William Newsome didn’t leave it there since he shot you on his way out the window.”
He looked ready to spit nails. “You need to leave. Now.”
“Where were you on the night of the fire?” I asked, not ready to give up.
“You need to go,” his mother said behind me. I heard her fumbling with the door.
Cunningham stepped closer. “I was in the hospital. Check the records.”
“Why’d you send me the bomb then? You’re the only person who would have sent it. Don’t deny it, Michael. You know you did it.”
Where were these accusations coming from? Shut up, Gabby. Shut up. These things were supposed to stay in my thoughts, not be spoken aloud.
Things were not going according to my non-plan.
Cunningham backed me against the door that his mother so desperately wanted to open. “You need to
keep your nosey red head out of this.”
I held my ground. Of course, I was trapped, so what choice did I have? “It’s actually strawberry blond.”
“Oh, and you’re a smart mouth, too? Well, let me tell you something, Gabby St. Claire. If you don’t let this go, I can make your life miserable.”
“Is that a threat?” My voice trembled.
“It’s whatever you want it to be.”
“Michael Cunningham—watch what you say, young man,” his mother scolded.
“Stay out of this, Mother!”
His mother shrunk back. I wanted to shrink back, but there was no room left to shrink. Cunningham leered in my face. Murder loomed in his eyes.
He was a man with a secret. And men with secrets shouldn’t talk when they’re mad, because they might blurt out things they’re not supposed to know like . . .
“I never told you my last name.”
Chapter Fourteen
“Get out.” Veins protruded from his temples, pulsating with his anger. “Now!”
I inched sideways, away from the door and cracked it open. “Have a good day, Mr. Cunningham.”
I slipped out before he said anything else. Like he hadn’t said enough. Like I hadn’t said too much.
As soon as I got the door closed, I snapped it locked. I leaned back and tried to catch my breath. What had happened in there?
Michael Cunningham was a man on the verge of losing it. He hardly seemed like the same person who was smiling with his wife in those photos.
I wanted to sit there until I quit shaking, but I glanced at the house and saw the form of a man standing in the downstairs window, the curtain pushed aside, the room brightly lit behind him. Cunningham. Watching me.
Inching into traffic, I replayed the conversation in my mind. How could Detective Parker not see that this man was a threat? Did I really want to wait until Saturday to talk to him about it?
I pulled up to my apartment, frowning when I saw Riley’s car. After slamming the van door, I went inside and climbed the stairs.
No sign of Riley. Why wasn’t I relieved?
Just as I was about to close my apartment door, I heard his deep masculine voice behind me.
Hazardous Duty Page 9
