Hazardous Duty (12 page)

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.

“Can we talk, Gabby?”

I glanced across the hall. Riley leaned
against his door, his arms crossed over his broad chest. His hair was ruffled,
like he’d been lying down, and his blue eyes sparkled, as always.

Why did he have to be so cute?

Before I could change my mind, I threw
the door open and walked into my kitchen. He could take it as an invitation if
he wanted.

I deposited my purse on the counter,
then turned, colliding into his chest. He grasped my arms, his eyes cutting
into mine. Why did I feel like he could see more in one glance than anyone else
in my life had seen in years?

“You look like you’ve just seen a
ghost.”

I swallowed, but kept my head high. “A
killer actually.”

Riley tilted his head in what I could
only describe as exasperation. “You didn’t stop by to see Michael Cunningham,
did you?”

“I’m not up to talking about this.”

He grabbed my arm before I could walk
away. “Gabby, why are you putting yourself in this position? Why can’t you let
it go?”

“Because I don’t want to see Harold
behind bars. Is that so strange? So hard to comprehend?”

His gaze softened. “No, it’s not. But
let me handle it. I’m his lawyer.”

Forcing my shoulders to relax, I stared
back at him. “Lawyer, huh? You never mentioned that in any of our
conversations.”

“It didn’t seem important.” He ran his
hand through his hair. “I’m trying to figure some things out, Gabby. It’s not
as simple as it seems.”

His honesty began to warm my icy heart.
“Well, it’s really nice of you to take on Harold’s case. He needs a good
lawyer.” I paused. “You are a good lawyer, aren’t you?”

A smile pulled up half of his lip. “I
like to think so.”

I leaned my palms against the counter.
“Things have just been so crazy here lately. I can hardly think.”

“That’s understandable. Someone tried to
kill you. Twice.”

I didn’t need to be reminded of how
precarious things had been the past couple of days. What I needed was a long,
hot bath.

Riley sat in one of the wicker chairs at
my glass top table.

So much for my bath.

“How did you run into Michael
Cunningham?” Riley grabbed a pencil from the coffee table and began twirling it
between his fingers, his gaze meeting mine.

Oh, nuts. He wanted details. “I paid him
a visit.” I put the kettle on the stove. “Tea?”

“How did you know where he was staying?”

I pulled a mug from the cabinet. “I have
my ways.”

While waiting for the water to boil, I
took a seat across from him, feeling awkward in my own house. Something wasn’t
right about that.

He raised an eyebrow. “Such as?”

I shrugged. “I’ll trade you secret for
secret. You tell me why you decided to take on Harold’s case. Then I’ll tell
you how I found out where Cunningham was staying.”

Riley nodded slowly. “Deal.” He set the
pencil down with a clink and pulled his hands back. “I thought about what you
said, about how much Harold meant to you and how much you believed in him. I
decided I wanted to help.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. Plain and simple.” His gaze
held mine, unwavering. “Now it’s your turn. How’d you know where Cunningham was
staying?”

I leaned back, glaring at him. Somehow
I’d expected more than five words before I spilled my guts. “I didn’t. It was
dumb luck.” Six words. I quit and stared.

He repeated my earlier question. “That’s
it?”

I shrugged and did my best Gary Cooper
imitation. “Yep.”

“And what possessed you to pay his
mother a visit?”

“I wanted to pay my condolences.”

“No, really.”

“Yes, really. I wanted to apologize.
Then when I realized Cunningham might be there, I wanted to see how he reacted
seeing me face to face.”

“Did you get the reaction you wanted?”

“He knew my last name before I told
him.”

Riley’s head bobbed up. “Interesting.”

“He threatened me.”

Riley’s head froze and his perfect eyes
narrowed. “You could have been putting yourself in danger.”

“In danger?” I batted my eyelashes
dramatically. “How could I be in danger from an innocent man?”

“If you go around accusing people,
things get ugly.” Riley sighed and began playing with the pencil again. “What
time did his house burn down?”

“Harold left at seven thirty. Then I
found the gun and started to pack up. I heard the glass break, I’d guess around
8:30 or 9:00. Why?”

Riley tapped on the table. “There’s a
two hour period that Cunningham was unaccounted for at the hospital.”

I leaned forward, processing the
information. “How do you know that, Riley?”

“I have my ways.”

I snatched the pencil away from him.
“Explain.”

He frowned, looking from me to the
pencil as if he were considering snatching it back. “I went to the hospital
today and asked around. I guess Cunningham said he was going to walk around the
hospital for a few minutes to work his leg. He was gone for two hours. No one
saw him.”