Hazardous Duty by Christy Barritt Page A

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alienate Parker just because he’d had his body snatched and been replaced by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