Hazardous Duty by Christy Barritt Page B

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