Hazardous Duty Read online

  Hazardous Duty

  Christy Barritt

  Princeton Halls Press (2006)

  * * *

  Rating: ★★★★☆

  A forensic scientist wannabe becomes a remarkable crime solver in this CSI-type mystery. Guaranteed fiction! (20061212)

  Review

  Captivating, entertaining, and downright funny, this book will keep you reading until the satisfying ending. Unique characters capture your heart and have you rooting for them from the beginning. Gabby St. Claire is truly a breath of fresh air. (Susan Sleeman The Christian Suspense Zone 20061030)

  Christy Barritt created one lovable and unique character. Readers will fall in love with Gabby from page one with her laugh out loud scenes and sarcastic humor. This mystery was fun to read as well as to solve. Up until the very end, I wasn't too sure who the real suspect was in the book. I'm not sure if Gabby St. Claire will morph into a book series, but I'm sure readers will want to meet her again at future crime cleaning scenes. (Tyora Moody Faithwebbin 20061001)

  If you like murder mysteries and suspense with a chick-lit feel, you'll want to read this one! (Michelle Sutton michellesutton.net 20061212)

  "The next time you're temped to watch CSI reruns, read this book instead! Spunky, sassy Gabby St. Claire sparkles in this new series. She'll keep you turning the pages." (Siri Mitchell Sporting the Faith Newsletter 20070104)

  "In this witty novel, chick lit meets mystery in the show-tune singing Gabby, creating a fun whodunit where you just don't know who killed the woman or which guy you like for the heroine. There's the changeable Detective Parker or the sweet guy-next-door-with-a-secret Riley for Gabby, and who but the would-be Senator husband would want the murder victim dead? Hazardous Duty will take you on a ride through twists, turns, quirks, acorn brownies, and spiritual questions that keep Gabby guessing. She's a character you're guaranteed to love, and the plot is entertaining and fast paced." (Roseanna White Christian Review of Books 20070108)

  Captivating, entertaining, and downright funny, this book will keep you reading until the satisfying ending. Unique characters capture your heart and have you rooting for them from the beginning. Gabby St. Claire is truly a breath of fresh air. (Susan Sleeman The Christian Suspense Zone )

  Christy Barritt created one lovable and unique character. Readers will fall in love with Gabby from page one with her laugh out loud scenes and sarcastic humor. This mystery was fun to read as well as to solve. Up until the very end, I wasn't too sure who the real suspect was in the book. I'm not sure if Gabby St. Claire will morph into a book series, but I'm sure readers will want to meet her again at future crime cleaning scenes. (Tyora Moody Faithwebbin )

  If you like murder mysteries and suspense with a chick-lit feel, you'll want to read this one! (Michelle Sutton michellesutton.net )

  From the Back Cover

  Buying a gun to kill your wife: $3,000

  Hiring Trauma Care to clean afterward: $1,500

  Having that same cleaner uncover evidence that frames you: priceless

  On her way to completing a degree in forensic science, Gabby St. Claire drops out of school and starts her own crime scene cleaning business. “Yeah, that’s me,” she says, “a crime scene cleaner. People waiting in line behind me who strike up conversations always regret it.”

  When a routine cleaning job uncovers a murder weapon the police overlooked, she realizes that the wrong person is in jail. But the owner of the weapon is a powerful foe . . . and willing to do anything to keep Gabby quiet.

  With the help of her new neighbor, Riley Thomas, a man whose life and faith fascinate her, Gabby plays the detective to make sure the right person is put behind bars. Can Riley help her before another murder occurs?

  “Christy Barritt’s novel, Hazardous Duty, is a delightful read from beginning to end. The story’s fresh, engaging heroine with an unusual occupation hooked me, and I couldn’t put it down. I highly recommend Hazardous Duty.”

  —Colleen Coble

  Author of Fire Dancer, book one of the Smoke Jumpers Series

  Christy Barritt is a speaker and freelance writer. The author of many books and articles, she is also a worship leader at her church. Christy lives in Virginia with her family.

  (20070108)

  Hazardous Duty

  A Novel

  By Christy Barritt

  Copyright 2012 by Christy Barritt

  Published by Princeton Halls Press, Kindle Edition.

  Cover design by Palko Media.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  The persons and events portrayed in this work are the creation of the author, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Other Books by Christy Barritt

  Squeaky Clean Mysteries:

  #1 Hazardous Duty

  #2 Suspicious Minds

  #3 Organized Grime

  Suburban Sleuth Mysteries:

  #1 Death of the Couch Potato’s Wife (coming May 2012)

  #2 Death of the Cul-de-Sac Queen (coming 2013)

  Standalone romantic-suspense titles:

  Keeping Guard

  The Last Target

  Race Against Time

  Ricochet (coming September 2012)

  Key Witness (2013)

  Suspense

  The Trouble with Perfect

  Nonfiction:

  Changed: True Stories of Finding God through Christian Music

  The Novel in Me: The Beginner’s Guide to Writing and Publishing a Novel

  To book is dedicated to the newest guy in my life:

  Eli Barritt, born June 12, 2006. You redefined love at first sight for me.

  Chapter One

  Whistling a tune from Fiddler on the Roof, I used my tweezers to work a piece of Gloria Cunningham’s skull out of the sky blue wall.

  With a couple of tugs, the fragment broke loose. Holding it to the light, I studied the sliver that was once a part of a living and breathing woman. It wasn’t much bigger than a splinter and to the average person would look like a piece of chipped tile.

  One thing was for sure, being a rich man definitely hadn’t done this family any favors.

  “Sorry, Tevye, but you were wrong on that one,” I mumbled.

  As I worked the rest of the wall, I tried to come up with jingles for my company.

  If your home is bloody

  Daidle deedle daidle

  Daidle daidle deedle daidle dum

  Stumped for something that rhymed with “bloody,” I hummed “If I were a Rich Man” and played with my options.

  If your carpet’s gory

  Daidle deedle daidle

  Daidle daidle deedle daidle dum

  It was my new business strategy—to save enough money to buy advertising on the radio. Ever since I came up with the idea, I’d been playing with different tunes, trying to develop the perfect one. It was amazing how many people didn’t know about my services as a crime-scene cleaner.

  Yeah, that’s me. A crime-scene cleaner. Bonded and insured. Proud owner of my own business. A fascinating anomaly to those I meet around town.

  People waiting in line behind me who strike up conversations always regret it.

  “So, what do you do for a living?” the innocent bystander asks, desperate to pass time until it’s her turn to be rung up.

  “I mop up blood at crime scenes.”

  The color suddenly drains from her face. I might as well say I’m a vampire. Is there something that strange about a girl who cleans up blood for a living? I think not.

  I glanced back at the wall. Fractures of bone jutted from the plaster in a spray. It looked l
ike a mosaic gone terribly wrong.

  I shook my head and continued to work. Drowning in my blue biohazard suit, a face mask, and gloves that were duct taped to my sleeves, I looked like a space man, at best; a Telletubby at worst. Whoever designed the suits obviously thought nothing about the importance of flattering a woman’s figure.

  I guess they were too busy worrying about keeping people safe from diseases like AIDS and hepatitis, which could live in blood for up to a week.

  I straightened as inspiration hit me. I pulled imaginary pom-poms to my waist and took a cheering stance.

  “When blood is there

  I don’t care

  You can call

  Trauma Care.”

  I used my best valley girl voice and bounced like a cheerleader—something I had never desired to be. I was always the scientist in high school, which didn’t help me win any popularity contests. I might as well have joined the Chess Club.

  It also didn’t help that as a child, while all my friends dressed up their dolls, I dissected mine. I wanted to know how the human body worked. Later in life, I developed a fascination with chemicals, which Company 12 of the Norfolk, Virginia Fire Department can attest to.

  Even then it wasn’t my fault. Yes, the fumes that resulted from the chemicals I mixed were deadly. Yes, the teacher meant well when he tackled me to save my life. Still, the spill and the resulting fire were all his fault. Keep your head in a crisis, that’s what I say.

  So much for impressing my lab partner, Bartholomew Einstein.

  Yes, that was his real name. I’ve never particularly had good taste in guys. I’d moved between nerds and jerks so seamlessly that they should create a Twelve Step Program just to save me. As of late, there hadn’t been anyone. It might have had something to do with the scent of blood that tends to saturate me after cleaning.

  “Is that a new perfume you’re wearing?” the debonair gentleman asks, raising my wrist to his nose.

  I raise my head eloquently, pursing my lips in imitation of movie stars of late. “Why no, it’s not. I don’t wear perfume.”

  The handsome stranger forces his eyebrows together. “Then what is that smell exuding from you?”

  I bat my eyelashes and level with him, “That, my dear, is blood. You think it smells bad? You should be around a human body that’s been decaying for two weeks.”

  You had to have a sense of humor to do a job like this. A lot of coffee and chocolate also helped—as did having a personal counselor, a.k.a. my neighbor and best friend Sierra. Boy, she had no idea what she was getting into when she invited me over for coffee the first time. But since I live on the floor above her, she’s stuck with me.

  Abandoning my workstation, I crossed the room to the built-in bookcase of the master bedroom. Against protocol, I picked up a picture displaying a happy couple, smiling on a white sand beach with the sunset smeared behind them. The woman was blond and beautiful, the man stocky and masculine.

  They both looked so young, only a few years older than my twenty-seven years. They still had so much of life to share together. The husband, Michael Cunningham, was even running for senate, hoping to represent this wonderful state of Virginia. I wondered what he would do about his campaign without his trophy wife.

  A gloved hand snatched the picture. I gasped and whirled around.

  Harold, my assistant.

  He pulled his mask up and revealed his aged round face. “What are you doing?” His deep voice resonated in the room. He reminded me of the man who sang Old Man River in Showboat.

  Old Man River? Hm . . . there could be a jingle in that.

  One glance at Harold’s disapproving glare and I knew not to argue.

  “It’s your rule, Gabby. Don’t get emotionally attached.”

  “I know. I just needed a break from cleaning.” I pulled up my mask and a red curl bounced down over my eye. I let it droop rather than touch it with my gloved hands. “How are things going on the stairway?”

  Harold didn’t know about the hours of research I poured into my job, trying to learn background details of the case. I wanted to know the victims. I wanted to theorize who could be the killer. Basically, I wanted to be a crime scene investigator. But without a degree I was forced to do everything in an unofficial capacity.

  “I pulled up the carpet. The owner will have to replace it. There’s just no way to get all of that blood up. It went into the padding and sub-flooring.”

  I glanced around the bedroom. “Whoever did this was a monster.”

  “And my mom always told me they didn’t exist.”

  “Well, they do, and this one left us a heap of a mess to clean up. This is more than a one day job.” I leaned closer to Harold. Moisture covered his face. “You need a break?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Don’t push yourself too hard. I understand how tough this is.”

  Yeah, like Harold would let a girl young enough to be his granddaughter outlast him on a job. The man did have pride. His gaze darted across the room. “What happened in here?”

  I drew in a deep breath.

  “Gloria Cunningham was about to testify against a suspect in an armed robbery trial. The perp . . . er, suspect threatened her, saying if she went to court he’d kill her. Two days before the trial, he broke into her home while she was sleeping.” I spread my arm to show the room. It told the story better than words.

  The crime scene had remained active for a week. I heard about the case on the news and slipped over to the house to leave a business card. As soon as the police okayed it, Michael Cunningham’s mother had called me to see if I could clean things up before her son was released from the hospital. He’d been shot in the leg while trying to save his wife.

  A lot of people thought I worked for the police department, but I didn’t. I was an independent contractor. The police weren’t allowed to recommend services to anyone—not for anything, from a tow truck to a cleaner. So I spent a lot of my days getting to know embalmers and body snatchers, my nickname for those who took the dead bodies to the morgue.

  To get business I watched the news. I followed leads by placing my card at crime scenes. As the only crime-scene cleaner in the area, I had almost 100% success.

  But drumming up business took a lot of time, which is why I’d been daydreaming about a radio spot that advertised my business. It would save me a lot of legwork.

  I could hear Harry Connick Jr. singing it now… no, better yet, Julie Andrews. I closed my eyes as a melody that sounded vaguely reminiscent of “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town” came to mind.

  If you’ve been shot

  If you’ve been stabbed

  If blood on your walls says, “Someone’s been bad.”

  Trauma Care is the-e-ere for you

  “Gabby?”

  I quit writing advertising jingle and noticed Harold staring at me like I needed to go to the psych ward. “Well, it’s back to work for us.” Sincerely hoping I hadn’t been humming a Christmas carol out loud, I turned back to my modern art brain splatters.

  It took me four hours to clean up the walls of the bedroom. What a bullet did to a human brain just didn’t bear thinking about.

  Harold finished the stairway and then cleaned the broken glass downstairs where the intruder had entered the house. With that done, he came to help me in the bedroom.

  The blood-splattered coverlet had to be thrown away, as well as the sheets. We shoved them into special hazmat containers that I’d take to the hospital to be disposed of properly. Most of the carpet would have to be taken up in the bedroom also.

  I’d call Michael Cunningham’s mother and see if she wanted us to subcontract the work out and have it replaced before her son returned home. Most people didn’t want to be reminded of what had happened in their once safe home. In fact, most people ended up selling their house after a crime because the memories were too vivid.

  At 7:30, Harold tapped my shoulder and pointed to his watch. “Grandson? Baseball game? Okay if I get going?” />
  Had we really been here ten hours? “Sure. I can finish. Come back in the morning. Eight o’clock.”

  “I’ll be here.” He started out of the bedroom and paused. “You sure you’ll be okay here by yourself? I can stay . . .”

  “No, no. I’ll be fine. I just need to sand down this wall and then I’ll call it a night.”

  He didn’t move. His brow furrowed as he stood in the doorway.

  I flashed him a smile. I loved Harold. I’d only hired him a month ago, but he already worried about me like I was his daughter. Then I thought of my real father and mentally apologized to Harold for the insult.

  “Really. The suspect is behind bars. It’s ugly, but it’s not dangerous. Besides, I’ll be out of here in fifteen minutes.”

  “If you say so. You’re the boss.”

  As soon as Harold left, I wished he hadn’t. Blessed—or cursed, depending on your outlook—with a vivid imagination, chills ran up my spine as I pictured the events unfolding.

  Too clearly, I could see the couple sleeping in bed. The husband hears glass breaking downstairs. Grabbing a baseball bat, he goes down to check it out, only the intruder is hiding, waiting for just the right moment to sneak upstairs and kill the only witness to his crime.

  The killer plans to escape by the ladder he left perched at the window, but the husband is too quick. As soon as the gunshot goes off, the husband is back upstairs, in the bedroom. He sees the intruder climbing out the window. As he runs toward the man, the intruder takes another shot and hits Michael’s knee, shattering it.

  Shaking my head, I opened the closet door and sagged against it. Rows of expensive, elegant dresses hung limply. Taking my glove off, I fingered the silky material, pulling it to my nose. It smelt of subtle flowers.

  The wife should still be wearing her beautiful dresses and spritzing her expensive perfumes. The woman’s smile should still light up a room.