Cunning Attractions: Squeaky Clean Mysteries, Book 12 Read online

  Sierra and I remained where we were until they drove away.

  “There’s only one logical conclusion to this,” Sierra said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Katarina hired her mafia relatives to do away with the competition. Oh, and she’s secretly a spy planted here in the US to steal political secrets. Who better to get them from than Bill McCormick?”

  My hand flew over my mouth. “Oh, no, you didn’t.”

  She snorted, and that was when I realized she was joking. I doubled over laughing.

  “You’ve been hanging out with me too long,” I finally said. “For that, I apologize.”

  “I must admit that thinking like you think makes life a little more interesting. Especially when I’m on pain meds.”

  My thoughts quickly sobered as I remembered Bill’s dead wife. Bludgeoned to death. No one deserved to die that way. I should be ashamed of laughing so hard at a time like this. But when you worked around death, you learned not to take every case personally or take it to heart. You’d be miserable all the time if you did. It was compartmentalizing at its finest.

  “Do you know how often he’s talked on his radio show about his evil ex-wife? That can’t look good,” I said.

  “You’re right. It doesn’t. He doesn’t seem incredibly worried about it, though.”

  “He’s on an endorphin rush right now. He’s on top of the world, and nothing is going to bring him down.” Katarina. Best-selling book. Inflated paycheck. He probably felt untouchable.

  “Obviously. I think I’d be more concerned.”

  “Must be nice to be that carefree.” I glanced at my watch. “Anyway, I’m going to go make dinner before Riley gets home, and then I’ve got to get ready for my workshop tomorrow.”

  “Keep me updated if you hear anything else.”

  I nodded. “I will.”

  I hated to admit it, but the next morning I was still slightly miffed that Bill hadn’t asked me to help him. Maybe it wasn’t so much that I was miffed as that I was anxious to jump into another investigation.

  It had been a good . . . oh, I don’t know . . . two weeks since a mystery had popped into my life. That felt like an eternity.

  Riley, my husband—it was still weird to call him that—had left earlier this morning for work at his office. He was an attorney, and his caseload had been especially heavy lately. When he wasn’t working, he was training for some kind of American Ninja Warrior-like event that was coming up in a couple of weeks. I couldn’t wait to see him in action.

  I still had three hours before I had to be at my presentation. It might seem odd, but I’d crept over to my old apartment across the hall. There was just something about the space that still felt like home, even though I’d officially moved into Riley’s place after we married last month.

  I settled back on my ratty couch with a cup of coffee and flipped on the news. For years, when I’d worked primarily as a crime scene cleaner, I’d watched the news for business opportunities. When I heard about a crime committed in someone’s home, I swung by and dropped off one of my cards there. You never knew when someone might need help getting blood out of the carpet.

  Looking back, maybe it had seemed a little desperate and slightly insensitive, but I supposed I was desperate to make ends meet and to feel like I was doing something with my life. I’d dropped out of college to help care for my mother, who had cancer. Then my father had spiraled into alcoholism and had almost become homeless. My history was built on struggle.

  I sighed, grateful for the place I was in right now. Married to the man of my dreams. Working a job I enjoyed. Surrounded by some of the best friends a girl could have.

  I took another sip of my coffee. Most of the stories on the news this morning were about an upcoming presidential election between newcomer Philip Munich and establishment candidate Ed Stead. The election had been contentious, at best; downright violent at other times as protesters on both sides threw temper tantrums. I personally couldn’t wait until November, not only so I could vote but so this whole fiasco could be over.

  Another news story caught my attention, however. I grabbed the remote and cranked up the volume.

  It was about the murder of Bill’s ex-wife, Emma Jean. My heart pounded in my ears as I waited to hear an update.

  Emma Jean’s picture flashed on the screen. She had short, dark hair that was curly, but it had been cut in a style popular two decades ago. There were too many layers, which made her features look even more rounded, and not necessarily in a flattering way. Her smile didn’t look sincere—or maybe I’d been tainted by all of Bill’s many, many stories about her.

  The news anchor continued, “Radio talk show host Bill McCormick is being questioned in her death. Lewis, his ex-wife, was often fodder on his show. A source who didn’t wish to be named told us that Lewis thought she deserved more money than she received from the divorce settlement since McCormick’s income has seen a substantial surge in light of his newfound popularity. She was threatening to take him to court.”

  Screen footage flashed to Bill leaving the radio station with Katarina at his side. Lights flashed around him as he covered his face, trying to shield himself and Katarina from the media surrounding the building.

  This wasn’t looking good for Bill. Even if the police didn’t think he was guilty, apparently the media had already tried and convicted him.

  At just that moment, a knock sounded at my door.

  I hopped from the couch and answered it. Bill stood on the other side. Sweat droplets sprinkled across his forehead, and he wiped his cheeks and the back of his neck with a yellowing handkerchief. Without invitation, he stepped inside.

  “I need your help, Gabby.”

  Music to my ears.

  “How’d you know I was here?”

  He pulled his head back and two extra chins appeared at his neck. “Everyone knows you come to your old place during your free time.”

  “Really?”

  I paused for only a moment before closing the door and following behind him as he charged into my living room. “What’s up?”

  He rubbed his forehead. “My manager is all over me. He said everything we’ve worked for is on the line, all because of some false accusations. It’s like a witch hunt out there—only I’m no witch, despite what the pundits might say.”

  “What’s going on?” I pretty much knew what he meant, but I wanted to hear it in his own words. There was no need to draw on false assumptions. I stood close, watching his body language as he paced and shook his head.

  I could interpret that. He was frustrated. People didn’t call me astute for no reason.

  “If people think I killed Emma Jean, then everything will be ruined!” His hands flew in the air, shaking like an angry cheerleader waving her pom-poms.

  “Yesterday you said the police didn’t consider you a suspect.”

  He wiped his forehead again and jerked his gaze toward me. “You don’t know the things I do.”

  Now he had my attention. I sat on the edge of the chair, desperate to know what things he referred to. “Like what?”

  He crossed his arms, wearing my rug thin with his pacing. It was a good thing I’d gotten it at a thrift store.

  “We’ve been fighting. Emma Jean wanted more money. She couldn’t stand it that I was suddenly ‘doing well.’”

  He did the air quote thing, followed by an exaggerated smile.

  If things didn’t work out with Katarina, maybe I’d introduce him to my sixth-grade math teacher.

  “Honestly, I don’t think she liked it that I was dating Katarina, either.”

  I hadn’t considered that angle. “What gave you that impression?”

  He paused. “She told me: I don’t like that Katarina girl you’re dating.”

  Well, that settled that.

  I twisted my head in a contemplative nod. “Okay, then. But why would she care? Didn’t Emma Jean leave you and file for divorce?”

  He sat down hard in the accent c
hair across from me. “Maybe it was one of those if I can’t have you, no one else can either.”

  I really had trouble visualizing two women fighting over Bill. Like really, really had trouble. But stranger things had happened in the world.

  Like the fact that Avatar was one of the best-selling movies of all time.

  “In other words, you and Emma Jean loved to hate each other? Is that correct?”

  “Maybe. She’d actually talked to me about getting back together. That was right before I met Katarina, though. Once I met Kat . . .” He let out a low whistle. “It was all over for me. I’ve been smitten ever since.”

  I pictured the stunning but stone cold Katarina. “She’s quite the woman.”

  He nodded, all signs of panic gone and replaced with a dreamy look. I could practically see a mischievous Cupid flying around his head, shooting him with lovelorn arrows.

  “I know. She’s totally out of my league, right?”

  “I didn’t say that.” But, yes, she was certainly out of his league. Anyone could see that.

  “You don’t have to. I’ve never had such an attractive woman interested in me before.” He paused and ran a hand over his pasty skin. “But none of this addresses the real problem right now. Emma Jean’s death.”

  I nodded, reminding myself to focus on the mystery with the most at stake: the murder, not Bill’s love life. “Yes, let’s get back on track. Do you have an alibi for the time of her murder? If you do, that could make things very simple and clear this up right away.”

  He locked gazes with me. “I’m not sure exactly when she was murdered, so I can’t say. I assume as soon as the police know the time of death, they’ll ask me for an alibi.”

  “Probably. But they’ll also be talking to her other ex-husband—Jerry, I think you said his name was—as well. Where did Emma Jean work?”

  “She was a bookkeeper for The Crispy Biscuit.”

  I’d heard of the restaurant before. I was pretty sure the menu focused on organic, always-fresh and never-frozen ingredients in a trendy, expensive package. I seemed to recall people raving over their harvest bisque soup. “Did she have any problems there?”

  “If she did, she didn’t tell me about them. It wasn’t like we chitchatted.”

  “I see.” I waited to find out why Bill had really come here. Just to share this? I doubted it. I was just waiting for him to officially ask me the question. I looked down and realized I was literally on the edge of my seat.

  “I need to find out what happened to Emma Jean before everything I’ve worked for is destroyed. The media loves to see the mighty fall. They’ll delight in every piece of evidence that makes me look bad.”

  I couldn’t deny it.

  He stared at me. “So, what do you say? Gabby St. Claire—I mean, Thomas—will you help me find the person who murdered my ex?”

  Yes, yes, a million times yes! I controlled myself.

  Excitement spiked in my blood. Those were the words I’d been waiting for.

  After a moment of fake contemplation, I nodded. Yes, I was downplaying it. I didn’t want to seem desperate.

  “I suppose I could see what I can do. But I’ll have to ask some uncomfortable questions. You understand that, right?”

  “Of course. Ask anything you want. Whatever it takes to clear me.” He sliced his hand through the air to emphasize his words.

  “Tell me about Katarina.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “Katarina? She has nothing to do with this.”

  “You said, ‘Ask anything you want.’”

  He sighed. “What do you need to know? She’s from the Ukraine. She’s thirty-eight years old. She models on the side, but she’s taking a break right now.”

  “Where does she live?”

  “She was up in New York, but she’s staying at a hotel in downtown Norfolk while she’s here.”

  “Not with you?” Not that I thought they should live together. It was just that most people did unless they had a good reason not to.

  His eyebrows shot up. “Have you seen my place? She’d be running for the hills. No, she’s better off staying at a classy joint.”

  “Is she paying for it?”

  Bill turned his head to the side, giving me a sideways glance. “What are you getting at?”

  “I just want the facts.”

  “I’m paying for her hotel room. There. Are you happy?”

  “Not happy. Not sad. Just inquisitive. Why are you getting defensive?”

  “Look, I know she’s out of my league. But she has nothing to do with this. Just like Philip Munich doesn’t have anything to do with this. I have no idea who would have killed my ex, but it’s not connected with me. I promise.”

  I glanced at the time on my phone. “I’ve got to get to a workshop soon, but I’ll get started when I get back. Sound good?”

  “Sounds good. Besides, Katarina wants to take me for a massage at some fancy spa down at the beach. She thinks it will help me relax.”

  “Maybe it will.” Or maybe she just wanted to be pampered on his dime. That seemed more like it.

  Of course, Katarina could be a perfectly nice girl. I needed to keep that in mind. However, I was doubtful after our chilly encounter yesterday. Very doubtful.

  What if Sierra’s outlandish theory was right: What if Katarina had something to do with this?

  Russian mafia?

  I planned on finding out.

  Chapter Three

  I lingered in the police station after I finished my workshop, my eyes glued on a single desk across the room. There was one person in particular I was waiting to see. I hoped he would be back soon.

  As I waited, I mingled with several of the officers, many of whom I knew by name. We talked about donuts, of all things. Whatever it took to develop a good rapport with them, that’s what I had to do. That was important in my line of work.

  In fact, I’d taken it on myself to start bringing a baker’s dozen with me whenever I came to these events. The participants loved it. Maybe they even loved me a little more for it. I wasn’t above bribing anyone with sweets, as long as I didn’t have to bake them myself.

  When I saw movement across the room, I excused myself and made my way over to Detective Adams as he arrived back in the office. He was one of the first detectives I’d encountered when I decided to make a living out of being nosy. He’d held a special place in my heart ever since.

  He was short, bald, and rumpled. And he offered a tired smile as I approached him.

  “If it isn’t Gabby St. Claire.” He put his holstered gun on his desk and tugged his jacket off. “I knew when I met you that you’d be around for a while. I was right.”

  “It’s actually Gabby Thomas now.” I dangled my fingers in front of him, displaying my new wedding ring.

  He raised his wiry eyebrows. “You and Riley?”

  I nodded. “Me and Riley. Finally.”

  A grin stretched across his face. “Well, congratulations. I always knew the two of you were meant to be. Anyone could see that.”

  “Thank you. We’re very happy. And when you said ‘be around for a while’ you really meant I’d be a thorn in your side. Am I correct?”

  He chuckled. “I would never say that.”

  He didn’t have to. I knew my persistence could be irritating.

  “What brings you by?” He pointed to an out-of-date chair across from him.

  I happily sat down, my heels killing my feet. I was a flip-flop girl, but my boss didn’t exactly approve of them, as was clearly spelled out in the company’s dress code. “The murder of Emma Jean Lewis.”

  He ran a hand over his face. “I should have known.”

  “Bill McCormick is my neighbor.”

  “I remember.”

  I leaned closer. “I don’t suppose there’s anything you can tell me about the case? After all, I did just teach half of the officers here about advanced fingerprinting techniques. That should count for something, right? And I brought donuts.”

&nbs
p; I pushed a sprinkle-covered glazed pastry—on a napkin, of course—across the desk. I’d saved it just for him.

  That cracked another smile. I was on a roll today.

  He clucked his tongue. “You know I can’t share very many details, Gabby. This is an ongoing investigation. And no matter how charming and friendly you are, there are still protocols in place.”

  I’d expected that, but I had to try. “Could you at least tell me . . . oh, I don’t know . . . time of death?”

  He raised an eyebrow and stared at me. “We should know in a few hours. The nature of the crime has made it a little hard to ascertain.”

  “The nature of the crime?” What an interesting way to word it. She’d been bludgeoned to death.

  His eyes narrowed, but then he looked at the donut. After a moment of silence, he picked it up and stared at the sprinkles on top.

  I’d heard through the grapevine that sprinkles were his favorite.

  “Mr. McCormick didn’t tell you?” he finally said.

  “Tell me what?” I could hardly stand the suspense.

  “She was found at The Crispy Biscuit in a commercial freezer, which has made pinpointing the exact time of death challenging, to say the least. You know the role temperature can play in determining the time of death.”

  “That’s going to make rigor and lividity hard to figure out.”

  “What?”

  “Of course. When a body’s frozen you can’t use the core body temperature to estimate the time of death. Not accurately, at least. The body will lose about three degrees per hour in a freezer that’s kept at -18 degrees Celsius. You’d have to subtract the measured temperature of the body from—”

  “Gabby?”

  I realized I was rambling. “Yes?”

  “You were saying . . . ?”

  I snapped myself out of CSI mode. “You’d really have to check her schedule and then the contents of her stomach. That will give you the most practical idea on time of death.”

  He nodded slowly. “I’ll let the medical examiner know.”