Suspicious Minds Read online

  Was this what Eve felt like when the serpent approached her in the Garden of Eden? So scared that she agreed to do whatever he said? Anything, just don't bite me. Even if it means sentencing the rest of humanity to toil the earth and have great pain during childbirth.

  I had two choices: Elvis or the snake. Leather Face wasn't backing down, and I feared he might strike at any moment.

  "Are you okay under there?" Bob's face appeared in the crawl-space opening.

  I gasped as the snake slithered away, deeper into the abyss surrounding me. But away from my precious, life-carrying veins. I let out my breath.

  Yeah, I showed you ... you, you-future designer shoe. That will teach you to face off with me.

  "I thought I heard a scream"

  I reached my hands forward so Mr. Happy Home Owner could help me out. As soon as the sunlight hit my face, I pulled off my mask and tried to pace my breathing.

  "Ma'am?"

  I looked up at the man, at the concern etching his pasty face. I'd never been so happy to see anyone in my life. How would he take the news? As a great marketing pitch to sell his parents' home? Elvis Slept Here.

  I rolled onto my back in the grass, loving the light and the breeze and the grass, now that I had something really disgusting to compare it with. I dropped my head onto the ground and closed my eyes, picturing the King's lifeless body.

  Once I'd gathered mywits enough to speak, I looked up at the Doughboy to give him a really bad estimate of the damages. "Let's just say that Elvis has not left the building"

  I perched myself on an algae-covered picnic table, elbows to my knees, and watched as police officers swarmed the house. I saw a couple of cops start through the hole under the house. I resisted the urge to grab them and save them from entering that pit. The smell of death clung to me. It didn't matter if I pulled my shirt over my nose, I couldn't get away from it.

  Now that I was safely out from under the house, I started asking myself questions. How had Elvis turned up dead in a crawl space? How had he died? Why, oh why couldn't he and Priscilla have worked things out?

  Though I didn't see any signs of violence, chances were pretty stinkin' good that he hadn't checked into the Heartbreak Hotel by himself.

  Obviously, I knew the man wasn't really Elvis. So who was he? And why was he dressed like the King of Rock'n' Roll? Did that have something to do with his death? Did he step on someone's blue suede shoes?

  "If it isn't Gabby St. Claire," a deep voice said.

  I looked up to see Detective Adams, still looking like the same balding, stocky man I'd first met during a bomb threat a few months earlier.

  "Detective" Just the guy to make a bad situation worse.

  "For some reason, I'm not surprised you're here."

  Well, that was him. Honestly, I was really surprised I'd crawled up to a dead man. "What can I say? Gabby St. Claire, crime-scene cleaner and first-class snoop extraordinaire"

  He offered a tired grin. "I'm going to need you to tell me what happened"

  I ran through the details.

  "Mold remediation?" he questioned.

  I shrugged. "Tight on money. Going back to college now, you know"

  "Smart decision. College, that is" He turned away from me, his eyes on the forensic scientists disappearing under the house. "Can I contact you if I have more questions?"

  "Of course. Or if you need an extra hand or if you want to give a nontraditional, or as some would say old, college student some experience" Twenty-eight, but those felt like dog years when I walked the halls of the university. I was a part of a group at the school who'd labeled themselves The Grateful Dead.

  He chuckled. "You're a go-getter. I'll give you that"

  I could still hear his chuckles as he walked away. I could officially go home, but now that my heart rate had dropped back to two digits, being at the scene of a crime fascinated me. One day, I'd be on the other side of this. I'd be one of those forensic scientists. I only had a few more credit hours before I could apply.

  Until then, I had the market on the crime-scene cleaning jobs in the area. It was just me. Nobody else wanted the trouble I'd seen. Couldn't blame 'em. I'd experienced some pretty gruesome things in the three years since I'd been doing this. But the pay was decent. At least it would be if I didn't send almost half to my father every month. Long story.

  My attention shot to a man walking into the back yard, obviously not a part of the police crew in his ratty jeans and white T-shirt. His eyes zeroed in on me, and he beelined my way. A slow, laid-back beeline.

  "Excuse me. I'm looking for Bob Bowling?"

  I glanced at Bob as he paced among the cops, looking like his eyes might pop out of their sockets with stress. "He appears to be a little busy right now."

  The man, whom I guessed to be close to my age, followed my gaze to the flurry of activity behind him. "Looks like I missed some excitement"

  "You could say that" I stared at him, trying to figure out why the man was here. The lean surfer dude obviously wasn't family or official. So why did he choose this moment to wander into the back yard? "Can I help you?"

  He rubbed his chin, scruffy with the beginnings of a goatee. "Maybe. Bob asked me to come and check out his crawl space, to give him an estimate on cleaning it up"

  Strange, Bob said he'd decided against restoration services. "Oh, did he? What company are you with?"

  He shrugged. "My own."

  "And what's that?"

  "I don't have a name for the business yet" He extended his hand. "But my name's Chad Davis. I'm a crime-scene cleaner"

  CRIME-SCENE CLEANER? This man was a crime-scene cleaner? Who did he think he was? I was the only crime-scene cleaner in the area. I needed all the jobs I could find in order to pay my bills. It was called s-u-r-v-i-v-a-l, buddy.

  "This area doesn't need any more grim sweepers" I refused to break my gaze with the man. He had to know I meant business.

  He chuckled. "Grim sweepers, huh? I like that. But I only found one other company doing it in the area. Nothing's wrong with some competition, right?"

  My jaw dropped momentarily. "Do you have any experience?"

  He shrugged, like he had no worries, no concerns, no heart. "I used to work in the morgue. Stuff like blood doesn't bother me. Plus, crime-scene cleaning is a great way to make some extra money."

  "Extra money?" I could feel my face turning red. "Does this mean you have another job?"

  He shrugged again. "Wise investing, you could say. I moved here from Kansas and plan on surfing in the summer and skiing in the winter. I'll take on jobs whenever they come up"

  "You ... you.. " The words just wouldn't emerge. My future flashed before my eyes.

  "Are you okay?"

  "You ... you .. " Finally, I stood, unable to formulate anything remotely intelligible. I shook my head at him and stormed to my van. I had to get home.

  Home, sweet home. I'd never felt so relieved to see my apartment building. I parked my van, grabbed my sparkly purse, and escaped into my sanctuary. The front door clicked shut behind me.

  "Help! I've been stolen!" The little, white-haired woman stormed down the stairs of my Victorian apartment building. I had ten seconds before she rounded the last flight of stairs and spotted me.

  I started to turn around and walk back out the door. Just go to the van and drive away. I had enough to handle without any drama from Mrs. Mystery, my upstairs neighbor and eccentric novelist extraordinaire. I leaned against the door, hand still on the knob. It wasn't too late to flee.

  I just hoped Mrs. Mystery wasn't testing out her latest book plot on me. I drew in a breath just as I heard Riley's door opening upstairs.

  "What's wrong, Mrs. Morgan?"

  The frail woman was halfway down the last stairs. I'd missed my chance. She reached the bottom of the stairs. Her boney, age-spotted hands shook, and her white curls flew like they'd been charged with electricity. The wrinkles on her face vibrated as she clutched my hands. "Gabby, I've been stolen. What should I do
?"

  "Someone broke into your apartment?"

  Her head swung back and forth vehemently, the wattles under her neck flapping until I thought I felt a slight breeze. "No, no. Stolen. Don't you see? I've ... been ... stolen" Her voice rose with each word.

  Riley's feet pounded on the creaky stairs. He joined us and gave me a questioning look behind the mystery writer's back. "What's going on?"

  "Mrs. Morgan has been stolen" I tried to keep any skepticism out of my voice. I pulled my fingers from her grasp and placed a hand on her shoulder. "Why don't we go upstairs and talk about this?"

  "No time to talk. Someone's spending all my money. They're ruining my reputation! What can I do?"

  I grabbed her elbow, saggy skin over bones on her frail body. Gently, but firmly, I urged her back up one flight to my apartment. "Let me make some tea. We'll get this all figured out"

  "Oh, it's terrible. Terrible, I tell you. Why would someone do this to me?"

  I didn't let go of her until we reached my door. Then I led her inside and sat her on the couch. Riley closed the door and sat across from her while I went into the kitchen to put some water on.

  I shuddered as I crossed the vinyl floor to the oven, remembering the dead body and blood of the man who had been killed here. I hadn't killed him, of course, though I'd been the police's number-one suspect. The man had been my number-one suspect in a murder at a crime scene I'd cleaned. I'd found some evidence that pointed to him as the guilty party, and I'd tried-in vain-to convince the police that they were following the wrong leads.

  The man's death had put a kink in my investigation, to state it lightly.

  The events had unfolded a few months ago, but my first amateur investigation still remained fresh in my mind. The good news was that the case had a happy ending. The bad news was that I'd have to live with the image of a dead man in my kitchen for the rest of my life. When it happened in your home or to someone you knew, everything changed. It didn't matter that you dealt with death every day.

  I heard Riley trying to calm down Mrs. Mystery in the other room. I turned the burner on and grabbed some miscellaneous mugs. One advertised a dry-cleaning service. Another was from a mini-marathon I had run last month. The final one, I purchased myself. It read: Princess. That one would be mine. Or if I felt especially devious, I'd let Riley drink from it.

  I wasn't much of a housekeeper or a hostess. But I did the best with what I had. I pulled out a TV tray, put some sugar in a cereal bowl, blew the dust out of a gravy pitcher, and poured in some lowfat milk. It wasn't Martha Stewart, but then I'd never done any hard time, either, so things had a way of evening out.

  I added some tea bags and spoons, poured the boiling water, and joined my neighbors just in time to hear Mrs. Mystery saying, "Next, they'll want my body. You'll see me, but it won't really be me, Margaret Morgan. It will be somebody else in my skin, living out my life"

  She had quite an imagination. I had to give her that. I guess that's what made her a good writer. Not that I'd ever read-or seen, for that matterany of her mysteries.

  "Tea, anyone?" Using my foot, I pushed several issues of Popular Science and Rolling Stone to the floor in order to set the tray on the coffee table. My mother had to be frowning on me from heaven. I was raised with better manners than this, but what's a girl to do? I only had two hands.

  "I would have helped you with that; Riley said, half his lip curled in a grin.

  "I make do with what I have. What can I say?"

  And this is why I could never be with Riley. A lawyer could never be married to someone like me. I'd be an embarrassment to all of his highfalutin friends. He needed someone cultured and elegant.

  "Well, I think I've figured out what's wrong with Mrs. Morgan:" Riley perched on the end of the burnt orange recliner. Okay, the awful decorating scheme wasn't all my fault. I had a very limited budget. Hand-me-downs and thrift stores had been good friends when I first moved in.

  I fixed myself some Lipton tea-nothing fancy ever saw the inside of my cupboards-with lots of sugar. I noticed no one else seemed thirsty. Was it the gravy pitcher?

  "I'm pretty sure you've been a victim of identify theft," Riley said. "We just need to make a few phone calls, and hopefully we'll be able to straighten everything out"

  She grabbed his hand. I always knew Mrs. Mystery had Riley on her romantic radar. She seemed like the type who would go for a younger man. "Really, Riley? Is it that easy?" She looked at him like he was the hero to her damsel in distress.

  "Identity theft is very common nowadays, Mrs. Morgan. We'll get this straightened out. It may take a few days" Riley explained that she'd received a cell phone bill for an account she had never opened.

  "How did they get my information?" The eccentric woman's whole body quivered with tension. Come to think of it, I'd never seen her look relaxed.

  Riley explained that sometimes thieves went through trash cans. "It's important to shred any papers containing personal information."

  Mrs. Mystery's eyes widened. "I don't own a paper shredder. I've never heard of such a thing"

  You'd think Riley had asked her to perform heart surgery with a dull spoon. Perhaps it was an excuse for Riley to take her shopping?

  Riley promised to go upstairs and make the calls for her. He'd been lured into her web of seduction. I just knew it. I would sit back and enjoy the show as it played out.

  When I opened the door to let them out, I spotted someone about to knock at Riley's apartment. The man turned and grinned when he spotted the lawyer behind me.

  "Hey, Riley. I was hoping you wouldn't mind if I stopped by." The man had shaggy hair and a dopey grin, reminding me of, well, Shaggy from Scooby-Doo. "I can see I'm catching you at a bad time"

  "You're fine" Riley stepped forward. "Randy, these are my neighbors Gabby and Mrs. Morgan. Ladies, this is Randy. He's the pastor at the church I attend"

  We called out polite hellos. He certainly didn't look like any pastor I'd ever met. Of course, new churches were trying to appeal to a younger crowd, so I wasn't really surprised. Riley's church was supposed to be pretty cutting-edge, from what I understood. I still owed him a visit.

  During a close call with death during my last investigation when I'd discovered the real killer-not the dead one in my kitchen-I'd promised God that I would attend church if I survived. Well, I still had blood in my veins and air in my lungs, but I hadn't been to church yet. Sometimes I felt guilty; then I justified it by thinking: Well, I didn't put a timeline on it. I still plan on going sometime.

  "I was hoping I could talk to you later about some outreach events that might appeal to non-Christians in the area:' Randy stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

  I frowned at the pastor's word choice and stepped back into my apartment before I said something I'd later regret.

  They all looked my way.

  "I've got to get showered," I explained. "Spent the afternoon under a house with a dead body. A non-living body, you might say. I'll chat with you later"

  Before they responded, I slipped inside and shut the door. Sometimes I liked working with the dead more than I liked listening to the living.

  PAGAN. HEATHEN. Agnostic. Unbeliever.

  Surprisingly, I could handle those terms. But non-Christian? The word made the skin on my neck crawl. I guess if people were going to label me, a few more titles could be thrown into the mix.

  Non-Rotarian. Non-Chinese. Non-space alien. Non-senior adult.

  "Can I take your order?"

  "Nonfat latte" The barista wrote my order on a paper cup, and I moved to sit down. My morning ritual was going in full swing. The routine wouldn't be the same without a visit to the coffeehouse.

  Non-senator. Non-Olympian. Non-vegetarian.

  Randy's comment still lingered in my mind. And bothered me. A lot.

  I mean, why would you label someone for what they're not? I worked stinkin' hard to become what I am. A student. The owner of my own business. A fan of musicals. Someone who cou
ld annoyingly quote the lyrics to more than one thousand songs of all styles and generations. A girl in the running to have the most extensive T-shirt collection in the Mid-Atlantic region. And an avid lover of flip-flops.

  For that matter, maybe I'd start labeling Christians for what they weren't.

  "Hi, Gabby."

  Riley. This was his morning ritual, also. I forced a smile, wondering why I felt hostile toward him. He hadn't labeled me. Not directly, at least. Who knew what he said around his church friends?

  "Hi, non-heathen. How are you today?"

  His eyebrow shot up as he pulled out the chair across from me. "What?"

  "Never mind. Just feeling a little sassy today."

  "Today?" He sat down and gave me his full attention. I loved that about him. "What's on your mind?"

  I sighed, never one to mince words. "Your pastor really bugged me yesterday"

  "I wondered if he did."

  "I just thought he was rude"

  "He was"

  "I mean, he was talking about me-the non-Christian-like I wasn't even there"

  "I know."

  I paused. "You do?"

  "He didn't mean any harm. He just wasn't thinking. But that's definitely not the way that we're going to win the lost-"

  I leaned closer. "To what?"

  "To reach the unsaved-" He shook his head. "I'm falling all over my words, Gabby. What I'm trying to say is that we want people who don't know Christ to come to know Him. It's easy to get caught up in the jargon."

  "I can see that"

  "The last thing I intended was to offend you. I know I've done enough of that in the past"

  "It's true" I saw Riley's lips twitch at the harsh honesty of my agreement, and I smiled. "You have to admit, I don't have all the virtues of those in `the Lord's army, but at least I'm truthful."

  "I'll give you that one, Gabby. And I'd never want to change it"

  Why did he have to say sweet things like that? Didn't he know how his compliments tortured me?