Free Hazardous Duty by Christy Barritt Page B

flashing in his eyes.
    I stepped between the two, my hands
clenched in fury. I had to stop myself from using one of those fists to punch
Parker in his button nose. “What are you talking about? Harold didn’t do
anything and you know it.”
    “We found stolen items in the trunk of
the car parked in his garage.” The detective shoved past me, pushing Harold
along with him. “Now, don’t make me arrest you, too.”
    Riley nudged me until I stepped back. My
heart felt numb as I watched the detective lead Harold to the squad car.
Harold’s eyes met mine as the door slammed. The sound of Keisha weeping inside
broke my heart.
    Harold was being framed for something he
didn’t do. His innocent family would pay the price. And I was powerless to do
anything about it.

 
     
     
    Chapter Ten
    By the time Riley and I said
good-bye to Mildred, stars pinpricked the sky above. A magnetic force seemed to
draw me back to the house. But Mildred insisted I should go, and I knew I could
do nothing more. Her sister had driven up from North Carolina to help out, so she was in
capable hands.
    Riley escorted me to his car. Around us,
crickets sang with abandon and the full moon offered a mocking smile. Didn’t
nature know the torment this family was going through? Shouldn’t it mourn with
us over this injustice? I mentally chanted, “Down with nature. Long live
industrial development.”
    I slid inside the car and dropped my
aching head against the seat. Riley’s door slammed, the sound reverberating at
my temples. I gritted my teeth, wanting to be back with Mildred, as if she’d be
safe under my care. I waited for Riley to start the car, but instead he touched
my shoulder.
    “You going to be okay?” he asked.
    Even inside the shadowed car, I could
see the concern on his face. I could hear it in the mellow tone of his voice.
Still, my sarcasm fought to be voiced.
    Of course I wasn’t going to be okay.
Harold, one of the nicest men I’d ever known, was going to jail and somehow it
felt like my fault. With a deep sigh, I fought for control and said evenly,
“It’s not me I’m worried about.”
    We sat in silence a moment. Finally,
Riley started the car and pulled from the drive. I stared out the window,
watching the world go by. Nothing had changed, and yet everything had changed.
Where was justice? Where was the loving God Riley had spoken of? Harold
certainly wasn’t feeling the kindness and protection of a merciful God tonight.
    “What do you think about all of this?” I
asked, turning my gaze on Riley. “Do you think Harold’s guilty?”
    “Finding the evidence in the car sure
makes him look that way.”
    I shook my head. “Even if Harold is a
thief—which I don’t believe—he’s not a killer. Harold knew I was in the house.
He wouldn’t try and burn it down with me inside.”
    Riley leaned back in the seat, watching
the road. Tight lines pulled around his mouth. “What’s your theory, then?”
    “I think the husband burned down the
house.” I paused, collecting my thoughts. “But the detective says he was in the
hospital at the time of the arson.”
    “Which is a pretty good alibi.”
    “What if he sneaked out of the
hospital?”
    “What if he didn’t? What if the neighbor
is mistaken?”
    I shook my head. “I don’t really know
what to think right now. I only know Harold. They’ve got the wrong man.” My
cell phone began Do-Re-Mi. I jerked it from my belt and grumbled, “Gabby St.
Claire.”
    A man needed a crime-scene cleaner to
scrub his grandmother’s house after she passed and they found 15 cats inside.
It was a crime against common sense, maybe even a crime against humanity to
have 15 cats. And surely a crime against those poor cats. But cleaning up cat
doo-doo sure was a far cry from being a forensic expert.
    This is what I’d sunk to.
    When
you’re plagued by cat hair
    Turn
to Gabby St. Claire.
    If you sang it to chopsticks, it even
rhymed—sort of.
    When
the smell makes you