Ginny Aiken - Priced to Move

Smirking—again—he crosses his arms. “Would you if you were in my place?”

The sheet I now pull over my head does nothing to block out his question. “I’d like to think I’d be . . . oh, magnani-mous—”

His whooping laughs cut me off. “Yeah, right,” he says. “The woman who tried to get me fired because I’m not a gem geek like her now wants me to believe she’d be generous when catching me at my worst.”

My cheeks burn hotter than jalapeños on nachos. Lord? Do I have to eat crow? Can’t I just let this blow by?

God doesn’t answer, but I feel worse by the second. I guess I know the answer.

“Okay, Max. You win. I’ve been a brat. I sorta knew it when

I was giving you grief, but I didn’t want to see beyond my idea of what a gem show host should be.”

He doesn’t respond. I peek out from under my sheet. And groan. Again.

In my best, überpolite voice, I ask, “Do you think you could wipe off that smirk? I did give you what you wanted. My apology should work, plus I admitted I’ve been a pain . . . for too long.”

He grins. “At the risk of raising your hackles again, you’re cute when your own behavior backs you into a corner.”

“You really know how to kick a woman when she’s down.”

A knock at the door keeps him from answering. In walks Chief Clark. Where’s that sedative when a girl can really use it? My day can’t get much worse. I hope.

“Miss Andie.” That drawl is getting to me. “I’m right sorry you were hurt by the gas leak at the studio. How’re you feeling?”

I blink. I don’t expect kindness from the chief. “I figure I’ll live so you can suspect me some more.”

Max does the groaning this time. “I think we can safely assume she’s going to be fine. That mouth of hers is working overtime again.”

The chief arches a brow. “And why should I be so suspicious of you, Miss Andie?”

Remember my red hair? Well, my temper’s flaring just that bright. “Give me a break. I’m not dumb. You’ve had me in your crosshairs since Mr. Pak turned up dead in the vault.”

He leans against the sickly green wall, sticks his hands in his pockets, and crosses one ankle over the other. “Can you look at it from my end? I have me a dead foreigner in my jurisdiction. He brought a fancy invite for a woman to visit a country our country doesn’t do business with, and then he dies when he gets to where she works. Don’t you think I’m going to have a passel of questions for that woman?”

“Questions are reasonable,” I say. “But suspicion? That’s a whole ’nother thing, sir.”

“Not if you haven’t given me any good answers. You haven’t. And I’ve asked for ’em.”

“Ahem!”

The chief and I turn to Max.

“I hate to have to agree with Andie, but on this one, sir, I think she has a point. She didn’t know this man was coming to see her. I believe her. Especially after we were shot at when we were in Myanmar.”

“I heard all about that.” He eases upright, takes a few steps to the room’s window, then faces me again. “But that’s no evidence of innocence. There’s always trouble between crooks, you know. When one tries to rip off another . . . well, things go bad more often than not.”

With my unshackled fist, I shove myself up on the bed. I stare at the chief until he meets my gaze. Then, between gritted teeth, I say, “I didn’t steal anything. I don’t have anything of Mr. Pak’s—except that loudmouth bird. And even you say there’s no contraband in its innards. So what would I know about anything?”

“Y’see, Miss Andie. It’s like this. I have no idea what you did with the bird’s . . . er . . . poop when you first got him. How am I supposed to know you didn’t find something . . . um . . . coming out that other end?”

“Probably because I didn’t clean Rio’s cage. Aunt Weeby told you she’s fallen head over heels over that dumb fowl, and she’s taken care of him from day one. Are you going to suspect Aunt Weeby of international intrigue?”

Even Chief Clark sees the idiocy in that idea. He smiles. “’Fraid you do have another point there. Miz Weeby’s the last woman I’d suspect of committing a crime. She’d be more’n likely to nab a crook and drag him by the ear to confess at church.”

“And what makes you think I’d be any different?”

“I can’t see you yanking anyone anywhere by the ear.”

“Donald Clark!” the ear nabber herself chides as she walks in. “What are you thinking, badgering this poor child? Wait’ll I tell her daddy how you’re treating his little girl.”

“She’s not a little girl, and this has nothing to do with your brother.”

“Sure, it does. Your best buddy growing up’s not going to take it too well when I tell him what you’ve been up to.”

I goggle. “No way. You mean my father likes him ?”

Max’s laugh snorts out.

Aunt Weeby chuckles.

Chief Clark frowns. “We swap letters at least once a month, Miss Andie, so I’d have to say he does like me. At least a little.”

I plop back on my pillows. “How come I don’t remember ever meeting you before?”

Another “ahem” draws everyone’s attention to Max. “Can we get back to what really matters here?”

“And what would that be?” the chief asks.

“I’d think the topic of the moment has to be the gas leak at the studio.”

The chief juts his jaw. “What do you want to know about it?”

“Everything,” I say.

“How did it start?” Max asks.

“Did anyone croak?” Aunt Weeby, of course.

“Well . . .” The chief’s reluctance stinks like last week’s leftovers. “I think you can all figure out for yourselves that it’s no accident, since I’m here.”

The breath whooshes out of me. I’d known it, but just like that gut feeling I’ve had for a while about the missing Burmese rubies, I hadn’t wanted to accept it. “Go on.”

“Sally Thomas called the gas company. They called me and said she told ’em that something smelled funny, and that she didn’t know where Miss Mona was right then. They told me she was all apologetic about bothering them and all, but they thought it best to go check things out. And they did. So did I. Lucky for all you all.”

“What did you learn?” Max asks.

“There’s evidence of tampering with the gas line into the studio. And then someone messed with the valves that control the flow of the gas inside.”

I shudder. “I guess we do need to ask Aunt Weeby’s gory question. Was anyone . . . killed because of the leak?”

“No, but two other employees are here under observation. Just like you.”

My curiosity raises its head. “Any reason why some are just fine and others of us aren’t?”

“I’ve been listening to the three of you all this while,”

Wilma, the nurse, says. “Y’all are fascinating. But I didn’t have anything to add to what you’ve said up to now. Now, I do. Have something to say, that is. Some folks are just more sensitive to any particular toxic substance than others. It seems you’re more sensitive to natural gas than these two here.”

“Figures,” I mutter.

“Is that all you learned?” Aunt Weeby asks. “In all this time? What were you and your boys doing, Donald? Playing Barbie’s gone to Malibu with those stupid Capri things Mona ordered for Danni’s show?”

The chief, Barbie dolls, and Danni’s spandex Capris in one sentence is too much for me. I howl. And then my sore throat makes me hack.

Chief Clark does not approve. “No, Miz Weeby, I weren’t playing dress-up and neither were my men. We went over that there building of Mona Latimer’s inch by inch. And, if you really want to know, we found plenty.”