Cancelled by Murder by Jean Flowers Read Free Book Online Page B

friend and her staff. “They’ve all been working overtime since the storm on Monday. What if Ross worked all night and finally took a twenty-minute break?” I asked Cliff, tentatively, conscious of his vulnerability at the moment.
    I knew this couldn’t have been the first time Sunni had to deal with a distraught family member of a victim of crime, and I was sure she had the skills and temperament to handle the job, but a little support couldn’t hurt.
    â€œYou’re right, you’re right, Cassie, but it’s, like, I’d just convinced myself that Daisy was one of so many victims of storms and natural disasters over the years, and I was going to have to deal with it, and then I hear that she was”—he seemed to be holding his breath—“that someone deliberately . . . I’m sorry if I just lose it.”
    I put my hand on his, gave it a squeeze, and offered to get refills for both of us. While I waited at the counter in the sparsely populated café, Sunni’s words came back to me.
    â€œDo you know what Sunni meant when she said ‘stick to our jobs’?” I asked when I returned to our table.
    Cliff shrugged. “I guess she figured I was asking you to help with the investigation.”
    â€œBut you’re not.”
    â€œWell . . .”
    Uh-oh. I realized Cliff still hadn’t asked for that favor he’d mentioned on the phone. I shook my head before he could utter the words. “No, Cliff. I can’t do that. I’m not a cop.”
    â€œBut you’ve done this before. Everyone knows you helped Sunni last year in that murder investigation.”
    And almost lost Sunni as a friend, I remembered.
    â€œI’m a postmaster; you’re a security guard. That’s certainly closer to being a cop than I am. Isn’t investigation considered part of your job?”
    â€œNot unless the school was set on fire, and even then, it’s the local agencies that take the lead.”
    â€œMy point exactly.”
    â€œThis is Daisy we’re talking about, Cassie. My wife. You can’t ask me to sit around and watch. You know, the whole town knows, that I couldn’t get into the police academy. My eyesight doesn’t meet their standard”— he removed his eyeglasses and held them out, as if to prove his point, then wiped the lenses with his shirt while he was at it—“but I have good instincts. And security guards have high-quality training.” He took a deep breath, then continued, this time pointing a finger at me, albeit unobtrusively. “Did you know that it was a private security guard who alerted the police to the break-in at Watergate in the seventies?”
    â€œI didn’t know that.”
    â€œYeah, the guy was only twenty-four years old, making his rounds in the building, and he noticed a door had been rigged to stay open. He dug around a little, reported it to the local police, and they found out what was going on and eventually arrested five guys who weren’t supposed to be there.”
    â€œAnd the rest is history,” I said, fascinated.
    â€œThe guy was pretty famous for a while, even got a mention from one of those Watergate scandal reporters, either Robert Redford or Dustin Hoffman, I forget which, but then he came upon some hard times.”
    I felt his confusing of Woodward and Bernstein with the actors who played them in the movie was understandable, given the circumstances, and let the reference stand. I could tell that this tidbit of history was important to him, and probably in the annals of security firms and personnel everywhere.
    â€œYou’re just making a case for going off on your own, Cliff. Not that I recommend that. But I have absolutely no training along those lines, except to hit an emergency button if an armed person comes into the post office.”
    â€œYou’re being modest. I know better. I think if we worked together, you