Whiskey Rebellion Part 1

Whiskey Rebellion.

Hart, Liliana.

PROLOGUE.

My life was a disaster.

I sat in my car with a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel and watched the rain pound against the winds.h.i.+eld. I was soaked to the skin, my skirt was ripped, and blood seeped from both knees. There were scratches on my arms and neck, and my face was blotchy and red from crying. Along with the external wounds, I'd lost a good deal of my sensibilities, most of my faith in mankind, and all of my underwear somewhere between a graveyard and a church parking lot.

I'll explain later. It's been a h.e.l.l of a day.

My name is Addison Holmes, no relation to Sherlock or Katie, and if G.o.d has any mercy, he'll strike me with lightning and end it all. I've had a job at the McClean Detective Agency for exactly six days. It's been the longest six days of my life, and I'll be lucky if I live to see another six. Unspeakable things, things you'd never imagine have happened to me in six days.

Now I faced the onerous task of telling Kate McClean, my best friend and owner of the McClean Detective Agency, how I'd botched a simple surveillance job and found a dead body. Another dead body.

I should have kept my job as a stripper.

CHAPTER ONE.

Sat.u.r.day, Seven Days Earlier.

I've made a lot of bad decisions in thirty years of living. Like when I was eight and I decided to run away from home with nothing more than the clothes on my back, peanut b.u.t.ter crackers and my pink Schwinn bicycle with a flat front tire. And the time when I was sixteen and decided it was a good idea to lose my virginity at an outdoor Metallica concert. And then there was the time I was nineteen and decided I could make it to Atlanta on a quarter tank of gas if I kept the air conditioner off.

There are other examples, but I won't bore you with the details.

Obviously my judgment has gotten worse as I've grown older, because those bad decisions were nothing compared to the one I was about to make.

"Hey, Queen of Denial, you're up."

I gave the bouncer guarding the stage entrance my haughtiest glare, sucked in my corseted stomach, tossed my head so the black wig I wore s.h.i.+fted uncomfortably on top of my scalp and flicked my cat-o-nine tails hard enough to leave a welt on my thigh. It was all in the att.i.tude, and if I had anything to do with it, The Foxy Lady would never be the same after Addison Holmes made her debut.

The music overwhelmed my senses, and the ba.s.s pumped through my veins in time with the beat of my heart. The lights stung my eyes with their intensity, and I slunk across the stage Marlene Dietrich style in hopes that I wouldn't fall on my face. Marlene's the epitome of s.e.xy in my mind, which should tell you a little something about me.

I'd run into a little problem lately, and let's just say that anyone who's ever said money can't buy happiness has obviously never had the need for money. My apartment had a date with a wrecking ball in sixty days, and there was this sweet little house in town I wanted to buy, but thus far the funds to buy it hadn't magically appeared in my bank account. I could probably make a respectable down payment in three or four years, but I had payments on a 350Z Roadster that were killing me, yoga cla.s.ses, credit cards, a new satellite dish that fell through my roof last week, an underwear of the month club members.h.i.+p to pay for and wedding bills that were long past overdue. My bank account was stretched a little thin at the moment.

None of those things would be a big deal if I was making big executive dollars at some company where I had to wear pantyhose everyday. But I taught ninth grade world history at James Madison High School in Whiskey Bayou, Georgia, which meant I made slightly more than those guys who sat in the toll booths and looked at p.o.r.n all day, and slightly less than the road crew guys who stood on the side of the highway in the orange vests and waved flags at oncoming traffic.

Since I'd rather have a bikini wax immediately followed by a salt scrub than have to move home with my mother, I'd declared myself officially desperate. And desperation led to all kinds of things that would haunt a person come Judgment Day-like stripping to my skivvies in front of men who were almost as desperate as I was.

The beat of the music coursed through my body as I twirled and gyrated. The lights baked my skin and sweat poured down my face from their heat. Something tickled my cheek. I caught a glimpse of black out of the corner of my eye and realized a false eyelash one of the working girls had stuck on me earlier sat like a third eyebrow on my glistening skin. I swiped at it nonchalantly, but it wouldn't budge. I ducked my head and peeled it off my cheek, but then it stuck to my finger and I couldn't get the little devil off.

I s.h.i.+mmied down to my knees and knelt in front of a portly man with rosy cheeks and glazed eyes that spoke of too much alcohol. His sausage-like fingers came a little too close, so I gave him a slap with my whip to remind him of his manners and the fact he was wearing a wedding ring.

I ran my fingers through his thick, black hair and left the eyelash as a souvenir of his visit to The Foxy Lady. The thought crossed my mind that he might have a hard time explaining the eyelash to his wife, but the music kicked up in tempo and I had to figure out something else to do with my remaining two minutes on stage. Who'd have guessed it would take me thirty seconds to run through all my dance moves?

The arches of my feet were screaming and I almost laughed in relief when I saw the poles on the far side of the stage. I could spin a few times and hang upside down a few seconds to take the pressure off my feet. Besides, I watch T.V. Men always seem to go crazy for the pole dancers.

My sweaty hand clasped the cold metal pole and I swung around with more gusto than was probably wise. Little black spots started clouding my vision, so I slowed my momentum down until I was walking around like a horse in a paddock on a lead rope.

I made another lap and saw Mr. Dupres, the club's owner, frowning at me. He swung his arms out and gestured something that resembled either taking off his s.h.i.+rt or ripping open his chest cavity, and I realized I still had on every sc.r.a.p of clothing I'd walked on stage with. I threw my whip down with determination and ripped my bustier off to reveal the sparkly pasties underneath. I tossed the bustier into the audience and cringed as it knocked over a full drink into some guy's lap. Just call me the human version of a cold shower. Not a great endors.e.m.e.nt for a stripper. I waved a little apology in his direction and tried to put a little more wiggle into my hips to make up for the mishap.

Would this freaking song ever end?

I prayed someone from the audience would have mercy and just shoot me. I spun one last time on the pole and nearly fell to the ground when I saw a familiar face in the audience.

I would have recognized the comb-over and pasty complexion anywhere, though when I usually saw Princ.i.p.al Butler he didn't have a stripper grinding in his lap. I kind of hoped the way his gla.s.ses were fogged would keep him from seeing me, but when he took them off and wiped them on his tie my hopes were dashed. He did a double-take and blinked like an owl before he paled.

I just wanted to vomit.

Mr. Butler practically shoved the woman in his lap to the ground and reached for something in his pocket. He pulled out his cell phone and snapped off a picture. Not good. I guess he wanted proof to show to the school board before he fired me.

I covered myself with my arm and edged back toward the curtain. The music pounded. I waved to a few customers on the front row, their faces twisted and disgruntled at my early departure. I considered my bounty. A grand total of seventy-two cents on a bed of peanut sh.e.l.ls lay at my feet.

Tough crowd.

Princ.i.p.al Butler's eyes were still glued to my chest as I finally found my way behind the thick curtains at the back of the stage. It was a darned good thing there was only a week left until school was out. Maybe the summer would give Mr. Butler time to forget he saw me in pasties and a thong and me time to forget that I saw my princ.i.p.al's tiny excuse for an erection.

Or maybe not.

So it turns out I'm not cut out to be an exotic dancer, and I'll be checking the employment section of the paper again.

I had to say that after the conversation I just had when I was fired from The Foxy Lady, I probably couldn't count on them to give me a glowing recommendation.

"Listen, Addison, I just don't think you're cut out for this type of work," Girard Dupres told me after my first and only routine.

I can't even begin to tell you how many times in my life I've heard those exact words. If I weren't such a positive person, I would live in a constant state of depression.

Anyway, Mr. Dupres was the guy who hired me, and he looked like a Soprano's reject-thinning dark hair, beady eyes, hairy knuckles and greasy skin. He obviously didn't know anything about hiring good strippers or he never would have considered me.

I decided it was best to look slightly downtrodden at my termination, but inside I was relieved that exotic dancing wasn't my calling. I don't think I pulled off the reaction I was hoping for, because Mr. Dupres thought it would be a good idea for me to perfect my technique in a private showing just for him. But to give him the benefit of the doubt, it's hard to have a conversation and not look desperate when you're topless and covered in sweat.

I told Mr. Dupres "Thanks, but no thanks," and headed backstage to gather my things and get dressed. I decided to keep the costume and cat o' nine tails just in case I ever had a dominance emergency, but I left the itchy wig on the little plastic head I'd borrowed it from.

I took out the blue contacts I'd worn to cover my dark brown eyes and creamed off the heavy eye makeup. I pulled my dark hair back into a ponytail, slipped on my jeans and baby-doll tee from the Gap and stepped into a pair of bright pink flip-flops. It was nice to see the real Addison Holmes once again. I'd only misplaced myself for a few minutes, but it was long enough to make me realize I liked the real me enough to find some other way to make the extra money I needed.

I'd just hide this little incident away and no one but Mr. Butler and me would ever know about it.

I pushed open the heavy metal door that led from the dressing areas to the alley behind The Foxy Lady and squinted my eyes as the sun and heat bore down on me. I slipped on a pair of Oakley's and hitched my bag up, digging at the bottom for my car keys.

If I'd been looking where I was going instead of at the bottom of my purse, I'd never have tripped over the body. I'd probably have walked a wide path around it and wondered how someone could already be drunk enough on a Sat.u.r.day afternoon to be pa.s.sed out in a strip club's parking lot. As it was, my foot caught the man right in the ribs and sent me sprawling to my hands and knees.

"Ouch, dammit."

I muttered various curses as the raw skin on my palms bled. I pushed myself up slowly and took stock of my aching body. My jeans had holes in both knees and a lot of blood covered the toes of my right foot.

"What the h.e.l.l?" I said as I wiggled my toes to see what the damage was. There didn't seem to be any cuts so I turned around to see what I'd fallen over.

The body sprawled out in the gap between the cars. It seemed twisted in an odd arc, but shadow s.h.i.+elded me from witnessing the carnage that created so much blood. If nothing else, I knew where the blood on my toes had come from. I couldn't pretend he was drunk with the dark stain spreading out across his dress s.h.i.+rt like a Target ad. Nor would I be able to keep my recent dabbling into the exotic arts a secret once I called the police and explained to them I'd just found my princ.i.p.al dead in the parking lot.

CHAPTER TWO.

After I'd dry heaved for a good ten minutes, it dawned on me belatedly that Mr. Butler had obviously met his end at the hands of someone bigger and badder than he was. But here I stood, alone in a parking lot in a rather shady part of town with my handbag on the ground and my body hunched over a dying rhododendron. I was practically begging to be murdered.

"Maybe I should call the police from inside," I said as loud as I dared to the empty parking lot.

I looked around nervously for signs of knife wielding maniacs hiding behind parked cars and ran to the front doors of The Foxy Lady with my hand down in my purse so the maniacs would think I was holding something dangerous like Mace or a 9mm. I didn't have either of those things, but after this experience I was going to think long and hard about getting them.

"I'm sorry, sugar. You've got to be of age to come in here," the bouncer at the door said.

I tipped my sungla.s.ses down to the end of my nose and looked over the solid chunk of black granite. His nametag said Larry but Gigantor seemed more appropriate, with his bowling ball-like head and biceps large enough to pull semis in a monster truck rally.

At another time I'd be flattered I looked underage. But not right now. Right now, sweat gathered in unladylike creases and my stomach roiled like I'd just taken a ride on the tilt-a-whirl. Why had I thought it was a good idea to come to this h.e.l.lhole?

"I need to get in there," I said as I tried to push my way past his bulk. "I've got to get to a phone."

He planted himself solidly in front of me, so I shoved my shoulder into his ribs several times to try to move him, but he didn't budge and my shoulder just ended up sore.

"There's a pay phone across the street," he said. His face was expressionless and he was obviously used to sending away pesky women who came to watch the fascinating lineup of middle-aged exotic dancers at The Foxy Lady.

"Listen, you. I just danced on that stage not more than thirty minutes ago. I'm still wearing the pasties to prove it. But now I have to get back in there and call the police."

"Whoa, honey. I don't care if you're the Sat.u.r.day night headliner. n.o.body calls the police in this place. If Mr. Dupres got a little frisky after your show then we'll settle it between you and me, but we ain't calling no police. Maybe we can go get some dinner and get the details worked out."

Gigantor smiled and two gold teeth glinted against the sunlight. I had an out of body experience as he ran a meaty finger down the side of my face.

I was left with no choice. I did what any girl would have done when faced with a dead princ.i.p.al and a randy bouncer. I kneed him in the b.a.l.l.s and watched him tumble like a redwood in the forest. I heard his head hit the ground with a thud as I ran to the bar.

"Somebody needs to call the police," I said to the bartender. "There's a dead man in the parking lot."

"Calm down, lady. I don't think you killed Larry. A kick in the b.a.l.l.s is nothing to get your panties in a twist over."

"Just do it!" I screamed. "And pour me a double shot of Jack Daniels."

I was well on my way to being snockered by the time the first patrol car showed up. Mr. Dupres had come out of his office once the news that the police were on their way reached his ears, and he ordered Gigantor to keep people away from the body until the police showed up. He gave free drinks to his customers to keep them indoors and had all his afternoon dancers come back on stage for an encore. Thankfully, I wasn't asked to partic.i.p.ate.

Mr. Dupres came over to me once he got his customers settled, grabbed my arm and my drink, and led me away to a private table.

"Now you just let me do all the talking, Ms. Holmes," he said as he sat down across from me. "I've dealt with this kind of thing before, and I can tell you're pretty shaken up."

I shrugged and finished the rest of my drink. Warmth spread through my body, and I didn't care if he wanted to do all the talking. Probably the less talking I did the better off I'd be. Who would believe that a small town teacher fell over her dead princ.i.p.al in the parking lot of the place she'd just taken her clothes off? Not me. I'd never believe such a story.

The bartender came and put another drink in front of me and I gave him a sloppy grin. I'm a cheap drunk. Usually a half gla.s.s of wine puts me down for the count.

I noticed Gigantor had come back inside and was talking to two uniformed officers, both of them writing quickly in little notebooks. Gigantor turned his head, scowled at me, and then pointed a finger in my direction.

Uh-oh, I was guessing by the scowl that Gigantor was still upset with me for kicking him in the b.a.l.l.s. Probably the giant lump on his forehead where he'd hit the pavement wasn't making him feel so hot either. I giggled out loud and then kicked Mr. Dupres under the table when his hand crept up my thigh.

"Stop it, you pervert." I tried to slap his hand away, but everything was starting to get a little blurry. "This is all your fault. You think I'm easy just because I got naked on your stage? Well, I'm not. I teach world history for goodness sake. I'm a respectable member of my community." I tapered the sentence off on a keening wail that was bound to gather all the dogs in the neighborhood. I was a terrible drinker and an even worse whiner.

"Hey, I can be respectable," he said, patting my head awkwardly as tears streamed down my face. "It doesn't look like it, but this place has a pretty decent income. I've got a nice house with a swimming pool. You'd like that, wouldn't you?" he said, sounding more frantic the harder I cried. "Of course, I'd have to divorce my wife before I could move you in."

I was about to ask him if he could divorce her in less than sixty days and if he'd be willing to a.s.sume my considerable debt when a man started making his way towards us. I'd seen him come in and talk briefly to Gigantor and the bartender, and I could tell by the way he moved that he was the one in charge. He stopped briefly to speak to the two officers who had taken Gigantor's statement and then started making his way towards me.

He moved with a predatory grace and skimmed just over six feet. His skin was swarthy, hinting of some Mediterranean ancestors, and his hair was almost black and cut close to his head, though it still managed to curl just a bit on the top. His face was shadowed by a growth of beard and his slacks and jacket were rumpled enough to let me know that he'd already had a long day on the job. He dodged the customers and the half-clothed waitresses who threw themselves into his path with ease.

As he moved from the shadows and closer to me I could see him better. His face was hard and chiseled, his expression one I'd seen on other cops' faces. My father had carried that look in his eyes until he'd died last year-the look of someone who'd seen too much and didn't trust anyone.

Then the man looked at me and I forgot to breathe, but probably part of that had to do with the fact that my nose was clogged with snot. Amid the darkness of his hair and skin was the palest, most beautiful pair of blue eyes I'd ever seen.

Heat gathered in my belly and it had nothing to do with the whiskey. I tried to see my reflection in the metal napkin holder at the center of the table, but it was distorted. My forehead looked huge, my ponytail was lopsided, my eyes were red and my nose was swollen. Or maybe it wasn't distorted. It would probably be best if I didn't look at myself again. I grabbed a couple of napkins from the holder and blew my nose, making a great honking sound that Mother Goose could be proud of.

"Addison Holmes?" the man asked and flipped open his identification to reveal a s.h.i.+ny gold badge.

His expression was somewhere between incredulous and pitying, but I had visions of handcuffs and satin sheets running through my head. I glanced discreetly at his hand to see if he wore a ring.

No ring.

He couldn't possibly be gay. Fate wouldn't be that cruel.

Maybe I still had a chance.

I realized I was clenching my fists when they started to sting again, so I relaxed and noticed they still had blood on them. Whiskey first, first aid later. Only I'd forgotten the first aid.

The detective was obviously waiting for me to say something, but I couldn't remember if he'd asked me anything. "I'm Addison Holmes."

"I'm Detective Nick Dempsey. You're bleeding, Ms. Holmes," he said as he took a chair and sat down at the table.

"I fell."

I grabbed a couple more napkins from the holder and looked down at my hands. I didn't have any water, so I dipped the napkins in my whiskey, thinking that at least my hands would be disinfected. I sucked in a breath as the alcohol touched the open wounds. I would have cursed a blue streak but I couldn't catch my breath.