Whiskey Rebellion Part 23

John Hyatt and f.a.n.n.y Kimble were both arrested and taken off to the jail in Savannah, both of them trying to place the blame on the other. I don't think there's much chance of their relations.h.i.+p lasting. Call me crazy. They did confess to the murders in front of a witness-me-so I'll be testifying at their upcoming trials.

On the personal front, things have gone to h.e.l.l in a handbasket. Mostly. Rudy Bauer at the Gazette did some digging and found out I'd been stripping at The Foxy Lady the day of Mr. Butler's murder. My bad judgment made the front page of the weekly paper, sharing equal s.p.a.ce with the story of John Hyatt dressing like a woman. Once the school board got word of my transgression, I was immediately put on probation pending a more thorough investigation, so I don't know if I'll have a job come fall or not.

The possibility of being unemployed has made up my mind about getting my private investigator's license. I found a correspondence course that was reasonably affordable, and Kate said she'd keep me on at her agency as a contract employee until I take my final test.

In less than a month's time, my apartment building will be no more than a pile of rubble. I have no idea where I'm going to go now that someone else has bought the house on Hutton Street, and there's a shortage of super cheap apartments in Whiskey Bayou, though my mother has offered my old room to me more than once. It makes me sick to do it, but I'm going to have to sell the Z once it's fixed and discontinue my underwear of the month club members.h.i.+p to make ends meet.

To make matters worse, I received a nice, thick envelope in the mail from Veronica Wade's attorney saying she was going to sue me for causing her public embarra.s.sment and damaging her person. I'm not sure what I'm going to do about attorney's fees and court costs, but my mom always says, "You can't get blood out of a turnip."

I don't know what it means either, but it seems apt for my situation.

Things aren't all bad, though. Nick and I have decided to give our relations.h.i.+p a real shot since there are no more high-pressure situations or dead bodies to stumble over. We're determined for things to move nice and slow this time around. I don't really believe it's possible, and if we last another week before tearing each other's clothes off I'll be surprised.

Of course, the lives of an almost private investigator and a big city homicide detective are always fraught with danger, so there's the possibility I could be wrong in my predictions. Only time will tell.

If you enjoyed the first book in the Addison Holmes Series, make sure you check out book two, WHISKEY SOUR. Available now at all retailers.

Here's an excerpt from WHISKEY SOUR!

Criminals are mostly dumb. At least in my experience. And Walter Winthrop III, Noogey to his friends, was no exception to the rule.

I squatted behind a group of dumpsters at the Lone Ranger Trailer Park, ignoring the flies that swarmed around day old Hamburger Helper and dirty diapers. I was hard-pressed to tell the difference between the two and reminded myself to get my birth control prescription filled as soon as possible. Not that I was having a lot of s.e.x or anything lately, but I didn't want to take any chances. I wasn't ready to be responsible for a child. I was barely responsible for myself.

Summer in Savannah wasn't forgiving, and it sure as h.e.l.l wasn't for the faint of heart. It was barely eight o'clock in the morning and heat roiled in invisible waves off the pavement beneath me, baking the soles of my flip-flops and frizzing my hair, as the temperature pushed triple digits.

The air was thick with syrupy humidity. The breeze non-existent, the moss covered trees completely still. I hadn't heard a bird chirp in more than twenty minutes. I was pretty sure they were all dead-either from the heat or the stench-I couldn't be sure.

The Lone Ranger Trailer Park was located on the northwest side of Savannah, away from any tourists who might accidentally discover that not every part of the historic city was picturesque. The trailers were parked on a cleared off gravel lot, and if there was gra.s.s anywhere I'd yet to see it. Just miles of dirt and cement. The trailers sat haphazardly, a patchwork quilt of tin and rust, and bags of trash and old car parts littered the area.

I'd had no choice but to hide behind the dumpsters. The park was almost completely open unless I wanted to venture into the trees and marshland and set up camp-which I didn't, because twelve year old me knew from experience it wasn't fun to have a snake slither down your blouse.

Sweat gathered in places best left unmentioned, and I'd reached the point that the smell of my body no longer made my eyes water. Even raising the Long Range Nikon in my hands exerted more energy than I had left to give. Noogey Winthrop was going to have a lot to answer for if I ever got hold of him.

Six months ago, Noogey had been living the high life. He'd owned a mansion in Miami, a two hundred year old plantation house in Savannah, and three other homes across the world. He'd driven expensive cars and bought outrageous jewelry for his mistress. He had stocks and bonds and a thriving company, and he'd just gotten permission from NASA to have his ashes shot into s.p.a.ce. But somewhere along the way, Noogey's luck changed.

When Noogey's wife caught wind of the mistress, she filed for divorce and decided to take half of everything he owned and then some, since there had been no prenuptial agreement. They had three kids between the ages of twelve and seventeen, and Mrs. Winthrop was going to make Noogey pay. More power to her. In my opinion, Noogey was lucky she hadn't run him down with a car or gone Lorena Bobbitt on his a.s.s.

Unfortunately, getting taken to the cleaners wasn't sitting too well with Noogey. All of a sudden, his company wasn't turning a profit, his cars were being repossessed, and his debt almost doubled his net worth.

The theory going around was that all Noogey's money was really being siphoned into offsh.o.r.e accounts, and his wife had hired us to prove his guilt. My job should have been simple: Find evidence that Walter Noogey Winthrop was spending above his means. But I'd learned over the past months that hardly anything about my job was ever simple. At least when I did it.

Noogey was a tough nut to crack, and he and his mistress had moved into the Lone Ranger Trailer Park so their story would be more convincing. I had to admit I was pretty convinced. The smell alone would have made me confess to any crime after ten minutes.

I had a perfect view of Noogey's trailer from my crouched spot, and I'd gotten a couple of good shots of the primer gray rectangle. The k.n.o.b on the front door hung precariously and a hole had been kicked in the bottom of the door. Their patch of concrete was empty except for a late model hatchback with a missing b.u.mper and an oversized weathervane that looked as if it had fallen off the roof at some point.

I knew Noogey wasn't home. Kate McClean, my boss at the McClean Detective Agency and my best friend, had told me Noogey had left on an early flight to the Caymans on business. And he hadn't taken along Marika Dubois, his current ladylove.

I pulled out my phone and dialed Kate, hoping above all else that she needed me to come into the office and start work on another job besides this one. One that was more sanitary. And maybe one with s.e.xy naked men.

"This job sucks, Kate," I said by way of greeting. "I'm going to have to bathe in bleach to get the smell off."

"I hear it's good for the skin. Kind of like a.r.s.enic. What's happening with Noogey?"

If I'd wanted a sympathetic ear, Kate was the last person I should've called. We balanced each other pretty well for the most part. I was p.r.o.ne to high drama and she kept me grounded (mostly). Sometimes keeping me grounded was like p.i.s.sing in the wind, or so my mother liked to say. I liked to think I brought a little adventure to Kate's life. And I kept her in homemade baked goods when I felt like the scales were becoming unbalanced.

"Noogey's gone and there's been no sign of the girlfriend."

"She's still in there," Kate said. "Though rumor has it she's making Noogey pay for the inconvenience. I need you to get close to the trailer. See if you can get some shots of the inside through the windows. I bet the inside of that trailer looks like a palace."

"Sure thing, boss," I said, rolling my eyes. "I'll just mosey on up and see if my x-ray camera lens can somehow see through the dirt coating the windows. No one will notice me skulking around in broad daylight."

"That's the spirit. I'm sure you'll think of something to get her out of there."

I sputtered in disbelief as Kate disconnected, and when I stood up to shove my phone back in my pocket I felt the squish beneath my feet.

I sighed and probably would have cried if I hadn't been so dehydrated. "At least it was the Hamburger Helper instead of the diaper," I said. Sally Suns.h.i.+ne, always looking on the positive side of things. That's me.

I pulled Noogey's file from my backpack and thumbed through it, hoping an idea of how to get Marika Dubois out of the trailer would magically appear in my mind.

Marika was a former model who was used to creature comforts. I knew without a doubt that the only thing keeping her around was Noogey's promise of the millions he'd somehow stashed away. A woman like Marika wouldn't live like this unless the payout was worth it.

A list of Marika's acquaintances were listed in alphabetical order on the back page of her profile. Kate was nothing if not efficient. An idea popped into my head and I picked a name at random. Sometimes my cleverness astounded me.

I grabbed my phone and dialed Marika's cell number, moving further behind the dumpsters just in case there were any nosy neighbors or Marika got suspicious.

"What?" Marika barked out, her French accent heavy with irritation.

"Marika, darling! It's been too long," I gushed, trying not to gag as I inhaled something especially foul.

"Who is zis?" I was still trying to figure out what zis was while she kept talking. "Zis is ze private number."

"It's Honey Rhodes." I thickened my accent to magnolia blossom proportions since I knew from the file that Honey was a local. "Don't tell me you don't recognize my voice. I'll just be crushed."

"I zought zou were in rehab. I haven't zeen zou in months."

I rolled my eyes, trying to interpret her sentences and wis.h.i.+ng I'd taken French instead of Spanish. But any teenage girl would have made the same decision. The Spanish teacher at my high school had looked like Ricky Martin and he'd worn tight t-s.h.i.+rts that had barely fit around his biceps. My fantasies of him pretty much got me through high school.

I thought quickly, trying to decide how I wanted to handle the rehab news. "I've been back a few days," I said with a dramatic sigh. "I just needed to get away for a while. Life just gets crazy sometimes with all the parties and the social whirl. I figured rehab was the one place no one would bother me."

"Zen it's not true about ze story I read in ze paper? Zey said zou had cocaine and crashed ze Ferrari into ze pool."

Son of a b.i.t.c.h. I would have to impersonate the one friend on the list who'd had a high profile brush with the law.

"It was all a misunderstanding," I rea.s.sured her. "Now enough about me. I have rehab skin, and I think we need to treat ourselves to a day at the spa and a little shopping. We owe it to ourselves to stay beautiful for our men."

I hoped to G.o.d I wasn't overselling it, but the only examples of socialites I could think of were Paris Hilton and Kim Kardas.h.i.+an, and I'd a.s.sumed it wasn't all that hard to be shallow and vacant.

"I'm not zeposed to shop," Marika said. "Ve have to be poor for a little while. Ze government is paying attention to our spending."

I made a sympathetic noise, trying not to gag. "Oh, sugar. It'll be my treat. I'm sure you need the break more than I do. I can't imagine having to live like a poor person."

"It is very difficult," Marika agreed. "Zey have nothing. No s.e.xy cars or hot tubs. No body scrubs or shopping sprees. It is a dismal life. I'll be glad ven ve can collect our money."

I restrained the urge to march up to her front door and put my hands around her throat after her comments about being poor, choosing the mature route by making notes in the margin of the file about she and Noogey being able to collect their money soon.

"That's just terrible," I drawled. "How much longer are you going to have to live that way?"

"Not long, I zink. Walter promised me we'd be in Rio zipping zhampagne by the end of the month."

"Ooh, then you definitely need a spa day, sugar. You can't go to Rio with the smell of poor following you around."

"Zes, zou are right. I vill meet you at ze Green Door in half an hour."

Without so much as a goodbye, Marika disconnected and I shuffled my way back to the edge of the dumpster so I had a better view. I'd have to report the trip to Rio to the authorities. The judge hadn't demanded Noogey's pa.s.sport because his lawyer had claimed Noogey needed to be able to deal with his foreign businesses in person, but this information would likely change that.

I smiled as the trailer door opened and Marika came trotting out in tiny shorts that showed off miles of tanned legs. Her long blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail and her b.r.e.a.s.t.s held up a halter-top of s.h.i.+mmering violet. Her feet were in strappy heels and a Yorkie stuck his head out of an oversized purse. I could see the disgust on her pouty lips from where I sat as she made her way to the hatchback with the missing b.u.mper.

I shook my head in disgust. It was the most terrible attempt I'd ever seen at subterfuge. Marika made the worst poor person I'd ever seen. She kicked the tire once and let out an oath ripe enough to make a sailor blush. I zoomed in on the rock decorating her ring finger, taking several quick shots of the tacky diamond. It had to be at least ten carats, though she was wearing it on her right hand, so it wasn't an engagement ring. If Noogey and Marika were truly in financial trouble, that ring would have been the first thing to go.

Marika threw the car in reverse, the gears grinding and tires squealing, before she sped out of the trailer park. I waited a good five minutes to make sure she was gone before I unfolded from behind the dumpsters. The sun was brutal, and I could feel the burn on the back of my neck and my nose. I needed ice cream, a bottle of water and a shower. In that order.

The surrounding trailers were quiet as I crept toward Noogey's, most of them having left for work bright and early. The flimsy k.n.o.b and hole in the front door were a nice diversion, considering it also had two st.u.r.dy deadbolts and the door was thick as a tree trunk. The windows were a heavy, double-paned gla.s.s, and I was willing to bet they were wired with a h.e.l.l of a security system. They were coated with grime, dirt and a black film to keep anyone from being able to see in. Noogey was protecting something, that was for sure.

I walked the perimeter of the house and found a broken dog kennel by the back stairs that looked like it had been ground in a garbage disposal. I pushed it up to the window carefully, avoiding the sharp pieces of metal, and I climbed on top. I held on to the windowsill for balance, distributing my weight on each corner of the kennel as it creaked and wobbled beneath me.

My heart pounded in my chest and adrenaline coursed through my veins as I lifted the camera above my head. All I needed was a weak spot in their security and this job would be done. Maybe the camera would be able to see something I couldn't. I started clicking the shutter as the wobbling below me increased, and I found it harder and harder to keep my balance.

I'd just decided to get down and try another window when the face of a beast crashed against the window-snarling jowls and strings of snot hanging between razor sharp teeth.

I screamed as the kennel collapsed beneath me and I went sprawling on the concrete, my arms wrapped around the camera to protect it. I hit on my back with a whoomph and the air was knocked out of me. Something sharp had pierced my leg, but I barely noticed, my eyes wide and unfocused as I focused on getting my breath back.

"Ouch," I croaked out.

The growls intensified and the window shook as the beast rammed its head over and over against the gla.s.s. If that was a dog, it was unlike any kind I'd ever seen before. Unless you counted Cujo.

I inhaled air painfully into my lungs and rolled to my hands and knees, looking around to make sure no one had witnessed my latest disaster. Granted, I'd gotten better at my job in the last few months, but that was probably along the same lines as telling Forrest Gump he was being promoted to remedial math.

The beast kept ramming its head against the window as I got to my feet. I gave it the middle finger because it made me feel better, and then I turned to head back to my car I'd left parked in a ditch near the marshland about a hundred yards away. My leg throbbed and blood coated the bottom part of my jeans. Good thing I'd already had a teta.n.u.s shot.

The growling and head b.u.t.ting stopped as suddenly as it began, and I breathed a sigh of relief. It was short lived, because the door of the trailer shook with a mighty force as the beast rammed against it. Apparently, he didn't like being flipped off, because his determination only seemed to intensify.

I shook my head in pity at his stupidity and kept limping in the direction of my car. The trailer house doors were reinforced just like the windows, and there was no way that dog was breaking through. Noogey was definitely hiding something inside that trailer.

I heard a yelp and then silence, wondering if the dog had knocked himself out, and then I heard a different kind of noise. One resembling a can opener peeling back a metal lid.

"Oh, s.h.i.+t," I said, staring wide-eyed as I realized what the beast was doing. Maybe he wasn't so dumb after all.

The doors and windows to the trailer were reinforced, but the trailer wasn't. Teeth ripped through plastic siding and insulation, and I saw the metal on the outside of the trailer bulge and bend grotesquely, reminding me weirdly enough of when the alien was trying to burst out of Sigourney Weaver.

I started to run, the adrenaline and fear masking the pain my body was in, and I didn't look back as I heard the metal give. Vicious barks and snarls gained on me with alarming speed. My car came into view-an old white Volvo that had about 300,000 miles on it.

I'd left the windows down because the air conditioner didn't work and I was tired of the cracked leather seats cooking my a.s.s. I'd never been so grateful to see that stupid car in my whole life. I dived head first into the open window and turned back to roll it up just as the beast hit the side of my car.

Seeing him in his entirety was completely different then seeing his head through a window. He was the size of a horse and built like a monster truck. His fur was black with blotches of brown and gray and his paws were the size of dinner plates. It was safe to say the beast hadn't been neutered, considering he was half sprawled on my hood, humping the s.h.i.+t out of my side view mirror while he tried to eat his way through the metal to the inside of the car.

He changed positions and the pa.s.senger door caved in under his weight. I was trapped inside the Volvo oven, paralyzed with fear. s...o...b..r and snot coated the car window, and all I could see was miles of snapping teeth and beady black eyes I'd see in my nightmares. My hands shook as I dug out the keys from my pocket, and it took me three tries before I was able to get the key in the ignition.

The car started easily, and I rammed it into drive, peeling out in a cloud of dust as I kept my foot on the accelerator. When I looked through the rearview mirror, the beast was still standing where I'd left him, his eyes intent on my car. With my luck, he was probably memorizing my license plate.

I rolled my windows back down to let the hot air out and decided I really needed a beer. Maybe a lot of beers. Unfortunately, there wasn't a drive-through beer store in the Savannah area. I was in no shape to go in anywhere. I'd have to settle for ice cream.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.

Liliana Hart is the USA Today Bestselling Author of more than twenty books, including the popular MacKenzie Family Series. She lives in Texas with her husband and cats, and loves to be contacted by readers.

Connect with me online: http://www.lilianahart.com.

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LINKS TO MY OTHER BOOKS.

Dane.

Thomas Riley.

Cooper A MacKenzie Christmas.

MacKenzie Box Set (includes the 5 books listed above).

Cade.

Shadows and Silk.

Secrets and Satin Sins and Scarlet Lace.