by Liliana Hart
Scarlet was my father’s aunt. Which meant she was my great-aunt. And she was our skeleton in the closet. She’d grown up as a Holmes in Whiskey Bayou during the Great Depression, and the family gossip was that she’d been shipped off to Paris by her father because she’d been having affairs with a couple of married men and they’d challenged each other to a duel, agreeing that the winner would get to keep Scarlet to himself.
Apparently Scarlet had been quite a looker in her day—a dead ringer for Ava Gardner, some people said—but she’d been rather loose with her virtue. Scarlet had never seemed to mind. When I was twelve, she’d told me it was better to be loose with your virtue than loose with your bank account. If I’d listened to Scarlet I’d probably be a lot more sexed up and a lot richer.
The days of Ava Gardner had long passed, and Scarlet now looked like Hannibal Lecter had put all of her bones in a skin bag and shaken them up so nothing quite fit together. She got around better than she should have for someone her age, and she attributed it to the fact that she’d smoked unfiltered cigarettes when she was younger and her insides were pickled from highballs.
The black wool coat she wore swallowed her whole and she’d left it unbuttoned, displaying a leopard-print velour jogging suit beneath. She wore white tennis shoes that were so bright they hurt to look at and a magenta scarf was wrapped around her neck. Her hair was a shock of white that had been permed within an inch of its life and shellacked with such success that not even the misty rain and frigid winter wind had budged it. She topped off the look with the signature bright red lipstick I’d never seen her without.
“I smell cinnamon rolls,” she said, shoving her gun back in her handbag and brushing past me and Kate. “I didn’t get breakfast.”
Scarlet followed her nose into Kate’s office and shrugged out of her coat, handing it to Kate to hang up. She left the scarf around her neck.
“Do you have a permit for that gun, Scarlet?” Kate asked.
“Darling, I don’t need a permit. I was in the OSS. I have a pass.”
“They don’t hand out passes to carry weapons because you slept with Nazis seventy years ago.”
“I’ve always liked you, Kate,” Scarlet said with a smile. “Let me give you some advice. Germans are terrible in bed. Avoid them at all costs. But if you want to get them to talk, just stick your finger straight up their butthole. Works every time.”
Scarlet looked around the room and wandered to Kate’s desk, picking up the candy dish of Hershey’s Kisses and sticking the entire thing into her purse.
“I’m married,” Kate said dryly. “He’s Scottish.”
“Well, maybe you can do better next time, dearie. I enjoyed my fourth husband immensely.”
Scarlet poured herself a cup of coffee and helped herself to one of the cinnamon rolls before sitting in the chair Kate normally occupied during meetings.
“Sit, girls. Time is of the essence here. I could die tomorrow.”
I shrugged and freshened my coffee and got a new cup for Kate as well. Kate and I had been friends forever, but sometimes I was a trial. And that included stray family members that had popped in and out of my life through the years.
“Does Mom know you’re in town?” I asked, taking my usual spot on the sofa next to Kate.
“Heavens no. And we’re going to keep this our little secret. Your mother is always trying to steal my thunder. There can only be one eccentric in a family and until I die that’s me.”
Though Scarlet had been married five times, she’d stopped changing her name after her second husband because she hated the lines at the social security office. She’d said she was born Scarlet Holmes and that’s how she wanted to die.
“I thought you were living on one of those cruise ships,” Kate said.
Scarlet waved the statement away and took a bite of the cinnamon roll. She was a Holmes all right. I got that same look on my face whenever eating sweets or having an orgasm.
“That ended after Thanksgiving. I think the captain was drugging me and sneaking into my room at night to fondle me. I woke up every morning with a horrible hangover and no underwear. He tried to tell me it was because I was drinking too much and leaving my underpants on the craps table for good luck, but that’s ridiculous. I don’t even play craps. Everyone knows that roulette is my game.”
A horrible thought struck me and I blurted out, “Are you moving back to Whiskey Bayou?”
“Hell no,” she said, appalled. “Lord, I hate that place. Though I like to go and visit the cemetery because I know everyone buried there. It’s a lot easier to talk to people when they don’t have the capability of talking back.”
She let out a gentle belch and then leaned back and propped her sneakered feet on the table.
“After the cruise ship I found a little resort place in Florida. It’s always warm and it’s right on the water. I can’t wait to get back. This cold is terrible on my bones. Can’t even feel my nipples. I smashed one of them in the car door and didn’t even notice.”
“You drove here?” I asked, unsuccessful at keeping the terror out of my voice.
“You bet. Just bought a brand new Hummer. It’s a real beaut. You don’t even notice when you run over things.”
“Christ,” Kate said under her breath.
“How long are you staying?” I asked.
“That’s what I’m trying to explain. We need to get back there lickety-split.”
“We?” Kate and I said together.
“You girls don’t have the sense that God gave a goose. I’m trying to tell you something important here. I’ve found a murderer!”
Read more of the story here!
Whiskey on the Rocks
About the Author
Liliana Hart is a New York Times, USA Today, and Publisher’s Weekly bestselling author of more than sixty titles. After starting her first novel her freshman year of college, she immediately became addicted to writing and knew she’d found what she was meant to do with her life. She has no idea why she majored in music.
Since publishing in June 2011, Liliana has sold more than six-million books. All three of her series have made multiple appearances on the New York Times list.
Liliana can almost always be found at her computer writing, hauling five kids to various activities, or spending time with her husband. She calls Texas home.
If you enjoyed reading this, I would appreciate it if you would help others enjoy this book, too.
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Also by Liliana Hart
JJ Graves Mystery Series
Dirty Little Secrets
A Dirty Shame
Dirty Rotten Scoundrel
Down and Dirty
Dirty Deeds
Dirty Laundry
Dirty Money
A Dirty Job
Dirty Devil
Playing Dirty
Dirty Martini
* * *
Addison Holmes Mystery Series
Whiskey Rebellion
Whiskey Sour
Whiskey For Breakfast
Whiskey, You’re The Devil
Whiskey on the Rocks
Whiskey Tango Foxtrot
Whiskey and Gunpowder
Whiskey Lullaby
* * *
The Scarlet Chronicles
Bouncing Betty
Hand Grenade Helen
Front Line Francis
* * *
The Harley and Davidson Mystery Series
The Farmer’s Slaughter
A Tisket a Casket
I Saw Mommy Killing Santa Claus
Get Your Murder Running
Deceased and Desist
Malice in Wonderland
Tequila Mockingbird
Gon
e With the Sin
Grime and Punishment
Blazing Rattles
A Salt and Battery
Curl Up and Dye
First Comes Death Then Comes Marriage
Box Set 1
Box Set 2
Box Set 3
* * *
The Gravediggers
The Darkest Corner
Gone to Dust
Say No More
