by Emmy Grace
“Why am I even more worried now?”
My smile widens. “I’m going to ignore your negativity because that’s what winners do. And I’m a winner, remember?”
From the corner of my eye, I see Regina’s forehead pleat. “Uh, Lucky, are you okay?”
“I’m fine. In fact, I’m more than fine. I’m great.”
“You’re not gonna start talking about tiger blood or bouncing on your couch, are you?”
At that, I laugh. “No, silly. I’m just back to my old lucky self. That’s all.”
“Whatever you say, Lucky. Whatever you say.”
She doesn’t seem at all convinced, but as long as I am, that’s all that matters.
And I am.
I think.
13
By the time we make it back to my house, my already weak bladder is practically screaming at me. I barely put the car in park before I’m out the door, racing across the yard and through my front door.
I’m unbuttoning my jeans as I go. I note that Momma Leona and Beebee are in the living room, presumably waiting on me. I give them a quick wave and keep on truckin’ right to the bathroom.
I’m doing that pee-pee dance that third graders do when I shut the door behind me and try to raise the toilet seat. Only it won’t come up.
“What?” I snap at it, glaring at the white lid as it stays determinedly closed.
My eyes flicker to the array of buttons on the left side of the commode. I didn’t pay it much attention before. I guess I just thought it was an armrest, although now I’m wondering who gets so comfortable on the toilet that they’d need an armrest anyway.
I’m hopping from foot to foot as I explore the keypad and try to decode which little icon means open. There’s a lock picture on one of them, so I press it first thinking maybe it will both lock and unlock the seat. Makes sense to me.
When it doesn’t immediately work, I hit the button beside it that has a red square on it. It looks like a stop sign, and what I’d like is for this toilet to STOP screwing around and open up before I pee on the floor.
I hear a click, but still nothing happens so I press another button and another and another. Finally, with a Tarzan like holler, I reach for the lid, intending to manhandle it into submission. I wasn’t expecting it to lift easily, so when it does, I rock backward and then overcorrect and tip forward. Right as I’m toppling forward like a bobble head doll, I reach out to brace myself, so I don’t break my face on a ceramic. I hear a series of beeps just before warm water squirts up from the center of the toilet bowl and hits me square in my mouth.
My open mouth.
I sputter and turn away, aiming my hand at the spray to keep it from drenching me. I hear another beep just before the water shuts off, but before relief can kick in, I’m blasted with a jet engine’s worth of hot air. It goes right up my nose and takes my breath.
All of this happens in about five seconds, so by the time I’m recovered enough from surprise to actually act, I try to step back and instead slip in the puddle of water that’s now gracing my bathroom floor.
I land hard on my butt, and my jeans are instantly soaked through with warm water. Just enough warm water to loosen whatever precarious hold I had on my bladder muscles.
With an “I give up” flop of my hands, I manage to roll over onto my knees, yank down my pee-and-toilet-water-soaked pants, and deposit the small amount of liquid that remains in my bladder into the awaiting commode.
By the time I finish peeing and let the most ridiculous toilet in the world spray, massage, and dry my butt, I’m exhausted. And really disgusting. I don’t even bother getting redressed. I mop up the floor with my wet jeans, spray it with Lysol, and then turn on the shower. The only cure for a day like this one—Mrs. Stephanopoulos’ outrageous gas followed by an unexpected wallow in my own pee—is a scalding hot shower.
I stand under the spray until my skin burns.
When I emerge twenty minutes later, wrapped in a towel, it’s to the wide, curious eyes of the three most important women in my life.
We stare at each other for a full minute before Beebee’s eyes crinkle at the corners, Momma Leona looks away to hide her laughter, and Regina starts to sputter, “Uh, wh-what happened?”
“You should probably ask me that when I don’t want to physically harm you,” I say briefly before stalking off to my bedroom to get dressed.
Again.
All the while, I mutter to myself, “I love my job. I love my job. I love my job.”
I sincerely hope that changes my mind.
Eventually.
I stay in my room to spend some quality time with my own personal de-stressing system—my animals. I figure it’s necessary and prudent at this point, simply so I don’t go out there and hurt someone.
Gumbo and Mr. Jingles, my miniature pig and French bulldog respectively, were awaiting me on the bed when I came in to change. Lucy-fur, my black devil cat, was playing coy by pretending to ignore me from her perch on the dresser. I wasn’t fooled, though. When I pulled on some comfortable yoga pants and an oversized sweatshirt, and stretched out on the bed, all three descended upon me. Gumbo nudged his way into the curve of my right armpit, Jingles came to sit on my left hand, and Lucy jumped over from the dresser and proceeded to lay herself across my throat. I feel like Cruella Deville with a warm new fur scarf.
Despite the odd location of each pet, I feel my tight muscles relax within about two minutes of their close proximity. The thing I discovered about my animals long ago was this: They probably think I saved their lives, but they’re wrong. Every day since I got them, they save mine.
I’m much calmer when I reappear in the living room fifteen minutes later. I can actually smile and mean it. And there’s a good chance violence is off the table.
At least for the moment.
Before anyone can say anything, I preempt them. “We won’t discuss the bathroom incident. Let’s just move on to more important things.”
All three nod, even though I can see that they’re virtually drooling for details. But they can wait to hear about it on another day. Today is for catching criminals.
I walk over to take the armchair that matches the one Regina is sitting in, both of which face the sofa. I curl my legs under me. “Have either one of you heard anything about Gavin’s fiancée?”
Beebee is the first to speak up. “Oh, she’s a wild child, that one.”
“What do you mean?”
“She moved here right after you left. Made her way through half the boys in town before she settled on Gavin.”
“Does anybody know where she came from? Anything about her past?”
Beebee and Momma Leona shake their heads in unison. “Not that we’ve heard.”
“Did his parents seem to like her? She looked kinda cozy with them when Regina and I saw them.”
“They liked her pretty good, far as I know,” says Beebee.
“Did the two of them have any trouble that you know of? Other men? Other women?”
Momma Leona chimes in to answer this one. “I heard from Gail Shiland, one of the ladies in my women’s study class at church, that Gavin had taken to the bottle and his fiancée wasn’t real happy about it.”
“Ah,” I say, nodding knowingly. “Didn’t want him to turn out like his dad, I guess.”
“Who would?” Beebee asks. “No woman wants to be married to a drunk.”
Gavin’s father had always had a problem with alcohol. Gavin was never very interested in talking about it, but I’d managed to ascertain from some stray comments here and there that, over the years, Mr. Rossdale had lost more than one job over his eighty-proof extracurricular activities.
When we dated, Gavin hadn’t been too much of a drinker, but you know how apples are. As the saying goes, they don’t fall very far from their trees.
“So, Sassy McButthole decided she didn’t much like who her fiancée was becoming, and she killed him for it,” I announce.
“Sassy McWhat?” Beebe
e asks. “What in the world—”
“Overlook her, Beebee,” Regina says by way of intervention. She knows that trying to explain the intricacies our nicknaming system to Beebee could end up being an all-day affair. “Lucky, that just doesn’t make sense to me. Why not just leave him? Why kill him? Unless he was cheating on her or beating her, why the sudden animosity?”
“Exactly, but the note said if he was coming to ‘her,’ and I think we can assume ‘her’ is me, that he should never come back. That sounds like someone who’s angry, doesn’t it? Maybe she thought he was cheating on her with me. And she killed him for it.”
“Don’t you think she’d have wanted to be sure?”
“She’s clearly unsettled. Maybe she had a dream or a vision or a premonition or some woo-woo thing like that.”
“She does look like she could be a member of the occult,” Momma Leona adds earnestly.
Beebee nods in agreement. “All that black eye makeup. Makes her look like a ghost.”
“Or a devil.” Momma Leona whispers the last word as if Sassy herself might hear them from all the way across town and come bursting through the door any minute.
Superstitions and superstitious people run rampant in the Louisiana deep south.
“I think we’re getting a little off track here,” I say in an attempt to reel the wild imaginings back in to a more normal realm. I mean, I’m not averse to wacky notions and half-baked assumptions, but I don’t think Gavin’s fiancée is a devil. That’s probably where I draw the line. “I think the more germane thing here is that she’s a murderer.”
“Germane?” Regina repeats.
“German? What’s a German got to do with it?” Beebee asks.
“Jermaine. Is that one of the Jackson boys?” Momma Leona asks.
“Ger-mane,” I annunciate. “It means relevant.”
“Whoever heard of a word like that?”
“Lucky’s dating a smart guy. I think she’s learning by osmosis,” Regina surmises with a nod.
“Osmosis?” It’s my turn to mock. “Germane is no worse than that. Osmosis? Besides Bill Nye, who even uses that word?”
“I’m dating a smart guy, too.” Regina beams over the fact. She’s thrilled to have Steven in her life, and I’m thrilled for her. But now is not the time to discuss him. Or Liam. Or their brains.
“Focus, people,” I say firmly. “I have to prove Sassy did it so I can exonerate myself.”
“Exoner-what?” Beebee asks. “I’m confused by this entire conversation.”
“It’s a law word, Beebee. It means to prove myself not guilty.”
“Why didn’t you just say that then?”
Three pairs of eyes watch me. I wrinkle my brow and chew on that for a minute. “You know, I’m not sure. Maybe Liam really is affecting my brain. I don’t think I’ve used this many big words in the same day since I first got my word of the day calendar.”
“Maybe they actually sank in and you’re just now remembering them.”
I grin at that. “And you thought it was such a waste of time.”
Regina rolls her eyes. “Not a waste of time at all if you’re just trying to confound the people around you with your ridiculous words.”
I’m just about to comment when I hear a familiar voice from near the door.
“Good God. It’s like eavesdropping on the lobby of a lunatic asylum.” Liam is standing at the door, staring at the four of us like we’ve all grown second heads.
“Where’d you come from?” Beebee asks the question that I spent months asking.
“He needs a bell,” Momma Leona adds.
“Ha!” I shout, pointing at Liam. “See? Told ya.”
He gazes across the room at me with his dubiously grouchy expression, then he dips his head, shakes it once, turns around and walks right back out the door.
Beebee, Momma Leona, Regina and I all look each other for a few seconds before we burst into laughter.
Man, how I’ve missed my family.
14
I watch the clock. The minutes are ticking by as slowly as if the hands were moving in molasses.
Molasses. Mmmm. I could use a good piece of gingerbread right about now. With fresh lemon glaze.
My mouth waters. I glance at the clock again. Not even one minute has passed.
Good Lord have mercy. Eleven PM is never going to get here.
After Regina, the law-abiding party-pooper left, I remembered that Felonious had called before my unfortunate encounter with the ditch and I’d never called her back. I remedied that and she was able to tell me at least one thing I hadn’t already figured out. At least not for sure. Sassy McButthole is, in fact, staying at the Inn with Gavin’s parents. And, as luck would have it, so is my family.
She’s in room 104, so after receiving that bit of confirmation, Beebee, Momma Leona, and I plotted how I could get into Sassy’s room, hence the plan I’m waiting to enact. At eleven fifteen sharp, Beebee is going to set off a cherry bomb in the toilet of her room and go into the hall and pull the fire alarm. With the smoke, it’ll seem legit, which means they’ll evacuate the Inn. That’s when I plan to strike. I’m going to sneak into Sassy’s room and check the heels of her shoes for dirt. Once I found out which ones she wore when she killed Gavin (my vote is for those insane boots), I can tell Clive which ones to get a warrant for. Easy peasy.
I thought of just stealing them and having Felonious work some magic to get them tested. I’m sure she has illegal access to a lab or lab people somewhere, even if it's in Moscow. Accomplished criminals like that girl have a network of other accomplished criminals. It’s the way of the criminal.
Or at least it is on television.
Surely real life can’t be that much different.
But, if I take the boots and get found out, they’d be inadmissible in court. At least I think so. Something about rotten fruit or a poison tree or something like that. Whatever it is, I doubt it’s worth the risk, and I’m not going to ask Liam for details because he will poo-poo my whole idea. For that reason, I’m sticking with just looking. As hard as that will be, I’m going to play this safe and smart.
For once.
But I have every intention of taking copious amounts of pictures. Maybe even bagging a sample or two, hence the zip lock baggies in the back pocket of my jeans.
Four minutes before I am supposed to leave, a knock sounds at my door. It’s a gruff pounding, which tells me precisely who has come to visit.
My heart does a little dance because, well, Liam. Hubba hubba.
However, I can’t really let him see me right now. He’s as familiar with my law-breaking attire as Beebee is. I’m wearing black from head to toe. It’s not exactly normal Lucky wear, especially not near Christmas when my clothing tends to get much more colorful and much, much more ridiculous.
I glance down at my feet and pull up the hem of my jeans. I see Santa peeking back at me from the 3D bug eyes sewn to my Christmas socks.
I couldn’t resist. Even on breaking-and-entering night.
“Answer the door, Lucky. I know you’re in there,” Liam growls from the porch.
“Uh, I can’t. I’m sick.”
I cringe at the lie. I hope it was short and sweet—and behind closed doors—enough to fool him. Liam has pointed out more than once that I’m a terrible liar.
I can’t disagree.
It’s not a bad trait to have unless you’re someone like me. Someone who needs to be able to fib believably from time to time to catch murderers or to keep oneself out of prison.
“Sick?”
He already sounds skeptical.
I cough for good measure.
Then moan a little.
“Yeah. Must’ve been something I ate.”
“Gave you an upset stomach?”
“Yeah.”
I moan again.
“And a cough?”
This is where a tiny alarm starts to sound in the back of my mind.
“Uh, yeah. Probably from thr
owing up.”
“Huh. Is that right?”
There’s a little cartoon character in my head, jumping out of a plane in his parachute, hollering in his miniature musical voice, “ABORT! ABORT! ABORT!”
“Yeah. Or maybe I’m catching a winter cold, too. I don’t know.”
“That’s a whole lot going on for someone who’s getting ready to break and enter. You sure you’re up for it?”
I make a face.
Dang it!
“Break and enter? What do you mean?”
“Oh, Lucky. When are you gonna learn?”
“Learn what?”
“You can’t fool me. I know how your mind works.”
“But do you know how my intestines work?”
Not the sexiest thing a girl can say to her boyfriend, but I’m grown up enough to admit that in twenty seconds or less, I’ve completely lost control of this conversation.
“Thankfully, no. Let me in, Lucky.”
I pause.
Maybe if I just keep still and quiet, he’ll go away and come back tomorrow.
“You do realize I know where your hide-a-key is, right?”
“Yes, but I gave it to Beebee.”
I did not, in fact, give it to Beebee.
“Then it’s a good thing I’m better at picking locks than you are.”
“Don’t come in here, Liam. I might be contagious.”
“I’ll happily spend Christmas week sick if it means I got it from a beautiful woman.”
“Did you just somehow compliment me alongside a vague reference to puking?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
I hear a soft rattle and he sounds distracted.
Liam Dunning is picking my lock.
With me sitting right here.
Healthy and hale and dressed for crime.
I get up and go to the door, yanking it open. Liam is leaned against the jam, arms crossed, ankles crossed, a smile on his gorgeous face, waiting.
I glance at the doorknob. There are no tools sticking out of it. No evidence he was picking it.
When I move my eyes up to his, I see that his are glistening in the low light and the edges of his lips are curled.
