A woman wants to find her missing sister. That should be easy for an experienced PI like Micky Knight. Until the woman—or someone who looks like her—ends up in the morgue. Micky finds herself in a tangled mess, not knowing who the real victim is, or how her name keeps coming up in places it shouldn’t. Like newly minted Realtor Karen Holloway’s house sale papers, as the contact for another missing buyer, one who looks a lot like Micky’s client. The same woman? The sister?
Micky has to uncover what the game is and who’s playing. Because the stakes are murder.
Acclaim for J.M. Redmann’s Micky Knight Series
Girl on the Edge of Summer
“Excellent storytelling and a brilliant character. This is one of only a few series where I reread all the books when a new one comes out… FIVE STARS and recommended if you like crime fiction with a heart—you may fall for Micky too.”—Planet Nation
“The two mysteries themselves are interesting and have twists and turns to keep the reader entertained, and there are the usual fast-paced dangerous scenes…Overall, an entertaining read charged with action.”—Lez Review Books
“We get to enjoy some well-plotted mysteries, some life-and-death rescues, and some despicably seedy characters. Redmann works through her action scenes with precision and balance, never letting them drag or sputter. The YA characters here are also well-drawn. They sound like teenagers, not forty-year-olds, and they act age appropriately as well. But at the heart of it all is Mickey–mostly smart (but sometimes stupid), looking forward without forgetting her past, and trying to reassemble her life with some bent and abraded puzzle pieces.”—Out in Print
Ill Will
Lambda Literary Award Winner
Foreword Magazine Honorable Mention
“Ill Will is fast-paced, well-plotted, and peopled with great characters. Redmann’s dialogue is, as usual, marvelous. To top it off, you get an unexpected twist at the end. Please join me in hoping that book number eight is well underway.”—Lambda Literary Review
“Ill Will is a solidly plotted, strongly character-driven mystery that is well paced.”—Mysterious Reviews
Water Mark
Foreword Magazine Gold Medal Winner
Golden Crown Literary Award Winner
“Water Mark is a rich, deep novel filled with humor and pathos. Its exciting plot keeps the pages flying, while it shows that long after a front page story has ceased to exist, even in the back sections of the newspaper, it remains very real to those whose lives it touched. This is another great read from a fine author.”—Just About Write
Death of a Dying Man
Lambda Literary Award Winner
“Like other books in the series, Redmann’s pacing is sharp, her sense of place acute and her characters well crafted. The story has a definite edge, raising some discomfiting questions about the selfishly unsavory way some gay men and lesbians live their lives and what the consequences of that behavior can be. Redmann isn’t all edge, however—she’s got plenty of sass. Knight is funny, her relationship with Cordelia is believably long-term-lover sexy and little details of both the characters’ lives and New Orleans give the atmosphere heft.”—Lambda Book Report
“As the investigation continues and Micky’s personal dramas rage, a big storm is brewing. Redmann, whose day job is with NO/AIDS, gets the Hurricane Katrina evacuation just right—at times she brought tears to my eyes. An unsettled Micky searches for friends and does her work as she constantly grieves for her beloved city.”—New Orleans Times-Picayune
The Intersection of Law and Desire
Lambda Literary Award Winner
San Francisco Chronicle Editor’s Choice for the year
Profiled on Fresh Air, hosted by Terry Gross, and selected for book reviewer Maureen Corrigan’s recommended holiday book list.
“Superbly crafted, multi-layered…One of the most hard-boiled and complex female detectives in print today.”—San Francisco Chronicle (An Editor’s Choice selection for 1995)
“Fine, hard-boiled tale-telling.”—Washington Post Book World
“An edge-of-the-seat, action-packed New Orleans adventure…Micky Knight is a fast-moving, fearless, fascinating character…The Intersection of Law and Desire will win Redmann lots more fans.”—New Orleans Times-Picayune
“Crackling with tension…an uncommonly rich book…Redmann has the making of a landmark series.”—Kirkus Review
“Perceptive, sensitive prose; in-depth characterization; and pensive, wry wit add up to a memorable and compelling read.”—Library Journal
“Powerful and page turning…A rip-roaring read, as randy as it is reflective…Micky Knight is a to-die-for creation…a Cajun firebrand with the proverbial quick wit, fast tongue, and heavy heart.”—Lambda Book Report
Lost Daughters
“A sophisticated, funny, plot-driven, character-laden murder mystery set in New Orleans…as tightly plotted a page-turner as they come…One of the pleasures of Lost Daughters is its highly accurate portrayal of the real work of private detection—a standout accomplishment in the usually sloppily conjectured world of thriller-killer fiction. Redmann has a firm grasp of both the techniques and the emotions of real-life cases—in this instance, why people decide to search for their relatives, why people don’t, what they fear finding and losing…and Knight is a competent, tightly wound, sardonic, passionate detective with a keen eye for detail and a spine made of steel.”—San Francisco Chronicle
“Redmann’s Micky Knight series just gets better…For finely delineated characters, unerring timing, and page-turning action, Redmann deserves the widest possible audience.”—Booklist, starred review
“Like fine wine, J.M. Redmann’s private eye has developed interesting depths and nuances with age…Redmann continues to write some of the fastest –moving action scenes in the business…In Lost Daughters, Redmann has found a winning combination of action and emotion that should attract new fans—both gay and straight—in droves.”—New Orleans Times Picayune
“…tastefully sexy…”—USA Today
“An admirable, tough PI with an eye for detail and the courage, finally, to confront her own fear. Recommended.”—Library Journal
“The best mysteries are character-driven and still have great moments of atmosphere and a tightly wound plot. J.M. Redmann succeeds on all three counts in this story of a smart lesbian private eye who unravels the fascinating evidence in a string of bizarre cases, involving missing children, grisly mutilations, and a runaway teen driven from her own home because she is gay.”—Outsmart
Not Dead Enough
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Not Dead Enough
© 2019 By J.M. Redmann. All Rights Reserved.
ISBN 13: 978-1-63555-544-8
This Electronic Original Is Published By
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P.O. Box 249
Valley Falls, NY 12185
First Edition: November 2019
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Credits
Editors: Greg Herren and Stacia Seaman
Production Design: Stacia Seaman
Cover Design by Sheri (hindsightgraphics@gmail.
com)
By the Author
The Micky Knight Mystery Series:
Death by the Riverside
Deaths of Jocasta
The Intersection of Law and Desire
Lost Daughters
Death of a Dying Man
Water Mark
Ill Will
The Shoal of Time
The Girl on the Edge of Summer
Not Dead Enough
Women of the Mean Streets: Lesbian Noir
edited with Greg Herren
Men of the Mean Streets: Gay Noir
edited with Greg Herren
Night Shadows: Queer Horror
edited with Greg Herren
As R. Jean Reid, the Nell McGraw mystery series
Roots of Murder
Perdition
Acknowledgments
Writing a book isn’t as easy as reading one. There are times I’d really prefer to be doing the latter. Especially when I come home from the day job of staring at a computer screen for most of the day and I’m tired and want nothing more than to turn my brain off, pour a glass of wine (okay, Scotch in the winter, vodka in the summer) and read a book instead of writing one. Sometimes that does happen. But really only Monday through Friday. Then I remember the world of friends and readers this life has given me and get back to writing.
My writer friends, all of us who struggle to get the words on the page amidst everything else life throws at us. Greg, Carsen, Ali, Anne, VK, ’Nathan, Jeffrey, Rob, Fay, Isabella, Dorothy, Jewelle, Ellen, and I know I’m forgetting some of y’all. You keep me sane, or as close to it as I’m likely to get. Also thanks to the authors who started so many of us on this journey and have been kind and generous to me, Ellen Hart, Katherine V. Forrest, Barbara Wilson, Dorothy Allison, Jewelle Gomez, and so many others.
I also need to thank the generous folks who have willingly supported my day job at CrescentCare, NO/AIDS Task Force by donating because I used a name of their choosing in the book. The support is greatly appreciated, and it really helps me come up with names. I hope you don’t mind being all the murder victims. Kidding. No spoilers here.
A major thanks to Greg Herren for his editorial work and his calm demeanor, especially about those pesky deadlines.
Mr. Squeaky and Arnold because I’m a lesbian and we have to thank our cats. My partner, Gillian, who is better about the litter boxes than I am (also she’s home more, just sayin’) and that we can spend days at our respective computers working on our respective books. She makes me appreciate not having to do footnotes and an index.
There are many people at my day job who are greatly understanding about the writing career. Noel, our CEO, Reg, our COO and my boss for letting me run off to do book things. My staff is great and makes my job easy enough that I have time to write—Narquis, Joey, Lauren, Allison, and all the members of the Prevention Department. I would love to be able to write full time, but since I have to have a real job, I’m very lucky to have this one.
Also huge thanks to Rad for making Bold Strokes what it is. Ruth, Connie, Shelley, Sandy, Stacia, and Cindy for all their hard work behind the scenes and everyone at BSB for being such a great and supportive publishing house.
To all the women who dared to ignore society’s conventions and be themselves, to love who they wished to love.
Who left words behind as proof and gave us a place in history. Sappho, Anne Lister, Annie Hindle, and so many others.
Chapter One
Snakes.
Have I told you I hate snakes? Make that motherfucking snakes. Or anything fucking snakes. Yeah, I don’t generally use that kind of language in public, but that was the kind of mood I was in.
It had already been an annoying day. The only messages when I got to work were three all asking/not really asking if they could pay their bill a little later. Sure, pal, if you can arrange for the bank to take its time about my mortgage. Just around lunch, a potential client dropped in. I try to discourage drop-ins. There are people I can’t (or won’t) help, and it’s so much easier to tell them over the phone. Even if they get pissy, they can’t complain about the drive down here. Or be close enough to throw something in my direction.
But Mrs. Aimee Smyth had dropped in just as my stomach was starting to truly growl.
She was too well dressed for the weather, especially this time of day and this mission, a raw silk suit in a tropical turquoise, crisp white shirt, linen, I guessed. Jewelry that hung off every possible appendage, mostly gold with stones that tried but didn’t quite succeed in matching her suit. All expensive, not very tasteful. She might have been dressed for a long lunch at Commander’s Palace, but not a last day of July jaunt down to my neighborhood. The humidity made steam baths seem chilly. The last three days had been downpours of afternoon thundershowers. Today’s sun added all that wet back to the air.
I was wearing a light blue V-neck T-shirt and off-white lightweight cotton pants, and I felt overdressed for the weather.
Seeing her in a long-sleeved shirt with a jacket over it made me itch.
She wasn’t pulling it off either. There are some women who seem impervious to heat. They might glow a little on the worst days of August but are always perfectly put out, hair and makeup in place. Aimee Smyth wasn’t one of those. Her makeup was starting to slide down her face, her hair too much unruly frizz to be the latest hairstyle.
She was trying too hard, and that always worries me in a client.
She wanted me to find her missing sister. A vague family feud, they’d lost touch. Now she wanted to find her.
“Why now?” I asked.
“It’s time. We’ve been apart for too long,” was her answer.
Lies are vague. Truth has sharp points that are jagged, that don’t always make sense. A friend passed away, a cousin reconnected with a long-lost friend, my dog died—something usually triggers the search. Not just a vague notice of time.
She’d written a personal check from an out-of-state bank.
She also hadn’t given me much. Her putative sister was named Sally Brand. Her maiden name, so presumably Smyth was Aimee’s married name, although the one missing piece of jewelry was a band on her left hand. Aimee didn’t know if she’d married or not, thought she’d probably stayed in the South, maybe the New Orleans area—again with only the vaguest of reasons.
Aimee was from Atlanta and was only going to be in town for a few days. She’d appreciate it if I could do this as quickly as possible.
“Why me?” I asked.
She was too ready for the question. “You were recommended,” she answered.
She couldn’t remember by whom.
I said yes. Summer is slow. The “can’t pay the bill now” people were piling up. But I wasn’t going to do a lot of work on the case until the check cleared.
After lunch—some leftover shrimp thrown on a salad—I started the case by looking her up.
Or trying to. Aimee Smyth should be just uncommon enough for me to find something. And just common enough to be confusing. I found more than enough A. Smyths and Smiths in the Atlanta area to be unhelpful. But no specific Aimee Smyth.
I even called the bank on the check, but they seemed to do Eastern time zone early closing, as no one answered the phone.
If I couldn’t find the Aimee who had been sitting in my office, it was unlikely I’d find the long-missing sister.
That had eaten up most of the rest of the day. I’d stayed later than I’d planned, doing “just one more” internet search, until I noticed the sun tucking behind clouds. A variation in our weather—thunderstorms in the evening instead of the afternoon.
So now, standing in front of my home, it was just dark, long shadows from the rain-smeared streetlights.
And I was staring at a snake.
Okay, a poster of one, its flickering tongue pointed in my direction. “Lost python” with a big picture of the missing snake.
I looked at the bushes next to my entrance steps. Dense, perfect for hiding a snake. I liv
e in a city, thank you very much, a mere two blocks from the French Quarter, and I can see the tall towers of the CBD from the small deck off the upstairs. Urban means no snakes should be lurking in bushes I had to walk past.
As I paused to glare at the shadows, looking for anything long and sinuous, I could feel the sweat drip down my nose. The dusk was still too new to get rid of the heat the sun had left, adding only humidity. Perfect snake weather.
Fucking snakes, I grumbled, then charged up my stairs, jammed my key in—missing twice, enough times to make me mutter “fuck” out loud again, before finally getting it in and the door open and slamming it louder than I’d intended as I closed it.
I tossed my briefcase, and gym bag, left over from good intentions of the morning that weren’t carried out, on the chair I cleared off only when company came over.
It hadn’t been cleaned in a month.
Then to the kitchen where I filled a go-cup with ice (Muses, I’m classy like that) then water and chugged half of it down.
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