by Vicki Batman
Table of Contents
Excerpt
Praise for Vicki Batman
Temporarily Out Of Luck
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
A word about the author…
Thank you for purchasing
Also available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Sometimes, I felt like a small white mouse housed in a cage with lots of small white mice, whose playground activities involved eating, sleeping, and continually revolving on the exercise wheel. Just like one rodent friend—who I named Mr. Happy-Go-Lucky, having a field day back-flipping from the top of the spinning wheel—something happened. Unexpectedly, I found myself airborne.
Not hurt, a sense of disappointment overcame me, plus a bit of confusion, and a whole lot of colorful adjectives too numerous to list. I, mostly known as Hattie Cooks, shook off the pine shavings and joined the rat race. Sometimes, life sucked.
But wallowing? Not a good solution.
Being positive? A better one.
In most cases, a pitstop was a good idea, and I found comfort in my chocolate stockpile. And in most cases, I found empty shelves, for I had little dough to supply my habit due to the loss of my adored job as an assistant buyer at Sommerville’s top-class department store, Tucker’s, and the subsequent low-paying temporary ones I reluctantly took in the interim. Due to the expenses of rent, food, utilities, budgeting became my new compadré. However, for my recent birthday, Mom suggested friends and family provide me with treats. They were generous—gifting lots and lots of my favorite M&Ms in vast colors and flavors.
Praise for Vicki Batman
“I loved it! A very entertaining and fast read that kept me engaged throughout. My only complaint is that now I’m craving M&Ms and enchiladas. And donuts. And wedding cake.”
~Diane Kelly, best-selling mystery author
~*~
“Hattie Cooks returns for more murder and mayhem in the third installment of the series for more laugh out loud and crazy moments. I love these books!”
~Michelle Miles, award-winning author
~*~
“Creative writing, quirky characters, sensual situations, and satisfying resolution to the mystery. Ms. Batman draws in the reader paragraph by paragraph and page by page, and you’ll enjoy every morsel.”
~Marsha R. West, bestselling author
~*~
“Great characters make this a ‘can’t put down’ cozy mastery.”
~Sylvia McDaniel, USA Today Bestselling Author
~*~
“Mix a little romance with a lot of comedy and you have me turning the pages with lightning speed.”
~Liz Lipperman, bestselling mystery author
~*~
“Buckle up for a rollicking, fun ride with a loveable, slightly wacky heroine, a hot hero, and a cast of inept shady characters.”
~Cara Marsi, award-winning author
Temporarily
Out of Luck
by
Vicki Batman
A Hattie Cooks Mystery
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Temporarily Out of Luck
COPYRIGHT © 2021 by Vicki Batman
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Debbie Taylor
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Crimson Rose Edition, 2021
Trade Paperback ISBN 978-1-5092-3337-3
Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-3338-0
A Hattie Cooks Mystery
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To Handsome: Every second, every minute,
every hour of every day.
~
To New Baby! I can’t wait to be your VB.
Chapter One
Sometimes, I felt like a small white mouse housed in a cage with lots of small white mice, whose playground activities involved eating, sleeping, and continually revolving on the exercise wheel. Just like one rodent friend—who I named Mr. Happy-Go-Lucky, having a field day back-flipping from the top of the spinning wheel—something happened. Unexpectedly, I found myself airborne.
Not hurt, a sense of disappointment overcame me, plus a bit of confusion, and a whole lot of colorful adjectives too numerous to list. I, mostly known as Hattie Cooks, shook off the pine shavings and joined the rat race. Sometimes, life sucked.
But wallowing? Not a good solution.
Being positive? A better one.
In most cases, a pitstop was a good idea, and I found comfort in my chocolate stockpile. And in most cases, I found empty shelves, for I had little dough to supply my habit due to the loss of my adored job as an assistant buyer at Sommerville’s top-class department store, Tucker’s, and the subsequent low-paying temporary ones I reluctantly took in the interim. Due to the expenses of rent, food, utilities, budgeting became my new compadré. However, for my recent birthday, Mom suggested friends and family provide me with treats. They were generous—gifting lots and lots of my favorite M&Ms in vast colors and flavors.
Mom’s idea totally rocked as the best birthday gift ever.
From outside my door, I heard Allan Wellborn smack the doorframe.
“You know how to find me.”
I roused from my ruminations and banged the back of my head against the door. The tone Allan used upset me. A headache pounded in my temples, and acid reflux climbed in my esophagus.
Yup, I did know how to find Allan Wellborn, hunky cop, brother of my grade-school best friend, and on occasion, my wanna-be boyfriend. Most days, I drove right past his townhome or the Sommerville Police station, where he worked as a detective. But I cruised by not in a creepy, stalking, devious manner. Just drove my normal, everyday, routine route.
“I’ve had enough of this…whatever it is…with the slamming the door thing, sweetheart,” he said.
Sweetheart? Snort.
“You need to face your fears. I came here hoping…things would be better between us. Since you aren’t talking, I feel…stupid. Adios.”
Not surprising, he expressed his dissatisfaction over our substandard reunion.
Because we had no reunion.
Because I told him, “No.”
I skimmed up the front door to squint through the peephole only to see him stomp toward his granite 4-Runner. I flattened my hands against the wooden surface and stared at his well-
formed body.
Allan yanked open the truck’s door and flung himself inside. He cranked over the engine.
With that, the man of few words, the one I really adored, departed. My soul cracked. God. Will we ever???
I set my hand to my chest, shaking my head. Even though I cared for him deeply, I said “no” for a very good reason. My heart nearly shattered in a bazillion pieces when Allan was shot. I blamed myself for the incident, even though someone else was the responsible party.
I hadn’t pulled the trigger.
Blonde Bimbo had. One hole drilled into his shoulder.
What Allan asked took a great deal of courage—to get lucky—although I understood he wanted us to explore the couple course. From firsthand experience, a whole lotta guts were required to ask the question ’cause several months back, I’d asked him to choose me.
After I had been nearly stabbed.
After I had determined he used me for information.
After we nearly had almost wild, almost sex.
Sex would have been good. Remembering, I set a finger to my lower lip, letting my mouth curve at the corners. Everybody knows sex is a good thing.
When I asked Allan to choose me over Blonde Bimbo, aka Cathy Bartholomew, he said no. This silly girl thought he meant we would carry on in our respective, separate lives. Only I didn’t understand he categorically meant he was undercover investigating-slash-dating her. Unbeknownst to anyone, my former Northside, Lancaster, and Brookside co-worker turned out to be crazy insane.
I could add a few other descriptive words.
Today, he returned, asking me to choose him, translated to “get lucky.” The kind of lucky where one howls at the moon and basks in the afterglow for all eternity.
No question I desired Allan. I did—badder than badly. Even now, just thinking about almost wild, almost sex made my girl parts squirmy and throb. But too many things happened recently, and I hadn’t—for lack of a better word—coped well. I wanted him in a normal-relationship way without people-trying-to-kill-us way.
Am I foolish to think that?
I crammed my fists into my temples, grinding them into my skin. Somehow, I missed a critical memo.
With a disgusted sigh, I turned and paced from the entry to the space in front of the television and back, pleating my forehead with my fingers. Most likely, I had blown it again. I didn’t know what to do. My life was up in the air. I felt…tossed aside…like the small white mouse.
My brains, scrambled like eggs, frustrated me. I pressed my backside to the door and slid to the floor. Propping an arm on my bent knee, I cradled my cheek. Part of me wanted to run after Allan and grab and start…something…somewhere. The past few months of on-again, off-again, on-again, off-again tortured me. Frankly, I deserved a rest like a month-long stay at an exclusive, five-star resort with a top-notch spa and attentive cabana boys ferrying champagne cocktails and high-quality chocolate.
Everyone knows champagne and chocolate cure everything.
Jenny Arbothnot, my BFF and roomie, popped out of her room. She evaporated when Allan showed and appropriated the M&Ms he included in his usual Get-Well gift bag shaped like a pot of flowers.
By the way she bounced on her toes, I knew her insides were hopping up and down while witnessing all firsthand. My friend had a running Big Top sideshow of “Romantic Encounters with Hattie and Allan,” showcased in the middle arena—the apartment we shared. However, we probably wouldn't be roommates much longer as Mr. Who-Uses-All-The-Hot-Water would more than likely be proposing soon.
Leaving me roommate-less for the second time in four years. Knowing I wouldn't have a job and the dough which came with one to support myself meant I had only one option left—to return to the intima parentes.
Pea-green nausea roiled in my tummy. No, thank you.
With her nearly finished bag of peanut candies in hand, Jenny sat alongside me, mimicking my pose. She didn’t utter a word, just tossed back a treat and munched.
I sent her a sideways glance.
“Harriet Lee Cooks, you should be ashamed of yourself.”
Feeling like a deadhead combined with her calm and measured tone of voice, I glared. “You sound like my mother. Hand over the chocolate or—”
Jenny popped another M&M in her mouth. “Or what?”
“D-I-E.”
She pressed her hands against her small bosom. “I'm so worried. How will you do me in? Arsenic?” Flattening her lips, she shook her head. “No, maybe strychnine? No—”
I leveled my finger in her face. “Be scared, my friend. I’ll think of something, something totally evil. Maybe rats.” I want to think the threatening note in my voice might have sounded intimidating because Jenny—willingly—passed the whole candy package.
With an arched brow, she studied me as if I would do something irrational.
Like I had anything irrational stockpiled. Nothing. I was dead-dog, bone tired.
Jenny grunted.
“You’re staring exactly the same way my mother does.”
“I feel like your mother. You’re lucky she isn’t here to pontificate on her favorite subject—Allan Wellborn, whom we all know and love as Mr. Saintly.” Her lip twitched. “Why would you do something so unbelievably stupid like sending Allan away?”
Stupid—the perfect descriptive for my relationship with him. I excelled at stupid.
After shaking the candy bag, I noted its lightness. I palmed the remaining crunchy crumbs. What I tasted…disappointing. Despite what the commercial stated, two or three treats and bits of coating crumbles would never be satisfying.
Standing, Jenny snatched the empty bag dangling from my fingertips, rolling it into a twist. She pointed the trash-shaped light saber in my direction. “He might throw in the towel and won’t come back. He did a few months ago. Look what happened then. Aren’t you worried he’ll hook up with another bimbo?”
I rested my forehead on my knees and murmured in my cave, “I don’t know what I was saying. I didn’t know having a relationship with Allan could be so difficult. College boy had been so easy. No killings, knifings, or shootings. Just plain ol’ fun…and handholding…and great sex. Why me?” I raised my head to find Jenny nodding. “I need to regroup.”
“Lots of people endorse regrouping. Wouldn’t hurt to think on it.”
Occasionally, Jenny supplied good advice.
My best buds, the Funsisters, supported me like real sisters. We shared all our naughty bits and good pieces. Ran to the rescue when needed. Friends for life. I could never live without Kellar, Trixie, and Maggie. They more than understood the emotional trauma I experienced over the last few months. I was stabbed by a crazy insane woman, and Allan was shot by a jealous, insane woman. Both insane people murdered other people.
Here was what I discovered—things like this—i.e., murder and mayhem—didn’t happen to everyday human beings in the big wide world.
Jenny pulled me to my feet, and I found my way to my secret hiding spot in the kitchen pantry—which most certainly would never be much of a secret—for more of my favorite cure-all. Funsister Maggie found an article stating chocolate held restorative and curative powers, and oh boy, did I consume my daily share to cure something. If nothing happened, I would chase the treat with my favorite soda. If nothing worked, I would order a pizza, fully loaded with Canadian bacon and crispy bacon. Doesn’t everyone think lots of cholesterol is a bonus?
When friends and family gifted me with my preferred chocolate treat on my birthday, I felt my heart flower with trills of delight. Mom would’ve never given me vast quantities of chocolate when I was a kid. Not ever-ever. She confiscated our Halloween chocolate and repeated lectures about developing diabetes or cavities. However, her birthday surprise lacked variety and, frankly, could be on the verge of boring.
Snagging an unopened bag, I propped a hip against the kitchen counter and munched on a few candies, not tasting them. While I pondered my next move, I passed the package to Jenny, who dumped her trash and
observed me. Perhaps, she believed eloquent words would spill from my lips, but she would have been wrong. My ability to speak had dissolved.
She poured a handful of rainbow gems in her palm, then chucked the package on the countertop. “I think I’ll go read our book for book club. Although the heroine is batty, she’s getting more sex than you.” She pushed off the counter and disappeared down the hall.
Great. You do that. Abandon me in my hour of need. Jenny and I belonged to a book club with our Funsister friends. For our next meeting, Jenny submersed herself in our selection, which featured a wacky girl’s pitiful attempts to solve a mystery.
The character could take a few pointers from me—mostly on the lack of orgasm part.
Taking the yellow candy bag to the living area, I flopped on the khaki couch and, out of habit, powered on the television. I surfed through some channels, but no program captured my attention, not even a new episode of a home improvement show I regularly viewed. I landed on a local network, my attention diverted with the highly rated program, Celebrity Corner, which dished gossip morsels about Sommerville citizens.
“Breaking news: For all you ladies who seek a wealthy stunner of a local heart-throb”—the red-headed anchor leaned forward and shook her curly head—“he's no more. Jonson Leggett the Third is officially off the market.”
Choking, I sat upright and suppressed the urge to regurgitate a hairball, like the one Allan’s cat, Lucky, produced after a grooming session. Did she say Jonson Legett the Third? Not him.
“You heard it here first.” The reporter looked at her co-host. “Well, rats for me.”
“Rats is right. However, the bride-to-be is a former beauty pageant contestant. She’s tough competition.” The male anchor adjusted his tortoiseshell glasses as he rotated to face the camera.
To the left of the program host, a window appeared with a picture of the newly engaged couple surrounded by her parents. Beams of love, similar to colorful rays of sunlight after a thunderstorm, radiated from her body. A close-up of her with a tiara anchored on her head followed.
Did they post a photo of Jonson’s family? No way, but not shocking. Based on what I knew of his past, he probably murdered them or spent all their money, and then murdered them.
