Lethal Lifestyles (A Headlines in High Heels Mystery Book 6)

by LynDee Walker

  I sprinted through the building, flinging the front door into the rustic log wall behind it as I plowed toward the source of the sound. Please, God, not another body. Who could pull off a wedding if people kept dropping like characters in a George R.R. Martin novel?

  Another shriek split the still morning, and this time I could make out voices to go with it. My wedges skidded on the rocks when I rounded the back end of a whole line of pickups to find the redhead who ran the vineyard’s retail store staring openmouthed at a tall blond guy in a navy t-shirt and straw cowboy hat. I pulled up short.

  What? Did he steal something?

  Then she moved to one side, finding her words and shouting “What is the matter with you?” at the same time I caught a glimpse of Captain Cowboy’s bare ass. Judging from the position of his arms, he was peeing. Not even trying to hide it either, Wranglers bunched around his knees as they were. Right out in the parking lot in broad daylight.

  Classy.

  I could say one thing for Mitch Burke’s unfortunate demise: It made me way less panicked at the sight of a half-naked guy relieving himself outside Mel’s bridal luncheon. This mess, I could handle.

  I directed my eyes at the sky and cleared my throat as I walked toward them, the gravel crunching under my feet. “Can I maybe be of some assistance here?” I asked.

  She whirled to face me, and he continued to ignore the both of us. The closer I got, the more clearly I could hear the sound of liquid hitting rocks.

  “I…he…what…” The store manager—I searched my memory for her name and came up with Celia—spluttered as she turned to face me. “It’s like he doesn’t even hear me!”

  I nodded, pasting a smile in place and trying not to laugh at the sheer absurdity of the whole thing. “I thought the property was closed for the event this weekend.”

  “It is,” she spat through gritted teeth. “If I could get Jimmy Dugan here’s attention, I could tell him that.”

  That was all it took. I folded my lips between my teeth to try to keep in it. Fail. Peals of laughter rolled out of me and I doubled over, hands braced on my bare knees, trying to hold myself upright as she stomped a foot and continued to rant while dude went about his rather inappropriate and gross business. He must’ve had a bladder the size of a 747’s fuel tank.

  “This is not funny,” Celia barked.

  I struggled to stand up, fighting to catch my breath and wiping at the first welcome tears that had welled in my eyes all weekend. “It kind of is,” I choked out.

  “Not. Not not not.” She stomped again on each word, spinning back to the source of her frustration. “Sir, I’m very sorry for the inconvenience,” her tone said she was not the least bit sorry, “but I’m going to have to ask you to return another day. We have a private event on the property this weekend.”

  I bit my lip, spurts of laughter still shaking my shoulders as he hitched his jeans back up. I heard the zipper close, and she leaned forward and touched his shoulder. “Ex. Cuse. Me.” Her voice went up an octave.

  He turned, the movements jerky and unsteady, arching an eyebrow at her. “I heard you, darlin’. But it’s rude to interrupt a fella while he’s taking care of business. Against the bro code.”

  Oh, holy hell.

  The slur in the words told me he probably ought not be standing, and the chiseled features and green eyes that should be brighter out from under the influence told me he was related to Parker. One of the cousins he’d seemed so lukewarm about having in the wedding party?

  Maybe this was why.

  I scurried forward and laid a restraining hand on Celia’s arm. “Pretty sure he’s kin to the groom,” I muttered under my breath.

  She froze for a split second, her head swiveling between the two of us.

  “See it?” I asked.

  “Good Heavens,” she whispered.

  “I got it,” I said, stepping forward. “You must be one of Parker’s cousins.” I started to offer a hand to shake out of habit, then let it drop back to my side, because…ew.

  He nodded, the motion throwing his balance off such that he grabbed for the side of the truck bed to steady himself. “I’m Bubba. Thas’ what everyone calls me. Hey—” He blinked slowly, his face pinching as he studied his knuckles. “How’d y’all get a pickup into your bathroom, anyhow?” he asked in Parker’s Virginia drawl on steroids.

  I coughed over a giggle and lowered my voice to a stage whisper. “They didn’t. You’re kind of in the parking lot.”

  Bubba raised his head and looked around slowly, blinking up at the bright spring sky. When his eyes met mine, and jumped from there to Celia’s still-pissed tight lips, his face went red under his tan. “No.” He shook his head, gripping the edge of the truck bed tighter.

  “Bubba—how did you get here?” I asked. I’d covered enough drunk driving catastrophes to know there was roughly a blizzard’s chance in Hell he’d driven—the fences were all intact and every car in the lot was parked perfectly.

  “My brothers.” He scrubbed at his glassy eyes with his free fist. “We had a lil’ too much fun last night. I fell asleep in the truck. They got me up and told me I was in the can. Um. ’Scuse me, ladies. Restroom.” His eyes fell shut. “I hope they’ve enjoyed their lives. As soon as I only see one of ’em, they’re dead meat.”

  One—he was still this wasted from last night? Wow.

  Two—I smelled more trouble than I needed if the Parker cousins were pranksters. And I had enough on my plate without having to break up a fistfight among the groomsmen.

  I put one hand under his elbow and helped him take a couple of steps away from the truck, shooting Celia a glance. “Why don’t we see if we can find some coffee? Maybe a couple of espresso shots? And a great big glass of water.” She nodded and strode off toward the lodge.

  I turned back to Bubba. “How’s your stomach? Could you eat something?”

  He slammed a hand down on a midsection worthy of an Abs of Steel cover from the sound when his palm hit it. “Cast iron,” he said. “Haven’t puked from drinking since I’s sixteen.”

  Perfect. I led him inside and seated him at a small table in the lobby, fetching a bottle of hand sanitizer from the bathroom. I checked the clock as he scrubbed it into his palms. Ninety minutes until the luncheon was scheduled to begin. No problem.

  Telling Bubba to stay, I rushed to the kitchen. A large spatula-wielding man lifted big-as-your-face chocolate chip cookies that smelled like Heaven off a baking sheet, moving them to a counter-sized cooling rack. “Could I bother you for a couple of pieces of bread?” I asked. “One of the groomsmen is still plastered from last night.”

  He grunted, turning to the fridge before he set about mixing the contents of several different bottles into a glass, finishing with a splash of red wine. He handed me the concoction, lifting bushy brows and nodding. “Bread before liquor helps body process slower. After, doesn’t help so much. This will cure hangover.” His accent sounded Eastern European, his voice gruff. I eyed the glass, waving it under my nose and sniffing. We were about to test that cast-iron stomach theory.

  “It will work,” the cook said. “My grandfather’s recipe. Old Russian men, too much vodka—we know how to cure hangover.”

  I wasn’t sure Bubba had reached the hangover part of the program yet. “Those cookies smell like they’re worth every second they’ll cost me in the gym.”

  “Food is pleasure. Life. Not tradeoff for minutes on treadmill.” He rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Women. But da, cookies are good.”

  “Can’t wait.” I smiled over my shoulder and scurried back to Bubba, setting the glass in front of him. “The cook says this’ll have you feeling better in no time.”

  He raised his head from its position on the tabletop and blinked. “I don’t think I’ll feel better before Monday, at the earliest.”

  “That’s not acceptable,” I said. “I have a wedding rehearsal that needs your full and sober attention before then.”

  “Booger’s goin
g to kill me,” Bubba groaned, dropping his head into his hands. “Damn you to hell, Budweiser.”

  I stayed stuck on the first word. “Who?”

  “Booger. Y’know—Grant.” The words were muffled by his fingers.

  I snorted, swallowing a giggle. “You…you call Parker ‘Booger?’”

  “Been his nickname since he was four.”

  “Why?”

  “Why d’you think?”

  My attempt to hold back laughter sent me into a coughing fit.

  I got a deep breath and cleared my throat. “Drink up, Bubba.”

  Celia appeared with coffee and ice water.

  “There. Have the shot there, then chase it with the coffee to cover the taste.” I pushed the glass and the coffee cup toward him. He rolled his hazy eyes and picked up the cook’s home-brewed hangover cure. Pinching his nose like a grade-schooler, he tipped his head back and poured it down his throat. He turned a dull green for about three seconds, then coughed. I stepped backward.

  Bubba shook his head and blinked hard. “Damn, that burns.” He grabbed the coffee cup and swallowed the contents in one gulp. “And it’s gross too.”

  He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes, and I turned to Celia. “Your cook swears that’ll make him better.”

  “If anyone would know, it’s Alexei. He’s not the world’s most pleasant guy, but he’s an absolute genius in the kitchen.”

  “The food did smell fantastic.”

  “It tastes better.” She smiled, shooting a glance at Bubba. “What do we do with him?”

  “Leave him there for now. Have you seen or heard the brothers he mentioned?”

  “Everyone who arrived this morning is on a tour of the vineyard. Melanie and Grant scheduled a wine tasting for just before lunch.”

  “Yeah, he can skip that.”

  She nodded. “Thank you for your help. This weekend is testing my limits. First Mitch, and then this…Wow.”

  My ears keyed on her use of the victim’s first name. That implied familiarity. Celia kept her eyes on the floor, the curtain of her long auburn hair obscuring her face.

  I kept my voice soft. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “We were engaged.” She raised her head, and my eyes popped wide, Hulk’s allusion that Burke was a player floating through my thoughts. “But it…It didn’t work out. So weird to think I’ll never see him again.”

  An ex-fiancé? I bit the inside of my cheek to check the questions that wanted to spew out of my mouth. Slow and easy.

  “I can’t imagine how hard that must be,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”

  She focused on something over my left shoulder for a long enough minute to stretch the silence to awkward territory, then shook her head and flashed a bright smile. “Thanks. But I’m okay. Let’s go find your friends, shall we?”

  I nodded, noting the soft snore that came from Bubba as she turned for the door. Good. Hopefully he’d sleep it off and forget he was pissed at his brothers. Following Celia, I tossed a glance at the wall she’d been so focused on.

  It held a big picture window that overlooked the barn where the body was found.

  Before I could figure out what to ask her next, a pair of sharp cracks that sounded an awful lot like gunfire came from the direction of the field.

  10.

  Heroes

  Bubba let out a loud snore behind me as my violet eyes met Celia’s gray ones. Everything seemed to freeze for a few seconds before she clapped a hand over her mouth and shook her head. “That can’t be—”

  I didn’t let her get the rest of the words out, thankful for the wider heel on my wedges as I sprinted for the field.

  She said the bridal party was taking a tour of the vineyard. My brain played a silent prayer for everyone’s safety on a loop, but I couldn’t help hoping the nut job who stuffed Burke in the wine barrel had just been unmasked.

  I reached the end of the rows of grapevines, stuck for where to go. No noise, save for the birds. Looking around, I spied Sammons’s overgrown pickup, three golf carts with Calais logos lined up behind it. That way.

  Pausing at the back end of the golf carts, I let my eyes fall shut and listened.

  Low voices. I kept my eyes closed, spinning slowly in the direction of the sound. Opening them, I faced a long row of vines that dropped out of sight down a hill.

  If what I’d heard was gunfire, charging up into the middle of it wasn’t the best idea.

  My heart had to be chipping a rib or two with its pounding as I reached the top of the hill and peered down.

  Jiminy Choos. A stocky man with jeans, boots, a hat, and a gun that might’ve been taller than him faced off with Sammons—and most of our wedding party. Including the groom.

  What the ever-loving hell was going on around this place? Suddenly, the beautiful setting was way less appealing than a nice safe day at the courthouse. At least all the criminals there were handcuffed.

  The Rifleman’s back was to me.

  I pulled my phone out and dialed 911, leaving the line connected as I slid it back into my pocket and crept forward, pushing up on tiptoe to keep my heels from crackling over anything.

  Parker’s wide green eyes landed on me, going a touch wider. I gestured to the little cowboy with the big gun. “Get him talking,” I mouthed. The guy was probably six inches shorter than me, and unless he was hiding muscles somewhere, a well-placed ap’chagi kick would land him on his face. I sent a silent thank you heavenward for my daily body combat classes, still moving slowly. Edging into earshot, I froze when I heard Sammons’s name, my eyes flicking to the gun. Dude wasn’t aiming at the group in general—he had his Winchester leveled at Sammons’s midsection.

  Not that I wanted anyone to get shot, but I couldn’t help the leap from oh-shit-please-no to what-the-hell-is-this-guy-into. I took another half step forward.

  “You’re a cheat, a thief, and a liar,” he shouted. “Admit it! Admit you stole from me!”

  Sammons blinked, took a slightly exaggerated look around, and tipped his head to one side. “If I do, will you put that thing down and stop this foolishness?”

  “I want you to say it where everyone can hear you.” He jiggled the shotgun. “Especially the sheriff.”

  “The sheriff’s not here.” Sammons’s voice was calm.

  My hand went to my pocket. Not yet, anyway.

  Like I’d cued them up, sirens floated on the breeze.

  “Say it, you thieving bastard.” The words were nearly too low to make out, a chill dropping into his tone that sent goosebumps up on my arms even in the warm May breeze.

  Stole what? my inner Lois Lane whispered.

  There’d be time to figure that out after nobody got shot.

  Parker’s emerald eyes darted between the two men, and I read his look like a spread in Spring Vogue.

  He wanted to be a hero.

  But behind that was a blaze of curiosity. He also wanted to know what this guy was talking about.

  He already thought Sammons might be shady.

  Fascinating.

  I tried to catch Parker’s gaze again, but he was laser-focused on the men in front of him. I crept another two steps forward when Cowboy cocked the rifle. “Last chance,” he told Sammons.

  Sammons dropped his hands to his sides. “Fine,” he muttered, before he looked around at the group, interested eyes lighting on me for the first time. “I stole from you, Leroy. Is that what you want everyone to think?”

  Leroy let out a scream of frustration and stabbed the business end of the gun into Sammons’s gut.

  “I want everyone to know just exactly what kind of man you are, you miserable…” He let the words trail into silence, shaking his head. “Your daddy would be ashamed.”

  Sammons, doubled over from the blow, raised his head, unmistakable rage in his eyes. His voice shook with it when he spoke. “I’ve made this place twice as successful in seven years as my father did in twenty.”

  “By cheating. You never were
fit to clean his boots.”

  And then everything happened at once.

  Sammons crouched and moved to spring at Leroy, who raised the gun, just as Parker leapt into the middle, his eyes on Sammons.

  Doors slammed.

  Running footfalls crested the hill.

  “Police! Freeze!” came from behind me, and I knew without looking the sheriff and his deputies were coming in guns drawn. On a normal day, I’d have eaten the dirt, hands over my head in case everyone went batshit and started shooting.

  I covered crime for a living. It wasn’t unheard of.

  But in that split second, Parker had every last bit of my attention, flying toward Sammons as Leroy’s head twisted toward the sheriff, his eyes going wide when he saw me.

  A roar rang from the end of the rifle as Parker tackled Sammons, who hit the ground with an audible “oof.”

  I landed on my ass when the sheriff shoved me aside in his haste to get to Leroy. He snatched the gun and whapped Leroy with the stock.

  “Dammit, I told you to leave this be,” he bellowed. “This. Is. Not. The answer. Why don’t people listen? Is anyone hit, Reasoner?”

  The words were garbled, like they’d come through a bad speaker, the bolt of pain in my tailbone ignored as my eyes scanned the commotion.

  Was anyone hit?

  Oh, God.

  I blinked hard. Couldn’t be.

  Except it was.

  I scrambled up on my knees to crawl toward Parker, a scream ripping from my throat as a dark stain seeped across his sky-colored polo.

  No.

  No. Nonono.

  Even as I located the wound on Parker’s shoulder, my brain refused to process the possibility. I’d seen more than anyone’s share of violence, but Parker…

  Parker was part of my happy zone. Funny. Friendly. Loyal. And safe. He worked in the newsroom and the press box at the ballpark.

  Where shit like this did not happen.

  Laying my right hand over my left, I laced my fingers together and pressed over the rip in his shirt at the center of the bloodstain.

  Shouting. Crying.