by Chassie West
Acknowledgments
No matter how often it seems that writing a book is a solitary endeavor, especially when faced with that blank monitor screen and a brain completely absent of intelligent thought, quite the opposite is true. So . . .
Many thanks to the members of my critique group for the spark of inspiration they’ve ignited in me every other Thursday for the last thirty years—Ruth Glick, Randi Dufresne, Patricia Paris, Binnie Braunstein, Nancy Baggett, Joanne Settel, Linda Williams, Kathryn Johnson, Joyce Braga, Cronshi Englander, and Marcia Mazur (in absentia).
To Joyce Varney Thompson, mentor and guide, whose belief in me started it all, my eternal gratitude.
To constant friends, old and new—Maggie Sands, Farris Forsythe, Elaine Flinn, Jean Favors, Dr. Ann Yvette Eastman Ellison Tyler Bynum (whew!), Tex Gathings, and the indomitable Ches Applewhite, proofreader extraordinaire, you’ve kept me going through good times and bad.
And to the TeaBuds, in a category all to themselves and as dear as family, purple rules!
And to Carolyn Marino, my editor, friend, fellow N.C. barbecue lover, and Ellen Geiger, my agent, who goads with such a gentle hand, life would be far less fulfilling without you.
And to Bob, peeking over my shoulder from the Other Side, all my love.
And to you, dear readers, who make every single lonely, frustrating, agonizing moment in front of the computer worth the effort, thank you, thank you, thank you!
Chassie
Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
The World of Chassie West
Killer Riches
Killing Kin - Edgar® and Anthony Award Nominee
Sunrise - Edgar® Award Nominee
Praise for the Novels of Chassie West
By Chassie West
Copyright
About the Publisher
1
IT’S ALWAYS THE SAME, A SENSITIVITY AT THE base of my neck, as if there’s a stiff label back there irritating my skin. Whenever it happens, it always means the same thing: trouble. And any time I’ve ignored it, I’ve eventually paid for it in one way or another. So over the years, I’ve learned: when you get the message, kiddo, pay attention! Unfortunately, my wedding, as simple as it was supposed to be, had reduced me to a blithering idiot. How people with megadollar budgets and seven-page guest lists do it is beyond me. In other words, I was distracted, and as a result, wasn’t paying attention to The Itch. And I paid for it. Big time. So did others, and I have only myself to blame.
I’m still not sure when the prickling began, but I can damned sure mark in red the day I finally realized it was there. December 6. Even then, it took a couple of incidents before I connected the dots. I can be forgiven for not recognizing the first of them that day. After all, it was snowing. If you live in Washington, D.C., you accept the fact that a mere prediction of snow will be greeted with the same degree of panic as an impending nuclear attack. God forbid if the white stuff sneaks up on the city unexpectedly. People drive as if the devil himself is pursuing them, horns and tail a-twitch. And if you’re unlucky enough to be a pedestrian, you’re on your own, because traffic signals and “Walk” and “Don’t Walk” signs become purely decorative to those behind the wheel. Which is why I didn’t take it personally when the old tan compact swooshed by close enough for me to warrant checking to see if it had left a streak of rust across my backside.
“Dag, lady.” A twenty-something unlocking his car gave me a wide-eyed stare as I reached the sanctuary of the sidewalk. “You all right? She almost cleaned your clock.”
I leaned against a lamppost and took stock, my heart skipping double Dutch. “Well, I’m still ticking, so I guess there’s no harm done.”
At least not physically. I had to admit, however, that the moment I’d spotted the compact barreling down on me, I’d flashed back to the last time I’d found myself a walking target, on that occasion the target of a drunk driver. In trying to get out of his way, I’d collided with a fire hydrant, making mincemeat of my knee and, as a result, my career as a D.C. cop. This time there hadn’t been any—time to get out of the way, that is. It was pure luck she’d missed me. Another inch toward her right and I’d have been an inch on the Washington Post obit page: Leigh A. Warren, thirty-three, victim of a hit-and-run. Because I knew without a shadow of a doubt that the driver would have kept right on going. Her excuse? Hey, it was snowing!
Turning to look back, I tried to reconstruct the incident. She might not have been able to see me before she’d made that left turn, thanks to a double-parked truck at the end of the block—except that I’d been two-thirds of the way across and should have been visible after she’d rounded the corner. Perhaps I hadn’t been walking fast enough for her. Wherever she was going, she was in one hell of a hurry. And I was one lucky duck.
“You sure you’re okay?” the twenty-something asked again. “You’re shaking. Do you need to sit down? Here.” He opened the rear door on his side. “I’m in no hurry.”
I focused on him for the first time, surprised and, perhaps because of my years as a cop, immediately suspicious of the offer. He looked harmless enough in his sweats, a gym bag in one hand, and the only expression on his face appeared to be one of genuine concern. I gave myself a mental slap on the wrist. This was no white slaver intent on abducting me and selling me into a life of prostitution or having his way with me himself. In the first place, our skin colors, tinted by our African descendants, nullified white anything, much less slaver, and I was well past the age to qualify as a anybody’s pleasure girl. In the second place, as scuzzy as I felt—ratty blue jeans and an even rattier sweater under a well-worn car coat, the only person I could imagine wanting his way with me would be someone being paid to perform a complete makeover.
“I appreciate the offer but I’m fine. Really. And running late. Thanks anyway.”
“No problem.” He tossed his gym bag in the back and closed his door. “Merry Christmas.”
“Same to you,” I said, to be polite, and made tracks for Connecticut Avenue. Normally I’m one of those people who loves the holidays and everything that goes with them, but I admit that as I hurried through the late-lunch bunch in Barney’s, I was reaching deep for the Christmas spirit.
I spotted Eddie in a booth all the way in the back. He didn’t see me, but from the expression on his face, he and Scrooge were of like minds. Perhaps the raucous office party in high gear a few tables over had gotten to him.
“Greetings of the season,” I said as I slid into the booth, just barely avoiding a celebrant gesturing with a full glass in his hand. If I hadn’t been watching him, I’d have been wearing his beer in my bra.
“You’re late.”
Now I’m usually a fairly even-tempered person. And I like Eddie Grimes. I’ve known him for a long time. He was slated to be Duck’s best man, and perhaps under ordinary circumstances I might have cut him a little slack. But my most recent days had involved no ordinary circumstances. Not only was I juggling wedding arrangements for a ceremony that had already been postponed twice, plus the usual chaos that comes with Christmas, but as the future chief of police of Ourland/ Umber Shores, a little Chesapeake Bay community full of
my relatives, I was also dealing with all the hoops to be jumped through to set up the Shores’ first police force. Considering the trouble I’d gone to to accommodate Eddie’s schedule and his “You’re late” in greeting, I sat down with mayhem in mind. Unfortunately, the only weapon in reach was the butter knife he was using on a hard roll. Besides, he, as a cop, was carrying, and I, temporarily a former cop, was not.
“Let me tell you something, buster,” I said as I shrugged my way out of my coat. “In order to meet you, I had to, one, postpone picking up my wedding outfit and listen to a snotty clerk call my priorities into question. Two,” I continued, counting on my fingers, “I had to tear over to Umber Shores this morning instead of this afternoon as originally planned, to fire the idiot wiring the storefront we’ll be using for the new police station. One day on the job and he’s already damned near burned the place down. And three, to get back here on time from the Shores, I got a speeding ticket, my very first. Plus a half dozen snowflakes drifted down as I crossed the District line from Maryland, which means D.C. traffic has gone into its Chicken Little mode. I just missed being made a statistic in the ‘Pedestrian Struck’ column. In other words, you are dealing with a black woman with a very bad attitude here. So don’t bust my chops about being two minutes and twenty-eight seconds late. Now what the hell was so important that this couldn’t wait?”
“Whoa!” Eddie, saucer-eyed, raised his palms in a gesture of surrender. “I’m sorry, okay? Got a lot on my mind. I’ve ordered a shrimp cocktail for you, but how about I get you something to drink? What’ll it be? A Bloody Mary?”
“Yeah, right, so I can get pulled over for driving under the influence too? Thank you, no.”
I stopped, closed my eyes, and tried for a calming breath. It wasn’t fair to take out my frustration on him. “Sorry, Eddie. It’s just that this wedding is driving me nuts. I love Duck, but I’m beginning to wonder if becoming Mrs. Dillon Upshur Kennedy is worth all the aggravation.”
“Really?” He hoisted one brow. “Why?” His sour expression was gone, but there was still something not quite right about him, as if he had a burr up his butt. Maybe I could extract it by bringing him up to date on the three-ring circus my wedding threatened to become.
“We start out planning a nice, quiet, early November ceremony in a judge’s chamber,” I began. “No frills and fuss, just us and our nearest and dearest, a total of eleven people, the person officiating included. Then I find out that not only do I have grandparents, aunts, and, glory be to God, a twin brother, I’ve got cousins up the wazoo. And honest, I’m not complaining. I feel absolutely blessed. But they want to be there. How could I say no?”
“Guess you couldn’t,” Eddie agreed, probably not daring to contradict me.
“So scratch the early November date because my grandfather’s going in for knee replacement surgery that day. If he postponed it, they wouldn’t be able to schedule it until the middle of this month. I couldn’t ask him to do that. He’d been in a lot of pain, and if he hadn’t wrecked his golf cart trying to catch the bastard who’d mugged me, he wouldn’t be going under the knife in the first place. Besides, he wants to walk me down the aisle, and as my grandmother reminded me gently—for her, anyway—I’m the only granddaughter he’ll ever have.”
“She’s got a point.”
“As much as I hate to admit her being right about anything, yeah, she has a point. Duck and I figure we’ve waited this long, what’s a few more days, right? Okay, we pick a late November date, then find out my brother’s scheduled to be a keynote speaker somewhere and really, really wants to be at the wedding. This time it’s Duck who reminds me that—”
“He’s the only brother you’ll ever have,” Eddie finished for me.
“Exactly, so the date for the wedding goes on the to-do list again. And that’s when Duck’s mom and Nunna put their heads together.”
“Uh-oh.” Eddie paled, sort of, given his dark walnut complexion. As my fiancé’s coworker and best friend since childhood, he knew Mrs. Kennedy well. He’d also met Nunna, my foster mother, and could guess what a lethal combination those two could be.
“Uh-oh is right. The only reason I didn’t move in with Duck weeks ago is that we both knew they wouldn’t say a word but wouldn’t really approve. And I love Nunna enough not to want her on my conscience.”
“Or Mrs. K. either,” Eddie said. “By all means stay off that little old lady’s shit list.”
“Tell me about it. So the two mamas let it be known—delicately, I’ll give them that—that it would make them so much happier if the ceremony were, one, presided over by someone of the cloth instead of a judge or public official, and two, held at a site with at least one stained glass window in it.”
Eddie seemed to have relaxed a little. But only a little. “So that’s what happened. I wondered. Duck left me a message that the date and place were up for grabs again but I didn’t get the details.”
“You want details?” I asked, nabbing a roll for myself. “Enter my cousins, first through sixth, seventh, and eighth for all I know. We’re talking dozens here. They felt left out. And since it was their idea to take me on to set up the Shores’ police force in the first place—”
“You were in a double bind.”
“You got it. The last thing I want to do is alienate them.”
“Sounds like you’ll need to rent RFK Stadium and ask Bishop Crandall to officiate.”
I hesitated, since I couldn’t remember which denomination the good bishop claimed. “Well, actually, if Duck agrees, it looks like things will work out pretty well. Among those dozens of cousins of mine is a minister of a little church. I just met him today; in fact, he talked me out of killing the idiot electrician. He says he’ll be glad to perform the ceremony. From what he described, there’s no way we’ll be able to squeeze all those people in his sanctuary, but the overflow will fit in the fellowship hall, which has closed-circuit. And he’s available the day after Christmas. That’s the only good thing that’s happened so far today. Now, I repeat, what’s up? You planning some kind of surprise for Duck?”
“That’s what I’m here to find out.” Eddie scrubbed a paw over his face, and I detected a subtle change in his demeanor. Suddenly we were back to Scrooge and Company. His lips flattened into a straight line, his eyes emanating a chill. He, like my Duck, is a detective with the D.C. Metropolitan Police. He’s skinny as a finishing nail, dresses like a GQ model, and has been on the force long enough to have seen it all. If what he had to say made him hot under the collar just thinking about it, something must be very wrong indeed.
“Jeez, Eddie, you’re scaring me. What’s the matter with you?”
He fixed me with a squinty-eyed stare. “The question I’ve been trying to figure out is, what’s the matter with you?”
“Me? You mean besides all the wedding hassles and Christmas and meeting a new cousin every other day and trying to keep an eye on the police station-to-be? Nothing.”
“Everything’s all right between you and my boy?”
I frowned. Granted, he was near enough to family to be entitled to ask, but why would he? “Everything’s fine, honest.”
He leaned back, staring a hole in the middle of my forehead. Just as suddenly, he seemed to thaw. The chill in the air dissipated somewhat.
“You know how tight me and the Duck are, right? Like this.” He crossed his index and middle fingers. “I watch his back, on and off the job, the same as he watches mine. Understand what I’m saying?”
“Sure.” I wondered where this was going.
“Then why the fuck,” he asked, so softly I could barely hear him, “are you stepping out on him?”
“Excuse me?” Normally a fairly quiet place, the restaurant was doing its part to contribute to the Christmas spirit by playing songs of the season. One of the speakers was mounted directly above our heads, with The Little Drummer Boy drumming with a vengeance. The members of the office party were singing along, contributing to the decibel level,
so I was certain I’d misunderstood Eddie.
“I mean, I know some women feel like they’re entitled to a bachelorette party,” he said. “But the way I hear it, the only women in the Silver Shaker Saturday night were either hookers or hitched to a date. And the way I hear it, you were shaking your tail with any male who wasn’t attached and a few who were. And when you left, you were not alone, if you get my meaning.”
My mouth gaped open so long that my tongue dried out. “What? Me? Who the hell told you that?”
“You wouldn’t recognize the names. The important thing is that they recognized you.” His gaze was ice-cold again, his jaws clenched.”
“Me? In the Silver Shaker? That . . .” I grappled for an apt description. “That cesspool? And you believed it?”
His head shot forward like a strutting pigeon’s. “You telling me you weren’t there Saturday night? From around ten until closing?”
I was now steaming. “Listen, buster, the only time I’ve been in that place, I was in uniform to help break up a fight. Otherwise I wouldn’t be caught dead there, in or out of a coffin. It’s a john’s supermarket for streetwalkers, a pimp’s paradise. As for Saturday night, I was at home—I mean, at Janeece’s, wrapping Christmas presents.” Ever since I’d walked in on a body growing mold in my apartment a couple of months ago, I’d been bunking in my best friend’s den across the hall.
“So Janeece will back up your story?”
It takes a lot to make me lose it, but Eddie was three-sixteenths of an inch from succeeding. “Can Janeece confirm my alibi, you mean? Janeece home on a Saturday night? When pigs fly, so you have only my word on it. If that’s not good enough—”
“Did you talk to anyone? On the phone, I mean?”
The waiter exited the kitchen and stopped at our booth, a tray balanced on his fingertips, but whatever appetite I had was long gone.
“Eat the shrimp yourself,” I snapped at Eddie, and reached back for my coat. The waiter hesitated, then slid the plates onto the table and beat a hasty retreat. I guess he figured as long as he delivered it, somebody was obligated to pay for it; he didn’t care who.
