1 Limoncello Yellow

by Traci Andrighetti

  What the people are saying about

  Traci Andrighetti's Limoncello Yellow:

  “Traci’s writing is sharp and funny; the world she paints leaps off the

  page and makes the reader laugh out loud…A thoroughly

  enjoyable new voice in fiction!”

  - Kristin Harmel, Internationally bestselling novelist (The Sweetness of Forgetting)

  “Traci Andrighetti’s Limoncello Yellow had me tickled pink! Her smart, sassy

  heroine, wacky cast of characters, and vividly original settings had me glued to

  the page. I can’t wait to read more from this author!”

  - Gemma Halliday, New York Times bestselling author

  * * * * *

  LIMONCELLO YELLOW

  by

  TRACI ANDRIGHETTI

  * * * * *

  ebook Edition

  Copyright © 2013 by Traci Andrighetti

  Cover design by Lyndsey Lewellen

  Gemma Halliday Publishing

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to your online retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  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

  * * * * *

  LIMONCELLO YELLOW

  * * * * *

  CHAPTER ONE

  As I surveyed the scene at what looked eerily like the Bates Motel, I was shaking so badly from the cold and fear that I was afraid the gun in my holster would fire on its own. I longed for the cozy fire and protective embrace of my boyfriend that I'd felt as we'd exchanged Christmas presents just hours before.

  "Folks, you need to go back to your rooms immediately," Officer Stan Stubbs announced to the crowd of curious motel guests that had gathered.

  When the onlookers began to disperse, the woman in room six began moaning again. According to 911 dispatch, she had been in distress for at least half an hour.

  I gave an involuntary shiver and wondered what kind of animal would want to cause a woman pain that produced that sort of moaning.

  "Something about this doesn't feel like a regular domestic abuse situation," Stan said, drawing his gun. "We need urgent backup, Franki."

  I nodded and grabbed the radio from my belt. "I have a 10-39 at the Twilight Motel on Manor Road. Request backup."

  Stan began his approach to room six.

  I put the device away and drew my gun. Then I hurried over and took my place on the opposite side of the door from Stan.

  "I'm goin' in on the count of three," he said in a low voice. "I need to get to the john, and quick like."

  I gasped. "Now, Stan?"

  Stan was my partner on the Austin PD. As a rookie on the force, I'd been paired with a seasoned veteran of the department. Even though we'd spent the past six months together, I'd learned little from Stan except that he had a "wifey" named Juanita who worshipped the ground he walked on, he valued his handgun collection more than he did his now adult children, and he suffered from chronic gastrointestinal distress. And despite his self-proclaimed "legendary instinct" for cracking cases, he was perpetually baffled by his stomach issues even though the culprit was clear: a steady diet of jelly donuts and chorizo, bean and cheese breakfast tacos that he washed down with a gallon or so of coffee and Gatorade (Did I mention that he was also chronically dehydrated because of the diarrhea?). Needless to say, he spent the better part of every shift visiting the nearest men's room.

  Ignoring my concern, Stan grasped his gun with both hands and slammed his right shoulder into the door. It flew open instantly, and he stormed into the room. "Police! Hands in the air!"

  As I rushed in behind him, my gun drawn, the woman let out a hair-raising scream.

  "What in the hell?" Stan shouted.

  I followed his gaze to the bed, and a chill went through my body.

  "Why, it's just a couple goin' at it," Stan scoffed.

  I blinked hard. Was it my imagination playing tricks on me at 4:30 a.m., or was one member of that couple horribly familiar? As in, exchanging-gifts-by-a-cozy-fire familiar.

  "Vince?" I said, my voice barely above a whisper as I stared at my boyfriend of over two years.

  He looked at me like a deer caught in the headlights. "Franki?"

  Make that, like a cheating rat caught in the act.

  Stan looked from Vince to me. "You two know each other?"

  I nodded, unable to speak. The chill that I'd felt initially had turned to a dull aching pain, and all I wanted to do was run from the room and cry. But I couldn't because I was on duty.

  "I'll let you take it from here, Franki," Stan said as he rushed into the bathroom and slammed the door.

  No sooner had he left the room than the woman leapt from the bed—all 6' 5" or so of her—wearing nothing but her outrage. "Zis invazion iz illegal in Deutschland."

  "All right Franki," Vince began in a patronizing tone, "no crime has been committed, so why don't you put the gun down? Then we can all talk about this like rational adults."

  No crime? Rational adults? The dull pain was quickly turning to red-hot anger. Before I could think it through, I shouted, "If you think for one minute that I'm going to sit down to chat with you and your German whore here—"

  The furious fräulein kicked the gun from my hand, and I watched in what seemed like slow motion as it flew under the bed.

  "Be careful, Franki," Vince warned. "She's here from Munich on a semi-pro wrestling tour."

  "Oh, so now you're worried about my well being, Vince?" I asked, backing away from the German giantess. Now that I'd mentioned it, I was a little worried about me too. She was squatting down low with her hands raised, like she was going to make mincemeat of me.

  "For you, ze 'tilt-a-whirl slam,'" she announced as she lunged for my waist.

  From over her shoulder, I saw Vince leap from the bed to try to tackle her. Without even so much as a glance behind her, she laid him out cold with an elbow to the jaw.r />
  "Ze 'discus elbow shmash,'" she explained, raising her chin and jutting out her King Kong–like chest.

  By now it was clear that the crazed Kraut was a force to be reckoned with. Unfortunately for me, she was refusing to recognize that I was a force to be reckoned with too—a member of the police force. Before I knew what was happening, she had heaved all 5' 10" and 170 pounds of me over her right shoulder and begun to spin. Then, she let go.

  I landed on the floor with a dull thud and desperately tried to remember what the police academy had taught me to do in situations like this. But the truth was that the trainers hadn't covered how to extricate oneself from a female German wrestler with a serious case of roid rage.

  "Und now ze 'fist drop,'" she said, falling onto me while driving her fist into my belly.

  I writhed on the ground in agony, gasping for breath. Then I saw the Munich Monster rise up from the floor like Godzilla from the sea. Clutching my stomach, I scrambled to my feet and did my best to mimic her sparring moves.

  I dodged another lunge and glanced in the direction of the bathroom. "I really need you out here, Stan!"

  "Just another minute, Franki." I heard the toilet flush.

  In an attempt to reason with the raging wrestler, I said, "Listen, Greta or Helga or whatever your name is—"

  "Mein name is Petra! Petra ze Pretzelmaker!" Her face contorted with rage as the veins bulged from her thick, manly neck. "It iz not whore!"

  "Well, whoever you are," I wheezed, "you're under arrest."

  "Nein. You are under arrest. Prepare for ze 'body avalanche.'" She flew through the air, knocked me flat on my back, and pinned me beneath her hulking frame.

  Trying to protect my stomach from another fist drop, I rolled over just as she introduced a "hair pull" move that jerked me backward into an upward facing dog position.

  I frantically tried to visualize what a good cop would do in a situation she hadn't been trained for when her partner's in the bathroom and she'd already called for backup, but nothing was coming to me. In the meantime, Petra, as her wrestling named implied, was twisting me into a pretzel. I had to buy time until backup arrived, or she was going to turn me into spaetzle.

  "Petra, you need to calm down," I explained. "In the U.S., assaulting a police officer is a felony offense. You could go to prison for a long time."

  To my relief, she abruptly let go of my hair. But as I fell forward she used her brawn to lift me into the air by my belt loops and sling me over her shoulder yet again. I heard the distinct sound of the seat of my uniform pants splitting.

  Wunderbar, I thought as I remembered that I'd gone commando that day for lack of clean underwear.

  "Und now I shpank," Petra announced.

  "Don't you dare!" I felt the full force of her giant paw come down on my bare behind.

  I mentally swore at the backup team for taking so long to arrive. Then I cursed my pants for splitting. I'd spent years avoiding my disproportionately large butt, both visually and mentally. Since it was behind me, I'd never had to look at it or think about it. Ever. And that had been my strategy—until now.

  I heard a wet smacking sound as I felt her palm strike my bottom for the second time. My eyes filled with angry tears.

  The toilet flushed again.

  "I'm coming, Franki!" Stan rushed from the bathroom, fumbling with the buckle on his oversized pants. He drew his gun and aimed it at Petra. "Freeze! You're under arrest!"

  Petra stopped in mid-spank, leaving my bare bottom directly under the glow of the only light in the dimly lit room.

  "Drop the officer, boy," Stan commanded.

  To my chagrin, Petra promptly did as she was told, and I hit the ground with the full force of my weight on my right knee. I was almost positive that it was either dislocated or broken.

  "Now lie down on your belly real slow-like, son, and put your hands behind your back," he continued.

  I rolled onto my back and clutched my knee. "She's the female, Stan. Vince is unconscious on the other side of the bed."

  He sauntered over to Petra and squinted at her in the soft light. "Well I'll be damned."

  After he cuffed the now astonishingly docile Deutschländer and pulled her to her feet, he whistled in amazement. "You're a real nutcracker, aren't ya?"

  Despite my loathing for the woman, I rolled my eyes at Stan's remark. The guy had no filter.

  Next, I looked on angrily as he led the placid Petra out the door to the squad car, carefully protecting her head with his right hand as he helped her into the backseat with the other.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that Vince was regaining consciousness across the room. If I could have walked or even crawled to his side, I would have knocked him out again.

  Vince sat up and rubbed his jaw where he'd been elbowed. Then he turned to me. "Are you okay, babe?"

  I stared at him in disbelief. "You mean after finding you in bed with a woman who then tried to kill me? Yeah, Vince. Doin' great."

  "I can explain . . ."

  "That's classic," I snapped, turning my head to hide my tears. "Do us both a favor and shut your mouth."

  Stan chose that moment to pop his head into the room. "Uh, Vince, can I talk to you outside for a minute?"

  Vince nodded and followed Stan out the door. I couldn't hear what they were saying because they had lowered their voices, but I would swear that I heard the two of them chuckling at one point. I watched in silent fury as they solidified their male bonding moment over a handshake before Vince got into his car and drove away.

  When Stan re-entered the room, he nonchalantly pulled out his report pad and started to write.

  I looked up at Stan from my supine position on the floor. "Um, Stan? Do you think maybe you could help me up? Since I'm injured?"

  "Huh? Oh sure, Franki. One sec." He finished writing his sentence and ambled over to me.

  Stan put his hands on his hips and looked down at me. "You looked pretty funny hanging upside down like that over Suzy Schwarzenegger's shoulder. Did you know your butt was showin'?"

  "Yeah, thanks, Stan," I replied through clenched teeth. I was forever on the receiving end of his asinine comments.

  "Sure, Franki. That's what partners are for."

  I snorted. Since starting this job, Stan had been about as helpful to me as a ball and chain around my ankle and a noose around my neck. I had watched in frustration as the other rookies from my class flourished under the watchful eyes of their respective partners while I had slowly deteriorated under the disinterested gaze of mine. And when I'd finally gotten up the nerve to privately request a new partner, I'd been publicly branded as a troublemaker and earned the nickname "Finicky Franki," as though I were a petulant child or, even worse, a cat.

  As Stan helped me off the ground, he let out a loud, greasy fart. "Hooo! That felt goooood."

  I closed my eyes—and my nostrils—and promised myself that I would learn how to meditate.

  "You know, I've really got to see somebody about my stomach," he reflected to himself for what must have been the hundredth time since I had met him. "I think I might have some kind of problem, but I don't know why. Hell, I'm in the best shape of my life."

  Stan confidently patted his spare tire belly as he walked—and I hopped unassisted—to the squad car.

  As soon as he climbed into the seat, he emitted three resounding sausage-scented belches. "Ugh, this heartburn is a killer. I feel like Old Faithful's eruptin' in my gut. Hey, could you hand me my antacids? They're in the glove box."

  By this time, I knew very well where he kept his antacids, anti-diarrheals, and anti-gas tablets, all of which I regularly replenished out of my own pocket unbeknownst to Stan. I opened the glove compartment and handed him the box of antacids. Then I rolled down my window for life-sustaining oxygen. He'd already left me to die a violent slamming death. I'd be damned if I was going to let him suffocate me too.

  "You okay, Franki?"

  "I'm fine, Stan."

  "Well, you
rolled down your window like you needed some air. You feelin' dizzy?"

  Oh indeed I am, I thought, but not because you let the Teutonic Titan spin me around the motel room for half a freakin' hour. He had absolutely no concept that his bodily functions might present a problem for me, both in terms of my physical safety on calls and my ability to breathe.

  We arrived at the station and took Petra to booking. After she was processed and taken to her cell, Stan turned to me and began his customary end-of-the-shift lecture. "You know, you've really got to pay attention when you're out there on the street. This isn't the first time I've had to come to your rescue."

  "Stan, I—"

  "I mean, I'm not bragging or anything," he interrupted, "but I'm the best of the best. If you can't learn from me, then I don't know if you're gonna make it on the force."

  "Stan, you—"

  "You know I have to write this in my report, Franki. You put me in real danger out there. I had no backup. I could've been killed!"

  That did it. Although I was mostly mad at Vince, Stan was about to find out what it was like when I lost my filter. And it's not like he didn't have it coming. "Wait just one minute, Stan. Let me get this straight. I put you in danger? Are you freakin' kidding me? You put me in danger when you left me alone with the Deutsch Destroyer! And this was hardly the first time. I mean, I'm always covering my ass while yours is planted on a toilet seat."

  Stan smirked. "Well, you didn't do such a good job of covering your ass tonight, now did you Franki?"

  Now why did I have to mention my ass? I'd practically handed it to him on a platter with that remark.

  "And that's the problem," he explained. "You can't protect yourself out there, and you can't be relied on to protect your partner from loonies like Schotsie the Sausagestuffer, either."

  "Petra the Pretzelmaker!"

  "And if you really want to know something, Franki," Stan continued in an offended tone, "I think it's inappropriate for you to discuss my bathroom habits."