by Carol Durand
Marsha nodded. “She absolutely would. This club was important to Sally, we can best honor her memory by keeping it going. She and I started Burgundies and Books years ago, so I think that it should naturally fall to me to host the meetings,” she said, more solemn than any of them had ever seen the typically boisterous and irreverent redhead.
“Are we all going to fit in your tiny little place?” Tara, the stay-at-home-mom and member of the country club set, who had missed the last meeting, asked.
Marsha frosted her with a look. “Just because I don’t have five bathrooms and a swimming pool doesn’t mean that my house is too small for a handful of women to sit around and drink wine in,” she snapped.
“I didn’t mean…” Tara began.
“I know you didn’t,” Marsha interrupted, waving her hand dismissively. “Our nerves are all just a little bit raw right now,” she sighed.
The bell above the door signaled that someone was coming in, and, as one, the ladies looked up to see Samantha heading hesitantly toward their table.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said softly, warily. She slowly pulled out her normal chair and eased into it, with no one saying a word. Marsha angrily reached into her purse, grabbed her keys and stormed out of the shop, leaving the rest of the club sitting there uncomfortably, not looking at each other. One by one, they stood up and left quietly, some of them thanking Missy for the coffee and cupcakes on their way out, until only Missy sat with Sam, who now had tears rolling freely down her cheeks.
“I guess I’m no longer welcome at book club,” she observed, staring down at the table and wiping her eyes.
“There are just so many…unanswered questions,” Missy offered, trying not to upset her further.
“And not one of those women is giving me the benefit of the doubt,” she muttered bitterly.
Missy took a good hard look at the miserable creature slumped in the chair across from her. Samantha’s eyes had dark circles under them, and her face was tired and drawn. She looked as though she had lost weight, and her hair was a mess, as though she hadn’t showered or brushed it in days. The clothing that she wore was the same outfit that she’d had on when she sat on Missy’s lawn crying, and her fingernails had been bitten down to the quick. Despite what she might have done, Missy’s heart hurt for her.
“When’s the last time that you had something to eat, Sam?” she asked, trying to get the young woman to look at her. When at last she did look up, there was a haunted quality to her gaze, as though she was enduring an inner struggle that was eating away at her soul, piece by piece.
“I can’t remember,” she replied weakly, shrugging her shoulders a bit. “I can’t sleep, I don’t have an appetite, and it’s difficult to even put a coherent thought together,” she admitted. “My entire life has been turned upside down since Sally died.”
“Well, you need to keep up your strength,” Missy said firmly. “You wait right here, I’ll be back in a minute.” She returned moments later with a plate that presented a Morning Glory muffin that was rich in nutrients and heavy in fiber, along with a cup of strong coffee, a glass of ice water, and a warm, damp cloth, all on a serving tray. Setting the tray down, Missy handed the wash cloth to a stunned Samantha, urging her to wash her face and hands. The surprised young woman complied, and Missy saw the surge of relief that the simple act brought to her. Taking the cloth, she pushed the tray toward Sam and let her know that it was her responsibility to eat and drink everything on it. Tears of gratitude shone in Samantha’s eyes as she tore a small chunk from the muffin and placed it in her mouth.
Missy sat with her, saying nothing, simply observing, her heart aching. She couldn’t imagine what would possibly compel one human being to kill another, and made no excuses for that evil behavior, but she hated seeing anyone suffer, and clearly, Samantha Lemmon was suffering. She also was self-protective enough to figure that, if Sam was indeed a killer, being nice to her was probably the smartest thing that she could do to stay safe. Once she had drained her ice water and finished the coffee and muffin, Missy asked if she’d like anything else. Sam shook her head and when she reached into her purse for her wallet, Missy stopped her.
“This one’s on me, honey, you look much better now, that’s all the payment I need.”
Sam nodded, tears filling her eyes, and murmured a soft ‘thank you.’
Missy put the empty dishes back on the tray and took it to the kitchen. When she returned, Sam had gone, leaving a five dollar bill and a note on a napkin that simply said, ‘thank you.’ Missy put the five in the tip jar on the front counter, and put the napkin in her pocket, deep in thought.
Chapter 7
Chas Beckett hated stakeouts. He hated being trapped in his car for hours at a time, eating take-out food, and fighting his heavy eyelids with strong coffee, but unfortunately it was an occupational hazard that had to be endured occasionally. Tonight he was parked a block away from Pierre Chartreaux’s dumpy brown ranch home, waiting to see if any of the suspected drug traffickers with whom he associated showed up. He’d been working the case for weeks, not telling Missy about it because he didn’t want her to worry. The criminals that he was now tracking were the sort who would cut off a man’s eyelids without a second thought, and if that man happened to be a cop, the torture would be prolonged and profound.
Tips from anonymous sources had indicated that Chartreaux was about to set a plan in motion that would send drugs flooding into Louisiana, and dirty money flooding into his pocket. Chas was observing his activities to try to pinpoint who the major players in the scheme were, so that when local departments, along with the DEA and other government agencies made the busts, no man from Chartreaux’s crowd would escape.
There were no signs of life at the little house with peeling paint and drooping gutters, so Chas took a moment to wrap up a half sandwich that was sitting on the passenger seat, sticking it in his mini-cooler for later. The hours old coffee that he sipped from a foam to-go cup was cold, acrid and bitter, and he grimaced, forcing it down and thinking longingly of the French press coffee maker waiting patiently next to his bean grinder on the counter at home.
The detective no longer had to do detective work to make a living. He had left his wealthy family right after college to pursue a career in law enforcement, wanting to do something of significance in the world, and had steadfastly refused any financial assistance from home. His father had died last year however, leaving him billions, which he drew upon frequently for philanthropic endeavors. Despite his riches, Chas Beckett still wanted to make a difference in the world by serving in law enforcement, hence his commitment to his job, even when it included awful and uncomfortable stakeouts.
Setting his cooler back down on the floor, and carefully placing his flimsy coffee cup in the drink holder, he raised his head and suddenly felt cold steel pressing behind his ear. Hearing the distinctive click of a gun being cocked, Chas didn’t move, and heard a sinister chuckle come from the gun’s owner.
“Well, good evenin,’ detective,” Pierre Chartreaux drawled, his Cajun accent profound. “Let’s see dos hands of yours,” he pressed the gun more firmly into Chas’s scalp.
The detective slowly raised his hands, calculating his next move.
“Don’t go thinking ‘bout no funny bizness, ya hear? I’d just as soon shoot ya, so if y’all give me a reason, I’m gonna do it, see?” Chartreaux threatened. “Good,” he snickered as Chas held his hands in the air, trying to assess his options by using his peripheral vision to look in the sideview mirror. “Now, I’m ‘bout to open dis door, and when I do, you gonna keep dem hands up and come out real slow,” he ordered calmly. He stepped back, swung the door open, and placed himself between Chas and the door. The detective stepped slowly from the car and stood with his back to Chartreaux, the gun still firmly lodged behind his ear. “Now turn aroun,’ nice an slow,” Pierre demanded.
Chas slowly turned to face the drug lord, and when he did, he looked over the gunman’s left shoulder, his ey
es wide with surprise, as though there was something shocking behind Pierre. Turning reflexively to look, Chartreaux gave Beckett just the opening that he needed, and he ducked out from under the gun, lunging forward to tackle the surprised Cajun, taking him to the ground. As the two men wrestled for control of the weapon, it discharged, striking the detective, who flinched in the face of the impact, losing feeling in his left arm, but kept fighting.
Chas knew that his very life depended upon his actions in the next few moments, and with every last bit of strength, he flipped Pierre onto his back, landing on top of him, and punched his attacker in the throat. Chartreaux dropped the gun, his hands going to his throat, and Chas pushed it out of reach, gaining control of the drug lord, despite the fact that blood from his wound had saturated the sleeve of his light jacket. Rolling the shorter but stockier man onto his belly, Chas fumbled for his handcuffs and snapped them onto first one of Pierre’s wrists, then the other. He immediately called for backup, beginning to feel faint from blood loss. Chartreaux was breathing heavily, so Chas’s blow hadn’t crushed his windpipe, but the struggle had definitely taken its toll on the gangster. Just to be safe, in case he happened to pass out before backup arrived, the detective zip tied Pierre’s feet together, and retrieved the gun, placing it in the car, hoping against hope that none of the criminal’s associates showed up anytime soon.
Chas heard the sound of a car speeding toward him, blinded by the glare of the headlights. He knew that either he was about to die at the hands of the drug traffickers that he’d been tailing for weeks, or that help had finally arrived. The entire sleeve and front of his jacket were soaked with blood, and he felt a dull throbbing in his chest on his left side. The headlights came to a screeching halt a few feet away from the detective and the bound criminal, just as Chas’s vision started to dim. He heard shouting voices which sounded as though they were terribly far away, and slipped into oblivion.
Chapter 8
Missy was more than a bit startled when she returned from her morning walk with the dogs and saw a police cruiser sitting in front of her house. As she approached, a uniformed officer, that she remembered having met at Chas’s annual department barbeque, got out of the car and met her on the sidewalk, raising a hand in greeting.
“Hi Larry,” she said, rather breathlessly, having speed-walked home to give the dogs a chance to stretch their legs.
“Ms. Gladstone,” he nodded, looking bothered.
“Is something wrong?” she picked up on his mood and a tickle of dread grew inside of her.
“It’s Chas Beckett,” he answered quietly. “He’s been injured in the line of duty.”
Missy was so horrified that she nearly dropped the leashes. “Chas? What happened? Where is he? Is he okay? Did he get shot? What’s going on?” she demanded, her eyes filling with panicked tears.
The patrolman held up his hands to stop the flood of questions so that he could speak. He knew that Missy was the emergency contact on file for Beckett, and as such, could be told the particulars of the detective’s condition. “He’s in the hospital. He came in late last night with a gunshot wound to his left shoulder, and went immediately into surgery. From what the doctors say, the surgery went well, and he should make a full recovery.”
“Oh, thank goodness!” Missy went limp with relief, nearly toppling to the sidewalk. Putting an arm out to steady her, Larry continued.
He’s in and out of sleep right now because of the pain meds, but when he’s been coherent, he’s asked for you.”
Missy looked down at her yoga capris and sporty t-shirt, deciding that she didn’t care what people at the hospital thought of her, she wasn’t going to waste time showering. “After I put the dogs inside, will you take me to him?” she asked, receiving an instant yes.
**
Chas Beckett woke up feeling as though he’d been in the desert for quite some time. He had a wicked case of cottonmouth and felt weak and lethargic. Blinking several times to clear his vision, he noticed that there was a lovely blonde mop of hair resting on the bed beside his right hand. He moved his fingers to caress a stray curl and Missy bolted upright, her face tearstained.
“Chas, you’re awake! I was so worried,” she stood, caressing his cheek and kissing his forehead.
“All in a day’s work,” he smiled wanly, his voice hoarse.
“You sound terrible,” she frowned. “Can I get you anything? Some water maybe?”
“I’d really love a Coke,” he replied, receiving a look of astonishment.
“But…you never drink soda,” Missy said, wondering if he had a head injury as well.
“Special occasion,” he rasped.
“Okay, honey. Let me go tell the nurse you’re awake, and I’ll bring you a Coke when I come back,” she promised, hurrying from the room. True to her word, she returned moments later, soda in hand, and held the straw to his lips.
“Ah, that’s what I needed,” Chas said, clearly enjoying the drink and sounding more like his usual self.
“Sweetie, how did you get shot?” Missy asked. “This didn’t have anything to do with Sally’s murder did it?” she worried.
“No,” the detective took another long pull of soda before continuing. “This was another case entirely. Drugs. Bad characters, the usual. I was on a stakeout and the ringleader surprised me. It didn’t go well for him, he’s in custody now, but I was wounded while we scuffled for his gun. I’m so disappointed with myself though,” he frowned.
“Disappointed? Why?” Missy was puzzled.
“Because, since my cover was blown and the main contact was arrested, we stand little to no chance of busting the others who are involved in the drug ring, unless of course Chartreaux cuts a deal and rats them out, but I seriously doubt he’ll do that,” Chas sighed.
“Wait…did you say Chartreaux?” Missy’s eyes grew wide.
“Yeah, why?” Chas instantly became alert.
“Samantha Lemmon has a cousin named Pierre…and I think she said his last name was Chartreaux.”
Chapter 9
Missy spent most of the next week at Chas’s bedside, keeping him company while he convalesced, and was thrilled when the doctor came in on Wednesday and said that he would be allowed to go home the next day. In between visits, she’d been doing a lot of cooking, preparing and freezing meals for the injured detective so that when he came home, he could at least eat with minimal effort. She’d made all of his favorites, and planned to bring him a Cupcake of the Day every day until he was able to go back to work.
Missy’s best friend, Echo, who owned a vegan ice cream shop across the street from Crème de la Cupcake, had donated several different flavors of her frozen treats made with herbs that she swore would aid in the detective’s healing process. The laid-back, former Californian was convinced that, if her ice creams couldn’t exactly cure all ills, it would certainly make convalescing much more pleasurable.
After much cajoling, and a stern warning from his doctor, Chas allowed Missy to drive him home, rather than driving himself, and she stayed with him until his eyes began to droop after dinner. She tucked him into bed, listening for his deep, regular breathing before heading to the kitchen to clean up and put their dishes in the dishwasher. She hung up the damp dishcloth to dry and turned out the lights, slipping out the front door. She had let Chas know earlier that she’d be back to have breakfast with him, but in the meantime, she wanted to get the dogs home and in their own beds, and have a complete night’s sleep herself before taking care of her favorite patient tomorrow.
Pre-occupied with thoughts of Chas, Missy was in her own little world as she pulled her car into the garage. Apparently the garage light bulb had gone out again, and she fumbled in the dark to open the door and let the dogs out. When she opened the side door of the garage, that had a little sidewalk leading from it to the back porch, the dogs took off for the front of the house rather than trotting obediently to the porch as they normally would.
“Hey!” Missy called out, conc
erned at their odd behavior. They ran directly to the front of the house, allaying her fears that they might accidentally dash out into the street, but their behavior became even more strange when they got to the front porch. Bitsy seemed to hide behind Toffee, who was standing at the porch stairs sniffing the bottom step. The sweet-natured golden retriever put her nose in the air and sniffed, then started growling and barking loudly. Missy hurried over to see what all the commotion was about and stopped short when she saw a dark liquid that had apparently flowed from the porch, down the steps, pooling at the bottom.
Pressing the icon for the flashlight app on her phone, Missy illuminated the scene, horrified to discover that the liquid was a deep red color. It looked as though there had been a horrible accident of some sort on her porch, but when she shone the light up onto the porch itself, she didn’t see anything resembling a hurt person or animal. The light glinted off of something lying on the porch and Missy peered into the darkness, trying to get a closer look. When she saw what the object was, she shook with relief. It wasn’t blood on her stairs, someone had broken a bottle of red wine, and its contents were what had dribbled down her steps. She wanted to investigate further, but didn’t want her furry girls to slice their paws on broken glass, so she snapped their leashes onto their collars and led them to the back porch, putting them inside. She turned on the porch light, and when she stepped out to survey the mess, her breath caught in her throat. Whoever had broken the two bottles of wine on the porch, had used the dark liquid to write on the butter-yellow siding of her house.
“Burgundies, Books and B**ches,” the cryptic message read, making Missy’s heart pound. Why on earth would Samantha have done this after Missy had been so nice to her? She wondered if this had anything to do with the arrest of Sam’s cousin, Pierre, and looked around warily. She didn’t want to disturb Chas’s sleep by calling him. He wasn’t even close to getting back to work yet, but knowing that she had to report the incident, she dialed 911 and looked to see if any more damage had been done while she waited for the police to arrive.
