Whiskey On The Rocks (Addison Holmes Mysteries Book 5)

by Liliana Hart

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Whiskey On The Rocks

  An Addison Holmes Short (Book 5)

  Liliana Hart

  Contents

  Title Page

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Whiskey Tango Foxtrot

  About the Author

  Also by Liliana Hart

  WHISKEY ON THE ROCKS

  An Addison Holmes Short

  By

  New York Times bestselling author

  Liliana Hart

  Copyright © 2016 by Liliana Hart

  All rights reserved.

  Published by 7Th Press

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Dedication

  For Scott,

  Because you’re my hero and my heart.

  Prologue

  Friday

  I’ve seen a lot of male genitalia in my life.

  Okay, maybe not a lot. But I’ve seen a few in real life, and I might have seen one or two in a dirty movie Nick and I rented a few months back. I wasn’t impressed by the movie genitalia. All I could think was that those poor girls must get a lot of urinary tract infections.

  And if I’m being honest, male genitalia is not the most attractive thing on the planet, even when it belongs to someone like Nick, who has very impressive attributes and knows just what to do with them. I’ve always thought male dangly bits looked something along the lines of a forlorn Snuffleupagus—a little sad, with a droopy trunk, and tufts of hair sprouting every which way.

  My name is Addison Holmes, and there’s a reason genitalia is at the forefront of my mind. I’m a private investigator at the McClean Detective Agency. By the grace of God and hot fudge sundaes, I’d somehow managed to pass all portions of the exam that allowed me to carry the laminated license with my photo on it, as well as the pink-handled 9mm I kept in my Kate Spade handbag. I’d bought the Glock and the handbag out of the trunk of Louis Bergman’s Cadillac when I’d gone home to Whiskey Bayou for the holidays. He’d been running a two-for-one special.

  A fat lot of good the handbag and Glock were doing me now though. It would look a little foolish to be carrying an almost-genuine Kate Spade around a nudist colony, and carrying concealed wasn’t really an option. The best I could do was hide my Glock under a towel in the beach bag I carried.

  I was uncomfortable enough standing on the pier in the buff with Rosemarie and Aunt Scarlet at my side. A three-thousand-dollar camera hung around my neck, leaving a very interesting tan line down the center of each of my boobs from the strap. I’d been pretending to take pictures of seagulls for the last fifteen minutes, when in fact, I was trying to take pictures of Elmer Hughes, a man whose Snuffleupagus was approximately a hundred years old and looked like it suffered from elephantiasis.

  “Lord, would you look at the testicles on that man,” Aunt Scarlet said. “They’re the size of oranges. How do you think he keeps from sitting on them?”

  “You think he’s had implants?” Rosemarie asked. “I’ve heard plastic surgeons down here make a killing on senior citizens. People get to a certain age and then want to discover the fountain of youth.”

  “And testicular implants are supposed to make you look younger?” I asked skeptically, trying to zoom in on Elmer.

  “Everything droops when you get to be my age,” Scarlet said. “We associate tight and firm with youthfulness. Instead of getting the implants, he should’ve given those puppies a facelift. They almost hang all the way to his knees.”

  Elmer was down on the beach under one of the umbrellas, sunning on a lounger top side up, making sure his oranges got plenty of sun. I could barely get a decent shot of the tattoo on his arm, and even with the full zoom and focus of the camera, it was still difficult to make out. Age hadn’t been kind to Elmer Hughes.

  “I thought about getting my lady parts tightened up a bit,” Scarlet continued. “They call it vaginal rejuvenation, if you can believe that. I haven’t had anything rejuvenating down there since the time I walked through Wally Pinkerton’s yard and all the sprinklers came on.”

  “Umm,” I said, for lack of anything better.

  “I was going to get rejuvenated because a couple of years ago I thought I might be getting some action, and I wanted everything to look as if it just came out of the factory. But the fellow up and died on me before we could get all hot and bothered. Take my advice, Addison. Never let a man die when they’re lying on top of you. Thank God he was wearing one of those medic alert buttons around his neck, because I never would’ve been able to push him off to reach the phone.”

  I was in a complete state of Zen. Or it could have been the Xanax I’d taken with my mojito at lunch. There was no other way to survive being naked with two people I had no desire to be naked with, or to listen to the conversation we were currently having without it.

  “It’s probably best you opted out of the surgery,” Rosemarie said. “Sharon Osbourne said it was excruciating.”

  “Ehh, I don’t have much feeling left down there anyway,” Scarlet said with a shrug. “I’ve stopped holding out hope.”

  “You’ve just got to wait for a man who’s big enough to make things seem not so loosey-goosey down there.”

  Since Scarlet had just celebrated her ninetieth, I was thinking finding that particular man might be a challenge.

  “I’m going to have to get closer,” I said, hoping this would distract them from the conversation.

  “Look,” Rosemarie said. “Those loungers right next to him just came open. Let’s get them before someone else does. You should be able to take plenty of pictures from that angle.”

  I sighed and let go of the camera so it hung around my neck. I wanted to say there was something freeing about standing completely naked on the pier, the wind tousling my hair and the sun beating down on my bare skin, but I’d be lying. I pretty much felt just like I had during middle school—awkward posture due to not knowing what to do with my body, awkward hair that frizzed in humidity no matter how much I straightened it, and awkward friends that pretty much guaranteed a lot of time standing next to the punch bowl at school dances.

  I’d had my nether regions freshly waxed for this occasion and my body was still in pretty good shape from when I’d passed the physical fitness portion of my P.I. exam. I maintained the physique by doing hot yoga one day a week and occasionally watching a Jillian Michaels DVD from the couch. She scared the crap out of me. My butt cheeks clenched every time she screamed at someone that unless they were going to puke, faint, or die then they should keep going. My butt was really starting to look good.

  “I still don’t understand how you could recognize that tattoo,” I said to Scarlet. “It’s so wrinkled and distorted it’s nearly impossible to make out.”

  “Some things you don’t forget,” she said sagely. “The Savannah bank robbery of ’45 and a Latin lover named Mario are the two things that stick with me the most. Whew, was your Uncle Stan steamed about Mario. But once I explained he was Spanish royalty and it was an honor to be asked to sleep with him, Stan calm
ed right down.” She looked confused for a minute and slapped her hand on top of her head to keep her hat from blowing away. “May he rest in peace.”

  Rosemarie and I stared at Scarlet with horrified fascination, and I did a half-assed sign of the cross along with Rosemarie and Scarlet at the mention of Uncle Stanley’s untimely demise. I was mostly Methodist, so I was never really sure if I was crossing myself correctly, but no one had made devil horn signs at me or doused me with holy water yet, so I figured I was in the clear.

  We made our way back to the stairs that led down to the beach and I dug my flip-flops out of my bag so the sand wouldn’t burn my feet. I thought I looked like an idiot wearing nothing but a camera and flip-flops, but to those at the Hidden Sunrise Naturist Community, I looked like I belonged.

  We spread our towels out on the loungers, adjusted the umbrellas so we were protected from direct sunlight, and got comfortable. I set the camera on the little table next to the loungers and pointed it at Elmer, who seemed to be snoozing peacefully on the lounger a few feet away.

  The problem with the camera was that it made noise when pictures were taken, and I didn’t know how sound of a sleeper Elmer was. So I used my second best option and pulled out my iPhone.

  The beach waiter came up and took our drink orders, and I sighed, frustrated, because I couldn’t get a clear shot of the tattoo on Elmer’s arm with my phone. I had to have the tattoo. It was the only documented proof the FBI had of the Romeo Bandit, a.k.a., Elmer Hughes.

  I watched Elmer for ten more minutes and contemplated my choices while I sipped on a Sex on the Beach. Rosemarie was reading a book two loungers over, and Aunt Scarlet had gotten bored and was building a sand castle, wearing nothing but a big hat and a lot of sand she was probably going to regret getting up close and personal with later.

  “Don’t forget the sunscreen, Aunt Scarlet,” I called out a little too loud, watching Elmer closely to see if he stirred. Nope. He was down for the count. It was now or never.

  I took another fortifying sip of my drink, put the camera strap around my neck and got on all fours in the hot sand. I might have muttered an expletive or two, having not thought through the fact that it would feel like dipping my hands and knees in molten glass.

  I tried not to think about what I looked like from behind. And then I did think about it and grabbed the towel off my lounger, draping it across my backside like a tablecloth. I slowly crawled on hands and knees until I was inches away from Elmer Hughes.

  My heart was pounding in my chest and I was covered with sweat and sand, neither of my favorite things. I realized I had a slight buzz and the Xanax must have worn off because I was feeling a whole lot of anxiety all of a sudden.

  Elmer let out a soft snore and I squeaked. His arm was limp and his hands were gnarled with age. He wore a pinky ring with a small ruby in the center. The tattoo was wrinkled and the ink had faded over the years, but now that I was up close, I could see it clearly. A thorny vine and rosary beads were twined around a naked woman that had more curves than Kim Kardashian. The vine and the rosary beads ended at the top of his hand where the rose had started to bloom.

  I could see how in its heyday the tattoo might have been an interesting conversation piece, but the inked woman was now wizened with age and arm hair, and it looked vaguely as if she were shooting the rosary out of her vagina. But Aunt Scarlet had recognized it, and that was all that mattered.

  I brought the camera up and took a couple of quick shots, and then I bit my lip as I debated whether or not to stretch his skin out a little and get a more complete picture. I finally decided that was the alcohol talking and probably not the best decision, and then I realized the alcohol had been giving me directions through this whole debacle because what I was doing definitely wasn’t using my best judgment.

  I found this out the hard way when I turned to crawl back to my own lounger and my towel got stuck under my knee, pulling it completely off and leaving me bare-assed with my lady bits flapping in the breeze.

  “Yikes,” a male voice said behind me.

  I scrambled to cover my rear with the towel and turned my head in time to catch Elmer Hughes’s horrified stare.

  “Jesus God,” he wheezed, clutching his chest. “I thought I was having a flashback from the seventies. Those things looked a lot different then. That’s nothing like ’70s bush. You’ve got a nice landscaper.”

  I turned fifty shades of red and scrambled to make sure I was completely covered with the towel. And then I noticed his gaze had shifted to the camera in my hand.

  “I can explain,” I said.

  Chapter One

  Thursday

  One day earlier…

  It wouldn’t be the South if there weren’t proverbial skeletons in everyone’s closets.

  We certainly had our fair share in my family, and I knew other families had their fair share too, because we still talked about them in the checkout line at the Piggly Wiggly or with the cashier at Dairy Queen while waiting on an ice cream sundae.

  It was January and dreary and cold in Whiskey Bayou, Georgia. I’d temporarily moved back home due to the fact that my boyfriend, Nick Dempsey, had proposed and I’d had a moment of panic where I saw myself the last time I’d been about to get married—big poofy white dress and cake for two hundred—only to catch my fiancé boffing my archenemy in our honeymoon limo.

  They say lightning doesn’t strike the same place twice, but the proposal and subsequent panic attack were enough that I knew I needed some time and space to think about the proposal and being married to Nick for the rest of my life.

  So I did what any girl does when unsure of the future. I moved back home with my mother. There are two problems with this. One: I worked in Savannah and the drive was a real bitch. And two: I was living at home with my mother.

  Don’t get me wrong. I love my mother dearly. And maybe we’re more alike than I’m comfortable admitting. But living in the same house with her is enough to put me over the edge. Not to mention she’s newly married and the walls are thin at Casa de Holmes.

  Needless to say, I’d spent the last couple of weeks since the infamous proposal working as much as humanly possible so I wouldn’t have to act like an adult and face my issues head-on. I had to admit, I was missing Nick. I’d gotten used to him. Which was really what marriage was all about—getting used to someone enough that you didn’t want to murder them if you had to spend more than a few hours a day with them.

  I was currently sprawled out on the leather couch in Kate’s office, regretting the second cinnamon roll I’d just devoured and wondering how much Jillian Michaels butt clenching I’d have to do to make up the calories. My best friend, Kate McClean, owner of the McClean Detective Agency, sat in the chair just across from me.

  That’s when I heard the ruckus from down the hall. I was the daughter of a cop. And Kate was a former cop. So unless there was active gunfire neither of us were known to sweat the small stuff. Okay, maybe I sometimes sweated the small stuff, but it usually had to do with Black Friday specials and Louboutins being on sale. I was a seven, so my size always went fast.

  “I’m here to see my niece and you can’t stop me,” a familiar voice—both fragile and four-star general—roared over me like a freight train. “I’ve got a .44 in here and I’m not afraid to use it. Better step out of my way, Elvira.”

  My eyes widened and I saw the pure fear on Kate’s face at the thought of my Aunt Scarlet tangling with Lucy, the gatekeeper for the agency. Nobody made it past Lucy unless they were an employee or a client. I had my suspicions about Lucy. The two most prominent being that she’d worked for the CIA at some point or that she was a vampire—though I hadn’t really figured out how she got around the whole sunlight issue.

  We both shot up to a standing position and started running, but we went through the door at the same time and got stuck. It was then I noticed Lucy standing at the end of the hallway, her red lips pressed firmly together as she stood her ground. But Aunt Scarlet had wo
rked as a spy for the OSS during World War II and she’d outlived five husbands, so nothing much intimidated her.

  “Aunt Scarlet,” I called out, shoving past Kate.

  Aunt Scarlet was digging in her purse and pulling out a .44 revolver the size of a cannon. It was so heavy she couldn’t lift it and she shot a hole in the floor between Lucy’s feet.

  I guess that was enough to stun Lucy because Scarlet pushed right by her and headed straight for us.

  “I don’t remember that gun having such a sensitive trigger,” Scarlet said. “That sucker packs a punch. It was like getting kicked in the hot box by a mule.”

  I was afraid to ask what she meant by “hot box” but I’d gotten pretty good at interpreting Scarlet-speak over the course of my life. It had been three years since I’d last seen her, and the trauma of it all made it feel like yesterday. My mother was going to have kittens.

  Scarlet was my father’s aunt. Which meant she was my great-aunt. And she was our skeleton in the closet. She’d grown up as a Holmes in Whiskey Bayou during the Great Depression, and the family gossip was that she’d been shipped off to Paris by her father because she’d been having affairs with a couple of married men and they’d challenged each other to a duel, agreeing that the winner would get to keep Scarlet to himself.

  Apparently Scarlet had been quite a looker in her day—a dead ringer for Ava Gardner, some people said—but she’d been rather loose with her virtue. Scarlet had never seemed to mind. When I was twelve, she’d told me it was better to be loose with your virtue than loose with your bank account. If I’d listened to Scarlet I’d probably be a lot more sexed up and a lot richer.

  The days of Ava Gardner had long passed, and Scarlet now looked like Hannibal Lecter had put all of her bones in a skin bag and shaken them up so nothing quite fit together. She got around better than she should have for someone her age, and she attributed it to the fact that she’d smoked unfiltered cigarettes when she was younger and her insides were pickled from highballs.