Lacey Luzzi: Sauced: A humorous, cozy mystery! (Lacey Luzzi Mafia Mysteries Book 4)

by Gina LaManna

  “Then maybe he made a mistake.”

  “Could be,” I said slowly. “After all, it’s not like this place is in Google maps. Maybe he was off because he couldn’t get to it in the computer.”

  “That’s probably it,” Meg said. “Cheer up, girlfriend. Let’s head into town and poke our noses where they don’t belong. Someone’s bound to know about ol’ Dave.”

  I nodded, but couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but some part of the shack just wasn’t sitting well. “Let me take a quick peek inside. Then we can go.”

  Without waiting for Meg’s response, I climbed down from the bike and made my way towards the shack, careful not to touch anything. I was afraid that one wrong breath would collapse the whole thing down on me.

  “What you see in there?” Meg asked, still in her orange helmet. A few of her mohawk “feathers” were bent in odd directions from our wild trek.

  “It’s kind of cute,” I said. “In a dirty sort of way.”

  Clearly the place hadn’t been touched for almost as long as I’d been alive, but it appeared that at some point it had been inhabited. Whether by a child playing house or a person in need of a roof over his head, it wasn’t clear.

  “That’s a cutie little pot,” Meg said, picking up a rusted saucepan.

  “Check this out,” I said, holding out a disgustingly unsanitary s’mores skewer.

  Meg smiled. “Don’t lie, that wouldn’t stop you from cooking a marshmallow.”

  “You’re probably right,” I said, setting it down carefully. I didn’t want to take the risk of needing a tetanus shot. I had no desire to head back to Dr. Gambino’s office anytime soon.

  We thumbed through the sparsely furnished place in a matter of minutes. A crumbling car seat that belonged in a van served as a couch along one wall, and a box in the corner held a few smashed, barely discernible empty Pabst cans. The bare minimum of utensils lined a jug that may have once held water, but now was filled with spider webs and dust bunnies.

  “Looks like a bunch of high school kids set up shop thirty years ago here, and then forgot about it,” Meg said. “I don’t think this is where Dave is cooking up his special sauce. If this were his kitchen, he definitely wouldn’t be receiving an A rating from the food inspector.”

  “Food inspector,” I said, the word triggering a memory. “Maybe we can get ahold of the food critic that tried Dave’s sauce and blogged about it. If it really was a viral post, it shouldn’t be hard to find.”

  Meg shrugged. “Worth a shot.”

  I fished my phone out from under my sweaty leather jacket. Now that we didn’t have wind blasting us in the face, the day was turning into a humid one, as was typical in early July.

  “No signal,” I said. While I was at it, I took another glance at the map I’d tucked next to my phone. Horatio’s grandmother’s number stood out to me, scrawled in the corner in chicken scratch that only an adult male would dare call handwriting. I squinted at the numbers. “Hey, can we make a quick stop on the way back?”

  “You’re going back already?” Meg fiddled with one of the empty beer cans, but to her obvious dismay, it was still empty. “Giving up?”

  “Horatio said his grandmother lives around here. He said if anything’s happening in town, she’d know about it. Let’s ask before we head back.”

  “Deal,” Meg said. “My phone still had service at that gas station when we first hit town. We can stop there and ask around, too. Someone’s bound to know something, unless Clay’s pulling your leg.”

  “Clay is not pulling my leg,” I said. “Why would he waste my time?”

  Meg grinned. “I’m just kidding. Relax. We’ll find Davy.”

  ** **

  A short ride later we were right back in town, parked at the world’s oldest gas station. Or so it felt. The man behind the counter was just as old, and I feared that asking him about Dave might give him an aneurism. He wheezed as he thumped around with a cane, alternating between glaring at us and hacking up half of his lung.

  “Is there another gas station?” I whispered to Meg. “I don’t think he wants to be bothered.”

  “Too bad,” Meg said. “I’m ready to get botherin.’ I have a feeling you won’t let us stop to eat until we figure this out, and that is botherin’ me.”

  She strode right up to the man, a hand on her hip and confidence oozing from every pore. I wished I had a tenth of the guts she did. I scurried after my friend, reminding myself that someone who called herself a mobsterista probably shouldn’t be cringing at the thought of asking an old man a few questions.

  “Hello there,” Meg said, leaning on the counter and resting her hand on her chin. “How are you doing today, my friend?”

  The man grunted, but he stopped picking leftovers from between his teeth long enough to give Meg’s figure a quick scan.

  “Can I ask you a question?” Meg asked.

  “Not with that attitude,” the man said. “I run a business around here. I’ve been here fifty-six years. I’m not letting a young grasshopper like you talk to me with that tone.”

  “What tone?” Meg asked, looking thoroughly confused. She glanced in my direction. “Am I talking with a tone?”

  “Not at all,” I said, rushing toward her side. Her whole vibe was not a welcoming one at the moment. I turned to the old man. “Excuse me,” I said, looking at his nametag. “Douglass.”

  “Call me Dougie,” he spluttered.

  “Sure, she can call you Dougie,” Meg said, earning a light stomp on her foot. “Ow.”

  I kept my eyes focused on the man. “Thanks, Dougie. Say, we’re not from around here—”

  “You think I don’t know that?” he asked.

  I blushed. “Well, we’re not from far away, either. About twenty minutes towards the Cities, actually.”

  “City folk,” he scoffed.

  I continued to plow through his flowery commentary. “I was just wondering if you’ve heard anything about a Dave.”

  “A Dave?” he raised an eyebrow. “The pastor? He goes by David.”

  “Does he make a, um,” I cleared my throat, realizing how silly I sounded. “Some sort of sauce? Like a special grilling sauce or something? I thought I read…”

  “No,” he said bluntly.

  “Do you know what I’m talking about?” I asked eagerly. “Someone out here has a stand out on the side of the road, supposedly. I’m trying to find it.”

  “Off of any particular road?” Dougie asked, as if I were dumb. When in reality, there was only one road.

  “Sure, this one,” I said, pulling out the map and showing him the dot.

  Strangely enough, he very quickly dismissed the dot and focused on the numbers at the bottom of the page.

  “What do you want with Anastasia?” he asked.

  “Anastasia?” I didn’t try to hide my confusion. “Does she live at this address?”

  “That’s her phone number,” he said gruffly, pointing at the bottom of the page.

  “How do you know?” I asked.

  “Because it’s her number,” he said with a blank stare. “I’ve called it. We all don’t have the celly phones that you do. If you ask me, The Google corrupts people,” he whispered. As if The Google was spying on him in his hundred-year-old gas station.

  “He should meet your grandmother,” Meg snorted. “The Google, I tell ya. What’s next, The Yahoo?”

  “You know Anastasia?” I asked, ignoring Meg’s matchmaking comments.

  “And her two children,” he said. “And their children. Of course I know her. She was born and raised here, just like me. We went to eighth grade together.”

  “He had a crush on her,” Meg whispered to me. “I can tell these things.”

  “Anastasia is a beautiful woman,” Dougie said. “Everyone has a crush on her.”

  I waved the map. “But that doesn’t answer my question about the dot on the map.”

  “There’s nothing there, gi
rl. Someone didn’t know what they were talking about when they made that X-marks-the-spot treasure map.”

  “But they did,” I said, under my breath. “It’s not wrong.”

  “Then they sent you on a wild goose chase,” he said. “Nothing there but a pile of sticks. They say someone used to live out there, but I don’t think so. I think some high school kids snuck away to throw back some beers and smoke cigars.”

  I sighed and turned to Meg. “I think we’re at a dead end. Maybe we should just head back for now.”

  My friend must have sensed my drooping spirits. She reached out and gave my arm a shake. “Don’t you give up, yet – we haven’t exhausted that map. Let’s pay Anastasia a visit.”

  I turned grateful eyes in her direction and gave a quick nod. Turning to Dougie, I gave a hopeful smile. “Do you know where she lives?”

  “Of course I know where she lives,” he spat as if I’d asked him two plus two.

  “Will you tell me?” I asked.

  “Depends,” he leaned his cane against the counter.

  “On what?” I looked at Meg, not particularly wanting to owe this man any favors.

  “You bring her something,” he said, standing up straight.

  “Bring her what exactly?” I asked. “We came on a motorcycle, so we can’t carry much.”

  “I see that,” he said, nodding outside. “My eyes work.”

  “Fine. Then sure, as long as we can carry it easily and it’s not dangerous,” I raised my arms and let them fall by my sides with helplessness.

  Dougie was already busy scribbling a note. When he finished, he folded it over so many times it shrank to the size of a dime.

  “Oregano,” Meg said. “Nice.”

  Both Dougie and I gave Meg a look.

  “What about oregano?” I asked.

  “The art of foldin’ paper into small shapes,” she said. “Of course I know what oregano is. You think I’m dumb?”

  I extended my hand to Dougie. “I’ll take your oregano now,” I said, daring him to correct Meg. No crotchety old geezer would make my friend feel bad today. I’d offended one person I cared about already, and I wasn’t about to make it two.

  Dougie handed it over with nothing more than a loud sniff.

  I smiled politely. “Nice doing business with you. Now, where are we headed?”

  Chapter 5

  Horatio’s grandmother lived in a house that had probably belonged to a witch at some point. Exactly eight minutes from the gas station, right as Dougie had predicted, we pulled up to a smallish cottage flanked by an overgrown garden of weeds.

  The roof of the cottage sloped in nonsensical curves, forming pointy peaks and curly spires. The windows were covered with ornate metal grates and an apple tree bloomed next to the front door. The fruit tree bore only the shiniest of Granny Smith apples, and the stone path through the front gate was rife with cracks and loose stones.

  Walking into the place felt like entering a voodoo castle. Meg and I looked at one another.

  “Should we leave?” I asked.

  Meg shrugged. “I’m kind of curious.”

  “Me too,” I said. “But I don’t want to be pushed into a fire.”

  “That was a candy house. Plus, you don’t look like Gretel,” Meg said. “I think we’ll be okay. I’m armed.”

  Meg opened the leather vest, showing me quite an array of knifes, a gun or two, and what might have been a grenade. I took three steps backwards and nearly toppled into the rickety gate that boxed in the spooky home. “That is so not legal.”

  “We’ve discussed that legal doesn’t mean much to you,” Meg said. “Anyway, I’m your bodyguard. So it actually is legal.”

  “You’re not really a bodyguard,” I said. “I think you need a certificate for that.”

  “I got one,” Meg said. “Online. University of…actually I can’t remember. Maybe I just made my own in Microsoft Word and printed it out. Either way, it’s hanging on the wall behind the bar.”

  I made a mental note to look for said sign but, in the meantime, focused on making sure neither of us went up in premature fireworks. “Do you have a grenade in there?”

  “None of your beeswax,” Meg said, shifting uncomfortably. “Just don’t shake me up too much if you wanna be safe.”

  My face must have shown a bit of alarm because Meg laughed.

  “I’m just kidding,” she said with a huge guffaw. “You can shake me up all you want; we rode a motorcycle here. If the grenade was gonna go off, it already would have.”

  “Let’s just get this over with,” I said shakily, moving towards the front door. Suddenly a witch’s house didn’t bother me so much compared to my armed best friend.

  Meg followed close behind. When I hesitated at the front door, she reached over my shoulder and knocked loudly. “What?” she said with a look. “You weren’t gonna do it.”

  “I was building up my confidence,” I said. “No offense, but you kind of broke it down with your talk of explosives.”

  Meg preened proudly at the comment.

  I was going to suggest she remove her incendiary devices, but the door swung open before I could request anything. Instead, I had to go with the next best option. I reached for Meg’s vest and clamped it shut; making sure no shiny metal was visible beyond her studded leather vest.

  “Yes?” an elderly voice croaked.

  I had to look down towards my knees to find the speaker. The woman stood straight up and came to just above my belly button, her eyes holding mine with a pastel blue gaze that was a bit unnerving.

  “Are you Anastasia?” I asked.

  “You came to my house, don’t you know?” she asked. I detected a slight accent, but I couldn’t tell where it was from.

  Meg snickered. “Feisty. I like her.”

  “And who are you?” the woman asked, sizing Meg up and down.

  “I’m Lacey,” I said, sticking a hand out towards her. “And this is my sidekick, Meg.”

  “A psychic?” the woman asked, her gaze suddenly interested. “You are a seer, too?”

  “A psychic?” I asked, confused. “Oh, no. Sidekick.”

  “No, actually I am Lacey’s psychic,” Meg said, a sly grin spreading from one cheek to another. “Absolutely.”

  “Pleased to meet you, my fellow gifted one,” Anastasia said, bowing low. Her nose nearly touched her toes, and I wished my body had that kind of flex. I’d even try yoga if I could make my body bend like hers.

  “And I you, my darling,” Meg said, suddenly developing a British accent, or at least a cross between Scottish, British, and Australian accents. She didn’t sound anything like Harold, who was the most perfectly speaking Brit I knew.

  “How can I be of assistance to you?” she asked, speaking directly to Meg.

  “My betrothed has a question for you,” Meg said.

  I looked at her with real confusion. “Betrothed?”

  “Yeah, it means ‘friend’ to the layperson,” Meg whispered, dropping her fake accent to explain. “They use it over in England.”

  “Betrothed means we’re engaged,” I said. “Not friends.”

  “Oh, no wonder she looked so confused,” Meg said, gesturing towards Anastasia. “Don’t worry, Lacey likes men. So do I. Mostly.”

  Anastasia looked back and forth between us, suddenly a bit less friendly. “What do you want?”

  “Your grandson gave us your information,” I said. “Henry.”

  “I don’t have a grandson named Henry,” she said, suspiciously. “I have two boys, but Henry’s not one of them.”

  “Are you sure?” Meg asked. “A woman of your age, sometimes memory…”

  “A woman of your young age would surely remember her grandchildren’s names,” I interrupted. With a sigh, I tried again. “Horatio sent us?”

  Anastasia huffed out a puff of air that hit my kneecaps, and I had the distinct impression she wasn’t happy with my referring to her grandson as Horatio.

  “That’s not his
name,” she said. “It’s Garik.”

  “Well, whatever the name, it sounds like we’re talking about the same person. Red track pants and glasses?” Without realizing I was doing it, my hands gestured around my waist as if I were holding a basketball to my stomach.

  Another loud, guttural sigh escaped Anastasia. “That’s him. Is he in trouble?”

  “Not at all,” I said. “He’s a friend. He thought you might be able to help us.”

  “Well, I suppose that’s good news,” she said, turning and gesturing for us to follow her inside. “I already have one troublemaker. I’m not anxious to make it two.”

  Meg and I wiped our feet on a mat I assumed said Welcome – the symbols weren’t in a language I recognized. The instant we stepped across the rug, two black cats appeared and slithered between our legs.

  “Ying and Yang,” Anastasia said by way of explanation.

  “But they’re both black,” Meg stated the obvious.

  I gave her a light elbow to the ribs, but instead of hitting bone my skin cracked against something distinctly metal. Meg gave me a knowing look as I pulled my arm away, intent on not setting off any grenades with an accidental touch.

  “You can sit here,” Anastasia said, leading us into a circular living area. There were plump pillows on the floor that resembled over-sized pin cushions, to which she directed our attention.

  Meg and I awkwardly set ourselves on the makeshift seats. I nearly burst into giggles when I caught Anastasia glaring at Meg’s entirely squashed cushion. Mine maintained only the smallest bit of puff, which didn’t exactly make me feel great, but at least it wasn’t yet a pancake.

  “Tell me what you need help with,” Anastasia said, alighting on one of the seats and barely making an indentation.

  “If you’re so psychic,” Meg said with heavy skepticism, “then shouldn’t you already know?”

  Anastasia continued to stare directly at me, ignoring Meg as if her point was insulting.

  I was a bit curious myself, but I preferred to stay on good terms with the woman whose home in which we were currently visiting.

  “This is going to sound a little funny,” I said with hesitation.

  “Funnier than two girls showing up at my doorstep, one of them armed as if she’s attempting to invade Russia?” Anastasia asked with a bite to her words. “I use my gift when it’s important, such as when someone marches into my house laden with a grenade.”