Whiskey Sour (Romantic Mystery/Comedy) Book 2 (Addison Holmes Mysteries)

by Hart, Liliana

  My eyes almost crossed at the imagery that one statement brought to mind. I knew from experience that Nick’s tongue was a miracle.

  “Looks like I still know how to shut you up,” he said. His eyes gleamed with unconcealed humor and his dimples fluttered briefly as he opened the bathroom door to make his escape.

  I grabbed a hairbrush from one of the cubicles and launched it at his head. It thudded against the door as he slammed it shut, and I could hear his laughter from the other side.

  “You sure know how to brighten a man’s day,” he yelled through the door.

  I tried my best to get the stupid grin off my face, but damned if he didn’t make me feel the same way. All of a sudden, I was really looking forward to the new job Kate had for me to do. I was going through Nick Dempsey withdrawal. That man had been driving me crazy for months, and if I had to wait even another day to feel him naked against me it was a day too long.

  I looked at myself in the mirror and barely contained a screech of horror. My face was the color of an overripe tomato and my dark hair was drying in tangled tufts. My eyes were bloodshot and my pupils so dilated I could barely see the small ring of brown.

  So maybe I’d have to wait two days to get him naked. I could be patient.

  CHAPTER TWO

  By the time I’d gotten dressed and out of the bathroom, Kate had been called away from the office. She’d left a note on her door for me to come back early the next morning so she could brief me before the meeting. I was clueless as to why she’d want someone with my limited abilities for this particular assignment—unless they needed cannon fodder—which was highly probable.

  My hometown of Whiskey Bayou was a ten-minute drive south of Savannah. By the time I passed the Now Entering Whiskey Bayou, The First Drink’s On Us sign just on the outside of town, my seatbelt felt like it was strangling me and my fingers were gripping the wheel so tight my knuckles were white.

  Don’t get me wrong, the town is picturesque in a Pleasantville meets Deliverance kind of way, but it was an adjustment. And I was still adjusting after thirty years of living there.

  It was an island of sorts and built on boggy ground, so the buildings shifted and looked as drunk as the town founders had been. The Walker Whiskey Distillery squatted short and fat in the center of town, run down and vacant for more than forty years. The bank, gas station, sheriff’s department, and other assorted businesses sat around the square, paying homage to the sinking historical albatross of the distillery, stuck in 1942 forever.

  Going home always made me want to drive into the marsh. Especially since I was now living with my mother. A couple of months back, my apartment building had been condemned and bulldozed to the ground. I’d finally decided I could afford a tiny one-bedroom apartment in Savannah when I got the news that Veronica Wade, my archenemy and supreme bitch of the universe, had decided to sue me because one of her breast implants had popped during a fight we’d gotten into. It had been a doozy of a fight, and we’d gotten a first page write up in the Whiskey Bayou Gazette. I’d also gotten stun-gunned on the ass, so I preferred not to think about the fight too often.

  I’d like to say I was ashamed of myself, but that would be a lie. It had felt damned good to take out years of hostility and abuse by getting physical. Veronica had been the bane of my existence for more than twenty-five years. She’d been the one who stole my lunch money, and she’d been the one who’d put super glue on my oboe reed. I liked to think that karma had my back this time around with the whole implant explosion. Except for the lawsuit.

  Fortunately, there had been enough cops around as witnesses that her suit had been dismissed in court, but I’d still had to pay all the court and legal fees. Which was why I was driving a twenty-year-old Volvo that had a hole in the passenger side floor instead of my sweet little 350Z. The car was only one of the numerous setbacks I’d had over the past few months.

  I was a ninth grade history teacher, I was thirty years old, and I was living with my mother. That translated to deadbeat loser in the eyes of most people. And if the gossip mill was right, I was about to be an unemployed deadbeat loser. Which was why I had no choice now but to kamikaze my way through the cases Kate kept handing me.

  I’d managed to live with this down in the dumps feeling hanging over me for the last six weeks—a combination of desperation and wondering when the axe was going to fall and lop off my head. I was getting an ulcer, though I’d somehow managed to survive my current trials and tribulations without jamming a fork in my eye. But the urge to self-mutilate was becoming stronger every time I pulled into the driveway of my mother’s house. I was going to have to find another place to live. Soon. And maybe change my name and hair color. I’ve always wanted to be a blonde.

  I waved at Mrs. Meador as she swept the walk in front of The Good Luck Café—a thankless job since the clapboard sidewalk never seemed to be free of mud and sand. I wound through the crooked streets of Whiskey Bayou and turned left off of Main Street onto Shot Glass Drive, and then I took another left on Tumbler Street until I came to my mother’s house.

  It was a small, cottage-style house made of gray stone with a dark shingled roof, and it was the last house on a dead-end street of similar houses. The front door was painted bright red, and magenta and yellow flowers sprang up out of the planter boxes beneath all the windows.

  It was a cute house, and it probably would have been a nice place to grow up if there’d been more than one bathroom. As it was, the thoughts of my childhood home brought back memories of pounding fists on doors and screaming matches between me and my sister.

  My mom’s Dodge Charger, an exact replica of the General Lee from the Dukes of Hazzard that she’d bought off eBay with the insurance money from my dad’s death, was missing from the driveway. She was a huge fan of the show, and she said driving the car through Whiskey Bayou was a great way to keep the old people out of her way because the engine sounded like it came from a monster truck or Hell’s Angels, and you could hear it coming a mile away.

  I breathed a huge sigh of relief that I’d gotten lucky and had beaten her home. I didn’t need her to see me in my current condition. Not that she’d lecture me or anything about being careful. My mom was a free spirit and didn’t often think of things like safety or taking preventative measures. More likely she’d give me suggestions on how to do better and insist on accompanying me on my next job. It’s happened before. And as much as I hated to admit it, I had a sinking suspicion that I was a lot like my mom.

  What I didn’t expect to see was the bright yellow Volkswagen Beetle parked in front of the house. I was starting to wonder if I’d done something to piss off God, because it really felt like I couldn’t catch a break. I mean, there was that one incident where I’d almost had sex in a church crypt, but I’d felt really bad about it afterwards, so I figured I’d been forgiven. Apparently not.

  The Beetle could only belong to one person—Rosemarie Valentine.

  Rosemarie taught choir in the room next to mine at James Madison High. It wasn’t easy teaching about the Battle of Little Big Horn over the constant sound of Rosemarie’s warbling contralto. I kept a bowl of earplugs by my door on test days and frequently wished I could keep Jack Daniels in my desk drawer. She was a nice woman, but being with her was like herding toddlers or small dogs. I lacked the energy.

  The Beetle’s engine shut off and the door was flung open, birthing Rosemarie from its interior with a lot of groans and flailing arms and legs. Her curly blonde hair was somewhat wilted by the heat and only added about three inches to the circumference of her head instead of the normal five. Rosemarie wasn’t a small woman, and I could almost feel the Beetle giving a sigh of relief at her exit.

  I shook my head and blinked my eyes as I got my first full view of Rosemarie’s outfit. It was a one-piece short suit made of terrycloth—something I normally didn’t see on anyone but two year olds or Snooki. This one was bright orange and strapless, and the only thing holding it together was well sewn seams a
nd a prayer. My mouth dropped open in shock as the elastic band trying to contain Rosemarie’s breasts gave up the good fight and snapped down to expose a pair of the whitest mounds of flesh I’d ever seen.

  The elastic snapped so hard I was surprised her breasts didn’t bounce up and put an eye out, but Rosemarie shoved those puppies back in with all the determination of a woman at an All you can cram in a paper bag for $5 garage sale.

  I finally found the courage to get out of the car, my muscles protesting and my movements slower than normal—not that that was saying much. I noticed Rosemarie pulling a giant basket of fruit from the car and my curiosity at her arrival went up a notch. All she needed was a Carmen Miranda style hat and she could have been the spokesperson for Chiquita Banana.

  “Yoohoo, Addison,” Rosemarie warbled, as if she had to catch my attention for me to see her. “How are you holding up, dear?”

  I looked down at my borrowed black athletic shorts and lime green tank top, the stark white bandage on my leg and my bare feet and said, “I’ve been better.”

  “Well, just keep your chin up. Everything will work out okay. You’ve got your friends to see you through.”

  I was beginning to wonder if someone had died and I’d just forgotten as we made our way to the red front door. It was unlocked, because Whiskey Bayou was still the kind of town where the older generation still felt safe leaving their doors unlocked, even though I knew some of the kids I taught would probably end up in prison in the next few years.

  I ushered us into the air-conditioned house, immediately falling to the orange and brown velour sofa with mutant flowers my mom had bought when she and my dad first married. I was pretty much out of southern hospitality at this point, but Rosemarie just acted like nothing was out of the ordinary and set the fruit basket on the coffee table.

  “What’s with the fruit basket?” I asked.

  “All of the teachers took up a donation, and this is the best fruit basket money can buy. I read the statistics about how those who lived in poverty were most likely to get scurvy, and I thought this would help with your health.”

  She beamed at me, obviously trying to keep things upbeat, the two perfect dots of pink rouge on her cheeks quivering from the strain. A sinking feeling of dread began to curl in the pit of my stomach and I slowly sat up on the couch.

  “Why would all of you think I’m at the poverty level? What’s going on here?”

  I mean, technically I probably was at the poverty level with all the debt and fees I’d had to pay recently, but everyone knew it wasn’t polite to tell someone they were considered poverty stricken to their face. That was something done behind a person’s back.

  Rosemarie gasped and her cornflower blue eyes practically bulged out of their sockets. “Don’t tell me they haven’t told you yet,” she said, pressing a hand dramatically to her breast. “Those cowards. They know there’s going to be backlash because you had quite a crowd of parents and students there to support you at the school board meeting last night. You are a good teacher after all. You just sometimes make poor decisions. And really only the once. Or maybe twice,” Rosemarie amended, finally winding down.

  “They fired me?” I asked, the reality of what that meant finally sinking in. “I didn’t really think they would.”

  I was chilled from the inside out, and I shivered violently, unable to decide if I wanted to break down into tears or throw up. I think my bodily functions were confused because it turned out I could do neither, so I just laid back down on the couch and stared at the ceiling.

  Of course, they’d had grounds for letting me go. I knew that as soon as I’d made the mistake of taking a job as a stripper at the Foxy Lady. It didn’t matter that I’d only had the job for thirty-two minutes or that I was really bad at it. I’d been in desperate need of money and I’d made a bad decision. Not one of the better moments in my life. And I’d qualified my reasoning by telling myself that me making a little extra money on the side was no different than Marylou Waldrip, who taught economics, giving piano lessons after school, or Peter Newberry, the football coach, working at the Piggly Wiggly when his wife left him high and dry.

  I’d even made it a point to go into Savannah for the job. I never could have imagined that I’d see my principal in the audience during my brief career in exotic dancing. And to compound the problem, I’d found him dead in the parking lot shortly after. Luck hadn’t been on my side, and I knew I’d have to face the consequences of my actions. I just never expected things to go this far.

  “Now you can’t let something like this get you down,” Rosemarie said, too cheerfully. “You’ve got to look at this as an opportunity. This is your chance to be whatever it is you’ve always wanted to be.”

  I watched as she dug around in her giant orange Vera Bradley purse until she came out with a pen and pad.

  “We’re going to make a list of everything you’ve ever wanted to do, and then we’ll find you a job. No offense, but you’re not likely to find a man now that you’re living with your mother, and you’re getting to that age that’s the point of no return as far as getting married.”

  I realized the low growling sound was coming from me and made an effort to relax. Rosemarie was only trying to help. It wasn’t her fault she had the subtlety of a neutron bomb.

  “Okay, I’m ready,” she said, clicking her pen. “Tell me everything you’ve ever wanted to do in your life.”

  “Well,” I said thoughtfully, “I wanted to be a rock star when I was fifteen because I had a crush on Billy Lee Gentry and I was sure he was going to make it in the big time, but I found out early on I didn’t do well with leather pants,” I said, remembering the sound my thighs made every time I tried to walk. “Not to mention it’s never a good idea to wear leather this far south. The chafing isn’t pleasant.”

  “Not to mention you can’t sing a lick,” Rosemarie said, making notes on her pad.

  I narrowed my eyes, and the only thing keeping me from launching myself at her was the fact that she was right.

  “What else?” she asked.

  “It’s a long list. I had six majors in college before I finally decided to teach history. My interests are varied.”

  My father had liked to say that I’d lacked focus. My mother had always countered that I was just trying to find myself. I was starting to lose hope, because I still wasn’t all that sure I’d found myself. I’d just stuck me in a rut and kept paddling to make it seem like I was in control of things.

  “I’ve also wanted to be a potter, an interior designer, a shoemaker, a trophy wife, an archer, a spy, and have my own show on the Travel Channel. Do you think there’s a job market out there for any of those?” I asked.

  Rosemarie stared at me with her mouth hanging open, as if I were the one with my breasts exposed this time, and I looked down just to make sure I was still covered.

  “There are barely job openings right now for people who want to be bank tellers or receptionists. I’m not sure this list idea is going to work after all. Maybe you just need to get used to the idea of not being a teacher for a little while. Go file for unemployment, and then you can research your options.”

  “You know,” I said, sitting up as a brilliant idea came to me. “I’ve really enjoyed the work I’ve done for Kate these last few months.”

  “Except for the maimings and embarrassing mishaps—”

  I glared at Rosemarie and she made a sign like she was zipping her lips.

  “I bet I could make a lot more money if I became a full-time private detective. I could get my license and carry a gun and everything. I could be just like Jessica Fletcher, without the pastel sweater sets, of course.”

  I didn’t think Rosemarie’s eyes could get any bigger but they managed.

  “That’s a great idea,” she said, bouncing a little on the chair across from me, the seams of her onesie stretching to epic proportions. “Maybe I should take the classes with you. It’d be good to have a fallback if teaching doesn’t work out for me.
I don’t want to be stuck in a situation like you with no career to fall back on. Do you think they’d want me to lose weight? I know I’m a curvy woman, but I could probably bench press a truck if I had to. Men like curves, and I’d hate to be forced to waste away to nothing just so I could be a spy. It seems to me that the best disguise is my own self.”

  It’s true, I thought. No one would ever expect a spy to go around in an orange terrycloth jumpsuit. I cleared my throat and tried to think of something polite to say, but I was at a loss. Though it wouldn’t have mattered because Rosemarie was now on a mission. Full steam ahead.

  She gathered her purse and pushed herself out of the chair. “Make sure you tell me what we need to do to become real private eyes. I’m gonna go shopping for spy clothes. And don’t worry, I’ll get something for you too. I know spy clothes won’t fit in your budget right now and you can’t go around dressed like that,” she said, waving her hand in the general direction of my borrowed clothes.

  I closed my eyes when I heard the front door snick shut behind her. Getting my private detective’s license was the most logical step to take, considering my current situation. Kate was going to have kittens when she found out this was what I’d decided to do. Nick would probably have a coronary.

  But as crazy as the idea was, it felt like the right decision. I’d decide what to do about Rosemarie later. Much later. I drifted off to sleep with the image of Rosemarie wrenched into a black leather corset, knives strapped to her arms, and a Zorro mask tied over her eyes. Even my subconscious knew that things were probably about to get very interesting.

  ***

  I woke to the overwhelming smell of onions and some kind of fried meat. My mom had never really gotten the hang of cooking, but it never stopped her from trying. She hadn’t killed any of us yet, and usually there was something salvageable on the plate to tide you over until you could sneak back to the kitchen for a bowl of ice cream or Chef Boyardee.