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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgment
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
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Teaser
High Praise for Nancy Bartholomew’s The Miracle Strip
Other Titles from St. Martin’s Minotaur Mysteries
Copyright
For Adam and Ben, who told their teachers and anyone who would listen that their mommy was a mystery writer, long before I could say the words aloud.
For John, who loved and believed in me.
and
For my parents, who never let me walk away from a dream.
Acknowledgment
A first novel is a fragile creature, and The Miracle Strip is no exception. It would never have been written without the invaluable assistance, coaching, and advice of many people. Any mistakes that have been made are purely mine. I have taken liberties with the beautiful town of Panama City, moving people and places, adding buildings and streets where necessary and deleting some to suit my needs.
I could never do complete justice to the dedication and professionalism of the Panama City Police Department officers who assisted me in my research, in particular, Sargent Joe Hall, Detective Mark McClain, and Corporal Ed Eubanks. They answered hundreds of questions and let me ride with them as they went about their jobs protecting the lives and property of Panama City residents.
I am also indebted to a wonderful and loyal critique group: Wendy Greene, Nancy Gates, Ellen Hunter, Chris Farran, Carla Buckley, Pam Blackwood, and Charlotte Perkins. I am also deeply grateful to my agent, Irene Kraas, and my editor, Kelley Ragland, for having faith in Sierra Lavotini and me.
I wish to also acknowledge and thank the Greensboro, North Carolina, Police Department, and in particular Corporal J. F. Witt. Corporal Witt spent many hours answering technical and procedural questions, without hesitation and despite his busy schedule.
Thanks, too, to Nova Wyte and the staff of Club 9 1/2 Weeks in Atlanta, Georgia. Nova took me under her wing, and showed me the ropes. Dancers like Nova are few and far between.
Stuart Kaminsky befriended me when I needed guidance. He took time from his own busy writing schedule to mentor me and I will remember forever his kindness and wisdom.
Then there are the women in my life, the friends who stepped in and helped out when and where they could. They picked up the kids after school, or said, “I’ll take them with me for a couple of hours, you go write.” They let me whine, they shored up my courage, and they kicked me back out into the fray. Cathy, Johan, Susan, Ellen, Tru, Wendy, Wendy, and Anita … thank you.
And, as always, my heart, soul, and gratitude goes to my family. My boys ate a lot of noodles for the six months it took to write this book. My husband took up a lot of my slack and was a constant source of emotional support, as well as being my in-house editor. My extended family gathered around encouraging me and always reading, reading, reading. Thank you.
One
What happened to Arlo shouldn’t have happened to a dog. Granted, Arlo was a shameless con and a flawless manipulator, but he was also brilliant and, in his way, lovable.
I’ve always liked a guy with charisma, and Arlo had plenty of it. I’m an exotic dancer for this little club in Panama City, Florida. It’s a beach resort area, so you can believe I’ve heard all the lines and met all manner of men. It takes more than a line of talk to win me over, it takes nerve and daring, a certain glint to the eye that means herein lies a risk taker. I like that kind of spirit in all my friends, so it didn’t particularly matter that Arlo was of the canine persuasion.
Arlo was a fixture at the Tiffany. He arrived on the scene with his owner, Denise, about a year ago. Denise tended bar and Arlo usually spent his time racked out at her feet. Everybody knew it, and everybody looked the other way, even the health inspector. Vincent, the boss, told the inspector that Denise was blind and that was why her dog worked with her. It didn’t seem to matter that Arlo was a mutt of the most unrecognizable variety and not like your basic Seeing Eye dog. Arlo trotted over to the inspector, extended one of his paws to shake, and licked the guy’s hand. Then Arlo proceeded to turn a backward flip and roll over three times like a circus dog.
“How the hell you teach him that?” the inspector boomed to Denise.
She looked him dead in the eye, widening her gorgeous green 20/20s, and cooed, “They sent him to me like that. I guess it’s part of his training.”
The health inspector was in love, with all of his six-foot-two brawny redneck being. Denise is a looker. She’s got deep red hair and she’s built tiny. Men see her and instantly they’re all mush, wanting to take care of the frail little bird. We laugh about it; a lot. They don’t know Denise can drink most heavyweights under the table and rides a ’48 Harley Panhead. Arlo rides on the banana seat in back. Denise even had a little dog helmet custom-made for him, but I digress.
It was on a Saturday night, about two months ago, that Arlo disappeared. I remember because I’d been breaking in a new routine. See, the Tiffany ain’t a strip joint. We are not low class. Vincent Gambuzzo, the owner, told us when he bought the place that we would not be about a bunch of naked girls giving a pole a workout while the music blared rock and roll at a million decibels. No, the Tiffany has standards; we appeal to a higher class of customer. That is why we choreograph our dances. We have costumes and themes and music you can relate to. So I remember my routines and I remember the night Arlo disappeared.
I was doing Little Bo Peep.
Two
The music started. “We are poor little lambs who have lost our way…” I wandered out wearing a blond ringlet wig, a full blue dress, and pantaloons. Vince got some stuffed sheep from a pawn shop somewhere and scattered them around the stage. They were in pretty bad shape. Moth-eaten. One was missing a leg and had to be propped against the blue-sky backdrop. I stepped out in front and peered into the audience.
“Oh, where are my lambs?” I called, stretching out my arms. “Come to Mama, little lambie pies.”
That did it. These three traveling-salesman types came tumbling over one another in their rush to get to the stage. They were stopped by Bruno, the steroid-impaired bouncer, who informed them that they could go no closer. I’m peeling out of my dress by this point and standing in my little corset and pantaloons. Some of the men were baahing, and the rest were panting.
When I’m premiering an act, I look around the place to see how everyone’s taking it. D
enise gives me the thumbs-up if she likes it. Tonight she was crying. She didn’t even look up. Her bar back was taking over, filling the drink orders, while she stood off to the side wiping her eyes. Arlo usually wandered out to the edge of the bar to watch the show, but he was nowhere to be seen. Is it my act? I wondered.
There was nothing for me to do but finish up and try to get to Denise. I quickly lost the corset and pantaloons, stripping down to a lambskin G-string and rhinestone pasties. I stepped to the edge of the stage so’s the fellas could get a real good glimpse of the pasties made up to look like lambs. Then I did my grand finale. It’s old-fashioned but effective. I got the tassels on my pasties swinging so they rotated in opposite directions. An engineer told me one time it was a matter of force and gravity. He said with my 38DDs it was all momentum and propulsion. I say it’s a gift; you either got it or you don’t.
The three drunk salesmen were hooting and throwing bills up onto the stage. I turned around, bent over, and reached through my legs to grab the money off the floor. The crowd went wild. I straightened up, blew them a kiss, and sauntered offstage. Ralph, the stage manager, was waiting, holding my purple silk kimono.
“Another winner, Sierra,” he said, helping me into my robe. “Them guys love the fairy tales.”
“Yeah, right, Ralph,” I answered as I headed toward the bar. “You’re all little boys at heart.”
Denise was still crying. Her back was turned to the customers and she was trying to act like she was arranging the bottles, but no one was fooled. Her regulars stared uncomfortably into their watered-down drinks, trying to act like they didn’t know she was crying. If she kept this up, the place would be empty by eleven.
“Hey, so Little Bo Peep hold some childhood memories for you or what?”
Denise walked toward me, her pretty face blotchy and her eyes swollen with tears.
“He’s gone, Sierra,” she whispered. “Arlo’s gone.”
It took a moment for the words to sink in, then I moved forward and put my arms around her thin shoulders.
“Oh, Denise, I’m so sorry,” I said, drawing her away from the bar. “What happened?”
I could envision poor little Arlo, roadkill outside the Restful Haven Trailer Park. Worse yet, I thought, Arlo flying off the back of Denise’s cycle, careening into a tree and landing in a sandy road ditch.
Denise shook her head. “It’s not that, Sierra. Somebody took him.”
Straight off, I got mad. After all, I’ve got a little Chihuahua, Fluffy, at home. If someone was to snatch her, well, it’d be like losing my own kid. The people here at the Tiffany, we’re one another’s family. The rest of the world tends not to accept us. I guess they see us as bottom feeders on the respect scale along with your prostitutes and lawyers. But we protect one another. If one of us has a problem, then we’ve all got a problem.
“Who’d want to take little Arlo?” I asked. “How’d they get him?”
“I don’t know,” she wailed. She fumbled around, rooting through her pockets, finally drawing out what I thought was a tissue.
“They left this,” she said, handing me the crumpled, tear-wet piece of paper.
I couldn’t read in the darkened bar. I led Denise back toward the employee area and stopped under one of the wall lights. There was no such thing as privacy at the Tiffany. Girls were pushing past us trying to get in and out of the dressing rooms. I spread the crumpled paper out with my hands and started reading.
IF YOU WANT TO SEE THE MUTT AGAIN, GET THE $100,000. DON’T CALL US, WE’LL CALL YOU.
It was just like the movies. The words had been cut from magazines, pasted onto the paper in uneven lines. But who would want to kidnap a dog and ask a barmaid to pay a hundred large?
I was about to ask that and a few hundred other questions, when I saw Vincent Gambuzzo bearing down on us like a Mack truck.
“Look,” I said, “Vincent don’t need to get in on this. Go on back to the bar, I’ll run interference for you. When we get off tonight, we’ll go over to your place and figure something out.”
Denise was staring at Vincent like a deer caught in headlights. I gave her a little shove to get her moving, then turned to face the boss. I had the feeling Vincent would’ve mowed me down to get to Denise, just for the pleasure of reaming her out for leaving her post. Vincent was like that sometimes. If he thought he had the upper hand, he was all over you.
Vincent never had the upper hand with me. For one thing, in my black spike stilettos, I was a good four inches taller than him. For another, Vincent knew I had his number. When he bought the Tiffany, about a year ago, he tried to bluster his way around us girls, intimating that he was big-time connected. He’d sit around, all three hundred pounds of him, in his black suit, with the black silk shirt and tie, wearing these wraparound sunglasses, with it dark as Pharaoh’s tomb in here, and let on he knew all these big wiseguys, like Lucky Pagnozzi and Stiff Red Runzi. I knew he didn’t know anything.
You don’t grow up in Philly without knowing every rank-and-file mobster by name and reputation. Lucky Pagnozzi was a nobody, didn’t nobody I know ever hear of him. Now, Stiff Red Runzi, that was a name; only trouble was Stiff Red got his name after the fact. Stiff Red bit it outside a Fort Lauderdale restaurant sometime in the late seventies, secondary to a driveby whack from a rival family.
Vincent Gambuzzo, I found out, was the son of a small-time numbers guy. Buying the Tiffany was Vincent’s attempt to make it big. So the first time Vincent attempts to mess with me, I lay it all out for him.
“Vincent,” I say, “I admire what you’re trying to do here, really I do. Turning the Tiffany into a high-class joint is a stroke of genius, but you’re making a mistake.”
Vincent kinda leans back in his chair, puffing up his chest, getting ready for a fight.
“And how is that?” he asks, pitching his voice low like he’s maybe Marlon Brando.
“Well,” I say, “you start off good, but then you start bullying everybody around and treating me, your top act, like I’m a no-nothing no-talent. That will not get your staff to pull behind you. It will, however, piss us off.”
Vincent’s face turns red and his jaw starts pumping like the turnstile at Vets Stadium on the opening day of baseball season. Before he can blow, I continue.
“Furthermore, my last name’s Lavotini, as in Moose Lavotini. You may have heard of him?”
All right, now, I admit that I am not related to Big Moose Lavotini, head of the Lavotini Syndicate out of Cape May, New Jersey, but Vincent didn’t need to know that. I just paused and looked significant. Vincent took the bait and blanched. He didn’t talk to me no more like I was lunch meat, and I didn’t bring up that his so-called connections were bogus.
So when Vincent saw me in the hallway, he realized he wasn’t going to get to Denise. Instead, he slowed up and stared at me from behind his sunglasses.
“Don’t you got nothing better to do than block the hallway?” he grumbled.
Vincent had to save face some way. I shouldered past him and into the dressing room. It was five minutes until I had to be back on for the second show. I realized as I walked into the dressing room that I was still carrying Arlo’s crumpled ransom note.
Three
Denise didn’t live far from the Tiffany. She’d lucked out moving to Panama City in the winter, off season to all but the snowbirds from Canada. She had an efficiency in the Blue Marlin, one of the little family motels that lined Highway 98, a main route to the beach. Denise managed to live there for off-season rent year-round by relieving the motel manager of front-desk duty one day a week.
We wandered past the pool, our faces lit with the weird incandescent glow that radiated from the underwater lights. Denise’s little studio was at the far end of the court, right next to the ice machine and the motel laundry. It was April, spring break season, and the motel was pretty much at capacity. Parties seemed to be in full swing in many of the motel rooms, the music and mating calls of the young rednecks echoing off
the enclosing walls of the complex.
Denise didn’t seem to hear a thing. She stuck her key numbly in the lock, sighing as it wouldn’t turn and she had to twist harder.
“Damn thing,” she muttered impatiently.
“Want me to try?”
I turned the key in the lock and quickly realized the problem: Denise’d already unlocked it. I said nothing, turned the door handle, and pushed open the door. Even without turning the lights on, with only the dim glow from the neon tubes that framed each wing of the motel, I could see something was very wrong. It was either that or Denise was a bad housekeeper. The insides of the little efficiency were turned upside down. The mattress from the bed was flung against the wall, lamps were knocked over, and the contents of the dresser drawers decorated the tiny apartment.
“Oh my God,” Denise gasped, sagging against my arm.
I reached around and fumbled for the light switch. With the overhead light on, I could see we had a much larger problem. The lump of sheets at the foot of the bed wasn’t a lump of sheets. It was a body.
Denise tossed her cookies all over the sidewalk outside the room, narrowly missing my stilettos. I took a few steps inside the room, in part to avoid being splattered, in part to make sure the guy was really dead, not just hurt bad. There was no mistake. The man’s hands were tied behind his back and blood had clotted around a small indentation at the base of his skull.
Behind me, I could hear Denise heave again as I looked around for the phone. I found it on the far side of the bed, ripped from the wall.
“Denise,” I called, “is the office open?” I was on automatic pilot. I didn’t want to stand still long enough to really get what had happened. I needed to move, to get help, to get away from the odor and the sight of a pale yellow body.
Denise coughed and straightened up. “Yeah,” she said, “there should be someone in there.”
“Well, we need a phone. Yours is out of order.” I blew past her and headed up to the front office with Denise right behind me.
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