Whiskey Tango Foxtrot: An Addison Holmes Mystery (Addison Holmes Mysteries Book 5)

by Liliana Hart

  Rosemarie hooked her arm in mine and helped me to a sitting position. The world spun a little, but I closed my eyes and let everything settle. And then I opened my eyes. I wish I hadn’t, because I got a good look at the van and a combination of anger and fear rioted through my body. Adrenaline was the best painkiller there was.

  “Son of a bitch,” I yelled out and then remembered where we were. I looked around to see if anyone had heard me, but the later church service hadn’t let out yet.

  “That’s my new van,” I said. At least they hadn’t done any structural damage at first glance. But whoever it was had taken liberty with decorating the exterior. The words CUNT BITCH were spray-painted across the side.

  “It says DIE WHORE on the other side and something in Spanish on the hood. I can only remember my colors and vegetables from the semester I took in college, so I wasn’t able to translate.”

  I made a sound that was something between a wheeze and a scream. “That’s my new van,” I repeated.

  “It’s a real nice van,” Rosemarie said, for lack of anything better. “And I’ve always been partial to that shade of orange. It really brightens things up on such a dreary day.”

  “Ugly Mo is going to be pissed,” I thought aloud. “He just gave it a new paint job.”

  “You know,” Rosemarie said. “I really feel like I missed a lot between now and when I dropped you off yesterday.”

  I sighed and felt my shoulders slump in defeat. After the excellent haircut I thought maybe things were starting to go my way. “It was a day for the books,” I said. “I bought a van, got my hair cut, and did a stakeout over at the Tiger Lounge.”

  Rosemarie’s cornflower-blue eyes widened. “The Tiger Lounge? On Claymore?”

  “That’s the one. I didn’t really fit in.”

  “I can imagine. Can you stand?” she asked.

  “Probably. I need to move the van before church lets out. My mother will surely hear about that. I think she has a direct line to God for certain infractions.”

  “I never really picture your mother as a real religious woman, even though she goes to church every Sunday like clockwork.”

  “I’d say she’s more spiritual than religious,” I said, hobbling to my feet. I walked it off, stretching my muscles to get the kinks out. “She’s kind of like Oprah.”

  “That makes more sense. She’s omnipotent.”

  “Basically. I’ve learned a lot about my mom since my dad died. Mostly that the first twenty-seven years of my life were a lie. I always wondered where Phoebe got her eccentric nature. It turns out it was from my mother. She just hid it during their marriage and pretended to be a genteel Southern lady who never missed a church service. She put on pantyhose and went to work at a job she hated, and she was always the PTA president and Girl Scout troop leader. When what she really wanted was to go to naked yoga three times a week and take pottery classes. I think that’s why she’s such a bad cook. Her subconscious was rebelling. Who cooks meals for thirty years and never gets better at it? Since my dad died I think she’s been experimenting finding herself. I think she maybe still gets confused between the woman she used to be and the woman she’s become.”

  “It’s all about balance,” Rosemarie said sagely. “I’ve got a friend over on Victory that owns a body shop. Maybe he can get this cleaned up for you.”

  “Okay, but I’ve really got to work. That check from catching the Romeo Bandit isn’t going to last long.”

  “You could always marry Nick,” she said.

  I put my hands on my hips, a little indignant. “I am not marrying Nick for his money.”

  “So does that mean you’re marrying him for another reason?”

  “Shut up,” I said and narrowed my eyes.

  Rosemarie just smiled, her point made. “You can follow me there, but you should probably change clothes and do something with your hair. You look like Liza Minelli. I’ll move the van to a side street for you while you change, so the church people aren’t traumatized.”

  I got the car keys and brought them back to Rosemarie, and then I headed for the bathroom. I took off my clothes and studied myself in the mirror before I got in the shower. I had a few scrapes here and there, and my shoulder was already purpling. All in all, it could’ve been a lot worse.

  By the time I got out of the shower and the hot water had done its job, the left side of my body was a starburst of colors. My hip was also a nice, healthy eggplant shade. I dug around in the medicine cabinet and came up with some Icy Hot patches and a bottle of Tylenol. I stuck several patches to the worst areas and took twice the recommended dosage on the bottle of Tylenol.

  I smelled somewhat reminiscent of my grandma Bertha when she lived in the nursing home—Mentholatum, Lever 2000 soap, and strained peas—only I lacked the strained peas smell.

  I dressed quickly in new pair of leggings and a black tank top. I could already tell a bra would not be a comfortable addition, so I slapped a couple of Band-Aids over my nipples. Not the waterproof kind, because I’d made that mistake before.

  I covered the tank top with a vintage Tears for Fears shirt that hung off one shoulder and also managed to cover my behind. I topped it all off with a black leather jacket, thinking the more layers I wore the more likely it was to cover the Icy Hot smell. Once I had on the leather jacket I decided to get out my ass-kicking boots.

  Back when I was in the habit of living paycheck to paycheck and maxing out my credit cards, I’d bought a pair of black Saint Laurent rain boots that had silver studs from the ankles all the way to the knees. Since I’d never experienced the need to kick ass on the same day it was raining, I’d never actually worn the boots.

  Actually, I wasn’t much of an ass kicker on my most ass-kicking days—the previous night’s behavior being the exception to the rule—but that was only because I was faced with a life or death situation. Mostly, I still expected people to use good manners and be polite when I asked them questions. Savannah was an interesting mix of old-school charm and modern assholery, so sometimes my expectations weren’t met.

  Between the boots, the jacket, and my Tears for Fears shirt, I was feeling pretty accomplished. And I could barely smell the Icy Hot anymore. I added a chain belt that hung low on my hips and bloused my shirt over it a little.

  I put a little mousse in my hair to give it some texture and I slicked on some red lipstick. There were some days you had to make your own sunshine.

  “Whoa,” Rosemarie said as I came back down the front stairs twenty minutes later. “Are you working undercover in 1986?”

  “I just felt like I needed to seize the day. I didn’t start out on the best foot.”

  “That’s good thinking. Now I wish I’d seized the day before I got dressed for church this morning. We don’t match.”

  Rosemarie and I didn’t look like we belonged on the same planet. We did, however, look like we belonged in the same decade, only I was wearing The Breakfast Club Collection and she was flirting the line somewhere between Steel Magnolias and Heathers.

  She wore a turquoise wool dress that stopped mid-calf and made her legs look like logs that had been chopped in half. The dress had a row of double-breasted silver buttons that served absolutely no purpose whatsoever, and she was wearing black, patent leather heels and nude pantyhose. Her eyeshadow matched the dress and she’d used navy liquid liner. The only thing missing was the shoulder pads.

  I let out a sigh, well aware that we were quite a sight, and carefully navigated the icy spots on the walkways now that I knew they were there. Rosemarie hovered close by in case she had to sing me back to consciousness, and she let out an audible sigh of relief as I joined her by the yellow Beetle.

  “You smell just like my granny did in the nursing home,” she said, scrunching her nose. “They used to rub her down with menthol and then cover her in a body sock. She had the softest skin I’ve ever felt. Made it real hard to have her embalmed after she passed. We ended up having to cremate her. The funeral home director said
she lit up like the Fourth of July.

  “Come on, I’ll drive you to the van.” Rosemarie got behind the wheel of the car and I carefully got in the passenger seat, the Icy Hot patches crackling as I moved. The whoosh of menthol surrounded me. “I had to park a couple blocks away and you’ve got that crazy look in your eye you get when you’re on your period. I think you’re probably dehydrated and need some lunch. When was the last time you ate?”

  “I had rocky road sometime after three and I just drank a cup of coffee while I was taking a shower.”

  “I’ve always appreciated your ability to multitask,” she said. “I called Mike, by the way. He doesn’t normally work on Sundays, but he’s coming in special for us. He owes me a favor.”

  I had the feeling I was about to meet another one of Rosemarie’s conquests. Or at least one of her students from when she was teaching the tantric classes. But she surprised me.

  “Mike’s daughter was having a lot of trouble in school last year, and I helped get her set up with a tutor. It turns out she’s dyslexic. Sixteen years old and no one ever caught it,” she said, shaking her head.

  “Wow, that’s great,” I said.

  “She’s a real sweet kid. Mike would bring her to Whiskey Bayou three days a week for tutoring at the library, and while she was working Mike would pump me like the gas station attendant at the 7-Eleven in one of the back rooms. It was nice while it lasted, but he had no rhythm. It was like being fucked by Mr. Roboto. Never did have an orgasm with him. Pardon my French. I forgot what day it was for a second.” She smiled sweetly as she said it, so it took a couple of seconds for that vision to take root.

  I wasn’t sure what to expect when we pulled into Magic Mike’s Auto Shop, but it sure as heck wasn’t Mike Winkler. It turns out Mike looked like Vin Diesel on steroids. He wore a pair of gray coveralls zipped halfway up and a tight white t-shirt beneath. I guessed owning a body shop kept a guy in pretty good shape, since I could count at least six abs beneath his shirt. I was guessing there were more, but he’d have to unzip his coveralls a little farther.

  “So you’re the cunt bitch,” he said, looking over the van.

  “That’s me,” I said.

  “What’s that smell?” he asked, leaning forward to take a couple of sniffs. “Smells just like my Granny. Anytime she got sick she’d rub Vicks all over her chest and the bottom of her feet. Said it worked wonders.”

  “No idea,” I said, arching an eyebrow. Really, the smell couldn’t be that noticeable.

  He walked off to get his clipboard and I could see what Rosemarie was talking about with the rhythm. My grandfather would’ve said he had a hitch in his get-along. It was like his hips had been attached to his body Mr. Potato Head style.

  He looked over the van, his lips pressed tight together. “They did a bang-up job all right, but it could’ve been a lot worse. Doesn’t look like there’s any other damage. You can pick it up in the morning.”

  I bit my bottom lip. “I’ve really got to work today. You can’t have it done sooner?”

  “It’ll only take a couple of hours to get it painted, but it needs to dry overnight. Normally, I’d have a loaner you could borrow, but they’re all out. Lots of wrecks this week with the weather.”

  “It’s no problem,” Rosemarie said. “I’m free the rest of the day to drive her around. We’ve got a case to work anyway.”

  “I’ve got to go to Hilton Head,” I told her, thinking no, no, no in my head. I was barely functional on my own as a private detective. Adding Rosemarie to the mix had yet to make me feel more competent at my job.

  “Like I said, I’m free.” Then she turned to look at Mike and batted her lashes. “At least most of the day.”

  Mike smiled at Rosemarie, the little dimple in his cheek fluttering a bit, and Rosemarie pinkened, her body language changing so her breasts seemed just a little bigger.

  “I heard you’d gotten into the crime business part-time,” he said. “I hope you’re taking care of yourself. It’s a real dangerous world out there for a lady like you.”

  I rolled my eyes so hard I almost fell backward.

  “Oh, Mike,” she giggled. “You’re the sweetest, but you know I can take care of myself. I keep a sawed-off right under the front seat of the car. I’m excellent with a loaded weapon.”

  “Don’t I know it,” he said, winking.

  I stood there awkwardly while they did some kind of bizarre mating ritual, and then they finally agreed to catch up over drinks later that evening.

  We thanked Magic Mike and piled back into the Beetle. “What are you doing?” I asked her. “I thought you said he was like Mr. Roboto in bed.”

  She chewed on her lip as she took Oglethorpe all the way to the highway and headed toward Hilton Head.

  “I know, but he’s so damn attractive. Why can’t the looks and the sex match up? It’s like he was cursed by God or something.”

  “Maybe he’s gotten better since the last time y’all were together. Maybe he doesn’t perform well around books.”

  “I was thinking that same thing,” she said. “We’ve never actually done it in a bed. If all else fails, I can always throw him on his back and ride him like a stallion.”

  Chapter Eight

  It was a short drive to Hilton Head Island. Our first stop was the Shrimp Shack. Not only so we could grab a bite to eat, but also so we could chat with any workers who might’ve been on shift when Jonathon Hunt disappeared. But I especially liked the fact that we were getting to eat.

  Rosemarie was right. I was dehydrated and needed food. When I didn’t eat at regular intervals I’d get a pounding headache and mostly want to kill anyone in sight. Kate called it being hangry.

  The Shrimp Shack was located on the beach side of the island, cozily situated between some of the bigger resorts. I wouldn’t have called it a shack, exactly. I didn’t think they actually allowed shacks on Hilton Head.

  The restaurant matched all the other architecture of the area. The siding was painted blue and the windows were trimmed in white. And there were blue-and-white striped awnings that lined the entire front side with tables and chairs beneath them for outdoor seating. Wooden sidewalks with white railings led to all of the little businesses along the waterfront, and docks led down to the water. Boat traffic in this area was as popular as car traffic.

  My current look really didn’t fit in with the surroundings. I hadn’t really thought out my attire as a strategy for the day. I’d been thinking about feeling empowered, especially after the attack the night before. But Rosemarie and I were going to stick out like sore thumbs. This was not an area that embraced the eighties, unless they were watching Dynasty reruns from the comfort of their yachts.

  I figured what I was feeling now was how it must feel to be invited to the governor’s mansion and then realize once you got there that you weren’t wearing any pants. I wasn’t sure how Rosemarie was feeling. She was still humming Bohemian Rhapsody under her breath, even though the song had ended twenty minutes ago.

  The sun was hidden behind some very unpleasant looking gray clouds, and it didn’t take a weatherman to know a storm was brewing. The wind howled, and Rosemarie’s Farrah Fawcett curls whipped around her face in a snarl. Watching her made me wonder why I’d waited thirty years to cut my hair short. I’d made a lot of bad decisions in my life, so it was nice to finally get something right.

  The restaurant wasn’t crowded. It was the off-season and with the weather the way it was, most of the locals were probably staying close to home. Sometimes storms escalated quickly on the island. Besides, it was getting colder by the minute, which really wasn’t pleasant when the Icy Hot patch was on the “icy” round of therapy. My nipples felt like pieces of glass trapped beneath the Band-Aids.

  The odd looks we were getting from the occasional local we passed were either caused by our unique clothing combination or the fact that all hell was about to break loose in the sky and they were staring at us in pity. Fishermen and those who dealt with bo
ats had a pretty good handle on the weather, in my experience.

  “Wow, these people are real downers,” Rosemarie whispered. “It’s like one of those horror movies where the girl stops to buy gas and then she can’t find her way out of town. She’s trapped there forever, and everyone just stares at her creepily while she panics. Then she finds out it’s a town full of zombies and they eat her.”

  “That story escalated quickly.”

  “I’m terrified of zombies,” Rosemarie confided. “I’ve got a go-bag in the back of the Beetle in case of the zombie apocalypse. I’ve got money, food, clothes, and my crossbow in there. And I bought one of those bunkers off the QVC channel. It looks just like a shed in my backyard, but once I flip the switch to seal it off nobody is getting in.”

  “I think we’re going to be fine,” I assured her, though I was secretly intrigued about the bunker. “I’m sure they’re just surprised to see us.”

  We made our way down the long boardwalk until we got to the Shrimp Shack. An older man with salt-and-pepper hair and a swarthy complexion moved to greet us, and then he seemed perplexed as he got a full look at the two of us standing there. I could sympathize. He seemed to catch himself and then welcomed us.

  “I’m Emilio and this is my place,” he said, leading us to a table near the window. “It’s slow today, but we’re offering the full menu. Unless the storm blows in earlier than expected and then it’s every man for himself.”

  “Good to know,” I said.

  “Where are you ladies from?” he asked.

  “Savannah,” Rosemarie said. “And I’m starving. They did communion at church this morning, but those little crackers only make you hungrier. The lady in front of me asked the guy next to her if he was going to eat his. I thought she was going to snatch it right out of his hand.”

  We ordered, but before Emilio could take our menus I introduced myself. “My name is Addison Holmes,” I said, passing him a card. “We’re actually here investigating the death of Jonathon Hunt.”