by F J messina
Brad took the gun from Tee without saying a word. He tucked it into his belt, behind his back.
Sonia was finally regaining her composure, though the shock of having taken a human life was difficult for her to absorb, as it would be for a very long time. She pulled away from Brad, trying to speak calmly. “Tee. Tee’s the one who saved everyone’s life, not me. She’s the hero. She’s the one who saw Carla with the gun, who called out—who stopped it all.”
Wiping tears from her cheeks with her fingertips, Sonia saw Davey Rasmussen approaching her. She brushed damp hair out of her face and moved to meet him. “Davey? Davey, I’m Sonia Vitale with Bluegrass Confidential Investigations. Are you and your mom okay?”
Davey moved slowly and carefully as he approached Sonia. He spoke softly, more shaken than angry. “What’s this all about? Who was that woman?” Then something struck him. “And why were you holding a gun on my mother?” He was clearly starting to get his bearings. He was starting to recognize his own anger.
Brad stepped forward. “Now, just stand down, son. Let Ms. Vitale explain.” Davey stopped, turning his attention first to Brad, then back to Sonia. “Okay, explain.” It was a command.
Sonia’s body was still full of adrenaline. She took a breath, trying, again, to calm it. She started. “That woman is your aunt, Carla Rasmussen Lombardi. She came here to kill you tonight.”
“What?” Davey’s chin dropped. “Why would she want to kill me?” He hesitated for a moment. “And that can’t be true. I don’t even have an aunt.”
Sonia’s voice became more compassionate. “I’m afraid you do, Davey. She was your father’s half-sister, the daughter of your grandfather’s first wife. And, I’m sorry to say, I have some more bad news for you.”
Davey turned his head partially away from her as if to ward off the pain that might come with that bad news.
Sonia explained the whole sordid mess, Carl disowning his first wife and child, Carl’s illness, and worst of all, Victor’s murder. Even Sonia and Tee were stunned when Brad stepped in to explain why Carla had murdered Victor and why she had come there to kill Davey. Sonia could see from Davey’s face that it was really more than he could absorb all at once. By the time Brad had finished reciting the facts, Sherry Rasmussen was standing next to Davey, her arms around him, comforting her son.
Sonia and Brad had shared the entire story quickly. While they did, they could hear sirens approaching, sirens responding to calls from neighbors about gunshots in the neighborhood. As the first red and blue lights came flashing onto Village Green Avenue, Brad looked at his watch. He gave Sonia a tiny smile. “Eight thirty-seven. Looks like you made it with plenty of time to spare, babe.” He bent down and put Carla’s weapon, Sonia’s .38, and his own gun on the ground, then he spoke in a voice loud enough for all of them to hear. “Everyone, raise your hands and smile at the nice police officers. Let’s not make anyone nervous.”
50
It was ten forty-five the next morning before Tee and Sonia shuffled into Magee’s. Jet was already there, sitting at one of the larger tables, reserving seats with her purse, her keys and the pink sweater she’d brought. They all looked exhausted.
Sonia pointed Tee toward the coffee bar, then walked up to the counter where she was greeted by a smiling Hildy. “Small coffee and an almond croissant?”
“Large coffees,” Sonia shook her head wearily, her voice a bit raspy, “and just keep track of what folks in our group order. You’ll know who they are. We’re putting it all on the business credit card this morning.” She managed a tiny smile. “And I will take that croissant.”
Hildy put the croissant on a paper plate and handed it to Sonia with an especially warm smile. “It’ll be okay, honey. Whatever it is.”
Sonia simply smiled in response then turned and headed for the table. Tee showed up at the same time with two coffees. Jet already had hers.
A few minutes later, Brad arrived. He’d been across the street in the offices of Semper Fi Investigations since seven o’clock. He was still trying to catch up on his own casework. He walked directly over to Sonia, stood behind her, and kissed the top of her head. “Morning, babe.” She turned her head awkwardly toward him and made a gentle, kissing sound in the air. Eventually, all four of them were seated, quietly eating pastries and drinking hot coffee.
It had been quite a night. When the police had arrived, hands on their weapons, Brad had stepped forward and informed the police that there had been a shooting, that everyone involved wished to be taken into custody, though not arrested, and that no one would explain anything until they’d had a chance to confer with a lawyer.
It had been almost an hour before Revelle Boudreaux, a lawyer Sonia had recently conferred with, had arrived at the precinct to represent everyone from BCI. Davey Rasmussen and his mom had called their own lawyer. Sonia had given Boudreaux a thumb-nail sketch of the situation and told her that she believed no one should say anything until Mason Holiday showed up. Boudreaux had agreed.
It was well past eleven o’clock that evening when Holiday appeared, his own lawyer in tow. Sonia never quite knew how he did it, but using the clout of the bourbon brotherhood, Holiday had managed to significantly shift the legal jeopardy that arose from the non-disclosure agreement to the brotherhood. There was still, however, the possibility that BCI and all its agents might be charged with obstruction of justice.
Sonia had sat in a holding cell until well after one o’clock in the morning. Still in shock from the events of the evening, she worried that the local DA might not fully grasp the panic she’d felt when Carla had shot at Tee and then turned her gun on Sonia. She’d been relieved when Boudreaux had come to the cell, announcing that she’d been able to secure Sonia’s release on her own recognizance. Boudreaux had already made plans with the DA to meet again in the morning.
Jet was just finishing catching everyone up on the specifics of her final conversation with Zeke Bartley when Boudreaux walked into Magee’s. She was a stunning woman with bright brown eyes, straight black hair, a wide, engaging smile, and mocha skin. Her Cajun bloodline came through in her voice and speech patterns. Slender and shapely at five-foot-seven or eight, her obviously expensive black suit and teal silk blouse completed the impressive package. Sonia spoke softly to the group. “That’s Revelle Boudreaux.”
Sonia stood as Boudreaux approached the table at which they were all seated. “Good morning.” She motioned toward the others. “This is Brad Dunham and Teresa Vitale. We call her Tee. And this is Joyce Ellen Thomas. She goes by Jet.”
Boudreaux smiled. “Lots of short names. Easy to remember.” The words were almost syrupy as they flowed out of her mouth in smooth rhythms covered in Cajun spice. “Do y’all mind if I sit?”
Sonia gestured toward a wooden chair. “Please, have a seat. Can we get you something?”
“Yes, thank you. Coffee.” Boudreaux scanned the table again, smiling gently—clearly absorbing impressions while Tee popped up to get her a drink. Boudreaux turned to Sonia. “Now, I’ve got nothing but good news, so I assume you don’t mind me sharing it with y’all as a group. Yes?”
Sonia took the lead, relieved. “Please. Go ahead. But first, thank you, again, for getting us all released last night. I don’t know if I could have made it through the whole night in that cell.”
“Not a problem.” Boudreaux’s smile warmed the whole table, “Working with Mason Holliday, who I must say has some serious connections, we’ve been able to take your obstruction of justice charges completely off the table. Now,” she shrugged, “John O’Neal, he’s in some pretty hot water for asking Bobby Ray to move that body.”
She turned to Sonia with increased warmth in her eyes. “And you, sweetheart. I’ve just come from my meeting with the DA. Given the fact that you are licensed to carry, and that Carla Lombardi fired first and was aiming at you, you will not be charged with any culpability in her death.” She leaned back and smiled at the whole group. “It appears this entire incident is compl
etely behind all of you.” Sonia’s relief was reflected in the faces of the whole group.
“Oh, and one other thing.” Boudreaux looked at Brad. “The DA mentioned you left that Steven Belcher fellow tied to his own refrigerator. Apparently, the police found him with his arm still locked to the door handle, sitting on the ground next to a pot of . . . . Never mind. What matters is that he corroborated the story y’all told the police about Carla Rasmussen.”
Sonia was a bit confused but figured she would have plenty of time to ask Brad about Boudreaux’s comments later. She took a deep breath before she spoke. “It’s been one hell of a five-day case, ladies and gentleman. And let us lift our coffees in a toast to a successful completion.”
Everyone at the table complied, including Boudreaux. The sound of the quiet, celebratory comments was followed by a long moment of satisfied silence. Jet broke the spell. “Well, I have two questions. First, are the Bartley brothers still out that bourbon?
It didn’t take long for everyone’s eyes to drift to the only lawyer at the table. Revelle thought for a moment before she spoke. “It seems to me that if they haven’t already signed the property over to anyone else, it would be difficult to enforce a verbal agreement based on the fruits of illegal gambling.”
Heads at the table bobbed in silent agreement before Jet spoke again. “Okay, second question. What the hell happened to Johnny Adams? Did he just disappear off the face of the earth?”
Tee was quick to follow. “Yeah, right? What did happen to him?”
Sonia sat up taller, almost defensive. “I’m sure something must have come up with his own work. He’s very busy and successful out there in, uh, Denver, you know.”
Jet gave Tee a look, while Brad’s eyes drifted to the large mural on the back wall of the bakery. Tee couldn’t help but speak. “The least the jerk could have done was let us know what was happening.”
“Johnny Adams?” Boudreaux’s curiosity was clearly piqued.
Jet gave Sonia a quick look. When she got no response, she began explaining Johnny’s relationship to BCI, all the way back to the Hensley case. While she was speaking, Sonia sat quietly, a thought plaguing her. Though she had made a work-based excuse for Johnny’s sudden disappearance, she feared a different motive was at play. She unconsciously ran her fingers through her hair. It’s me. He still has feelings for me and I rejected him. I know it. That’s why he left. She certainly didn’t feel comfortable sharing the thought with the group, especially Brad.
As Jet continued filling Boudreaux in, explaining in detail the very sudden and bloody end to the Hensley case, a second thought crept through Sonia’s mind as well. She brushed a wisp of hair out of her face. And how could I have been so wrong about Missy? I felt it. I could have sworn it was her. I even found the letter. Yet, there’s no question that Carla Lombardi killed Victor. She swallowed her frustration and joined the conversation. “Yeah, that was quite a night.”
Brad put his coffee cup on the table. “Quite a night.”
Boudreaux stood, drawing everyone’s attention. “Well, y’all. It’s been a pleasure, but I’ve got a client on his way to court, and I’ve got to get over there before,” she winked, “he says something less than beneficial to his case.” She waved a gracious hand. “Y’all have a good day now. And Ms. Sonia. I’ll check in with you tomorrow to make sure everything is still copasetic.”
Everyone at the table responded, and Boudreaux left the bakery. After a moment, Sonia leaned forward. “Okay, now, let’s get back to the present.” She smiled, “I think it’s time we talk a little business.” The others all turned their attention to her. “Ms. Jet. I believe it’s time we offer our temporary employee zero-zero-three a permanent position. What do you think?”
Jet played coy. “I don’t know. She did help save your life and all, but does that actually deserve the offer of a full-time position?”
Tee gave them her best pirate voice and wink. “Damn well better.”
“And I agree.” Sonia’s smile filled her face.
Jet banged her fist on the table. “Done.”
There was laughter all around. Tee wagged her finger at the group. “Now, wait a minute. You’re not going to make me an employee without giving me my own desk, are you? I’m tired of sitting in a folding chair or stealing a few moments at one of your desks.”
Sonia was having great fun. “Actually, I’m glad you brought that up. Given the size of the check we’re about to receive from an informal group known as the bourbon brotherhood, I believe it’s time we make some changes to our facilities. I propose that you not only get your own desk but that you get your own glass-enclosed office.” She turned to Jet. “How does that sound, partner?”
“Sounds good to me.” Jet closed one eye and raised the other eyebrow. “Maybe that will keep her from making such a mess on my desk.”
“Wait a─”
“Hold on, ladies.” Brad raised his arms to quiet the whole table. “I have an offer to make myself.” Silence fell on the table. He took a big, almost majestic breath. “If you can find the funds to build a glass-enclosed conference room as well, I just happen to have a large, beautiful wooden table that will fill that space.” He smiled. “It’s a family piece, been in storage since my folks passed.” His grin turned mischievous. “Of course, we’ll all miss the shaky, white, plastic table.
Sonia looked at Jet, got the response she hoped for, and turned back to Brad. “Well, kind sir, what a lovely gift, and one we will be glad to accept.” She shifted her expression. “However, try as you may to ingratiate yourself to us, please do not hold out any hope of ever becoming employee number zero-zero-four.”
Brad looked at her, surprised confusion on his face. “And why is that?”
“Because BCI is now, and shall ever be, an all-female investigation firm.” She paused for a moment, then spoke directly to her partner. “In fact, Jet, I believe we’ll be installing two offices and a conference area.”
Jet seemed truly puzzled. “Two? Why?”
“I’m quite certain,” said Sonia coyly, “that by the end of the day we will be hiring our first Latina investigator, one that’s quite a red-hot pistol.”
51
After the celebratory coffee had broken up, Tee and Jet went off to start the process of looking for some furniture for Tee to put in her new office. Not counting the TV in the waiting area, not a single piece of brand-new furniture had ever made its way into the BCI offices, and Sonia made it clear to Tee that the tradition was not about to change. Nonetheless, Tee was excited about searching for some things that would be functional and yet fit her personal style. Jet was pleased to be a part of the process of searching.
Tee had, of course, invited Sonia to join her on her search, but Sonia had declined. She was just too exhausted. Instead, she went upstairs to her own space with the intention of clearing off her own desk. When she walked into the room, however, she realized there was very little clutter to deal with. Sonia kept her space neat, always.
She sat at her desk and decided there was one bit of business she still needed to attend to. She opened her computer and began the process of transferring the files she had taken from Carl’s computer to a back-up hard drive she used for all important BCI files. She was about to transfer the third file when she realized that she’d never even opened it. The case was closed now, but sheer curiosity drove her to open it anyway. She started reading. It was a letter from Carl to Missy.
Missy,
I know that you found my recent suggestion a little hard to believe, Victor being my only son. Still, I ask you to consider what it is like to invest your entire life in building not only a successful business but a personal reputation—a reputation for being an honest man who built quality roofs for people, who gave them the quality they paid for. And then, what it is like to turn that business over to your son, your own flesh and blood, and watch him squander, not the business, but the reputation—to have your name become synonymous with low-quality, over-priced
roofs.
But you, Missy, you always understood. Right from the time you joined the company, you had the same vision I did, high-quality roofs worth what people paid for them. As I said to you the other day, you are the only one I can trust to restore my good name, because you were there when things were right, and you know how to make them right again.
Now, I know that won’t be easy. If I try to move control of the business from Victor to you, he will fight tooth and nail, declaring me incompetent, and probably win. Davey, on the other hand, is another matter. Honestly, I don’t know how else this can be accomplished. You know my plan. You know how I want things to turn out. If you have the courage for it, you can call the number I asked you to put in your phone the other day. The man who answers the phone will not be surprised to hear from you. Simply say the words, “Do it,” and hang up. He will know exactly what to do. He has already been paid. But it must be done before I pass. If he does not hear from you, do not fear. I have asked a lot of you and done all that I can to make things right. One way or the other I will die in peace.
Respectfully,
Carl
Author’s Note
As I’m sure you can imagine, Victor Rasmussen wasn’t really murdered, nor did he wind up in a barrel of bourbon. THE STORY YOU HAVE JUST READ IS NOT TRUE. NONE OF THE EVENTS OR CHARACTERS PORTRAYED HAVE ANY RELATION TO ACTUAL EVENTS, ORGANIZATIONS, OR ANY PERSONS LIVING OR DECEASED. That having been said, I hope you’ve enjoyed our bourbon-soaked adventure.
Now, a word of advice. Do not go to your local purveyor of fine bourbons and try to purchase a bottle of Horatio Blevins, Settler’s Pride, Woodland Acres, James Bennington, or any of the other fine bourbons mentioned in the book. Remember, I just make this stuff up! On the other hand, if you know your bourbon brands and facts, I hope you feel that I have captured an authentic sense of what bourbon is, how it is made, and why so many folks, in Kentucky and around the world, consider it so special. Let’s be clear, however, that no actual distiller, brand, or company, real or inspirational, was involved in anything untoward that was described in this book—other than providing beautiful, delicious bourbon in which some of us may or may not have over-indulged.
