by Sam Cheever
I swiped a hand over my sweaty brow, panic swirling in my gut. I wasn’t going to be able to do what Rouse wanted me to do. In my two visits to the island, I’d never seen a bathtub. Bathtubs weren’t exactly small. Was it even possible that I hadn’t seen it already? I shoved aside the niggling thought that my father might have lied to me. It wouldn’t be the first time if he had.
That thought made me nauseous as well as panicked.
I was a mess.
Fortune moved up beside me, bumping my arm with hers. “Felicity, do you remember when we were here the other day, looking for that still?”
I frowned, nodding. Pressing a hand to my stomach I worked on keeping from puking. “Yeah.”
“We were over by Bubba’s campsite, remember?” She lifted her brows as if she were trying to tell me something. The only problem was, I had no idea what it was. Then, my mind suddenly cleared and, incredibly, I remembered. “The thing I tripped over.”
“Yeah.”
I touched her arm, panic receding a little. “What direction is that from here? I’m all turned around.”
Ida Belle pointed to our right. “Over that way.”
I eyed her with new respect. “How do you know that? We’ve been walking in circles for almost an hour.”
“During the war I trudged around the jungles of Vietnam for six months. I’ve gotten pretty good at figuring out what direction I’m going.”
“I could kiss you,” I told her, smiling.
“Save that for after we find the suitcase.” Ida Belle rolled her eyes meaningfully toward Rouse, who’d stopped a few feet behind us and was slapping at bugs, his wide face shiny with sweat and covered in bug parts. We watched him for a moment, hoping he’d accidently knock himself out with the gun slapping at bugs. No such luck. He finally caught us staring and jerked the gun. “Get movin’ or I start shootin’.”
“Jerk,” Gertie murmured as we started off again.
“I heard that,” Rouse responded, then he slammed his gun hand into his chin and grunted as his head snapped back.
Unfortunately he didn’t knock himself out.
The bathtub was nearly covered over in vegetation. I realized as we finally saw the curved, pitted legs sticking up from the weeds that we could have walked past it a few times without seeing it.
I pointed to it as Rouse caught up to us. “It’s under there.”
He eyed the nearly concealed tub. “Well, turn it over.”
Exhaling wearily, I walked over and grasped a leg, shoving against it as hard as I could. It didn’t budge.
“Here, let me help,” Fortune offered. She grabbed a second leg and shoved with me. It lifted a fraction of an inch and then slammed back down again. The thing had to weigh a thousand pounds.
“Come on, ladies, I’m ready to get off this god-forsaken island.” Rouse looked like he was at the end of his rope. His cotton shirt was black with sweat and clung to his beer belly. His thin ponytail was askew and painted with moss. The bug debris on his sweaty neck and face had reached alarming proportions and his face was so red I wondered if he was having a heart attack.
Gertie and Ida Belle came over to help.
“You two grab the legs and shove while Fortune and I try to lift the lip.” We all got into position. “On three. One…two…three!” With our combined strength, we finally got the tub halfway up before we started to lose it again. With a united shriek, we all jumped back as the massive iron thing slammed back into place, but not before Rouse spotted the treasure at the end of the rainbow.
“It’s under there,” he said excitedly. “I saw it.”
“I’m glad to hear zat,” said a voice in heavily accented Russian. I gasped in surprise and stepped backward.
The second Russian mobster stood under a nearby Cypress tree, looking cool and comfortable in the shade. He had one of those military type rifles in his hands and a smile on his face. He jerked the rifle at Rouse. “Drop ze gun and kick it zis vay.” Scowling murderously, Rouse did as he was told. The Russian smiled meanly. “Now vy don’t you get in zare and help za ladies, Detectif. It’s just not right zat zey haf to do it all zemselves.”
Rouse reached down and grasped the edge of the tub. He lifted it halfway and then, face purple and eyes bulging, nearly dropped it. We jumped in and shoved the top, finally giving it the impetus it needed to slam over onto its legs.
Rouse eyed the suitcase with obvious lust, licking his thick lips.
“Nyet, nyet, Detective.” He glanced at me. “Miz Chanz, vould you be zo kind az to hand me zat suitcase, please?”
I picked up the suitcase and walked closer but didn’t hand it to him. “You have your suitcase now. You need to let us go.”
The man laughed. It wasn’t a nice sound. “I’m zo zorry, Miz Chanz. I can’t do zat.”
An extra-large shadow separated itself from the cypress at the Russian’s back. Mannie placed the muzzle of his big gun against the mobster’s temple. “I’m afraid I can’t let you hurt these ladies, pal. They’re under Mr. Hebert’s protection.”
The Russian’s pale gaze narrowed, his jaw tightening. The rifle lowered just enough to make Rouse feel better. He lunged toward me, grabbing the suitcase and shoving me to the ground.
My three friends joined me on the ground as bullets started to fly. They pinged off the trees, the tub, and a couple whizzed over my head as I cringed among the weeds, my hands over my head.
There was a shout and a clang, then the meaty sound of fists hitting flesh and another clang. A final punch ended on a wet sound and a clang. Then silence.
Heavy breathing was all that was left. “You can come out now, ladies.”
I stuck my head up to find Mannie sitting on the edge of the tub, the suitcase in his big hand. A couple sets of legs and arms stuck out of the tub behind him. He was mopping his brow with his silk tie. I couldn’t believe he’d worn a suit to a gun fight. One by one, we all sat up, blinking.
“Is it over?” Gertie asked.
Eyeing the tub, I realized Mannie had jammed Rouse and the Russian into it. One hand twitched as I was looking and I opened my mouth to tell Mannie.
Rouse’s big fist came up and grabbed hold of Mannie’s tie, yanking him into the tub. Mannie hauled back with the suitcase and smashed it down on Rouse’s head. The cop went limp.
Behind us, the moss separated and Big and Little Hebert strolled out. Big scowled at Mannie. “Quit screwin’ around, Mannie. Get out of that tub and bring me the suitcase.”
I sighed, realizing I’d completely lost control. My simple task had gone horribly wrong and the Heberts would be forced to give up my dad to keep the Russians from starting a war. Even as I opened my mouth, I knew it would be useless.
But I had to try. “Mr. Hebert, sir, you had an agreement with my father, right?”
Big Hebert eyed me for a long moment and then reached out and took the suitcase his man handed him. Finally he inclined his head. “I’m a man of my word, Miss Chance. I’ll take care of this just as your father and I agreed.”
I wanted to believe him, but I didn’t know if I could. My head was spinning from all the agendas we’d gotten ourselves embroiled in. Still, I figured all I could do at that point was give him the benefit of the doubt. “Thank you, sir.”
He nodded. “Come on, Mannie. We need to make ourselves scarce. Carter will be here soon to arrest those two.” He lifted the suitcase toward the thug-filled tub. “I’ll be in touch, ladies.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
It turned out Big Hebert was a man of his word. He called us to his office the following day and sat us down to explain how things had gone down. Big had contacted Nicholai Ruchoff to report that his men had gotten themselves into a little trouble and were in the local jail. Big further explained that he’d gotten his hands on a certain suitcase full of evidence that he’d be happy to turn over to Nicholai’s men when they got out of jail. He denied any knowledge of the cash that had been in the suitcase, telling Nicholai that it must have already
been spent by my father and that, in the name of businessmen everywhere, Big had felt obliged to dispose of the traitor who’d stolen the goods from the Russians in the first place.
By all accounts, Nicholai was ecstatic to be getting his evidence back.
Big got his cash and, unbeknownst to Nicholai, his own copy of the evidence in the suitcase…just in case. Nicholai got the proof of his dirty dealings back. And my father was safely ensconced in his weird monastery, hopefully for a while. Though I had my doubts on that score.
As for me, I’d decided to hang around Sinful for a few more days, so that I could experience the Sunday morning banana pudding race first hand. That was how I found myself sitting in Sinful Baptist church on a hot and steamy Sunday morning in late June.
Fortune and I were on the edge of our seats. The word had gone out that, since the break-in at the Catholic church, Celia had hired a bodyguard slash security guard to protect the choir robes and other Catholic type things.
We weren’t too worried at first. But then we met her. Beverly. Celia’s new guard was six feet tall, a beautiful mahogany color, and built like a runner, with legs all the way up to my chin.
She also had blood in her eye.
That isn’t to say her eyes were bloodshot, but the day we met her she’d squashed a mosquito near her eye and it squirted all inside there.
It was gross.
Anywho… Beverly, as the protector of all things Catholic, was seen going into the Catholic church the Sunday after we had our showdown on Number Two. That was how, of necessity, I became part of Fortune’s plan to defeat the mighty Beverly.
As the pastor droned on and on in his closing prayer, Fortune and I were perched precariously, only about a hundredth of one butt cheek resting on the very edge of the pew, flexed to take off.
We knew we were in trouble with Beverly. Fortune was fast but she’d seen the woman running around town and was afraid ol’ Bev was faster. So we were gonna tag team her.
The pastor said, “A…”
Fortune and I were out the door before he finished with, “…men.”
Across the street the door to the Catholic church slammed open and Beverly leapt out like Peter Pan on steroids. Her size nines flew over the steps and hit the street, every stride cutting at least an eighth of a mile off the distance.
She looked like an antelope loping down the street toward Francine’s Diner.
“Go!” Fortune yelled, and took off toward Bev. I cut across the street and, arms pumping, hightailed it at the top of my speed toward Francine’s. I knew we were in trouble almost from the first. Fortune was struggling to catch up to Beverly and the Amazonian-sized protector of choir robes seemed barely to be working at all.
Sweat stung my eyes as I lurched forward, air wheezing in and out of my lungs, but the distance to my goal seemed ever farther away, no matter how hard I ran.
Fortune dug in and, with a growl of sheer determination, went airborne and launched herself at Beverly. Ol’ Bev stuck out an arm and blocked her like a wide receiver heading for the end zone.
Fortune went down in a pile of arms and legs.
Alarm roared through me. I was alone. It would be up to me to win the SLS their weekly banana pudding.
We were doomed.
Even as I had the thought my toe caught on a crack in the road and, with a shriek of alarm, I went down. Pain sheered my elbows and knees as I skidded up the street.
Beverly stuttered, her focus broken by the sight of me licking asphalt, and Fortune came out of nowhere with a whoop of sheer joy and shot past her, diving through the door to Francine’s a beat before the kind and gullible Beverly.
I lay there bleeding and panting, feeling good that I’d managed to use my clumsiness for good at last.
I just hoped they’d bring my hard-won banana pudding to me at the hospital.
THE END
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
USA Today Bestselling Author Sam Cheever writes romantic paranormal/fantasy and mystery/suspense, creating stories that celebrate the joy of love in all its forms. Known for writing great characters, snappy dialogue, and unique and exhilarating stories, Sam is the award-winning author of 50+ books and has been writing for over a decade under several noms de plume.
To learn more about Sam and her work, visit her at one of her online hotspots:
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