by N.L. Wilson
Chapter 11
You know, my high school guidance counselor, Mr. LeCarrier, had suggested I be a funeral home director. Or maybe a chiropractor. “How about orthodontics?” he’d said. Of course, he suggested the latter to everyone who managed to scrape by in science. The standing joke was that he was hoping at least one of us would become an orthodontist and remember him fondly by the time his six kids needed braces. As for the other suggestions for me, Mother and I had both laughed. And I’d rejected them all. Too boring, I’d told him.
A nice quiet life, Mr. LeCarrier suggested, would be perfect for a girl like me.
That’s what he told all the female students.
Well, this girl had gone into a different line of work. Dangerous, exciting, and anything but quiet.
But right now, I was beginning to think Mr. LeCarrier might have known his ass from his elbow after all. Right now, boring and quiet sounded pretty damned appealing.
Yes, she was one up on me. No, she was two... wait, make that... oh, fuck it. Let’s just say she was a few up on me. The Flashing Fashion Queen—a.k.a. impersonator of the late Mrs. Jennifer Weatherby, a.k.a. My Nemesis from Hell—had me by the short and curlies.
She was framing me big time. Hell, she was trying to kill me big time.
Okay, she hadn’t done so great with the killing me part, but the frame job... man, it was brilliant. Calling the office to get me out to the car (I now had a pretty good idea what the thirty three hang ups were about), putting the murder weapon into my hands, and tipping off the police. It was a masterpiece of timing.
Yeah, she was damned clever.
And I was getting damned worried.
