Lucky and the Drowned Debutante

by Emmy Grace

  He starts to raise a hand to his face, but drops it quickly. But not before I see the action. And recognize it for what it is.

  “What are you up to, Lucky?”

  “They know, Liam. Your DNA was under her nails. Tell me what’s going on. Maybe I can help.”

  He mutters a curse and spins away from me. He runs both hands through his hair and then laces his fingers together at his nape. The layers of muscle across his broad back are stretched tight. He’s tense.

  But why?

  “I told you to stay out of this,” he finally says, still facing away.

  “Clive asked me to help. To help you.”

  At that, Liam pivots back toward me. “I don’t need help.”

  “Oh, I think you do. This is damning evidence, Liam.”

  “You think I don’t know that?”

  “Then tell me what happened. Tell me what’s going on so I can help you.”

  His lips are thin and his thundercloud expression is back in place. “She came to ask for my help. We talked a little bit about the reunion, and then she started reminiscing. One thing led to another and…”

  My heart freezes right inside my chest. Like, ice block kind of frozen. I think it’s too cold to beat for at least a full minute.

  “You…you slept with her?” I can hardly get the words out over my sawdust tongue.

  He tips his head to one side, his expression shifting into his one of frustration. I’ve seen it often. Very often.

  “Of course not. But she wanted to.”

  It’s probably not healthy the amount of relief I feel right now. I think my legs have turned to jellyfish tentacles, completely and utterly unable to hold me upright.

  I lock my knees back so they don’t buckle, and I plunge ahead. “Is that when the scratches happened?”

  “I may have said some things I shouldn’t have. Things about her choices and her…associations. She got angry and slapped me.”

  “Is that why you didn’t sleep with her? Because of her fiancé?”

  Liam raises his head and stares at me, long and hard. “It probably should’ve been.”

  “But it wasn’t?”

  “No. That had nothing to do with it.”

  Something electric erupts between us. It’s so powerful and poignant that I think my hair would be standing on end if it weren’t subdued by a scrunchy.

  “Th-then why?”

  He doesn’t take his eyes off mine as he slowly, very slowly, steps toward me. He doesn’t stop until he’s so close his chest is just barely brushing my boobs. I tilt my head back to maintain eye contact, partly because I feel like I’m in the best romantic scene ever made and it’s my job to keep looking at him, and partly because I couldn’t pull my gaze away if the barn were on fire and boards were falling down around me.

  “I think you know why.” His voice is low and smooth and he’s so gorgeous and he’s so…so… Liam.

  “I do?”

  He nods.

  “Maybe…maybe you should tell me, just to be sure.”

  After a short pause, during which I think he’s going to leave me hanging and I might have to scream bloody murder, he mutters, “She’s not the one I want.”

  I can’t decide if all my blood is rushing to my head or away from it. My whole skull feels both heavy and extremely light at the moment.

  “Then who is?”

  He doesn’t bat an eye when he says, “Leia.”

  12

  You know how in movies people do a double take? When the shock is so profound, a person has to make absolutely sure that’s what they heard?

  That’s what I’m doing in my head.

  If I were an animated character and I had an animated thought bubble over my animated head, it would read:

  W.

  T.

  F.

  ??????

  “Leia?” I ask.

  There is so much shock and disappointment in my voice that I nearly choke on that one horrible, ugly, awful, distasteful word.

  Liam drags his eyes away from me and smiles tightly over my head. “What are you doing here?”

  He moves around me, and I’m so confused I just stand staring at the barn wall with my mouth working its way open and closed like a guppy that finds himself on the floor instead of in his bowl.

  But then, when I turn and see none other than the fabulously flawless Leia Flynn standing in the barn doorway, it starts to make a little more sense. I hope Liam was just greeting her and that she wasn’t the answer to my question.

  There is no doubt I’ll have to find a way to revisit that whole scene with Liam, though. I might spontaneously combust if I don’t find out if he actually meant Leia or if he was going to say something else.

  Something like “You. I want you because I love you, Lucky, and I might die if I can’t kiss you in the next four point two seconds.”

  That or some other variation that ends with a declaration of love and some heavy petting.

  I plaster on something as close to a smile as I can manage. All things considered, it might look more like a grimace. Or a pooping face. A girl can only hide so much of her feelings at any given time.

  “Leia, what a surprise,” I mumble.

  “Clearly.” Her smile is as perfectly curated as her outfit. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “You’re not. It’s fine,” Liam says.

  Inside, I’m screaming that it’s not fine at all as I silently threaten to cut her hair and shave her eyebrows if she doesn’t leave right this minute.

  But on the outside, I’m smiling placidly and making sure my legs don’t swing out for a roundhouse kick across the side of her face.

  I don’t think I was this violent until I moved to Salty Springs. What is this town doing to me?

  “Liam, I was hoping to speak with you.” Leia turns her exotic eyes to me and smiles a smile that doesn’t get anywhere near them. “In private.”

  “Of course,” Liam says.

  When I turn to give him the stare of death, he just nods at me. “We’ll be right back.”

  “Oh, don’t leave on my account. I was just on my way out.”

  When I spin toward the door, it takes a mammoth amount of self-control not to stomp petulantly or to slap Leia as I pass. But, like I said before: Self-control. I haz it.

  “I’ll call you later,” Liam says to my back.

  I don’t bother looking around. “You can try.”

  I’m sure he won’t know what that means. He doesn’t know that my phone is currently reclining in a jar of rice, trying to dry out.

  I reverse out of the gravel lot in front of the barn, scowling at Leia’s sleek Mercedes as I roll by it. I flip it the bird and hit the gas. It’s juvenile yes, but it makes me feel better.

  As I’m driving home, my mind is spinning like Gator’s wheel when he’s in a snit. I can’t call Felonious without making a trip to Miss Haddy’s because my phone is out of commission and I can’t remember her number. Besides that, I’m not sure I’m up to more “payments” of the Felonious variety right now anyway.

  One other option is to break into Leia’s house. Successfully this time. And snoop around there. My gut tells me there’s something more to her involvement, but that vague sense of gastritis isn’t going to do much for me without proof. And daytime is a terrible time to break and/or enter. So…

  That leaves Dahlia’s parents and fiancé. I can’t approach either of them head-on for obvious reasons, so I’ll need a plan. My search for information will have to be covert with them as well. Just maybe not as covert as illegally entering a residence under the cover of night.

  I’m mulling over facts and options when it hits me.

  I know what I have to do.

  A smile is curving my lips by the time I stop in front of my carriage house. Time to pull out the Halloween trunk again.

  I go straight to the bedroom, get the trunk and upend it on the bed. I sift through the contents until I find what I’m looking for. A set of dull gr
ay coveralls. I used them one year when I dressed as Michael Myers for Halloween, but they’ll work perfectly for my purposes today, too.

  I rummage through the smaller items at the bottom of the container until I find the Bubba teeth and moustache I need, along with a black wig that looks like John Travolta’s hair in Pulp Fiction. This will be the Halloween costume mash-up from hell, but as long as it works, I don’t much care.

  Next, I boot up my laptop and Google for an address, which is both surprisingly and disturbingly easy to find. Privacy in this world is a thing of the past, I think.

  Armed with that information, I set about getting dressed. As I put on my disguise, I brainstorm other items I’ll need. My night vision goggles, though probably dysfunctional since their dunk in the pool, will suffice for what I’m doing, but the most important item I need is a white van. White vans, with or without signage, are believable work vehicles. And that’s all I need—something believable. Even if it’s just for a few minutes.

  Lucky for me, it just so happens I know where I can find one, too.

  When my transformation is complete and I have in my hands a clipboard, a pen, and the sprayer I used to kill some ants when I first moved in, I set off toward downtown.

  I swing through the door at Chester’s Towing Service to find it empty. I’m heading toward the little bell on the counter when the man himself rounds the corner.

  Chester is probably mid-forties, thin, and always wears the same old dirty hat with the bill turned up in the front. He gives Salty Springs a very Mayberry vibe if you know what I mean.

  He’s also the resident multi-tool. Not that he’s a tool. He’s just a jack-of-all-trades. He runs a tow truck business, but also a garage, a junkyard, an upholstery business, does wood carving, and a few other things that I can’t think of right now. Not that it matters. The only one I’m interested in at the moment is the junkyard.

  Being a regular man, Chester is susceptible to my lucky charm, which I plan to shamelessly employ right now.

  I smile brightly.

  “Hi, Chester. How are you today?”

  Chester is frowning and his response is more hesitant than I was anticipating. “Uh, fine.”

  I smile bigger and lean on the counter. “I was wondering if there was any way you’d do me a favor.”

  His frown deepens and he takes a step back. “Am I supposed to know you?”

  “Of course. It’s Lucky.”

  He scrunches up his nose and extends his neck like a turtle peeking out of his shell. “Lucky?”

  “Yeah, it’s me, Chester.”

  His expression softens and he moves forward to lean an elbow on the counter. He’s all too happy to get close to me now. “What on earth are you up to? I hardly recognized you.”

  “I’m in disguise.”

  “Thank goodness. I was wonderin’ why I’d like the smile of a strange feller so much.”

  That explains it. My lucky charm was working, even though I’m dressed like a man. That’s interesting.

  “Sorry for the confusion. I’m playing a prank on someone.”

  “Oh that sounds like fun.”

  “It will be for sure. But Chester, I actually need a little help and I was hoping you’d do me a favor.”

  “Anything for you, Miss Lucky. Ask away.”

  His eyes are sparkling and intent. It almost makes me feel a little bad for this way I have with men. To take advantage of a nice guy like this doesn’t set well with me. If this weren’t important, I’d probably just back out.

  But Liam is a suspect now. And that changes everything.

  Even if he is holed up in his barn with a beautiful floozy.

  “I saw you had a white van parked out back in the junk yard. Does that thing still run?”

  “It sure does. The inside was burned a bit, though, so it’s not really salvageable. That smell will never come out.”

  I wave a hand and dismiss his concern. “Oh, for my purposes, that won’t matter.”

  “You need to borrow it?”

  “Would you mind?”

  “Not at all. Heck, I’ll even ride with you if you need me to.”

  “I appreciate that so much, Chester, but this will work much better if I go by myself. Next time?”

  “Sure.” He smiles into my eyes for another second or two, and then reaches below the counter to rifle through something. When he straightens, he’s holding a set of keys by the ring, like they might bite him. “Here you go.”

  “You’re the best, Chester. I’ll have it back in no time flat.”

  “Take your time. It’s just gonna be stripped down for useable parts. I’m in no hurry.”

  I walk around back and through the chain link gate that’s standing open. It leads to the junkyard part of Chester’s midtown compound. I make a beeline for the standard white van that’s parked along one side.

  When I open the door, a puff of stale air hits me square in the face. It smells like burnt hair and cat pee, and I’m wishing part of my costume included a gas mask. The ones with the big eye holes and a hose that comes out of the front.

  Honestly, I don’t know why I don’t have one. Those are terrifying out in the real world, much less on Halloween. If someone jumped out of the bushes wearing one of those, I’d probably soil myself or faint. Or maybe both.

  I hop in behind the wheel and close the door. Immediately, I crank down the window, which is no easy feat. It creaks and sticks, which shouldn’t really surprise me since the whole interior has been torched.

  When I’ve got a steady stream of fresh-ish air coming in, I fire up the engine and back carefully out onto Main Street. My lips pull up under my thick, black moustache when I accelerate away from town and toward Blankton. It’s just over an hour away, which gives me plenty of time to pray my luck is with me today as I visit Ari Jameson.

  I’m going to lie my way into an arms dealer’s house.

  13

  I pull up in front of a gate that makes the one at Princess Liar’s house look like a toy. This thing is at least a hundred feet tall (not really) and made of solid steel (not likely). It’s big and thick and intimidating.

  This gate means business. Its sole purpose for existence is to keep out any and every kind of threat. Probably including invasion by a Russian army. Possibly including nuclear winter.

  But hopefully with the exception of me.

  Not surprising, this property has a guard shack. The man working it looks like every mercenary I’ve ever seen in the movies. He’s slick bald, tattooed, and has a scar running down one side of his face, from eyebrow to chin. It was probably made during a knife fight in a bar outside Istanbul. Or maybe in an Iraqi prison.

  Whatever the story behind it, he’s positively terrifying.

  I worry for a few seconds that he might just pull out a gun and shoot me when he comes out of his little hovel.

  “May I help you?”

  As if his looks weren’t disturbing enough, now his voice will play a role in my nightmares for the rest of my natural life.

  “Uh, sure,” I say, trying to keep my own tone low and unafraid, like a man’s. Although in fairness, I think this guy would make anyone with a brain a little anxious. “I’m here to perform an interior sweep and treatment for termites.”

  The guy consults his computer screen and pronounces what I expected. “You aren’t on the schedule.”

  I pick up my own clipboard, angling it just enough that I hope he can’t see it, although his one scarred eye might be bionic with x-ray vision for all I know. “We were contacted by a Dahlia Hayes. Dah-lia. Da-lia. Not sure how it’s pronounced.”

  I shrug and glance back up at him, waxing casual as much as humanly possible.

  “Dahlia,” he clarifies gruffly. “I still don’t have you on the schedule.”

  “I called to confirm the appointment yesterday, but couldn’t reach her. Company policy says to come anyway.”

  I think that’s a nice touch, because she wouldn’t have answered her phone ye
sterday since she’s dead and all.

  The guy leans back and looks at my van. “No sign on your vehicle.”

  “Look, man, can you cut me some slack? I’m an independent contractor and my van caught on fire last month. Thought I put my cigarette out, but I guess not. I’m working hard to get back on my feet here. Just let me do my job.”

  I realize that the chances of this actually working are slim to none.

  For most people.

  But I’m not most people.

  I’m Lucky Boucher. Emphasis on the lucky part. If ever I’ve needed a little dose of good fortune, right now would top the list. I’d really rather not be fileted.

  The guy glances back at me, stares hard for a few seconds.

  I hold his gaze and try not to wilt.

  Finally, he nods and takes a step back. “Get me in trouble and I’ll take my pound of flesh in a very literal way.”

  I nod and salute him quickly, hoping he doesn’t see the tremor in my hand. When he releases the gate, I give him a small smile, the kind men give each other, and accelerate into the personal territory of a guy who’s the son of an arms dealer’s and the fiancé of a dead woman.

  If there were prizes for people who do incredibly stupid things, I would win.

  Every. Single. Time.

  I make my way along the winding cobblestone drive until I reach the house. It’s an enormous stone monstrosity that looks like it belongs in medieval times. The castle of a man named something like Ivan the Butcher or Vlad the Impaler. It even has a turret, and I’m pretty sure there’s a guard up there, pacing back and forth. Probably ready with a vat of hot oil if I should make a single wrong move.

  Lord, please don’t anyone try to draw and quarter me either.

  I get out and take my “supplies” to the front door. It’s opened before I can knock.

  Another merc-looking guy greets me, only this one is dressed in a black suit with black tie and black shirt. He has black hair and a black goatee, and I’m pretty sure he fits the description of “henchman.” He looks a lot like the picture I saw of Ari Jameson only…not. He’s no less intimidating, just much shorter.