Whiskey Rebellion (Romantic Mystery/Comedy) Book 1 (Addison Holmes Mysteries) Read online

  I was about to ask him if he could divorce her in less than sixty days and if he’d be willing to assume my considerable debt when a man started making his way towards us. I’d seen him come in and talk briefly to Gigantor and the bartender, and I could tell by the way he moved that he was the one in charge. He stopped briefly to speak to the two officers who had taken Gigantor’s statement and then started making his way towards me.

  He moved with a predatory grace and skimmed just over six feet. His skin was swarthy, hinting of some Mediterranean ancestors, and his hair was almost black and cut close to his head, though it still managed to curl just a bit on the top. His face was shadowed by a growth of beard and his slacks and jacket were rumpled enough to let me know that he’d already had a long day on the job. He dodged the customers and the half-clothed waitresses who threw themselves into his path with ease.

  As he moved from the shadows and closer to me I could see him better. His face was hard and chiseled, his expression one I’d seen on other cops’ faces. My father had carried that look in his eyes until he’d died last year—the look of someone who’d seen too much and didn’t trust anyone.

  Then the man looked at me and I forgot to breathe, but probably part of that had to do with the fact that my nose was clogged with snot. Amid the darkness of his hair and skin was the palest, most beautiful pair of blue eyes I’d ever seen.

  Heat gathered in my belly and it had nothing to do with the whiskey. I tried to see my reflection in the metal napkin holder at the center of the table, but it was distorted. My forehead looked huge, my ponytail was lopsided, my eyes were red and my nose was swollen. Or maybe it wasn’t distorted. It would probably be best if I didn’t look at myself again. I grabbed a couple of napkins from the holder and blew my nose, making a great honking sound that Mother Goose could be proud of.

  “Addison Holmes?” the man asked and flipped open his identification to reveal a shiny gold badge.

  His expression was somewhere between incredulous and pitying, but I had visions of handcuffs and satin sheets running through my head. I glanced discreetly at his hand to see if he wore a ring.

  No ring.

  He couldn’t possibly be gay. Fate wouldn’t be that cruel.

  Maybe I still had a chance.

  I realized I was clenching my fists when they started to sting again, so I relaxed and noticed they still had blood on them. Whiskey first, first aid later. Only I’d forgotten the first aid.

  The detective was obviously waiting for me to say something, but I couldn’t remember if he’d asked me anything. “I’m Addison Holmes.”

  “I’m Detective Nick Dempsey. You’re bleeding, Ms. Holmes,” he said as he took a chair and sat down at the table.

  “I fell.”

  I grabbed a couple more napkins from the holder and looked down at my hands. I didn’t have any water, so I dipped the napkins in my whiskey, thinking that at least my hands would be disinfected. I sucked in a breath as the alcohol touched the open wounds. I would have cursed a blue streak but I couldn’t catch my breath.

  Tears gathered in my eyes, but I blinked them away so I wouldn’t look like a sissy in front of the hot detective. Not that he was likely to give me the time of day anyway once he found out what I’d been doing at The Foxy Lady. Men like this guy didn’t have to frequent strip clubs to see beautiful naked women. He probably had a whole herd of beautiful naked women lined up on his doorstep.

  I wasn’t feeling so good all of a sudden, so I laid my head down on the table and decided to have a pity party. Not to mention I didn’t want to embarrass myself further by throwing up on the detective’s shoes.

  Maybe the whiskey wasn’t such a good idea.

  “I know this is a difficult time for you, Ms Holmes.” His voice was soothing, velvety smooth, and I’d bet it was hell on women when he used it in the bedroom. “Would you mind if I asked you some questions?”

  I was about to tell him he could ask me anything he wanted when Mr. Dupres opened his mouth. “I don’t know about that, Detective. Ms. Holmes is one of my best employees and I feel as her manager that you need to direct your questions to me.” Mr. Dupres patted my arm, staking his claim.

  My head snapped up hard enough to make me dizzy. “What?” I gasped in embarrassed horror. “But you just fired me.”

  I looked over at Detective Dempsey and caught a glimpse of his bemused expression before he carefully masked it. I looked at him imploringly, begging him to understand with my eyes.

  “Umm, wait, that isn’t what I meant to say. You see, Detective, I’m not really a stripper. I was just a stripper this afternoon because there’s this house I love, but I wasn’t very good at stripping, and then I got nervous because my principal was getting a lap dance and it was gross. And then Mr. Dupres fired me, and I was kind of glad because my mother would kill me if she ever found out I’d done something like this, and probably the school board wouldn’t like it much either because I teach ninth grade world history. And after I got fired I went into the parking lot to go back home and I tripped over Mr. Butler and his blood got on my toes so I threw up.”

  Detective Dempsey and Mr. Dupres were both looking at me like I was insane, so I laid my head back down on the table and closed my eyes. I have a couple of relatives who have been declared certifiably crazy, but I never thought until now that it was something that would pass on to me. I mean, it’s not really a big deal. This is the South. In the South we’re all proud of our crazy relatives. We like to put them right out in public so everyone can see them. I just wasn’t quite ready to go on display myself.

  “Mr. Dupres, I’d appreciate it if you’d give me and Ms. Holmes a few minutes alone. Maybe you could go get her a cup of coffee,” the detective suggested in a tone that wasn’t meant to be argued with.

  “Sure, sure. I’ll be right back.” Mr. Dupres scurried away like the rat he was and returned only moments later with a steaming cup of something that looked more like black swamp water than coffee, but I took the cup gratefully. He hovered behind us just within earshot and tried to make himself look busy. Being shut down due to a dead body in the parking lot would probably be considered bad for business, so I could understand his concern.

  “Did that all sound as stupid as I think it did?” I asked.

  “I think you’ve been under a tremendous amount of stress today, Ms. Holmes. Maybe you could start again from the beginning,” Detective Dempsey said. “I’m not sure I caught everything you said.” He looked me over from head to toe like I was a specimen under a microscope.

  “You don’t look like you miss much. You probably caught the gist,” I said a little waspishly. I was embarrassed. Or mortified might have been more accurate. And Detective Dempsey was an easy target for my self-disgust.

  I sipped the coffee through the straw and knew before I did that it was going to burn my tongue.

  “You see, I needed another income, and I saw an ad in the newspaper this morning for The Foxy Lady. I decided to give it a shot since it’s in Savannah and the chances of running into anyone I know in a place like this and in a city this size are low. Of course, I should have known better. Murphy’s Law and all that,” I said, flinging my hand in the direction of the stage and accidentally tossing the bloody napkin that had been on my hand onto the table of men seated next to us. I grimaced and muttered an apology as they shot me dirty looks. Detective Dempsey’s face was void of all expression, but I swore I could see the beginnings of laughter sparkling in his eyes.

  “Keep going,” he said.

  I looked for the eye crinkles or a slight quirk of the mouth, but I couldn’t see anything in his expression other than cool disinterest. “There’s not much more to tell. I saw my principal in the audience, got fired and fell over him in the parking lot, in that order.”

  Detective Dempsey took out his notebook and started writing. “You said earlier that your principal was getting a lap dance. Did you know the woman?”

  “No, but I didn’t get to meet all
the girls when Mr. Dupres hired me. I literally got hired and was handed a costume. I’ve only been here a couple of hours.”

  “Would you recognize her if you saw her again?”

  “Maybe. She had a lot of blonde hair, some of it may have even been hers, a dog collar and her attributes were um…,” I cupped my hands out in front of my chest. “Fake. That’s pretty much all I got.”

  “What about other customers? Was it crowded? Was there anyone else in the audience you recognized?”

  “It wasn’t exactly standing room only. The tables down front were full, but I didn’t recognize anyone. There was a couple making out in one of the corner booths that I noticed because a bouncer had to intervene before they had the chance to give their own public show. I couldn’t see the man’s face because it was hidden in shadow and all I could see of the woman was a blonde ponytail bobbing up and down. The other tables were pretty empty other than a few pathetic looking men scattered around. It was hard to see the back of the room from the stage because of the lights.”

  “Did you see anyone else in the parking lot?”

  “No, but I wasn’t really paying attention. I was looking for my keys. That’s why I tripped over Mr. Butler.”

  A sob caught in my throat and I looked down at the table. I wanted to go home, and if Detective Dempsey had given me anything that had remotely resembled sympathy I would have broken down on the spot, but he kept his voice at the same level, unexpressive, and asked me the same questions over and over again. I was willing to bet when it came to playing good cop/bad cop, Detective Dempsey was always the bad cop.

  I had no idea why I found the thought exciting.

  “We’re going to need you to make a formal statement down at the station. It will take a little time to talk to everyone around here, so tomorrow or Monday at the latest will be fine.”

  “But aren’t I a suspect? Aren’t you supposed to tell me not to leave town?”

  “I think you watch too much television, Ms. Holmes. It should be pretty easy to get your whereabouts from the security cameras on the inside of the building.”

  “Hmm,” I said. I hadn’t thought about that, but I wasn’t exactly at my best at the moment. I looked at him and pleaded with my eyes. “No one can know about this, Detective. I made a bad decision, but I have a lot to lose.”

  “I’ll talk to Mr. Dupres myself and make sure he doesn’t give your name to the press, and there’s no reason for me to include your employment here in the report, only that you found the body.”

  “Thank you,” I said, and truly meant it.

  “Are you good at taking advice, Ms. Holmes?”

  “Not especially, Detective Dempsey.”

  His lips quirked a little. “I’m going to give you some anyway. You look like a nice kid from a nice family. Go back to your teaching job and stay away from places like this. It doesn’t suit you.”

  I knew everything he said was true, but that didn’t mean I particularly liked hearing it. It was like rubbing salt in an already opened wound, and I didn’t need some cop coming along to tell me that I’d done something stupid.

  “I’m thirty years old, Detective Dempsey. I stopped being a kid a long time ago, and sometimes decisions have to be made that aren’t particularly pleasant, whether people like you approve of those decisions or not. Now if you’re finished I’m going home.”

  I scooted out of the booth and grabbed my bag, prepared to make a grand exit when I felt his hand under my elbow.

  “Let me have a patrol car drive you home, Ms. Holmes. I’d hate to have to arrest you for drunk driving.”

  I could see the laughter in his eyes, even though his mouth was in a serious line. I would have jerked my arm out of his grasp, but I was afraid I’d fall over.

  Men like Nick Dempsey are extremely irritating to independent women like me. They like to be in charge and they always think they’re right about everything.

  The depressing thing is they almost always are.

  The drive back to Whiskey Bayou was somber to say the least, but at least the officer taking me home didn’t make me ride in the back of the squad car. That would have fueled the gossip flames of the few remaining tenants that were still in my apartment complex.

  I checked behind me to make sure the officer in my car was driving responsibly, and when I was satisfied he was, I turned back around and tried to find a comfortable position on the torn vinyl seat of the Crown Victoria.

  I noticed the Now Leaving Savannah sign and knew I’d be back home within minutes. Whiskey Bayou is a nice place to live. It’s a small town of about three thousand people surrounded by swamps and slimy creatures that bite. It’s an acquired taste, but picturesque in the daylight. And since it takes less than ten minutes to drive north to Savannah we’re not completely cut off from civilization. It just sometimes feels that way.

  We turned right on Main Street, just past the two-storied, red-bricked crumbling buildings and the giant sign that said Welcome to Whiskey Bayou—The First Drink’s on Us. An old depot that housed a train car graveyard sat on the left and a small diner, grocery store and park were on the right.

  The Whiskey Bayou residential area was constructed around the Walker Whiskey Distillery, which was built sometime in the 1800’s. When I was in college, I found out the Walkers were distant cousins of the Holmes, so I did my best to learn everything I could about whiskey just in case I was the last remaining relative someday and had a chance to inherit. Mostly everything I learned about whiskey was that it gave me a terrible headache and made my mouth dry.

  The roads around the distillery looked like something a drunken council member would plan out, with crooked streets, some of which dead-ended for no apparent reason, and roundabouts that seemed to have no exit once you were on them. I remember once when I was a child, my mom going around in circles for what seemed like hours until my sister, Phoebe, finally threw up all over the back seat.

  The officer who was driving me home seemed to be in the same predicament, and we went round and round until my eyes crossed and my stomach lurched. He finally flipped on his lights and broke several traffic laws once he saw the tinge of green my face had turned.

  My apartment complex was just south of the residential area of “downtown” Whiskey Bayou. It was built on swampland, which was only part of its many problems.

  The building was a square of four stories made of crumbling orange brick, single-paned windows—most of which were cracked—and stairs that divided the building into two halves. The parking lot was no better than rubble and sad looking shrubs lined the cracked sidewalk. The inside wasn’t a huge upgrade, but the rent was cheap.

  “Geez, lady. You live here?” the cop asked.

  “Home sweet home,” I said as I got out of the car. “Just park my car as far away from the building as you can. I wouldn’t want it to get damaged if the building collapsed in the middle of the night.”

  “Right,” he said, not sure if I was joking.

  I was. Kind of.

  “Thanks for the lift,” I said and turned towards the building. Mr. and Mrs. Nowicki were both peeping out their window on the first floor, so I gave them a wave and headed up the stairs.

  I was on the fourth floor. I hated being on the fourth floor. The plus side was that I was in damned good shape from hauling groceries, textbooks and whatever else I could carry from Pottery Barn up four flights of stairs. The bad news was that things like rain and tree limbs came through my ceiling first.

  I noticed the yellow slip of paper taped to my peeling front door as I stuck my key into the lock. It was another eviction notice, warning me that I had to be out by the deadline under penalty of law.

  No problem.

  I’d think of something.

  I tore the note off, pushed open the door with my total body weight because the humidity caused the wood to swell, and made my way to the bedroom where I fell face first on the bed.

  I couldn’t take much more in a day. I’d stripped, found a dead bo
dy, committed assault, gotten drunk, ogled a hot detective, despised the same hot detective, been escorted home in a police car and gotten another eviction notice. And it wasn’t even dinnertime.

  I was asleep before I could tell myself that things could only get better.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Sunday

  I’d been taking a little hiatus from church for the past six months, so when Sunday morning rolled in with a crash of thunder and the plop of water as it hit the random buckets I had placed around the apartment, it seemed like the perfect excuse to miss one more Sunday service. I snuggled back under the covers and dozed until noon. Besides, my mother would be there, so she was representing me by default.

  My reasons for steering clear of the First United Methodist Church in Whiskey Bayou had nothing to do with God, the new banjo player they hired to accompany the choir or the fact that Reverend Peters frequently took too many sips of the communion wine.

  It had to do with the fact that my wedding took place there six months ago.

  It was a beautiful Christmas wedding. The church was decorated in yards of tulle and red roses, the cake was five tiers of confectioner’s heaven and seven bridesmaids were decked out in ruby satin. My dress had cost a fortune and was decorated with thousands of tiny seed pearls and a fifteen-foot train. The wedding was perfect.

  The only thing missing was my fiancé.

  While I’d been waiting to walk down the aisle, my fiancé Greg had been boffing Veronica Wade, the home economics teacher from my school, in the back of the limo that was waiting out front.

  My ex-brother-in-law was the one who’d caught them in the act, and Derek “the Dweeb” Pfeiffer has never been one to handle situations delicately—like when he left my sister so he could find himself and inspire people through his rock. And let me tell you, Bon Jovi he is not. Of course, my sister should have known better than to marry someone who would give her the name of Phoebe Pfeiffer.