Whiskey Rebellion (Romantic Mystery/Comedy) Book 1 (Addison Holmes Mysteries) (11 page)

“Stupid jerk, stupid, stupid
—idiot.” 

I wasn’t sure if I was
talking about Nick or myself. Probably a little of both. I stood on the sidewalk in front of Kate’s office and let the rain sizzle off my overheated body. I didn’t need these complications in my life right now. Want, yes. Need, no.

There was plenty of time before I had to act as a marital aid to Gretchen Wilder, so I decided to follow up with John Hyatt. I thought the best course of action was to see if I could catch sight of the mystery woman who was spending so much time at the Hyatt mansion. School was out for the day, so if the mystery woman was Veronica as I suspected she might be there already.

I used my cell phone to call the bank. A woman answered, but I didn’t recognize her voice.

“May I speak to John Hyatt, please?” I asked, crossing my fingers that she didn’t recognize my voice and just hang up.

“I’m sorry, but Mr. Hyatt is attending meetings today. He won’t be back in the office until tomorrow. Would you like to leave a message on his voice mail?”

“No thanks, I’ll just call again tomorrow,” I said and hung up.

I left Savannah at light speed and headed back to Whiskey Bayou, sure that John Hyatt and the mystery tart, a.k.a Veronica Wade, were about to get caught in the act.

Once I got into town I was glad to see that the weather was still keeping everyone indoors. I drove down Main Street ten miles over the speed limit, passing the train depot, The Good Luck Cafe, the whiskey distillery and the fire station before I took a left and headed into the residential area of Whiskey Bayou. I had a plan, and it might even be a well-thought-out plan.

My parents
had lived in the same small, cottage style house their entire married life, and when my dad died last year my mom got two German Shepherd puppies to keep her company.

People always comment on my parents’ house because it’s so out of the ordinary. “It looks like a fairy tale from Hansel and Gretel or Snow White,” they
’d always say. That weirded me out as a kid because who would want to live in a place where an old woman shoved kids into her oven? I’d gotten over it for the most part.

I pulled behind
the 1969 Dodge Charger my mom had bought off eBay with the insurance money she’d gotten after my dad died—it was an exact replica of the “General Lee” from the Dukes of Hazzard.

I
sloshed my way to the detached garage at the back of the house. My dad had been an avid collector of nothing and everything, so I knew my best chances of finding what I was looking for were in the garage.

The walls were lined with tools, some of which had never been used, and there were shelves filled with fishing lures and golf clubs, two sports I was pretty sure my dad had never played. There was a telescope in the corne
r he’d bought when I was going through my astronaut phase and a Samurai sword he’d bought at a flea market. I found what I was looking for in a box marked hunting gear. Go figure.

I dug through layers of bright orange vests and about a hundred bottles of buck urine before I found the binoculars. The houses on John Hyatt’s street all backed up to Magnolia Park. If I was lucky I’d catch a glimpse of the culprit through the windows from long distance.

I realized once I turned into Magnolia Park and weaved my way through mud holes and giant trees that my plan wasn’t as well-thought-out as I’d imagined.

On a bright sunny day, what happened inside John Hyatt’s house would be an open book—the entire backside of his house was glass and looked out onto the pool. But in a deluge of rain with zero percent visibility it was pretty much a bust.

“Come on, Addison. To be a private investigator you have to think like a private investigator. Think, think, think,” I said. “What would Nick do?”

Nick would probably suggest that we make good use of the back seat or tell me to find a different job. Subconscious Nick was no help at all.

I started the car back up and weaved my way out of the park. I pulled my car right i
n front of John Hyatt’s house and got out.

Addison, Addison, Addison. What the hell are you doing?

I had no idea what I was going to say once I got to the door, or what I would do if I actually was confronted with Veronica, but I was lousy at the wait and see game. I was all about the action. In my mind, I was Lara Croft trapped in Mayberry.

I stood on the massive front porch and rang the doorbell. I could see Victor Mooney from the corner of my eye looking out the window and giving me a thumbs up. My heart was pounding and my breathing was a step away from hyperventilation.

“Lara Croft doesn’t hyperventilate,” I announced, just to make myself feel better.

When the front door opened slowly with a creak, I thought I would pass out from the anticipation. I put my head down to control the dancing spots in front of my eyes, and also to give Veronica a different place on my head to hit if she was going to attack me. My forehead was still sore.

I opened my eyes and saw a very nice pair of Manolo Blahniks with turquoise feathers that I’d envied from afar the last time I was at Neiman Marcus in Atlanta. My gaze raised to a pair of shapely legs and then higher to a black pencil skirt, a turquoise halter-top and long dangly earrings.

“Can I help you,” a husky voice asked, and I was finally able to look at the face of
a woman with splendid taste in clothing. Her hair looked like spun gold and hung in waves to her shoulders.

How could I have thought this was Veronica? Veronica had a great body, but she dressed like a fifty-dollar hooker and her hair was only blonde because she went to a salon every six weeks like clockwork. The woman in front of me was no Veronica. This woman had class.

“Great shoes,” I said, meeting a pair of curious hazel eyes. “I’m sorry, but have we met before?”

You’d think I’d remember meeting a woman like this one, but I was drawing a blank. Maybe she was someone I went to school with that changed from an ugly duckling into a swan.

“No, I don’t think so,” she answered politely.

“Is John Hyatt home?

“No, he’s not. Can I help you?”

I stuck out my hand and felt like a fool. The princess and the pauper had never had much meaning before now. “I’m Addison Holmes.”

“Ahh, Ms. Holmes. I’ve heard a lot about you.” She left it at that, and I was pretty sure nothing she’d heard about me had been good because she moved her body across the front door like I was going to race inside and steal all the silver.

I knew there was only one way to handle the situation, so I swallowed my pride and did something I’
d always hated to do. “Just tell him that I came by to apologize.” My tongue swelled over the lie, because I’d be damned if I really meant any apology to that weasel, but no pain, no gain, right?

“I’ll do that,” she said and started to close the door in my face.

“I’m sorry, but I didn’t get your name.”

“Loretta Swanson. I’m Mr. Hyatt’s estate manager. Try to stay dry,” she said and closed the door.

Was she kidding?
I was going to need a canoe if this rain continued on much longer.

I got back in the car and thought for a minute. Loretta Swanson, an estate manager that Fanny Kimble hadn’t mentioned once when Kate had questioned her. Did Loretta make it a point to not work the nights that Fanny was staying over, and better yet, how was it even possible that both women hadn’t stumbled across each other in the thirteen months of John and Fanny’s engagement. I needed to talk to Fanny Kimble.

There was something that bothered me about Loretta Swanson. You wouldn’t think a typical estate manager would be able to afford six hundred dollar shoes. Loretta was someone that John Hyatt treated like a queen. And my gut told me Fanny had a good reason to be jealous. I was going to have to bite the bullet and have another visit with John Hyatt. I might even have to apologize to him for real to get the information I wanted.

Gretchen Wilder was a sex-crazed librarian, but the Thunderbolt Public Library didn’t close until seven o’clock, so I had time to swing by my mom’s and mooch dinner before playing peeping Tom.

My mom wasn’t the world’s best cook, but her pantry was always stocked and I was willing to bet there was no slimy lettuce anywhere in her kitchen.

I once again parked behind the General Lee and sloshed my way to the back door. The rain was lessening, which was good now that I was soaked to the skin, and I wiped my feet on the doormat before opening the door to the kitchen.

The smell of Lemon Pledge and coffee that had sat on the burner all day hit my nostrils. I was chilled and shivering, my hair hung in my face, and I was willing to bet my waterproof mascara was smudged under my eyes.

“Addison?” my mother said. “Is that you?”

“Do you have a lot of strange, wet women walk in your back door on a daily basis?” I asked sarcastically.

My mother clucked her tongue like mothers do and went about laying down towels on the floor so I wouldn’t drip. Mom was a pretty woman, barely fifty, and looked exactly like I would in the next twenty years—long dark hair that had no gray thanks to Clairol, dark brown eyes and olive skin. She was a little wider in the hips and a lot more blessed in the bust, but if I ate a steady diet of Hostess Cupcakes I could probably graduate to a C cup in the next ten years.

“Let me get you a pair of clean sweats and underwear,” my mother said.

“Just the sweats. I’m not wearing your underwear. That’s weird.”

“You can’t go around without undergarments on,” she said scandalized. “What if you were stopped by the police on your way home?”

“They might let me out of a ticket,” I said, teeth chattering.

If my mother was upset about me not wearing underwear, I shuddered to think what her reaction would be if she ever found out about The Foxy Lady.

“Where did I go wrong?” she asked as she went to get dry clothes. I didn’t have an answer to that question, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t her fault. I think I was wired differently from birth. Maybe she smoked pot or something while she was pregnant. It would sure as hell explain what was wrong with my sister.

“Have you ever done anything questionable in your life? Something you regretted?” I asked my mother when she came back in with a pair of dark grey sweats, socks and old running shoes.

“Of course. But the choices we make shape our destiny. I wouldn’t change anything I’ve done because I wouldn’t be who I am today.”

“Hmmm. That’s pretty wise.” If I hadn’t stripped at The Foxy Lady I never would have met Nick. Not that we had a relationship
. I had trouble determining from one encounter to the next if he wanted to throttle me or kiss me. He could have a girlfriend or a dozen kids for all I knew. Nick Dempsey was a master at sending mixed signals, and I was acting like a love-puppy looking for any attention at all. Very lame. I needed to forget Nick Dempsey and move on.

“I hear you’ve got a date tomorrow night,” my mom said.

I’d forgotten about the date Kate had set up. “That’s right,” I said, not sure where this was leading.

“I’m glad you’ve finally gotten over Greg. He’ll come to regret the decisions he’s made someday. You’d have made a wonderful wife.”

I’m sure my mother said that with no prejudice whatsoever. I personally think I’d make a terrible wife. I hate to do laundry and I never have food in my refrigerator, though I can cook when meat and produce magically appear. I like to sleep in the middle of the bed and I don’t like to budget. Not very wifely at all. 

“It’s just a friendly date, mom. Don’t reserve the church just yet.”

“You never know when you’re going to run into your soul mate. Just make sure you wear underwear. You don’t want your date to think you’re easy.”

I rolled my eyes, grabbed the warm-ups and headed to the bathroom. I showered under blistering water for a luxurious ten minutes, dried off and put on clean clothes—without the underwear my mother had brought for me despite my protests.

When I came back to the kitchen I was warm and in a more positive frame of mind. My mother put a hot bowl of vegetable soup in front of me and I inhaled the aroma. My mom could make soup from a can with the best of them. She sat across from me with her own bowl.

“You know, your question about me having regrets got me thinking. Did you know I spent a lot of my young adult life on buses, traveling across the country, rallying for different causes and protesting anything and everything?” Her smile was nostalgic. “I was a crusader
—always ready to defend the weak and fight for a good cause. Those were the good old days. I used to be a free spirit, you know, before I met your father and decided to settle down and be an accountant.”

“So you gave up your free spirit to marr
y Dad? That doesn’t sound very fair.”

“Oh, it was an adjustment for both of us. His mother hated me. Still does, the old witch. You should have seen the two of us, me in my gold platforms and your dad buttoned to his chin in that sexy uniform. I don’t have any regrets, but putting on panty-hose for twenty years was the hardest thing I ever had to do. I was completely satisfied to stay at home and work in my garden, but they didn’t pay cops much back then, and I had to go to work. Your father, rest his soul, was a tight-assed Republican, and I’d never been with someone so straight-laced when it came to issues in the bedroom, but we were a unit, your dad and I. We had good years between us.”