Whiskey Rebellion (Romantic Mystery/Comedy) Book 1 (Addison Holmes Mysteries) (7 page)

I
very maturely shot him the finger and decided it probably wouldn’t hurt to grab another chocolate fudge sundae before giving Nick my statement. It was bound to cool off my overheated body.

Tuesday

The last week of school was always a drag, and with Mr. Butler’s death things were in even more of an upheaval than usual.

The funeral was scheduled for the following day at
eleven o’clock, and I knew nothing short of my own death would excuse me from missing the event. The school would be closed for the day in honor of his memory.

In all honesty, I was still waiting for the truth to come out
about my involvement in finding his body, but so far luck was on my side. Detective Dempsey had kept his word, much to my surprise. I wasn’t used to dealing with men that had integrity. Of course, things were still early yet.

Whoever
left the message on my machine hadn’t called back, so I’d decided to pretend it was a prank and not take the matter too seriously. It definitely wasn’t something to get Kate or Detective Dempsey in an uproar over, so I didn’t bother mentioning it to either of them. They both had a tendency to overreact about things like that. Not to mention I’d probably have to sit through another afternoon of questioning like I had the day before when I’d been pressured into giving my statement. Detective Dempsey most certainly liked to dot all his I’s and cross all his T’s. An annoying habit in my opinion.

When the school bell rang at three-thirty on Tuesday, I grabbed my bags and ran to the teacher’s parking lot, ready to earn some real money.
I was forced to stop as I saw someone leaning against the side of my car with her arms crossed over her ample bosom. I growled low in my throat and narrowed my eyes.

“I’m in a hurry, Veronica. I don’t have time to listen to your sexcapades today.”

“What a shame,” she said. “I’ll have to send you the video.”

“Slut.”

“Bitch.”

Her smile was devious and I knew she was waiting for the right time to spring something unexpected on me. I unlocked my car with the remote, and when she still didn’t budge I wondered if I was going to have to physically remove her. Not that I was totally adverse to popping her one in the jaw, but probably the teacher’s parking lot
wasn’t the best place to do so.

“You won’t be
so cocky once you’re out on the street and your apartment is torn down.”

“Give me a break,” I said. “Do you honestly think I haven’t found a place to live yet?” I looked her in the eye and dared her to dispute my claim. I
halfway had a place to live, which by my way of think was better than nothing.

“Oh, do you mean that cute little house on Hutton Street?” Veronica asked coyly. “I was just talking to John Hyatt about that house the other day. I was thinking it would be the perfect place for Greg and me to live after we’re married this summer.”

My vision hazed and I saw red. “Is there a reason you’re trying to make my life miserable? Surely we can agree to stay out of each other’s way for the rest of our lives.”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know why things have to be this way between us. There’s not enough room in Whiskey Bayou for the both of us, and I can promise it won’t be me who runs out of town with my tail between my legs.”

She walked to her own car two spaces over and gave me a little wave with the tips of her fingers and a sly smile as she drove out of the lot.

It took every ounce of self-control I possessed not to run her
off the road as I sped out of the parking lot. I was going to have a talk with John Hyatt. Veronica Wade could steal as many men as she wanted to from me, but she wasn’t going to get my house.

Whiskey Bayou Bank and Trust was diagonal to the Walker Whiskey Distillery and across the street from the fire station. Very convenient unless you needed to get money out at peak traffic time or during a fire. 

Like the rest of the buildings on Main Street, it was a combination of original architecture and modern convenience, but there was something about the bank that gave me an icky feeling.

I’m pretty sure it was the smell. It was a weird combination of Pine Sol, money and old people that made my stomach churn every time I crossed the threshold. 

I saw several people I knew and waved hello before I made my way to the back offices of the loan department. Kimberly Bowman was manning the desk out front, long red nails typing rapidly and the phone stuck between her ear and shoulder. 

I went to school with Kimberly. She used to be Kimberly Johnson, but she married Tim Bowman right after high school and gave birth a short three months later. She only blanched slightly at the sight of me, which told me right away that something was wrong.

“Addison, what a surprise,” she said, her smile a little too bright. “John’s not in at the moment. Could I take a message?”

John Hyatt was a bottom-feeder of the worst kind. Oh, he was Mr. Big Smile in front of potential customers, but my mother had told me once that she suspected he was an abuser of epic proportions. She said our mailman of twenty-five years had told her he’d been putting a lot of those unmarked manila envelopes in John’s mailbox. Everybody knows the unmarked envelopes mean there must be something dirty inside, otherwise there wouldn’t be so much secrecy.

Just as Kimberly fed me this line I saw the slatted blind in the big glass window of John’s office move slightly and a pair of hazel eyes appear.

“That’s not true. I just saw his eyes, and I want to see him. I’m a customer at this bank and have every right to see my banker.” 

Kimberly was standing between me and my goal, wondering whether or not it was worth the broken fingernails to keep me from the office door, so she did the wis
e thing and got out of my way.

John, greasy smile in place, opened the door before I could steamroll through it. His light brown hair was neatly combed back and his face was freshly shaven. He wasn’t a big man, barely taller than my own five feet eight inches, and he was whipcord lean. It was his commanding personality that made him seem larger than life. That and the fact he wore inserts in his shoes to make himself taller. He was only a few years older than me, but he was a respected member of the community
, like his father and grandfather before him. I was going to change all that.

“Addison, how are you? Don’t you look lovely today?”

“What the hell is going on around here, John? I want to know why Veronica Wade thinks she’s going to buy my house.”

He licked his lips nervously. “Now Addison, sometimes these things happen. This is business. In the real world the bottom line is all that anyone cares about.”

“Don’t you dare patronize me. I was told I had another sixty days before I had to come up with the rest of the money. That’s the bottom line. I know how Veronica Wade works, and I hope for your sake that the sex was worth it because by the time my mother finishes spreading rumors about you, you’ll be lucky to get a nice cushy job at the McDonald’s down the street.” 

He sucked in air through his nostrils. I was revved and ready to go. I probably looked a little like the queen of the damned
, but I didn’t care. I didn’t do mad well. Some women had a really effective mad, but once I got started all the blood rushed to my cheeks and the tears came to my eyes. I hardly ever cried. Unless I was angry.

I wiped my cheeks off and pointed a wet finger at John Hyatt. 

“We had paperwork. I gave you money.”

He held up his hand and managed to retain the air of authority and confidence he’d had before I walked through his door. “If you’d read the fine print, Ms. Holmes, you’
d see that both parties have the option of backing out at any time during the sixty day waiting period. This bank has certainly done nothing wrong,” he said smugly.

So maybe I hadn’t had the time to read all the fine print, but you could bet your bottom dollar I was going to check into it as soon as I got home. And I wasn’t ready to let John Hyatt off the hook just yet.

“You have not heard the end of this. Small town banks are only as good as their reputations. You’re a worthless worm of a man, John Hyatt, and someday the way you treat people is going to come back and bite you in the ass. I will get my house. You shook on it, gave your word on it. You know what that tells me, John.”

John shook his head no.
Sweat beaded on his upper lip.

“It tells me your word doesn’t mean shit,” I said. I made sure to slam the door on the way out, and I ignored the stares and whispers as I left.

There is never such a thing as too much drama in Whiskey Bayou.

My anger didn’t diminish as I headed back to my apartment. I was going to catch some cheaters in the act, and by God, their infidelity was going to pay for my new house.

I changed into black y
oga pants and a matching tank top and pulled my long hair through a Savannah Sand Gnats hat. I filled my backpack with bottled water and trail mix and grabbed a Sudoku book to fill the time.

Now I was ready for a stakeout. 

I jogged out to my car and took it as a sign from God that my life was taking a direction for the better since the sun was out and there wasn’t a rain cloud in sight.

When I got closer to my car I realized that something was taped to the driver
’s side window. The picture was distorted and of poor quality, but I got the gist.

It was a pic
ture of me on the main stage of The Foxy Lady. I looked like I knew what I was doing in the still photograph, hanging upside down on that pole like I’d been born to be a stripper. I remembered precisely when the photo had been taken and by whom. Mr. Butler had been alive and well when he’d immortalized me on film. The problem was Mr. Butler wasn’t so alive and well now, which meant he couldn’t have been the one to tape the photo to my window.

I looked around but didn’t see anyone skulking about or looking guilty—not surprising since anyone standing in the parking lot of my apartment complex for more than five minutes had a ninety percent chance of being hit by falling debris. The problem with this latest development was that the most likely person to have Mr. Butler’s phone was his killer. And now the killer was taunting me. Never a good situation to be in.

I folded the picture and stuck it in my bag in case I ever decided to take up scrapbooking and got into my car. One stupid picture left by a killer wasn’t going to slow me down. No sirree. My life was headed in a new direction, and this new direction was going to have nothing to do with strip clubs or dead bodies.

I decided to
do a bit of snooping for John Hyatt’s fiancé before I went into Savannah. I drove down Main Street and took a left on Whiskey Road. John Hyatt lived on the corner in a large three-story plantation house with an expansive front yard and beds of flowers everywhere. Scarlett O’Hara would have loved John Hyatt’s house.

There was a three-car garage attached to the house on the street side, and a wrought iron fence surrounded the Hyatt compound. It seemed like a lot of space for one man, but he’d inherited it from his parents and seemed to enjoy the lavish lifestyle it represented. There was a w
hite van parked in the driveway that I knew wasn’t John’s, so my curiosity level went up a notch.

I looked through John’s file one more time to refresh my memory. Fanny Kimble and John Hyatt had been engaged for thirteen months, and their wedding was scheduled for October of this year. That seemed like a long time to be engaged to me, but I wasn’t really an expert on r
elationships. Fanny was a true southern debutante, so a wedding that would eventually cost more than the governor’s inaugural ball might take longer than normal to plan.

Fanny stated in her interview with Kate that she was only allowed to stay the night on Mondays and Thursdays, and John had to pick her up from her house so the neighbors wouldn’t gossip if they saw her car parked in his driveway all night.

“Hmm, a cautious man, John Hyatt. Reputation is everything.”

I drove down the street and turned around in the cul-de-sac. I pulled into the driveway of John Hyatt’s neighbor and got out of the car, surveying the neighborhood as nonchalantly as possible. It was a wealthy neighborhoo
d of men that worked sixty-hour weeks and socialite wives who spent all their time in Savannah shopping. The houses were deserted at this time of day.

Except for Victor Mooney’s house.

Victor Mooney had never worked a day in his life and thrived on the drama of others. Nobody knew where his money came from, but he had enough to buy himself a new Cadillac every year and donate money to projects when he wanted them named after him.

He had the door open for me before I made it to the front porch, and I hoped my hunch would pay off.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Mooney,” I said with my company smile in place—the smile that dripped sincerity and showed a lot of teeth. It was a southern technique perfected at birth.