Hand Grenade Helen Read online

  Hand Grenade Helen

  The Scarlet Chronicles

  Liliana Hart

  Also by Liliana Hart

  JJ Graves Mystery Series

  Dirty Little Secrets

  A Dirty Shame

  Dirty Rotten Scoundrel

  Down and Dirty

  Dirty Deeds

  Dirty Laundry

  Dirty Money

  A Dirty Job

  Dirty Devil

  Playing Dirty

  Dirty Martini

  * * *

  Addison Holmes Mystery Series

  Whiskey Rebellion

  Whiskey Sour

  Whiskey For Breakfast

  Whiskey, You’re The Devil

  Whiskey on the Rocks

  Whiskey Tango Foxtrot

  Whiskey and Gunpowder

  Whiskey Lullaby

  * * *

  The Scarlet Chronicles

  Bouncing Betty

  Hand Grenade Helen

  Front Line Francis

  * * *

  The Harley and Davidson Mystery Series

  The Farmer’s Slaughter

  A Tisket a Casket

  I Saw Mommy Killing Santa Claus

  Get Your Murder Running

  Deceased and Desist

  Malice in Wonderland

  Tequila Mockingbird

  Gone With the Sin

  Grime and Punishment

  Blazing Rattles

  A Salt and Battery

  Curl Up and Dye

  First Comes Death Then Comes Marriage

  Box Set 1

  Box Set 2

  Box Set 3

  * * *

  The Gravediggers

  The Darkest Corner

  Gone to Dust

  Say No More

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Ada Mae

  Hand Grenade Helen

  Doubloon

  The Train Station

  Ada Mae

  The Suitcase

  Marriage

  The Plan

  Ada Mae

  Bacon Grease

  The Sirens

  Ada Mae

  The Invitation

  The Party

  The Escape

  The Train

  Ada Mae

  Front Line Francis

  Addison Holmes Excerpt

  About the Author

  Also by Liliana Hart

  Copyright © 2021 by Liliana Hart

  All rights reserved.

  * * *

  Published by 7th Press

  Dallas, TX 75115

  * * *

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  * * *

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  To Ellie - On to the next chapter in life! I’m so proud of you, and being your mom is a privilege. You’ve become an incredible young woman, and you astound and amaze me every day.

  Acknowledgments

  I could not do what I do without an amazing team and support system helping me. The business of writing has become a family affair, so a huge thanks to Scott, Ava, and Ellie for brainstorming and research. And thanks to Max, Jamie and Graham for the hugs that keep me going.

  * * *

  Thank you to my cover designer, Dar Albert at Wicked Smart Designs for knocking it out of the park with these gorgeous covers. Thanks to my editors, Imogen Howson and Ava Hodge, for always making my books better. And last, but not least, thanks to Scott for being the best partner, husband, sounding board, and all-around “get stuff done” guy. I love you like crazy.

  Ada Mae

  Present Day

  There were those who made it to the end of their days, only to realize they’d squandered the gift of life they’d been given. They had no legacy, no family to speak of, and their bitterness welled up inside of them like soured wine.

  For Scarlet Holmes, the word regret wasn’t in her vocabulary. Life was meant to be lived, and when things started to free-fall and spiral out of control, it was important to know when to pull the chute before going splat into the ground. She’d avoided a lot of splats in her lifetime, but she’d had a couple of close calls too—closer than she cared to admit.

  The fire crackled in the hearth and the wind howled against the windows—the old panes straining against vicious winter gusts. The sounds reminded her of her childhood, though the house had never been filled with laughter or the smell of freshly baked cookies like it had tonight. Her childhood home had been filled with strife and anger, her father a tyrant obsessed with money, and her mother dissatisfied and obsessed with finding love wherever she could.

  It had been far too long since Scarlet had spent a Christmas Eve in Whiskey Bayou. Most of her holidays were spent on cruise ships in a tropical paradise, trying to blot out the memories with mimosas and soft serve ice cream.

  But for some reason, Whiskey Bayou had called her home. The more shocking thing was that she’d decided to stay. If she was being honest—and she was when it suited her—this was probably her last trip home, at least on this leg of life’s journey. Her bones were tired, and her brain was sharp enough to know that tired bones and a sharp brain brought nothing but misery.

  She blew out a sigh and shuffled across the creaky hardwood floor, not sure why she was feeling so maudlin. It was probably the holidays. She’d never liked them much. Holidays were for family, and family had always been in short supply. Her brother had managed to have a son before he’d gone off to war and gotten himself killed, so the Holmes name lived on. And his descendants were as stubborn, ornery, and courageous as he’d ever been.

  Scarlet lowered herself into the rocking chair next to the fire and eyed the decanter of whiskey sitting on the round marble within arm’s reach. God bless Verna. She’d even put out a clean glass and filled the bucket of ice to the rim.

  Verna’s mother, Odette, had been the Holmes’s housekeeper when Scarlet was a little girl, and she’d asked Verna to take on managing the house after Scarlet’s parents and brothers had died. Verna had lived in the house since she was a baby, so it was as much hers as it was Scarlet’s, but Verna always made sure everyone was taken care of.

  Scarlet poured herself a drink and then looked around at the space that had been the nursery during her childhood. The third-floor rooms had been where she and her brothers had spent most of their youth, and she could still see the yellow-striped wallpaper and identical white iron bed frames lined against the wall.

  When the house had been left to her as the only remaining heir, she’d spent part of the fortune she’d inherited removing the constant reminders and memories of what the house had been. She’d updated and renovated and redecorated until it didn’t even look like the same house on the inside. And she’d kept the third-floor suite for herself, having never felt comfortable in her parent’s suite on the second floor, where her niece and her husband were currently sleeping.

  She’d even added an elevator some fifty years before—the very first home elevator in Whiskey Bayou. Which had been an excellent idea. It turned out climbing three flights of stairs made entertaining gentleman callers difficult, especially when the caller could only carry her to the second landing without having a heart attack.

  Scarlet’s lips flattened at the memory and she shook her head. They certainly didn’t make men like they used to. During the war, every man she knew could have
carried her up and down the stairs without breaking a sweat.

  The rocker creaked back and forth, her toes only touching the ground enough to set the rocker in motion. And then she stopped moving when she heard the slightest rustle outside her bedroom door. She waited a couple of minutes and then heard the sound again.

  “Ada Mae Dempsey,” Scarlet called out. “Is that you out there, or is it a big bad burglar?”

  The knob turned and the door pushed open, and a pint-sized version of a young Scarlet stood in the doorframe, her pale blue eyes (her father’s eyes) wide with a combination of determination and fear. She closed the door behind her and then her shoulders relaxed.

  “Did you really think there might be a burglar in the hallway?” Ada asked.

  Scarlet shrugged. “You never know. I always thought Christmas Eve was a good time for the burglars to be out. Santa comes in bringing toys, and the burglars follow right behind him and steal it all. I figure that’s what happened to most of my toys when I was a kid. My father didn’t believe children should play. He believed they should be working, so Santa brought me things like an apron and an adding machine.”

  Ada squinched her nose and said, “I don’t think it’s fair to blame getting bad gifts on someone who doesn’t exist.”

  “You don’t believe in Santa?” Scarlet asked, shocked.

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Come on in here and sit down, girl. There’s no point yelling across the room. I’m assuming you don’t want to wake anyone up on account of you were supposed to be asleep hours ago?”

  Ada pressed her lips together and arched a brow, looking an awful lot like her mother, Addison, in that moment, and she padded across the floor in her slippered feet, wearing her new satin nightgown and robe and clutching a doll in the crook of her arm.

  “I suppose if you’re going to put it that way,” Ada said, “Then it might be more prudent to settle in and make myself comfortable. Too bad you don’t have any hot chocolate.”

  Scarlet stifled a laugh with a cough. “Hand me that blanket there,” she said, pointing to the brightly colored afghan tossed over a footstool. “It’s chilly in this old house.”

  “Daddy says you should get some insulation,” Ada said.

  Scarlet nodded in agreement. “He’s not wrong, but I figure I’ll let him take care of it in the next few years. No point in dealing with the inconvenience of construction at my age.”

  “Is there ever a time?” Ada asked, giving an adult sigh. “Are you getting sick? You should take something for that cough.”

  “Maybe a little more whiskey,” Scarlet said, reaching for the decanter to refill her glass.

  Ada Mae crawled into the other rocking chair, and got herself situated with her own afghan and her doll. “Granny says her tolerance for whiskey is a lot higher than her tolerance for people. Did your granny ever say stuff like that?”

  “No, my granny always told me to never marry a man who can’t shoot a gun.”

  “How come?” Ada asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “In my experience, I’ve always found it more helpful to be the one who can shoot. Now I want to know why you don’t believe in Santa. What’s all that about? Aren’t you excited to get presents in the morning?”

  “Oh, sure,” Ada said, waving her hand. “I made a list of everything I want. I even added the websites for an easy shopping experience.”

  “Very helpful,” Scarlet said.

  “Daddy said Santa’s got it covered, but I didn’t correct him. Sometimes it’s not respectful to correct adults all the time.” Ada quirked her mouth in a way that made Scarlet wonder how many times she’d been given that piece of advice. “But how is Santa supposed to get all those toys to kids all over the world? It doesn’t even make sense.”

  “It was nice of you not to ruin it for your daddy. I think sometimes grownups need Santa more than the kids do.”

  “Did you ever get anything good for Christmas?” Ada asked.

  “I learned early on that it was best to just buy my own gifts. That way I always got exactly what I wanted.”

  Ada’s gaze was serious, and Scarlet often felt that the little girl could see much deeper inside of her than what she deemed comfortable. And if she wasn’t mistaken, it looked like pity in Ada’s eyes.

  “No one has ever gotten you a good present?” she asked.

  “Of course I’ve gotten good presents,” Scarlet said. “Tuck that lip back in, girl. No need for a pity party. I’ve gotten lots of fine jewelry and artwork from husbands and love—umm—suitors—over the years. I even got a gold medal once.”

  “A gold medal?” Ada asked. “Like the Olympics?”

  “Kind of,” Scarlet said. “Though it wasn’t a gold medal for sports. Unless being a badass counts as a sport.”

  “You’re supposed to watch your language,” Ada said. “Mama said to remind you because she’s tired of getting phone calls from school on how I’m being influenced.”

  “Hmm,” Scarlet said.

  “It’s a bunch of tattletales at that school,” Ada said, pounding a tiny fist on the arm of the chair. “They can’t even let a woman breathe. Bunch of rats.”

  “I wish I could tell you it gets better with age,” Scarlet said. “But it doesn’t. You’ve just got to find the place you belong and the people who understand who you are, and then you’ll be able to breathe just fine.”

  “Maybe you could tell me about how you got your gold medal for being a badass,” Ada said.

  “Don’t push it girly,” Scarlet said, tipping her half-empty glass at Ada.

  Ada smiled prettily and curled her legs up in the chair.

  Scarlet drained her glass and then put it back on the round table, and then she got momentum and propelled herself out of the rocking chair. She was barely tall enough to reach the wooden box sitting on top of the mantel, but her gnarled fingers grasped at the edges and pulled it safely down.

  “What’s that?” Ada asked, leaning forward.

  Scarlet placed the box in Ada’s lap and said, “You’ll see. Open it up.” And then Scarlet went back to her chair, pouring herself another two fingers before she sat back down.

  The box opened on metal hinges and the inside was lined with blue velvet. “Wow,” Ada said. “That’s pretty big. And shiny. Does this mean you won first place?”

  Scarlet chuckled. “No, it’s not that kind of medal. It means I survived. It’s the Congressional Medal of Honor.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It means that a lot of years ago a bunch of politicians felt bad for not recognizing the roles women played in the war, so they gave us something shiny to placate us.”

  Ada shook her head and said, “Just like a man.”

  Scarlet barked out a laugh at that and her eyes watered with tears. “Lord help the man who ends up as your husband.”

  “Daddy says that a lot,” Ada said. “I’m a handful. I don’t think husbands are looking for that.”

  Scarlet winked. “The right kind of husband is.”

  “Did you ever find the right kind of husband?”

  “Oh, sure,” Scarlet said. “I picked a couple of real heroes.”

  “I’m glad,” Ada said, somewhat reprovingly. “Because that last man you told me about who turned out to be a traitor wasn’t a good choice.”

  “No, he wasn’t,” Scarlet agreed. “But I never would have met my first husband, Pierre, if I hadn’t had the experience with Henry Graham. My work with Pierre was part of the reason I got that medal.”

  “Well, since we both know Santa isn’t coming tonight and mama and daddy are probably downstairs trying to figure out how to put that baby walker together, maybe you should tell me about it.”

  “Maybe I should,” Scarlet said.

  Hand Grenade Helen

  November, 1941

  The airplane engine sputtered and coughed like a chain smoker gasping his last breaths.

  I kept my arms locked around my knees and my
head down, learning from previous experience that there’d be a hard jerk once the sputtering stopped, and I was pretty sure I still had a concussion from my head hitting the side of the plane two nights before. The circulation in my legs had been cut off for a couple of hours, and I was starting to regret the cup of coffee I’d drunk to help me stay awake before our departure.

  Lise and I were crammed onto the floor of the tiny plane, waiting for the signal that it was our turn to jump. The air was frigid with cold, and my jaw was sore from clenching my teeth together to keep them from chattering. I’d trained for almost a year for this mission—in extreme heat and cold—and there was nothing that was going to keep me from jumping out of this plane.

  Well, almost nothing.

  It was the third night in a row we’d suited up and taken flight, and hopefully it would be the last. The constant adrenaline followed by let down and disappointment was starting to grate on my nerves. We knew the flights into Germany would be dangerous, but it was the train tunnels they were building under the Owl Mountains near Waldenburg that had drawn the attention of the Special Operations Executive to the small town that rested between the German, Polish, and Czech borders. We didn’t know what they were building the tunnels for—not yet—but Waldenburg had become a bustling center of activity because of the location of the train station and the multiple lines that led to Nazi-infested territories so they could get supplies easily.