Whiskey and Gunpowder: An Addison Holmes Novel (Book 7) Page 2

  “I need your help,” he said. He sat stiffly in the straight-backed chair in front of my desk, his hands clamped together tightly in his lap and his back ramrod straight.

  Pastor Charles was probably in his mid-fifties, and he’d been the pastor at the First United Methodist Church in Whiskey Bayou for the last ten years. He was dressed casually—khaki slacks, black turtleneck, and a shabby sport coat with patches on the sleeves. He wore round, wire-rimmed glasses and had piercing blue eyes. His hair was dark, but there was a hint of silver at the temples. He was also ripped as hell. I was guessing when he wasn’t praising the Lord he was spending the rest of his time at the gym.

  Pastor Charles looked like he might be of some Hispanic descent, but no one really knew much about him. He’d come from another church somewhere in Kansas or Nebraska, and he’d come alone. No wife or kids to speak of, and no relatives that ever came to visit. He’d occasionally share meals in various homes when invited, but for the most part he stayed to himself. He never dated, and the only cause he created for gossip was the lack of a reason for gossip.

  “I don’t understand,” I said. “You need to hire the agency?”

  I felt sorry for him. I wondered if in all the time he’d lived in Whiskey Bayou he’d ever grown close to anyone.

  “Not exactly,” he said, and embarrassment colored his cheeks. “I was hoping we could work out some sort of trade. I don’t have the kind of money it takes to hire an agency like this one. But what I do have is an available church on Friday night. I hear you’re getting married?”

  After the past couple of years had given me some hard knocks, I’d mostly given up on being a religious person. But this was a miracle. Plain and simple. There was no other explanation for it.

  “You’re saying Nick and I can use the church to get married on Friday, and have the reception there, in exchange for helping you?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” he said, nodding.

  “You would marry us?”

  “Of course,” he said. “Your mother is still a member and attends faithfully. And I was going to perform your last wedding if you remember.”

  “It’s hard to forget,” I said, rolling my eyes.

  “All things happen for a reason,” he said. “Just like the church becoming available at the last minute. Maybe it happened because this was the wedding you were supposed to have all along.”

  “Oh,” I said. I had the overwhelming urge to burst into tears and felt them welling up in my eyes. I blinked rapidly to try and cut them off at the pass.

  “Wedding hormones,” I said. “It’s been a crazy week.”

  “So I’ve heard,” he said. “You’ve been making quite a few headlines in the Savannah papers the last month or so.”

  I grimaced. I’d stopped reading the papers whenever I solved a high-profile case. Especially if I was naked when I cracked a case. My last two cases had ended up with me naked. I was trying to end that streak.

  “I imagine with as fast as everything is happening you need as much help as you can get. I saw the open invitation in the Gazette this morning. You might have a couple hundred people show up.”

  “There was an open invitation in the paper?” I asked, wide-eyed.

  “Oh,” he said. “I’m sorry. I thought you’d placed it there.”

  “No,” I said. “It was probably my mother.”

  “Or someone who hopes your wedding causes another spectacle.”

  That sounded ominous, but I guess it wasn’t out of the question.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “It’ll be a wonderful celebration. John and Edna Korbel were supposed to have their sixtieth anniversary party that night, but they decided to go to Jamaica instead, just the two of them. They said they had too few years left to try and please everyone but themselves, so they’d go celebrate alone.”

  I blew out a breath, envious of the Korbels’ moxie. But they didn’t have Phyllis Holmes and Nina Dempsey to deal with.

  “Can we serve alcohol at the reception?” I asked.

  “We’re not Baptists,” he said, smiling a little. “A wedding is a celebration. Enjoy it.”

  “You’ve got a deal,” I said.

  Technically, what I’d just done was completely against agency policy. I wasn’t supposed to take on private cases, but since this one wasn’t for actual money, I was pretty sure I could convince Kate that the loophole would stand up in court. Or she could just fire me, but she was my maid of honor, so I figured the chances were slim. Though Kate was a stickler for the rules.

  I’d deal with it later. I took out a legal pad from my desk drawer and grabbed a pen. “What can I help you with?” I asked.

  “I’ve been receiving threats,” he said calmly.

  This was not what I’d been expecting at all. “Threats,” I said. “Why wouldn’t you go to the police?”

  He reached inside his sport coat and took out an envelope. “I’d prefer to keep this quiet. You know there are no secrets in Whiskey Bayou. It could be a prank, but it could also be something more serious. There’s no need to draw attention to it unless absolutely necessary. That could be what they want.”

  I took the envelope from him. It was a standard size white envelope and inside were several photographs. I looked through them one by one. Obviously, someone had been following Pastor Charles and taking pictures of him without his knowledge.

  “Where did they leave the pictures?” I asked.

  “Here and there,” he said. “A couple in the front seat of my car. Some in my office at the church. And the last one I found on my nightstand this morning.”

  I looked at the last photograph. It was a picture of Pastor Charles sleeping in his bed.

  “Scary,” I said.

  “To say the least,” he agreed.

  “When did they leave the first pictures?” I asked.

  “A couple of weeks ago. And then I would get more every three or four days.”

  “Whoever’s been watching you has been doing it for a while,” I said, turning one of the photographs around. “There’s still leaves on the trees at the park, and there are people out and about, so the weather wasn’t too cold. So we’re looking at least at late fall.”

  “I see,” he said, nodding slowly, and the color seemed to drain from his face. “I missed that. So they’ve been watching me for months. And now they’ve decided to play with me.”

  “Are you sure the police isn’t the better option here? At least until you know if you’re in any real danger.”

  “No.” He shook his head rather adamantly. “I’m sure about that. I don’t want the police involved. I support law enforcement, of course, but they have much more important matters to deal with.”

  “Have you received anything else?”

  “A couple of phone calls where no one was on the other line. And a note stuck to my car window.”

  “What did it say?” I asked.

  “Remember.”

  “Remember what?”

  “That, I don’t know,” he said. “I’m fifty-eight years old. I’ve got a lot of life behind me. It could be anything.”

  “Have you ever had any disagreements or complaints within the church?” I asked. “Unhappy congregation?”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary,” he said. “Of course, people will come and go from the church. They might disagree with my teaching, or there might be a squabble or so inside the congregation. I’ve had couples angry because I refused to marry them if I felt they weren’t ready. But nothing egregious or that stands out in my mind.”

  “What about personnel? Anyone let go or hired recently?”

  “Pastor Elaine is our newest hire, and she’s been with the church for five years now. My secretary and the custodial staff have been there since long before I came to Whiskey Bayou.”

  “What about your previous church? I was told you came here from the Midwest?” I was straddling a line between professional and personal curiosity.

  His lips pressed togethe
r and he nodded. “Yes, from a small town outside of Omaha. But I’m afraid my life just hasn’t been that exciting.”

  “Do you have a card?” I asked. “With your cell number? I might have some more questions once I start investigating. When I find out who’s doing this, what do you want me to do?”

  “Just give me the identity,” he said. “Maybe they’ll listen to reason if I speak to them face to face.”

  Or you could get your head bashed in. But I decided not to say that out loud.

  Pastor Charles took his wallet from his back pocket and opened it, revealing a thin stack of business cards with the church’s logo on it. He handed me one and I paper-clipped it to the pad I’d been writing on.

  “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you to be careful,” I said. “But I’m going to anyway. Don’t take any unnecessary chances. Make sure you lock your doors and windows at night. Be vigilant when you go out. Let me know immediately if you think someone is following you, or if you recognize anyone.”

  “It seems quite foolish for anyone to try and attack me,” he said. “Everyone knows me, and I’m out in the community all the time.”

  “Speaking of, do you have a day-to-day routine? Do you go to the same places or take the same routes every day?”

  “Ahh,” he said, nodding his head. “I see. Yes, I do for the most part. Unless someone is sick or I need to make a hospital visit or bury someone.”

  “Could you text me your schedule?” I asked. “It’s more than likely that whoever is doing this knows your schedule as well as you do.”

  “Sure, I’ll send it over as soon as I get back to my office. Today is my off-day,” he said, and then smiled and pointed up to the ceiling. “There’s never really an off day doing His work.”

  I smiled, but it was forced. I was really worried about Pastor Charles. If someone had taken a picture of me sleeping and left it on my nightstand, I would’ve been inconsolable.

  “Please be careful, Pastor Charles,” I said and shook his hand.

  He squeezed my hand and placed his other hand on top of mine. And then he looked me in the eyes, and I realized there was a lot more depth to Pastor Charles than I’d ever realized.

  “I have faith,” he said. “Do you?”

  He released my hand and then he was gone, leaving me alone in my tiny office. I sat back behind my desk and made a new file for Pastor Charles, putting my notes and his pictures inside, along with his business card. I lingered over it a little longer than normal because it kept my mind off of the wedding.

  The minute I started thinking about it again the pressure returned to my chest and I had trouble breathing. I tried to stick my head between my knees, but there wasn’t enough room to maneuver between my desk and the wall.

  I pounded on my chest and realized I was more than likely having a panic attack. Or maybe a heart attack. The pressure in my chest had reached epic proportions, and the Costco-sized bottle of Tums I’d bought a couple of days ago sat empty on my desk.

  I scooted off my chair and crawled to the front of my desk where there was a little more room, and I laid flat on my back and sucked in deep breaths. I found it only slightly ironic that Pastor Charles had asked if I had faith less than fifteen minutes ago, and here I was about to meet my maker.

  The really ironic thing was that I was about to die just like my dad. Of course, I wasn’t screaming at the television during a Falcons game, but I did have a pile of open cases on my desk, a boatload of stress, and a half-eaten éclair within arm’s reach, so it was mostly the same.

  The only difference was I was going to die in my little office at the McClean Detective Agency. Alone. In a space that had been a janitor’s closet until I’d taken the initiative to clean it out and claim it as my own. No one would ever find me. At least, not until the smell of decomposition overpowered the scent of the fresh baked goodies that were constantly being delivered from the bakery down the street. I’d gained four pounds since I’d passed the physical fitness portion of the private investigator’s test.

  A whimper escaped my mouth, and a tear trickled out of the corner of my eye. I was feeling downright sorry for myself now that the chest pains were subsiding.

  What I needed to do was focus on work and not on the fact that I was getting married in five days. It wasn’t even the idea of marriage that was giving me heart palpitations. I loved Nick and I was ready to take the next step in our lives.

  No, the problem was that I was tethered by Southern etiquette and a bunch of crazy women I was supposedly related to. I haven’t run a DNA test yet, so there’s still hope I’m adopted.

  It had been three days since I’d agreed to become Nick’s wife. He’d been very patient over the last month while he waited for my decision on whether or not I was going to marry him. So I couldn’t really blame him for my newfound arrhythmia.

  He’d given me the choice of eloping or having a week to plan a wedding so our family and friends could be involved. Then he’d gotten called out to a triple homicide in the middle of the night and I hadn’t seen him since. The lucky duck.

  Nick was a good man, and he really did love me. But I’d needed the time to decide if he was the right man for me. He was a cop. And I was the daughter of a cop. But I knew from watching my parents’ marriage that there was a whole lot of extra baggage that went with being a cop’s wife. My parents had survived their marriage, but that’s the best thing I could say about it. I didn’t want to end up like that.

  I’d made my decision to get married, and I wasn’t turning back. I’d been all for the elopement option, but the thing about Southern etiquette was it also included Southern guilt. My mother would never let me hear the end of it if we ran off to some island paradise and exchanged vows without her and half of Whiskey Bayou present. So I’d decided the right thing to do was put together a smallish wedding for close friends and family. Only I must have been in denial because the days were ticking away and I hadn’t done one blessed thing to plan for it except ask Kate to be my maid of honor.

  Except now it wasn’t a smallish wedding at all because Pastor Charles had seen an open invitation in the Whiskey Bayou Gazette. Though I did have a venue for the ceremony and reception, so that was a check in the plus column.

  I figured the best thing to do was deal with the rest later. I’d have either died from the heart attack by then or thought of a way to get everything done for the wedding and clear all my cases.

  I rolled to my hands and knees and boosted myself up, and then I gathered the case files on my desk. The faster I started working, the sooner I’d clear them. I shoved them into my oversized Kate Spade travel bag. It was hot-pink, and the splash of color broke up the gloom surrounding me. I wore jeans, a fitted black sweater, and black Yves Saint Laurent galoshes that came almost to my knees. They were quilted on the inside and worth every penny.

  I’d gotten a reward a couple of weeks ago for catching the Romeo Bandit, and it had fattened my bank account quite nicely. I’d bought the boots, the bag, and a giant custom van that was perfect for stakeouts and quickies. I knew both of these things from experience. It even had a bathroom and tiny kitchenette.

  My bank account was back to empty again after my extravagant purchases, which meant I had to get back to solving the cases I’d been assigned. Nick was rich. His whole family was rich. But I wasn’t marrying Nick for his limitless bank account, though I did enjoy the little BMW convertible he’d bought me as a surprise. I had principles, but I wasn’t stupid.

  My mother always said to never look a gift horse in the mouth. When I was a kid I’d thought the saying was never lick a gift horse in the mouth. As an adult, both sayings make about as much sense as the other to me. I still don’t know what a gift horse is or why I’d want to look at it or lick it.

  I grabbed my holster from the hook on the back of my door and strapped it around my waist, and then went through the process of putting on my pink-and-black plaid scarf. I hated winter. Everyone in the South hated winter. And we were in
the midst of record-breaking temperatures. Southerners weren’t meant for single-digit temperatures and snow. No one knew how to dress or drive, and at the first mention of the word snow, people flooded the grocery stores and bought out all the toilet paper and condoms.

  I took my black puffy coat from the hook and was just about to put it on when there was a knock at the door. I thought about not opening it and pretending I wasn’t there.

  “It’s me,” Kate said. “I can hear you breathing.”

  I opened the door and came face to face with Kate McClean. She’d been my best friend for as long as I could remember, and we were about as opposite as two people could get, but it seemed to work for us. She was a couple of inches over five feet and cute as a button. She looked a little like Meg Ryan before Meg had made so many poor plastic surgery choices, and her blonde hair came just below her chin and was slightly tousled.

  Kate was one of the most no-nonsense people I’d ever known. She said what she meant and meant what she said, and you could always count on her for loyalty and the truth. It’s how she’d made such a success out of the agency after she’d quit being a cop after a couple of years.

  “Could you really hear me breathing?” I asked.

  “No, but your van is still parked out front, and there’s fresh cinnamon rolls in the break room. I know you can’t smell them from in here, so I figured you were in here hiding.”

  “That’s good detective work.”

  “That’s why they pay me the big bucks.”

  As soon as I stepped into the hallway the smell of freshly baked cinnamon rolls assaulted my senses and my mouth began to water.

  “That’s just cruel,” I said. “I’m supposed to get married on Friday. They’re going to have to roll me down the aisle.”

  Kate arched her brow and didn’t say anything.

  “I’m still going to have one,” I clarified. “I just want you to know it’s cruel.”

  “Duly noted,” she said. “Cute bag. You off to do wedding stuff?”

  “Sure,” I lied. “I’m also hoping to catch Matt Martin and his nooner. It’s not always easy to find parking for the van, so I want to give myself plenty of time.”