Whiskey Tango Foxtrot: An Addison Holmes Mystery (Addison Holmes Mysteries Book 5) Read online

  “That’s horrible,” I said, my faith in humanity slightly dented. “They always show those people getting married and so happy on the commercials.”

  “I think mostly they’re happy they’re getting regular sex and didn’t marry a serial killer. Those computer programs are pretty good at screening out most of the crazies. At least the ones that might kill you.”

  “Huh,” I said and turned my attention back to the gas station. No more shots had been fired and the sirens were getting closer. I took a deep breath and peeked around the side of the door so I could look into the gas station one more time.

  I wasn’t sure what I’d been mentally preparing myself to see. I was past thirty, so it was understandable that my eyes might not have been as good as they once were. In fact, I was praying that was the case. There had to be a thousand or so ninety-something women who wore fur coats over their velour jogging suits. There was no reason to think that my Aunt Scarlet was inside the gas station with an armed robber. She was supposed to be halfway to Italy on a singles cruise.

  I peeped again and sighed. My eyesight was spectacular. And there was no mistaking Aunt Scarlet.

  “Hey,” Rosemarie said, coming back to rational behavior as the sugar hit her bloodstream. “That looks just like Scarlet. I thought she was headed out on a single’s cruise.”

  “That was the plan,” I said. “Maybe it’s not her.”

  It was her. There was no mistaking Aunt Scarlet. In her prime, people said that Scarlet looked just like Ava Gardner. I’d seen pictures, so I knew the rumors to be true. I’m not sure what had happened as the years passed, but Ava Gardner started looking more like Mickey Rooney. She’d shrunk, so she was barely five-feet tall, and she had a shock of white hair she kept permed and teased so it added a couple inches to her height. She kept it shellacked so nothing less than hurricane-force winds could move it out of place. She was wearing a mink, floor-length coat that swallowed her and she looked mad as hell.

  Scarlet Holmes was my father’s aunt. She’d grown up in Whiskey Bayou and outlived five husbands, a couple we weren’t so sure had died of natural causes. Most families had a skeleton or two in the closet. Scarlet was one of ours. She liked her men young, her whiskey neat, and her cigarette’s unfiltered.

  “Thank you. I feel better now,” Rosemarie said, pushing the half empty box of donuts back toward me. “It’s the stress. It makes me irrational. I’ve got a new game plan now. I won’t even look at a man unless he’s on the sunny side of sixty. Maybe Scarlet knows someone.”

  “Maybe you should get some anti-anxiety meds,” I told her.

  “I’ve got some, but I don’t like being that relaxed. Two days before Christmas I was stressed because the home spa I’d ordered for my mother showed delayed shipping. And you know how my mother is. I’d never have heard the end of it to show up to Christmas dinner without everyone’s gifts. So I schlepped myself to the mall two freaking days before Christmas. Holiday shopping always makes me a little crazy anyway, so I popped a couple of those pills and ended up taking a nap on one of the display couches in JCPenney. Turns out they thought I was dead and called 9-1-1.”

  I was only half-listening to Rosemarie. Pretty much nothing she said shocked me anymore. I was more interested in how to get my Aunt Scarlet out of the gas station alive. She was standing face to face with the gunman, but neither of them were speaking. The situation looked tense.

  If I hadn’t been so focused on Scarlet and the gunman I would’ve felt my phone vibrate, signaling Nick’s arrival. The second his hand touched my shoulder chills danced along my spine and my nipples went to full alert.

  “Any donuts left?” he asked.

  I’d forgotten how to blink, and I was starting to get a cramp in my calf from squatting too long. His voice rasped across my skin and my hand clutched the seat. I mentally ran down what I looked like. And winced.

  I hadn’t been kidding when I’d said Rosemarie had dragged me down the hall half-naked. I’d had time to put on a pair of black sweatpants, a thermal undershirt and an oversized Georgia Tech sweatshirt I’d had since college. I hadn’t actually gone to Georgia Tech, but I’d dated a guy who had. It turns out I liked the sweatshirt much more than the guy, so I’d kept it.

  What I wasn’t wearing, however, was a bra or underwear. Rosemarie hadn’t had time to wait for those niceties. She’d needed donuts. I’d barely had time to slip my feet into black UGGs (without socks) and the down-quilted, black coat I’d gotten on sale at Eddie Bauer. My hair had been damp, so I’d braided it and pulled a hot pink, wool watch cap down over my ears. My face was scrubbed clean, and if I’d been buying booze instead of donuts I would’ve gotten carded for sure.

  In other words, I didn’t look my best. And Nick always looked amazing. He was movie star handsome, with dark hair, swarthy skin, and the kind of bones that only came from someone of good breeding. His eyes were the color of arctic waters, and every time he took his clothes off I wanted to jump his bones. Fortunately, he liked having his bones jumped. Otherwise, I’d probably be in jail for sexual harassment.

  His entire family was filthy rich and his grandfather was a senator. And other than his grandfather, I’d never met people more awful than Nick’s family. Someday they’d be giving Satan tips on how to run hell.

  I kept my gaze straight ahead. “Help yourself,” I said, blindly handing him the almost-empty box.

  I stared at the inside of the car door, and focused on keeping my breathing steady. I was afraid if I turned around and looked at him it would be like staring at the sun and I might go blind.

  I hadn’t been expecting Nick to arrive at the scene. He was homicide. And it seemed like someone was always getting murdered in Savannah, so it was a pretty full-time job.

  “What are you doing here?” I somehow managed to sound nonchalant, even though it felt like there was a frog in my throat.

  “I caught a double last night. I was just heading home when I heard the call come in. And then I saw Rosemarie’s car and my Spidey-sense started tingling.”

  “It could’ve been anyone’s car,” I said. “I’m sure dozens of people drive yellow Beetles in this city.”

  I could practically feel his shrug. “Perhaps. But not all of them decorate the headlights with big eyelashes or have vanity plates that say HT4TCHR.”

  I couldn’t argue with that. Rosemarie wasn’t known for her subtlety.

  “So what’s the situation?” he asked.

  I was being an idiot. I couldn’t keep hiding behind the car door and not face him. I was a grown woman. And my legs had fallen asleep.

  “We were just passing by,” I said, hoisting myself out of the crouch I was in. I bit my lip to keep from whimpering and half dragged myself back into the passenger seat, rubbing the stinging needles out of my legs. “Just another day in the life of me. Several shots were fired and it turns out my Aunt Scarlet is inside.”

  “Is she the one who was in the OSS and killed all her husbands?” he asked.

  “Yes to the OSS,” I said. “She probably didn’t kill her husbands. At least on purpose. Probably being married to her is enough to kill any man.”

  “The women in your family are hell on men,” Nick said.

  That was pretty much the truth. Scarlet had outlived five husbands, my mother had outlived my father, and my sister Phoebe chewed men up and spit them out on a regular basis. And come to think of it, I wasn’t doing so hot either. I’d never been married, but I’d accidentally hit my ex-fiancé with my car. It turned out he’d been poisoned before he ran in front of me, so technically I didn’t kill him.

  I finally looked up and wished I hadn’t. Nick looked terrible. His face was gaunt, and a couple days growth of beard covered his face. His slacks and dress shirt were wrinkled and he’d taken his tie off somewhere along the way, so his collar was open and his undershirt peeked through. He hadn’t even bothered with a coat, though it was almost freezing outside and little puffs of white fog escaped his mouth. His hair was a li
ttle longer since I’d last seen him, but he worked so much there was never time to get it cut. His expression was grim. The double he’d caught must’ve been a bad one.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  “I’ve been better. You ever meet Rick Chandler? He was a sergeant out of patrol.”

  “Never heard of him.” And then I caught on. “Was?”

  Nick’s eyes went cold as ice and he nodded. “A neighbor heard shots and called 9-1-1. At first glance it looks like a murder/suicide. Chandler and his wife have been on the rocks for more than a year now. He had a girlfriend and the wife wasn’t too happy about it.”

  “I can imagine,” I said, brows raised. “Wives are weird like that. So she offed him and turned the gun on herself?”

  “Nope, other way around. Only problem is, Chandler was a lefty. And though we train to shoot with both hands, Chandler could only shoot with his left, because he broke most of the bones in his right hand about a decade ago. His trigger finger didn’t bend. Guess which hand the gun was found in?”

  “I’m going to go with the right.”

  “There you have it,” he said. “We’re looking hard, but nothing has come up so far. I figured an armed robbery at the gas station might clear my mind.”

  “Something only a cop would say.”

  “I’m starting to think it might have been a rash decision. I’ve never seen your Aunt Scarlet, but am I right to presume she’s the one in the fur coat facing off with the gunman like Dirty Harry?”

  I sighed. “Yep, that’s her. She’s supposed to be on a single’s cruise in Italy, so I’m not sure what she’s still doing in Savannah.”

  I was trying to act cool, but in truth my stomach was in knots and a ball of fear was lodged in my throat. Despite her eccentricities, I loved Scarlet. I wanted to be just like her when I was ninety. I was pretty good at holding things together during a crisis. I’d really never had a choice in my family. Between my mother and my sister, there was enough drama to go around, and I was always the one left to be the responsible adult. Which was terrifying if you thought about it. I was thirty years old—thirty-one in another week—and just starting to get my shit together.

  “Are you doing okay?” Nick asked. “You look a little pale.”

  “I’m good. The gunshots worried me a bit, but Scarlet is still standing. She’s actually got a musket ball lodged in her hip. One of her husbands collected antique weapons and it misfired. Though Scarlet likes to tell everyone he shot her on purpose.”

  “She seems like a handful,” Nick said. “Must run in the family. By the way, does your Aunt Scarlet carry a big silver revolver in her purse?” Nick squinted. “Looks like a .44.”

  Rosemarie and I both shot up to a standing position and watched in horror as Scarlet held the revolver in a two-handed grip, right at the robber’s mid-section. They were in a standoff, and I figured the gun weighed almost as much as Scarlet. I watched in fascination as the expression on the robber’s face changed and he started shaking his head. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but I didn’t have to, to know that Scarlet was reading him the riot act. She was mean as a snake when she wanted to be.

  The robber backed up a few steps, but didn’t lower his gun. That was his mistake. The crack from the revolver made me flinch and I heard gasps—including my own—as she fired point blank at the robber. The only problem was, the revolver kicked like a mule and the recoil adjusted her aim upward several inches. The gun thwacked her in the head and Scarlet went down for the count.

  A high-pitched scream was heard from inside and the robber came running out, one hand holding up the gun in surrender and the other pressed against his ear.

  “Crazy bitch!” he yelled, his voice a couple octaves higher than normal. “Fuckin’ bitch shot my ear off. What the hell is the wrong with the old people in this city?”

  Police cars had swarmed in around us and they all held their weapons on the robber, demanding he get down on the ground, while he danced around in pain.

  Hostages started filing out the front door, looking a little dazed, but there was no Scarlet, so I started toward the door. Despite the fact that she always seemed larger than life and scary as hell, she was still a ninety-year-old woman.

  But before I could get there Scarlet stumbled out the front door, her giant handbag hanging over one arm, the other wrapped around a very attractive man who was at least fifty years younger than she was. There was a knot the size of a goose egg right in the middle of her forehead, and bruising was already forming around her eyes, making her look like a raccoon. The gun was nowhere in sight. Probably for the best.

  “You’re going to need another box of donuts,” Nick said. “She looks like she could use a few.”

  “It feels a little weird standing and talking like this. Like everything is normal.”

  “Everything is normal. I love you and you love me. You’re just being a stubborn dummy. And stop avoiding me. It’s not like I’m going to re-ask you to marry me every time we’re in the general vicinity. I’ve missed seeing you.”

  I sighed as that clawing feel of panic started rising up inside me, just like it had the first time I’d been left at the altar. And then a wave of sadness washed over me. “I’ve missed seeing you too,” I finally said. “A lot.”

  “That makes me feel better,” Nick said, grinning for the first time that morning. “Serves you right. Clock’s ticking, Addison. Your month is almost over. You’re going to have to give me an answer soon.”

  My eyes narrowed and my hands went to my hips. “I know what damned day it is,” I said.

  “Good, because the second your time is up I’m taking the tracker off my car. I can promise you won’t see me coming.”

  He grasped hold of my arms and pulled me into him for a hard, fast kiss. I might have melted against him a little too long. It was hard to be sure because he’d scrambled my neurons, and I was wishing desperately I’d taken the time to put on underwear that morning.

  I vaguely heard Aunt Scarlet somewhere in the background telling her rescuer she wanted him to meet her niece. I assumed she was talking about me, and I rolled my eyes before I could help it.

  Nick grinned and let me go. “See you around,” he said, whistling as he headed back to his truck.

  “Maybe I need to forget about looking for men at assisted living,” Rosemarie said. “Maybe I should hang out at the police station more.”

  “Statistically, cops don’t make the best husbands,” I said, frowning. Though I knew several who’d been able to make it work.

  “That’s okay. I’m thinking I might still be in the rebound stage before I find the one. I hear cops are excellent rebounders. Plus, they carry all kinds of interesting things on their belts. Like handcuffs and those little leather paddles.”

  “The only cops that carry little leather paddles are the ones at Chippendales. Real cops aren’t into spanking while making an arrest.”

  “That’s a shame,” she said. “Seems like it would make things more interesting.”

  Chapter Two

  The EMTs wanted to check Scarlet out, or at least have her stop by the emergency room on the way back home. Scarlet declined. I wasn’t so sure that was the best idea, considering the bump on her forehead looked as if she was giving birth to an alien creature. But I had to hand it to her hair dresser. The white helmet hadn’t budged an inch.

  We piled Scarlet, her fur coat, and her loaded handbag into the back of Rosemarie’s Beetle. About halfway back to the office Scarlet started looking like her eggs had been scrambled pretty good, so we swung through Dairy Queen and grabbed her a hot fudge sundae. When donuts didn’t work, it was always smart to go with ice cream.

  “What are you doing in Savannah?” I asked her. “I thought you were going on that single’s cruise to Italy.”

  “It turns out they have an age limit. Can you believe that? They told me I’d have to go on a senior’s cruise. I asked them how I was supposed to be a cougar on a senior’s cruise, but they
didn’t budge an inch. I’ve been thinking about buying the cruise ship and firing the whole lot of them.”

  Aunt Scarlet was richer than Croesus. No one’s really sure how she came by her money, but knowing Scarlet, it was probably an interesting story. She’d been sent to France at the tender age of seventeen for seducing two of Whiskey Bayou’s most prominent businessmen. They’d both been married at the time, but apparently they’d been prepared to leave their wives for Scarlet. They’d actually challenged each other to a duel, and there’d been an exchange of gunfire.

  Scarlet hadn’t really been interested in either of the men, so she’d traveled to France to live with a distant cousin when the scandal broke. That’s where she’d been recruited by the OSS. She’d always said the years she spent as a spy were the best of her life. Even at seventeen, she’d been sneaky as hell and an expert at getting men to tell her secrets once the lights went out.

  “You don’t happen to have any of that Percocet in your purse, do you?” she asked. “I sure could use some. My head’s pounding. That gun really has a kick.”

  “I don’t typically carry prescription drugs in my purse to sell on the open market.”

  “Oh, right. You’re the good one. Where’s your sister? She’s always got something. That medical marijuana is something else. Cures all kinds of stuff. I’m probably going to live another twenty-five or thirty years.”

  “I’ve got Tylenol,” I said. “And Kate has a bottle of whiskey in her desk drawer at the office.”

  “That’ll work,” Scarlet said.

  “You’ve never shot that gun before?” Rosemarie asked.

  “Oh, sure. Shot a hole right in the floor of the detective agency just last week.”

  “It’s probably best you don’t remind Kate about that,” I told Scarlet. “She was pretty mad. Those are original hardwood floors.”

  “No they’re not,” Scarlet said. “That building burned to the ground when I was a young girl. Took that whole side of the block down with it. It was the original building for the Savannah Morning News, and some lunatic tossed his cigarette on top of a stack of freshly printed newspapers. Whole thing went up like a tinderbox. The building y’all are in isn’t even a hundred years old. Besides, a bullet hole in the floor gives a place character. I’ve had bullet holes in almost all my homes.”