Louisiana Longshot (A Miss Fortune Mystery, Book 1) (17 page)

“Okay. If any seniors pop, I’ll know it’s just the deputy fishing.”

“Is there any news on my situation?”

“I’m afraid not. Ahmad’s gone underground. Our intel went black, and we haven’t locked on since Friday.”

“But the hit is still out?”

“Yeah. We’ve intercepted communication to two known Brazilian assassins. We know they entered the country, but we haven’t been able to locate them yet.”

“Okay,” I said, afraid to say more because I knew my disappointment would sound clearly through my voice.

“Listen, Redding. I’m really sorry about all this. I know we don’t always see eye to eye, but that’s about the work, not personal. I want you to know I’m doing everything I can to get you out of there. So is Morrow.”

“I know.” And I did know. Harrison and I fought like angry ex-lovers, and Morrow sometimes seemed to channel my late father with his disapproval and ass-chewing, but I knew they both wanted this resolved as much as I did.
 

“Okay,” Harrison said. “I don’t want to keep this line open too long. I won’t call again unless the situation has changed, but keep checking your email. I’ll give you updates when I can get a secure connection.”

“Thanks—Harrison?”

“Yeah?”

“I appreciate everything you’re doing.”

“I know,” he repeated my words back to me.

I disconnected and trudged up the stairs. So far, Deputy LeBlanc’s research hadn’t extended to me. Granted, there was no logical reason for it to as Sandy-Sue hadn’t been anywhere near Sinful when Harvey disappeared, but I wondered at what point curiosity would get the better of him and he did a background check just because.

There were so many things for me to consider that my head was beginning to hurt. I was going to change clothes, get into bed with my book, and have some more cough syrup. With any luck, I’d fall into a coma and that would solve all my problems.

###

I was just about to slip on the headphones when I heard a board creak overhead. Immediately, I dropped the headphones onto the bed and slipped out from under the covers. The night air was desperately muggy and still and couldn’t possibly have contributed to the noise.

Someone was in the attic.
 

During my original sweep of the house, I’d discovered the staircase to the attic at the end of the hallway. I’d thought it was a closet at first, but instead, I had found the narrowest set of stairs known to man. Nothing of any size could possibly be stored there as it would never make it up the staircase.

I pulled on my socks to silence my approach, then crept down the hall to the staircase door. I held my breath as I eased the door open, relieved when it didn’t squeak, then slid into the narrow space and tiptoes up the steps until I could peek into the attic.
 

There was a single window at the end of the attic, and light from the full moon streamed in through it, creating a glimmering path down the center of the space. I cased the entire area, trying to make out some movement in the shadows, but everything was still.
 

Not even a whisper of air passed through, and for an instant, I wondered if I’d been mistaken.

Then I heard it again at the far end of the attic.

I inched into the space, praying that the floorboards didn’t creak as I stepped onto them. I paused a moment, but only the silence of the attic echoed back at me. Whatever it was had gone still, which meant that it probably knew I was there—had sensed me, smelled me, or seen me. The element of surprise was out, but I still had the element of a pistol on my side.
 

On high alert, I crept across the attic floor, falling back into combat mode, relying on all of my senses to give me any advantage. The sides of the attic were stacked with boxes and small furniture. Some of it was covered with sheets, giving the entire place the appearance of one of those houses you saw in a horror movie.
 

And here I was, blond, in my pajamas, and creeping up on whatever was in there with me instead of getting out of the house. It would be a total cliché except that I wasn’t well-endowed or a cheerleader and would have easily dispatched those wimps from
Scream
.
 

At the end of the attic, the stacks of boxes rose higher, almost touching the ceiling. What in the world was Marge storing up here? I had one closet in my tiny apartment back in D.C., and if you removed the weapons, it wouldn’t be a quarter full of anything else.
 

I took a couple of steps toward the boxes and that’s when I saw one of the sheets covering some of them move. The movement was at shoulder level, and I froze, instantly realizing that if those boxes did not extend to the side wall of the house, someone could easily be hiding behind them. Someone with a rifle trained in between those boxes and pointing at my head.
 

In a split second, I launched at the boxes and ripped the sheet from the top, then ducked before they could get off a shot at me. But my problem turned out to be of a completely different sort. As I ducked down, something large and furry landed right on my shoulder. All I could see was the flash of white from eyes and teeth.
 

I didn’t scream. A trained assassin does not scream, even when attacked by fur with teeth, but I did put a round through the roof of the attic, trying to hit the thing. I was unsuccessful. The furry teeth scurried across the attic floor to the far end, ran up an old bookcase, opened the window and sprang into the tree outside.

I ran after it, thinking I might be able to pick it off in the tree, tripped over a coatrack and went sprawling into a stack of boxes, bringing them down on top of me. I scrambled out of the mess and ran to the window, but Furry Teeth was long gone. Disgusted, I closed the window, locked it this time, then swung around in a huff and banged my foot on a box. Aggravated, I kicked the offending box for good measure and the old cardboard split, heaving the contents onto the attic floor.
 

The glint of a military medal caught my eye and I stooped to see it was attached to a very old army uniform that I recognized as from the Vietnam era. I lifted the jacket up for a closer view and saw Marge’s name stitched on it. So Marge was a Vietnam veteran, and from the looks of the stripes and medals, had not been over there painting her fingernails. This woman had seen some serious action.

A military career certainly explained the simplicity and organization of her home, not to mention that it shed a ton of light on her reading material. And maybe it somehow explained why I felt so comfortable in her home even though I was completely out of my element everywhere else.
 

Honor and respect wouldn’t allow me to leave a stack of military triumph rumpled on the floor in the attic, so I scooped the uniforms back into the box and picked the whole thing up, encircling the broken side with my left arm. Tomorrow, I could press all the clothes and find a more suitable container for them.
 

I headed back downstairs to the bedroom and set the entire box of items on the desk. One glance at my watch had me groaning. Two a.m. Only five hours left to get some sleep before my internal alarm clock went off and I started another day of bliss in Sinful. Louisiana was hell on the sleeping population. I was starting to wonder if the people living here were vampires.

I reloaded the pistol and picked up the headphones, ready to make the most of the little bit of sleeping time I had left. But before I got them on, someone started banging on my front door. What in the world was the problem now?

I stomped downstairs and flung open the door. Deputy LeBlanc stood on the front porch, looking rumpled, exhausted, and not any happier than I was.
 

“What now?” I asked.

“I got a call about shots fired in this area.”

“And naturally, you assumed it was me.”

“Naturally.”

I started to deny it, but as I was going to have to hire someone to repair the roof, I figured it would get out anyway. “There was something in the attic. I fired some shots at it, but it got away.”

He raised one eyebrow. “Got away how?”

“Darn thing opened the window and shimmied down the tree outside. I wasn’t aware that monkeys were native to the swamp, but then I’ll admit I don’t know much about the state.”

He sighed. “The only monkeys in this state are in a zoo or holding political office. If it opened the window, it was a raccoon. They have opposable thumbs and are very clever. They are also essentially harmless.”

“The thing attacked me! Jumped on me, then ran me over.”

“It didn’t attack you. You startled it and it scrambled to get out of the attic when you tried to kill it. The real question is, where did you get the pistol?”

Uh-oh.
“Walter sold me a rifle.”

“And if that’s what you had fired, I wouldn’t have as big a problem. People here know the difference between a rifle and pistol shot. And as I personally removed all the weapons from Marge’s house after her death, I know it wasn’t readily available.”

“You removed the weapons? That’s my inheritance! What gave you the right to take it?”

“The guns are safe and sound and locked away at the sheriff’s department, but I wasn’t about to let an empty house sit around with loaded guns in it, especially when everyone in town knew they were here.”

“Okay, but what’s your excuse for keeping them now?”

“I was going to return them when you arrived, but once I met you, I had second thoughts…and thirds, and fourths. Turns out I was right as you’ve probably shot a hole in your own roof.”

I tried to come up with a good argument, but had to admit, he sorta had me on this one, which didn’t do anything at all to improve my mood.

“I’m going to assume,” he continued, “that Walter, in his misguided attempts to take care of a pretty woman, loaned you his pistol. I expect you to return it to him tomorrow or both of you will be hearing from me.”

He pulled out a pad of tickets and I felt my blood pressure rise.
 

“You’re writing me a ticket? Let me guess—it’s against the law to startle wild animals in your own house on Tuesdays?”

He ignored me completely and kept writing, then tore the paper off the pad and handed it to me. I looked down at it, but all it had was the name “Buddy” and a phone number.

“Buddy will fix the roof,” he said. “Make sure he’s sober when he starts or he’ll fall off and his wife will have to put up with him underfoot for the six weeks it takes that bum leg of his to heal. I’ve known Buddy my whole life, and trust me, no one deserves that aggravation.”

“Sober. Got it. And thanks.”

He nodded. “Now, please put on your headphones and go to sleep before something ends up injured or worse. At least unload that pistol until I get some backup that’s not half blind and hard of hearing. I haven’t gotten a good night’s sleep since you showed up.”
 

He stepped off the porch and crossed the lawn to his truck.
 

“That makes two of us,” I yelled as he pulled away from the curb.

I looked across the street and saw curtains drop back into place. Bunch of nosy people in this town. I slammed the front door, just because I could, and heard something in the bedroom above me hit the floor with a thud. I hurried back up the stairs to find the box from the attic dumped over on the floor. I must have left it too close to the edge of the desk, and the vibration from my slamming the door like a degenerate had caused it to fall over.
 

Bones, who hadn’t awakened for the noise upstairs, the killing of the roof, or Deputy LeBlanc’s visit, chose that moment to start howling. I walked out of the bedroom and looked down the stairwell to see him trying to come up the stairs. He wasn’t even remotely successful, and the second time he slipped, I decided I’d better go downstairs and restrain him before I had another death on my hands.
 

It took two treats and the twenty minutes Bones gummed them to get the dog calmed down and back to sleep. I trudged upstairs again, thinking that I got more rest and had less drama when I was on an assassin job. I stopped short and sighed when I saw the contents of the box still scattered across the bedroom floor.

Completely over the worn-out box, the raccoon, the “borrowed” pistol, and the entire loss of another night, I started stacking the uniforms in some semblance of order on the desk. When I pulled the last one up from the floor, a set of bundled envelopes fell out and onto the floor. I picked them up, expecting to find letters from family and friends to Marge that were sent during the war, but was surprised to find the front of the envelopes blank.
 

I removed the heavy rubber band from the bundle and opened the flap on one of the envelopes to slip out the paper inside.
 

September 7, 1961

Things are dire here in the jungle, but I remain safe as long as I stay focused on the job I’m here to do. Despite the attention I give my work, I find myself thinking of you at the oddest times. Sometimes I think of the way we walk down Main Street every year for the Fall Festival. Or the look on your face when we got stuck on the top of the Ferris wheel at the county fair. I miss your smile when we take a boat ride and the way you laugh at old silly black and white movies.