Louisiana Longshot (A Miss Fortune Mystery, Book 1) (2 page)

“Louisiana…you mean swamps and alligators and hicks?”

“I mean a small town with lovely people and a slower pace. Just until we’ve removed Ahmad. The hit on you is personal. Without Ahmad in charge, the hit will likely go away.”

My mind began to whirl again. “But that could be weeks…months. You can’t expect me to live in the middle of a swamp for that long. What in the world would I do? They probably don’t even have cable television. Is there electricity? Oh my God, isn’t that where they filmed
Deliverance
?”

Morrow shot me a dirty look. “You’ve spent days crawling through the desert with only a rifle and a bottle of water. Don’t tell me a couple of blue-haired old ladies and some mosquitoes are going to be the death of you. This is a vacation compared to your norm.”

He pointed to the folder. “This is some background information I put together on my niece. Her aunt probably talked about her, so the townspeople will be looking for someone meeting that description.”

“What about the Internet?” Harrison asked. “Most people are all over it.”

Morrow shook his head. “She had a stalker situation when she was a teen that scared her senseless. She’s been diligent about keeping herself off the Net. I’ve already checked and it’s clean.”

Morrow looked at me. “I need you to be ready to leave by tomorrow.”

I reached for the folder, making note of the fact that Morrow was looking off at the wall behind me rather than looking me in the eye. Not good. A feeling of dread washed over me as I opened the folder and started to read.

Sandy-Sue Morrow.
Good God, the name alone stopped me cold.

I kept reading and felt the blood drain from my face. Finally, I looked up. “I can’t do this.”

Harrison, sensing something was seriously screwed, looked from Morrow to me, waiting for the dam to break. “You’re a professional,” Harrison said. “You’re a genius at undercover work—well, sorta.”

“This,” I said and shook the file, “is not undercover.
This
would require a reincarnation.”

“Now, Redding,” Morrow began.

“She’s a librarian,” I interrupted. “The last thing I read was an article on making a silencer out of a Q-tip, unless you count autopsy reports.”

“You’re going to inventory a house, not run a library” Morrow pointed out. “No one’s likely to ask you for reading recommendations.”

“She knits.”

“So you’ll learn, just in case. It wouldn’t hurt you to have a hobby besides racking up bodies.”

Harrison shook his head. “I don’t know, sir. I’ve seen those knitting needles. Do you really think you should turn Redding loose on an unsuspecting population and give her a weapon? Remember that incident in Egypt with the #No. 2 pencil?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I snapped. “That was a Pentel, not a #No. 2.”

Morrow cleared his throat. “I’m sure Redding will find a way to contain herself.”

I tossed the folder back across the table. “She was a beauty queen!”

“Holy shit.” Harrison dissolved into a fit of laughter. “No way is Redding pulling that one off. Look at her. Her hair’s shorter than mine.”

“My hair is convenient for my job,” I said, running a hand over inch-long, blond locks that had been trapped under a hot wig the day before, “and besides, I thought short hair was fashionable.”

“Short, yes,” Harrison said, “but you’re sporting the Britney Spears Nervous Breakdown style.
Not
a hit among men or the beauty pageant circuit.”

 
I threw up my hands. “This…this
person
has single-handedly set the women’s movement back ten years. Knitting? Librarian? Beauty queen? Please tell me I can kill her next.”

Morrow rose from the booth and glared down at me. “That will be enough. My niece is a lovely woman. And until further notice, you will become that lovely woman, or I will shoot you myself.”

“You could try,” I mumbled.

“What?”
 

I bit the inside of my lip and clenched my hands. “No problem.”

“Good. Your afternoon is booked. You’re getting acrylic nails, a pedicure, hair extensions, and learning how to apply makeup and wear high heels without killing someone.” He gave me a broad smile then walked out the door.
 

Harrison gave me a sideways glance and inched away from me in the booth. His hand hovered over his weapon as he made a break for the door behind Morrow.
 

Fake hair? Fake nails? Someone touching my feet? Oh, God, they were going to paint my toenails pink, weren’t they?

I groaned and placed my head on the table, covering it with my arms. This was going to be even harder than the time I killed that drug lord with a Tic Tac.

And not nearly as satisfying.

Chapter Two

On a hot and humid Saturday evening, I stepped off the bus in Sinful, Louisiana, and was fairly certain I’d gone straight to hell. Forrest Gump had gotten it all wrong. Life wasn’t a box of chocolates. It was a box of ex-lax, and I felt like I’d consumed the entire thing.

I stared down Main Street and grimaced. It was a cross between a Thomas Kinkade painting and a horror movie. A pretty, pink store with lacy-looking trim sat at the end of town. Pots of flowers rested along the sidewalk in front of the store. The sign in the window read, You Kill ’em—We’ll Stuff ’em. A giant deer head with crossed eyes hung next to the entry.

The shop next to it was all brick, painted pale blue with navy edging. No potted plants there, but ivy with cute, little white flowers grew up the front of the building to a terrace on the second floor. The sign in that building’s window had an arrow pointing to the pink store and read, Give ’em the Skin—Give Us the Meat. I hoped to God it was a butcher shop.

“Here’s your luggage, ma’am.” The voice of the bus driver sounded behind me and shook me out of my Alice in Wonderland moment. I looked back at the two bright pink suitcases with silver, tinsel tassels and choked back a wave of nausea. While I’d been tortured by the women at that salon, Harrison had been sent luggage shopping. This was his final parting shot.
 

I’d have rather it came from his nine millimeter.

I thanked the bus driver and handed him a big tip. If I never returned from here, I needed someone to remember where they’d seen me last. I extended the roller bar for the large case and placed the smaller one on top of it, trying not to notice my long, painted nails. I’d asked for black polish, but Morrow had called ahead and warned them. They’d offered me wine and little froufrou cakes and thought they’d get me to go along with “Delicate Mauve” or “Sunshine Tangerine,” but I was onto them. We finally compromised on “Ravishing Red,” a shade I picked because it was the exact color of freshly-spilled blood.
 

I pulled a piece of paper from the pocket of my ghastly purple suit and studied the directions. My “great-aunt’s” house was probably a mile from here, which wouldn’t have been a problem under normal circumstances. Under normal circumstances, I’d single-handedly overturned dictatorships in
less
than a mile. But in a linen suit, in the dead heat of Louisiana, and wearing high heels, I’d be lucky to make it down Main Street without stabbing myself with that deer head’s antlers just to end it all.

Sighing, I grabbed the handle of my luggage. I managed two steps before my ankle twisted and the heel broke right off the damned shoe.
Two hundred dollars for that piece of crap.
I didn’t even want to think about the silencer I’d been looking at for less than that, or the black market grenades I could have added to my illegal collection.

I picked up the broken heel, pulled off both shoes and chucked them into a stream of dirty water that ran the length of the town behind the kill-’em-and-eat-’em shops. Yet another pair of fancy, overpriced shoes that Hadley would never get to wear.
 

“I’d hate to see you arrested for polluting the bayou your first day in town,” a man’s voice sounded behind me.

I whirled around, angry that someone had managed to get so close to me and I hadn’t even been aware of his existence. The fact that he was driving a huge truck with obscenely large tires just reinforced my belief that after five minutes in Louisiana, I’d already lost my edge.

I gave the man a quick assessment—
mid-thirties, six foot two, about twelve percent body fat and has a blind spot forty-five degrees off center in his left eye
. A weakness I could capitalize on.
 

“Polluting?” I inquired. “I just increased the value of that mud stream.”

He smiled—one of those patronizing, fake smiles that men used only on what they mistakenly assumed was the weaker sex. “That mud stream feeds half the people in this town.”

“I’m on a diet.”
 

“You must be Marge Boudreaux’s niece.”

It took me a moment to realize that the “Boo-drow” that came out of his mouth equaled the “Boudreaux” I’d read in the obituary, but I’d never have gotten that right. “Yes.”

“Bet you’re wondering how I knew.”

“Well, the whole town is probably comprised of fifteen people and whatever they shot yesterday, and since none of them walk down Main Street with pink luggage—at least I hope not—I’m not exactly amazed that you realized I was a stranger.”

 
He raised his eyebrows. “Marge described you as a lot nicer. Guess she meant compared to her. Well, since you’re here…and barefoot, I’ll be happy to give you a lift. That gravel is rough on the feet.”

I looked down at the road, realizing for the first time that I wasn’t standing on pavement. Instead, my feet were firmly planted on some strange mixture of dirt and shells. Thank God that pedicure hadn’t made pansies out of my feet. “I’m fine, really.”

He didn’t look the least bit convinced, but apparently figured he’d done his southern duty. “Okay. Well, see you around.” He pulled away, the ridiculously huge tires of his truck stirring up more dust than a desert storm.

For a shot of whiskey and a pair of combat boots, I’d have grabbed the tailgate of Bubba’s truck and rode my luggage to the other side of town. But then that might have stood out. Likely, librarian ex-beauty queens didn’t ride luggage.
 

Twenty minutes later, I strolled up the walkway of my new residence. It was a huge Victorian, and I sighed in relief that it was painted a sensible navy blue and contained no flowers in pots or in the front landscape that I’d likely kill. Now if only the inside was fern- and ivy-free, I was in business.

Fifteen more steps and I could get inside, out of public view, change into normal clothes and wait until midnight to burn the luggage in the backyard. I could already smell the smoke. But when I placed one foot on the porch, the front door opened and a little, white-haired, old lady stepped out.

Five foot two, a hundred and ten pounds with the purse, older than Christ, too many weak points to name.

“You must be Sandy-Sue.” The woman stepped forward to clutch my hands. “I’m so happy to finally meet you. I was afraid your bus had been delayed.”

“Nope. Right on time.”
Like rushing toward death.

“Wonderful. I’m Gertie Hebert, one of your aunt’s oldest friends.”

I nodded. The emphasis was on
old
.

Gertie reached into a huge handbag that looked like it was made from tapestry and dug out a Baggie. “Caroline had a chicken incident over at her place and didn’t get to making the welcome basket, so I had to improvise.” She held out the Baggie. “Prune?”

“Maybe later,” I said.
Like when I’m ninety.

“Well, then come on inside and meet Bones. Maybe we can dig you a pair of shoes out of that interesting luggage of yours. You know, women haven’t been required to go barefoot in Sinful for at least forty years.”

I stared. “Are they still required to be pregnant?”

Gertie waved a hand in dismissal. “Only if you were born on the first Tuesday of the crawfish festival, and then only if there was a full moon. But there’s probably an exception with you being from out of town and all.” She turned around and entered the house.
 

For the first time in my life, I felt a small tremor of fear trickle down my spine. I’d obviously crossed into enemy territory, and darned if I hadn’t tossed my only weapons in that muddy water.
 

I stepped inside the house, relieved that there weren’t a bunch of antiques or glass sitting around and surprised by the understated furniture and light tan walls. Not a tassel or bit of lace in sight. I just might be able to manage this.

“This is pleasant,” I said.

“You sound surprised.”

“Yes—No…Well, I figured, given that the rest of the town looks like a pastel painting…”

Gertie nodded. “You know Marge wasn’t exactly a follower. She didn’t like gardening or cleaning, so she wasn’t about to have ‘shit that needed watering or dusting’ around her place.” Gertie grinned. “Marge was a bit of a feminist. Ahead of her time, really, but then I’m not telling you anything new.”

I felt my spirits rise a bit. Maybe, just maybe, this wouldn’t turn out to be awful.
 

“I made coffee,” Gertie went on as she waved for me to follow her down a hallway off the front living area. “Marge was always worried about you, dear.”