Remote Consequences (28 page)

"Wow, so will you be putting out a special evening edition on this one?"

Penny let out a low whistle. "I think I'll have to. There were quite a few witnesses at the café, and if I want to nail this story I need to get the fingers to the keyboard pretty quickly."

"Understood. Hey, thanks for giving me a lift home."

We stayed silent for a few beats.

"What's the deal with you and that hottie Colin Brooks?" Penny looked at me out of the corner of her eye, but her face remained expressionless.

Her question caught me totally by surprise. "Why, do you know something about him?"

"Maybe."

"Penny, spill the beans."

Now she smiled. A wicked one if I'd ever seen one. "Maybe some mysteries are better left unsolved."

"Oh, gee, thanks."

"What are friends for?"

I opened my mouth to ask if that meant that we were still friends but changed my mind. Some things were better left unsaid.

I wondered when or if I'd see Colin again. He'd ghosted out of the café during all the ruckus. But I hoped he'd be back—bearing food.

We pulled up to the house, and something occurred to me. "Hey, hold on a second, will you?"

She nodded. "But hurry up…I have a story to run."

I exited the car and entered the house. I ran to my bedroom.
My
bedroom? The thought crashed against my skull as I stepped across the bedroom threshold. I'd been calling it Aunt Patty's bedroom for as long as I'd been alive. Was it truly
my
bedroom now? Sad, but necessary. At least for the time being.

Seeing the source of my mission on the nearby table, I grabbed it and ran back out the front door. Penny was drumming the dashboard and singing along to Tom Petty on the stereo.

I handed her a photograph of us from the night of our senior graduation party, her smile reached her eyes, and her face lit up. Now,
that
was Penny.

"Oh my Lord, where did you find this thing?"

"It was in my old stuff. I did a major clean the other night and came across it. Look how happy we were at that moment."

"Yeah, the night went sort of downhill from that point on…"

"You could say that." We didn't need to discuss it further. It was old news and better left in the past. On that, we could agree.

She started to hand it back to me. I shook my head at her. "No…that's for you."

She squinted at the photo. "Okay, Mandy. Okay."

"Hey, Penny, thanks again for the ride. See you around."

"Yep. Yep. Yep." She backed out of the driveway and was gone.

*  *  *

After a quick shower and a change of clothes, I prepared to hotfoot it over to Ms. Lanier's. She'd left me a message that she'd have lunch waiting for me, and that she had Paget and Pickles as well. I needed a big, big hug from both of them.

As I passed through the kitchen, the phone was ringing. I snatched it off the receiver. I seriously need to cancel this house phone thing.

"Hello?"

"Mandy Murrin?"

"Yes." I didn't recognize the scruffy voice, although it sounded vaguely familiar.

"This is Hollon Brothers' Towing. We have an estimate on yer car repairs, and it is a doozy."

"Oh, gee, great, but I doubt I'll have the money for that anytime soon. I don't suppose you'll let me work out some sort of payment plan?" How could I agree on a payment plan when I was jobless? I hadn't spoken to Barry at Flicks Vision yet, but his lack of calls spoke volumes. I knew that ship had long since sailed.

"Well…see here, we don't usually do that." He paused while he hacked up a lung.

"Okay, I understand."

More hacking followed by a gurgle. "Well now, we don't do payment plans, but…"

Guess I wouldn't be getting Stella back anytime soon.

Silence on the other end. I wondered, briefly, if the man had passed out from lack of breathable oxygen.

"Sir?"

"Yeah, listen here. We have a need for an office girl here. Maybe do an odd pick-up or two with the rig. You need a job, we might can work something out."

I let out a pent-up breath that I hadn't realized I'd been holding. "How did you know I was looking for a job?"

Suddenly, the voice seemed very familiar. "Well, I figured that if you had to borrow cab fare from that there yard man over at The Country Club that you were in some kind of sitch-e-ay-shun. And a fifty-cent tip? What year do you think this is? 1950?"

Scabby Hollon to the rescue.

"Okay then, Mr. Hollon. When can I start?"

"We'll see you in a couple days. I'll send my boys over to pick you up. Seein' as how you don't have your car and all."

I grinned. "All right. I'll see you soon."

"Oh, girlie?"

"Yes, Mr. Hollon."

"What size coveralls do you wear? I've gotta get the boys to check the storage and see if we have your size."

More coveralls. Oh, goodie.

*  *  *

After my phone call, I joined Ms. Lanier and my family for some baked ham, black-eyed peas, and sliced bell pepper. She fussed over having missed the big scene at the café. Pickles kept moving his head back and forth between my lap and Paget's. Between bites of his food, of course. He seemed worried about his girls. Of course, on second thought, he could have just been hoping for twice the scraps.

"Dessert will be another half-hour. I'm baking up one of those Hummingbird cakes. And then we'll have to wait for it to cool before we can frost it."

Did she say Hummingbird cake?

I was definitely sticking around for that. "Sounds good. We'll hang out for a bit."

"Okay, hon. Listen…while we are waiting for dessert…and if you feel like it…"

Oh, boy.

"Could you take a look at my ear?"

"What seems to be the trouble with it?" I asked, with no lack of reluctance.

"Aw…nothing to worry over too much. I think it's just what you'd call an extreme build-up of wax. It won't take long to wash it out. I bought a kit and everything."

Oh, for the love of all that is…Millbrook.

* * * * *

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Kerri Nelson survived a fifteen year career in the legal field and then took her passion for crime solving to the page. But her journey to become a mystery author took a decade long detour into the world of romance where she penned twenty two novels and novellas in various sub-genres.

Born and raised a true southern belle, Kerri holds many useful secrets: how to bake a killer peach cobbler; how to charm suspects with proper batting of the eyelashes; and how to turn your parasol into a handy weapon.

Kerri is an active member of Sisters in Crime and Romance Writers of America which includes various volunteer positions such as Board Member at Large and Daphne Published Contest Category Coordinator of Kiss of Death RWA (Chapter for Romantic Suspense Authors).

To learn more about Kerri Nelson, visit her online at:
http://www.kerrinelson.com

* * * * *

Working Stiff Mysteries
:

Remote Consequences

Other works:

Cross Check My Heart

Vegan Moon

Making the Ghost of It

Double Take

Kissing the Bull

Falsify

* * * * *

If you enjoyed this Working Stiff Mystery, check out this other funny, romantic mystery from
Gemma Halliday Publishing
:

MOTION FOR MURDER

by

KELLY REY

* * * * *

CHAPTER ONE

I knew right away that it wasn't going to be a typical day at the law firm of Parker, Dennis, and Heath. For one thing, there was only one client waiting in the reception area when I got to work, a huge man in a ketchup-stained T-shirt with a pelt like a squirrel and work boots that spoke to days spent hiking in landfills.

For another thing, that client was holding a gun.

I saw only three ways to handle the situation. Three became two when I saw I had a dead cell phone. My next option was to approach him calmly, discuss his issues coolly, and dispatch him to the nearest police station quickly. Or make a hard left, flee to the kitchen, and hide behind the refrigerator until braver souls took charge. That's why I was hugging the SubZero when Missy Clark came in the back door. Missy had been a secretary with the firm for a lot of years, and she'd seen a lot of things. But a colleague cowering beside a major appliance wasn't one of them, and it stopped her in her tracks.

"Hey, Jamie." Her right eyebrow lifted. "What're you doing?"

"Ssh." I cocked my head toward the reception area and put my finger to my lips in the universal gesture for
Be quiet—can't you tell there's a kook with a gun out there?

Missy tiptoed over to squat beside me. "What's going on?"

I pointed. "There's a gun out there with a house attached to it."

She took a peek. "Adam Tiddle." She sighed. "He's harmless. He's mad because we didn't take his case. He thought it'd make him a millionaire. He's been showing up ever since Dougie turned him down." She shook her head. "I told him it was going to bite him in the briefs."

"I don't think biting is what this guy has in mind," I said. "Unless chewing and swallowing are involved. I'm not going out there until he's gone."

Missy shrugged. "He's not as bad as he looks. He was in a car accident."

"I've seen him," I said. "No car accident did that."

"His neighbor was changing a flat, and Adam was holding up the car," Missy said.

I nodded. "And the jack broke?"

Missy looked puzzled. "What jack?"

Oh.

"That's the problem. There's no negligence there except for his own. He just doesn't get it." She pushed herself up. "I should call Dougie and warn him."

Dougie was Douglas J. Heath, Esquire, commonly known in secretarial circles as Dougie Digits for the creative and offensive use of his eleven fingers. Thank goodness the eleventh was only an extra pinky finger. I shuddered to think of the damage he could do with another thumb. Dougie had a penchant for spandex and a predilection for ogling secretaries in sundresses. He was the approximate weight of a garden gnome, with a perpetual swagger, and arms that formed two hairy parentheses to his torso. Dougie had once sued a Chinese restaurant for causing a stress disorder because its fortune cookie had predicted grim tidings, and that pretty much tells you all you need to know about Dougie.

Before Missy could pick up the phone, the gnome himself burst through the back door, all pink and flushed with the effort of hustling the six feet from his Mercedes. Everything left Dougie pink and flushed. He broke a sweat lifting his bottle of vitamin pills. Dougie wore the most expensive shoes, the most beautifully tailored suits, and the priciest haircuts, and he still looked like the sleaziest personal injury lawyer in town. He was holding a DVD in one hand that was either a memorialization of his weekend escapades or a copy of his latest commercial. I've seen his commercials. I wasn't sure which would be worse.

His eyes narrowed when he saw me and widened when he saw Missy. All men reacted like that to Missy. Probably because she was five-nine, and five of it was legs. "I don't see any computers in the kitchen, ladies. And it's too early for lunch, Winters."

A flush of embarrassment started at my belly button and washed upward. "You're probably wondering why I'm hiding next to the refrigerator," I said, but Dougie wasn't paying attention. He was too busy looking at Missy. "That top does amazing things for your cans, Clark."

Missy didn't even flinch. She gave me a sidelong look that might or might not have included a wink, tore a paper towel off the roll, and handed it to him. "Here. Clean yourself up. You've got someone waiting."

Dougie brightened and blotted. "A new client?"

"Hold on, you probably shouldn't—" I said.

Missy ignored me. "Yep. Sounds like a live one, too."

"Hot damn, and it's only Monday." Dougie swiped the towel across the back of his neck and dropped it on the counter beside his video. "Teeth?" He peeled back his lips for Missy's inspection.

"Teeth," she agreed.

His lips snapped shut. He adjusted his tie, straightened his lapels, ran a hand through his hair, and patted Missy on the backside. "Make me a protein shake, will you, doll? I'll be right back."

"If you're lucky," Missy muttered, yanking open the refrigerator.

I just sat there, feeling like I should be doing something, as long as that something wasn't following Dougie into Adam Tiddle's orbit. So I measured a half cup of Dougie's protein powder into the blender for Missy while ogling the bare-chested model on the label—he was probably a louse, too. A stench rose from the blender, and I clamped the lid on to stifle it. Judging by the odor, Dougie's daily protein shakes tasted like Adam Tiddle's boots.

Missy had gotten as far as slicing a banana when we heard a shout and the clatter of Bruno Maglis in the hallway, and then Dougie was back, panting, sweat running down his artificially bronze cheeks. His eyes were a little wild. "You could've told me Tiddle had a gun," he said to Missy. "I can't believe you didn't tell me Tiddle had a gun. He could've killed me out there! Do you really hate me that much?"

She probably did, but Missy didn't confirm or deny. She dropped the banana pieces into the blender and hit a button, serene as the Virgin Mary, and watched Dougie's protein shake slop around for a few seconds.