Sandra Hill - [Jinx] (29 page)
Read Sandra Hill - [Jinx] Online
Authors: Pearl Jinx
Sandra Hill
is the best-selling author of more than twenty novels and the recipient of numerous awards.
Readers love the trademark humor in her books, whether the heroes are Vikings, Cajuns, Navy SEALs, or treasure hunters, and they tell her so often, sometimes with letters that are laugh-out-loud funny. In addition, her fans feel as if they know the characters in her books on a personal basis, especially the outrageous Tante Lulu.
At home in central Pennsylvania with her husband, four sons, and a dog the size of a horse, Sandra is always looking for new sources of humor. It’s not hard to find.
Two of her sons have Domino’s Pizza franchises, and one of the two plays in poker competitions. They swear they are going to write a humor book entitled
The Pizza Guys’ Guide to Poker.
Her husband, a stockbroker, is very supportive of her work. In fact, he tells everyone he is a cover model. In fact, he made that claim one time when she did a radio interview and swears the traffic around their home was heavy for awhile as people tried to get a gander at the handsome model. Then there was the time he made a blow-up of one of her early clinch covers with a hunk and a half-naked woman and hung it in his office. He put a placard under it saying, “She lost her shirt in the stock market . . . but does she look like she cares?”
So be careful if you run into Sandra. What you say or do may end up in a book. If you want to take the chance, you can contact her through her Web site at
www.sandrahill.net
.
The love and laughter
continue in
Sandra Hill’s
next Jinx adventure!
Turn the page for
a preview of
A
VAILABLE IN MASS MARKET
S
PRING
2008.
Home, home on the . . . bayou . . .
It was dawn on Bayou Black, and its inhabitants were about to launch their daily musical extravaganza, a beautiful performance as ancient as time.
The various sounds melded: a dozen different frogs, the splash of a sac-a-lait or bream rising for a tasty insect, the whisper of a humid breeze among the moss-draped oaks, the flap of an egret’s wings as it soared out from a bald cypress branch. Even the silence had a sound. The only thing not making any noise was the lone human inhabitant, John LeDeux.
But not for long.
“Yoo-hoo!”
About five hundred birds took flight at that shrill greeting, not to mention every snake, rabbit, raccoon, or gator within a one-mile radius.
John jackknifed up in bed and quickly pulled the sheet up to the waist of his naked body. He was in the single bedroom of his fishing camp, another name for a cabin on stilts over the bayou. He knew exactly who was yoo-hooing him. His ninety-two-year-old great-aunt, Louise Rivard, better known as Tante Lulu.
Who else in the world says “Yoo-hoo”?
He should have known better than to buy a place within a “hoot ’n’ a holler” of his aunt’s little cottage. She took neighborliness to new heights.
And “hoot ’n’ a holler”? Mon Dieu! I’m turning into Tante Lulu.
By the time the wooden screen door slammed, putting an exclamation mark on his aunt’s entry, he’d already pulled on a pair of running shorts. He yawned widely as he walked into the living room, where she was carrying two shopping bags of what appeared to be food. Not a good sign.
But this was his beloved aunt, the only one who’d been there for him and his brothers during some hard times. He’d never say or do anything to hurt her feelings. “What’re you doing here,
chère
?” he said. “It’s only six-thirty, and I don’t have to report for work till ten.” John was a detective with the Baton Rouge police department. It was a two-hour drive to town, and most nights he stayed in an efficiency apartment he rented there, but some nights, like last night, he just wanted to be home.
“You gots bags under yer eyes, Tee-John,” his aunt said, totally ignoring his question. Tee-John—Little John—was a nickname that he’d been given as a kid, way before he hit his six-foot-two.
She went into the small kitchen and unloaded her goodies. French bread, boudin sausage, eggs, beignets, red and green tomatoes, garlic, okra, butter, Tabasco sauce, and the holy trinity of Southern cooking, celery, onions, and bell peppers. That was just from one bag. His small fridge would never hold all this crap.
“Yeah, I’ve got bags. I didn’t get to bed till three.”
“Tsk—tsk—tsk! Thass one of the reasons I’m here.”
“Huh?” He sank down into one of the two chairs, breathing deeply in the smell of the strong chicory coffee she’d already set to brewing.
Now she was whipping up what appeared to be an omelet, with sides of sausage and fried green tomatoes. It would do no good to argue that he rarely ate before noon.
“I may be old, sonny, but I ain’t dumb. Even here in the bayou, we hear ’bout all yer hanky-panky.”
He grinned. “Do you see any hot babes here?”
“Hah! Thass jist ’cause I walked in on you las’ month with that Morrison tart, buck naked and her squealin’ like a pig. Ya prob’ly do yer hanky-panky elswheres now.”
“You got that right,” he murmured.
“Why cain’t ya find yerself a nice Cajun girl, Tee-John?”
“’Cause I’m not lookin’, that’s why. Besides, Jenny Morrison is not a tart.”
His aunt put her hands on her tiny hips . . . She was only five-foot-zero and ninety pounds sopping wet. “Does she have yer ring on her finger?”
His eyes went wide. “Are you kidding? Hell, no!”
“Ya gonna marry up with the girl?”
“Hell, no!” he repeated.
She shrugged. “Well, then, yer a hound dog and she’s a tart. Hanky-panky is only fer people in love who’s gonna get married someday.”
That was the Bible, according to Tante Lulu.
“Best I bring ya some more St. Jude statues.”
“No!”
She raised his eyebrows at his sharp tone.
“Sorry, but come on, auntie. I’ve got St. Jude statues in my bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, porch, car, and office. There’s St. Jude napkins and salt and pepper shakers here on the table, St. Jude pot holders by the stove, a St. Jude wind chime outside, a St. Jude birdbath, and God only knows what else.”
“A person cain’t have too many St. Judes.”
St. Jude was the patron saint of hopeless causes and his aunt’s favorite.
“I’m not that hopeless.”
She patted his shoulder as she put a steaming mug of coffee in front of him on the table. “I know that, sweetie. Thass one of the reasons I’m here. I had a vision las’ night.”
He rolled his eyes.
Here it comes.
“It mighta been a dream, but it felt like a vision. Charmaine says I should go to one of those psychos.” Charmaine was his half sister and as psycho as they came.
“Psychics,” he corrected.
“Thass what I said. Anyways, back ta my vision. Guess who’s gettin’ married this year?”
“Who?” He asked the question before he had a chance to bite his tongue.
“You.” She beamed.
He choked on his coffee and sprayed droplets all over the table.
She mopped it up with a St. Jude napkin.
“Any clue who the lucky lady will be?” he asked, deciding to go along with the nonsense. He wasn’t even dating anyone steadily, and he for damn sure didn’t know one single woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.
She shook her head. “That wasn’t clear, but it’s gonna happen. The thunderbolt, she’s a-comin’. Best ya be prepared.” The thunderbolt she referred to was some screwball thunderbolt of love that she claimed hit the LeDeux men just before they met the loves of their lives.
“No way! And just to make sure, I’m buyin’ a lightning rod before I go in to work today. Speaking of which, I’ve got to take a shower. Can you put a hold on that breakfast for about fifteen minutes?”
“
Oui
, but first I gots to tell you my news.”
“Oh?” The hairs stood out on the back of his neck. The last time she had news to announce, she’d popped a surprise wedding on his brother René. Or maybe it was the time she and Charmaine had entered a belly dancing contest. “I thought the vision was your news,” he teased.
She smacked his arm with a wooden spoon. “Stop yer sass, boy. My news is that I hired Jinx, Inc., ta come ta Loo-zee-anna.”
“The treasure-hunting company? They’re coming here?” John had worked one summer for the New Jersey operation that hired out to find lost treasures—sunken shipwrecks, cave pearls, buried gold, just about anything.
She nodded. “We’s gonna hunt fer pirate treasure out Grande Terre way. Too bad ya gots to work. It should be fun.”
“You’re talking about Jean Lafitte, I suppose. Don’t you know that treasure legend is just that—a legend?”
“We’ll see. I gots clues what no one else has.”
That is just great! Probably another vision.
“How are you involved?”
“I put up two hundred thousand dollars fer half the profits.”
He inhaled sharply. “That’s a lot of money.”
His alarm must have shown in his voice because she shot back, “It’s
my
money to spend anyways I want.”
He put up his hands in surrender. “Absolutely. When is this venture going to start?”
“Next month.”
“Okay. That’s great, really. I wish you all the luck.” That’s what he said, but what he thought, standing under the shower a short time later, was,
The bayou is never going to be the same again, guaranteed! And treasure hunting is never going to be the same after being hit by Tante Lulu. Talk about!
The menu at this nightclub was edible . . . uh, incredible . . .
Celine Arseneaux took a deep breath, then started across the crowded parking lot of The Playpen in suburban Baton Rouge, trying to ignore the fact that she was all tarted up like a high-class call girl.
The getup had been the bright idea of Bruce Cavanaugh, her editor at the
New Orleans Times-Picayune
, designed so that Celine would meld in the crowd at this upscale club, which provided sexual favors to both men and women, all run by the Dixie Mafia. Thus the black stiletto sling-backs, the sheer black silk hose, and the black slip dress with red lace edging the bodice and hem, not to mention flame red lipstick. Her shoulder-length boring brown hair had been blown and twisted into a wild curly mane. Normally, her idea of dressing up was new jeans, lip gloss, and a ponytail.
No way would she ever be confused for the award-winning journalist she was. Nor would she be taken for the mother of a five-year-old child. Nope. She was a woman on the make for a little action . . . illegal, paid-for action.
“I look like a Bourbon Street hooker,” she’d complained to her fellow reporter Jade Lewis just a half hour ago as she’d helped plant the tape recorder inside her push-up bra and adjusted the tiny camera into the rose-shaped gold-and-rhinestone brooch at the deep V of her front. “I didn’t even know I could have cleavage.”
Jade had laughed. “Not a hooker. You look too high class for that. With the diamond post earrings and that brooch, you look like a bored upper-class gal with a wad of dough looking for Mister Studmuffin.”
“A desperate housewife?”
“Something like that.”
So now Celine walked up to the doorman, who resembled a pro wrestler in a tux, and flashed the small card she’d been given for admission. Apparently, no one could enter the private premises unless they were with a member or had obtained one of the cards, cards that were impossible to obtain without being carefully vetted. How Bruce had gotten hers she didn’t want to know.
The big bruiser studied the card, then stepped aside and held the door open for her. She could hear soft music up ahead—no sordid bump-and-grind business here. A hostess, who could have passed for a runway model in a trendy culotte, inquired, “Black, white, or blue?”
“Huh?”
A light smile tugged at the hostess’s lips. “First time here?”
Celine nodded.
“The black room is for men wanting to hook up with a woman. The white room is for women wanting to hook up with a man. And the blue room is for men and women, together, wanting to hook up with . . . whatever.”
At Celine’s confused look, she elaborated, “
Ménage à trois
, honey.”
Oh, good Lord!
Celine hoped she wasn’t blushing. “White, please.”
She wondered, with a suppressed giggle, how another reporter, Dane Jessup, was going to handle this situation when he did his part of the story tomorrow night. The male angle. If Celine was a geek, Dane was dweeb to the max.
Soon she was seated at a small round table in the back of the room with an empty chair across from her. An in-house phone sat in the center. The room had subtle lighting and the atmosphere of an upscale bar; that image was heightened by the soft rock being played by a two-piece band. No Chippendale-style dancers here or bare-chested waiters. A waitress in a perfectly respectable black uniform asked if she wanted a beverage. They cost ten dollars a pop . . . and that included pop.
The ratio of men to women in the room was about five to one, with about two dozen women sitting at the various tables. Several of them were dancing on the small dance floor with attractive men. Most of the men wore suits, sport coats over khakis, or golf shirts tucked into pleated slacks. No cowboys or construction workers. Subtly again. Those men not partnered on the dance floor leaned against the two bars, nursing drinks. Or leaned against a far wall. A few glanced her way with interest.
It looked like a singles club. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.
But then she opened the “menu” in front of her . . . and felt like crawling under the table.
Welcome to The Playpen. We are here for your enjoyment. Please study the menu below. Then look around the room. If you see anyone you like, pick up the phone and indicate your choice. Only then will you be approached. If after talking to one of our men, you change your mind, you can make another choice. Accommodations are upstairs, or off-site arrangements can be made. Good luck!
This was followed by a menu of available services . . . very detailed descriptions . . . with prices. She wasn’t sure she even knew what some of these things were, and for sure there were some she’d never done or had any desire to do. Eeew!
After the waitress plopped her whiskey sour down on the table, Celine took a big gulp and she braced herself. It was only pretend. It was just a story. She’d done worse things to get a scoop. Well, no, she hadn’t, but it was important that these outrageous activities be exposed.
Morphing into professional mode, she made mental notes of what she’d seen so far and decided she would “interview” three different men before making her escape following a trip to the ladies’ room. Pressing one of the roses in her brooch to launch the zoom lenses, she began a slow scan of the men from right to left.
Some of the prostitutes looked downright dangerous. Way too blatantly sexual for her tastes.
Okay, the young blond man would be her first. Extra-long hair in a ponytail. Clean-cut. Wearing a button-down blue shirt, tucked into dark blue chinos. He looked like a college student.
Then maybe the older gentleman with salt-and-pepper hair. Fiftyish. Well built. Designer suit.
Third . . . hmmm, she couldn’t decide. She should probably invite the guy who looked like Tony from
The Sopranos
, if she had the nerve. Or the scowling man who was both homely and tempting as hell—rough sex, for sure.
She had her hand on the phone, about to request her first “date”, when she noticed two men walk into the room laughing at some private joke. Her survey started to swing back, then doubled back.
Oh. My. God!
Could it be…? No, it’s impossible.
The tall man with dark hair, late twenties, wearing a black suit over a tight white silk T-shirt, stopped dead and was staring at her, too. Her camera took him in, and she intended to erase his picture the moment she got home.
