Double Shot (2 page)

“Anything in the parking lot washed away, and Shinkle Creek took care of whatever we might have found on the bodies. All we do know is that both victims were killed by the same gun.”

“You found the gun?”

“Not yet and not likely. The murder weapon’s probably at the bottom of the river. But we have the bullets."

I grimaced. “So who was the second victim?”

He went back to stirring the sauce. I took his chin in my hand and forced him to face me. “Who else got killed?”

“His name was Fritz Lupo.”

I dropped his chin, but unfortunately Wilson continued staring at me. “He made his living hustling at the pool table out there, Jessie. And he was teaching Angela Hernandez how to hustle. I think he killed her.”

He frowned and pointed to the pasta.

I grabbed two pot holders and drained the pot. “But if Fritz—I mean, if this Lupo-guy—was teaching Angela how to hustle, why would he turn around and kill her? And then who killed him?”

“I don’t know. But I’m ninety percent sure something went wrong at that pool table. A bet didn’t get paid, someone cheated. It’s a rough game out there, as you know.”

“Oh, I get it. Fritz Lupo was a pool shark, and Angela Hernandez was a wannabe, so of course they had to come to a violent end.” I shook the water from the colander with far more vigor than necessary. “Pool players aren’t all criminals, Captain Rye. I thought I already proved that.”

“There’s only been one other murder out there in the past twenty years, Jessie. Lupo was involved in that one, too.”

“What!?” I spun around from the sink, and Wilson nodded.

“Manslaughter, actually. Thirteen years ago he and some other guy had themselves a shoot out. The bullet that was meant for Lupo hit the bartender instead.”

I closed my eyes and prayed for strength.

“Did your daddy ever mention Lupo?”

I poured the spaghetti into the sauce and concentrated on stirring our supper. “It’s kind of complicated,” I said eventually.

“And? Did he know Lupo?”

I kept stirring and thought about my father. My beau the cop might not approve of what he did for a living, but Daddy was darn good at his job. In his heyday Leon Cue-it Hewitt was the best one pocket player south of the Mason-Dixon Line.

“Lupo?” Wilson repeated.

“Okay, yes.” I stopped stirring and braced myself for Wilson to overreact. “Daddy knew him, and umm, I might have played Fritz once or twice myself.”

“What!?” he overreacted. “I thought you told me you haven’t hustled for years.”

“I haven’t. But I can still remember people, can’t I? If memory serves, Fritz was known as the Fox—sharp eyes, red hair.”

“Memory serves,” Wilson grumbled and dished up our spaghetti.

“Now, I never actually saw Fritz at the Wade On Inn,” I continued as we sat down to eat. “But Daddy used to bring home lots of the men he worked with. Especially on holidays, to partake of one of my mother’s fantastic meals.”

“And meet you, presumably?”

“Well, yeah.” I devoured a meatball slathered in sauce. “Daddy liked to show me off, but he wasn’t about to take me to a pool hall. So he brought the pool hall to me.”

Wilson stopped eating. “You’re a little scary. You know that?”

I continued my trip down Memory Lane. “Fritz Lupo was one of my father’s younger friends.”

“He was sixty-seven when he died.”

“And Daddy would have been eighty-five this year.” I did the math. “So, I was around sixteen or seventeen, and Mr. Lupo was in his early thirties when we played.”

Wilson glanced at Snowflake, who had returned to her windowsill. “She’s shot pool with Fritz Lupo,” he told her.

“Nine ball, eight ball, straight pool, one pocket. Daddy and his friends taught me everything they knew.” I pointed to the spaghetti. “You’re not eating.”

“What was Lupo’s best game?”

“Nine ball, definitely. By the 1970’s nine ball was every hustler’s game of choice.” I speared another meatball. “Fritz was good back then. But I wonder if he was still any good?”

Wilson dropped his fork and pushed his plate away. “That’s one of the things I’ll need you to find out.”

I held my meatball aloft and digested that interesting statement.

“Oh?” I said.

“I need to put someone undercover at that pool table, Jessie. Someone who can shoot a decent game and gamble like they know what they’re doing.”

A slow smile made its way across my face, and I winked at the cat. “A decent game, you say?”

***

But Wilson was still talking. Something about a lack of manpower. I straightened my smile and tried looking sympathetic.

“No one in the whole department can play for squat,” he said.

“Except you.”

“Maybe, but everyone at the Wade On Inn knows me now. I’ve been over there all week, flashing my badge and trying to learn something useful.” He picked up his fork and began tapping the edge of his bowl.

“What about Russell?” I asked, thinking of Wilson’s partner. Like his boss, Lieutenant Densmore is tall, dark, and handsome. But Russell Densmore’s twenty years younger, twenty pounds heavier, and black.

Wilson stopped tapping and rolled his eyes.

“Okay, so Russell stinks,” I concluded.

“A few of my other officers claimed they could play, but we had tryouts this afternoon. Fogle, Simmons, Leary—all pathetic.” He went back to tapping a fork on his spaghetti bowl. “Only one of my people did at all well.”

“Oh? Who was that?”

“Tiffany Sass is a pretty good little player,” he informed the cutlery.

It was my turn to roll my eyes. “She’s not as good as me, Captain Rye. I’d bet my Daddy’s cue stick on it.”

Wilson grinned. “No one’s as good as you, darlin.’”

“Remember that.”

He cleared his throat. “I asked Sergeant Sass to pretend to gamble with me, and we play-acted a little. I was the tough guy at the Wade On Inn, and she was the new kid interested in some action.”

Okay, so I may have snorted. The young and nubile Tiffany Sass was indeed interested in some action. Just not at a pool table.

“And?” I had to ask.

“And she had no idea how it’s done. She got flustered just pretending with me.”

“Wilson!” I was beyond exasperated. “The girl—and I do mean girl—got flustered because you were paying attention to her. She has a huge crush on you.”

“Can I help it if I inspire respect?”

“Respect, my a—” I noticed the damn grin and stopped. I was not about to lose my dignity over the likes of Tiffany La-Dee-Doo-Da Sass.

I stood up to fetch the Korbel bottle. “So I guess it’s up to me,” I said as I refilled his glass.

“But it’s too dangerous, Jessie. The last time you got involved in a case, you ended up dangling by your toenails off the roof.” He pointed at the ceiling. “You remember that?”

“Ancient history.” I sat back down and poured my own glass.

“We’re talking double homicide this time. At the Wade On Inn of all places.”

“I put myself through Duke University hustling at places just like the Wade On Inn,” I argued. “I can handle it.”

“You’re out of practice.”

“What? Has the game suddenly gone high tech?”

I might have been a bit sarcastic, but the man did have a point. Hustling at age fifty-two would require a different strategy than what had worked in my twenties.

Maybe my young friend Candy could help? Snowflake could outshoot her at a pool table, but Candy has other talents. Clad in one of her miniskirts, she would provide a great diversion. My neighbor Karen Sembler might help also. What would Karen’s role be, I wondered.

The sound of Snowflake purring distracted me, and I glanced over to find her sitting on Wilson’s lap. Everyone was staring at me.

“I’d place undercover cops in there to protect you.” Wilson stroked Snowflake under her chin.

“Well then, I’ll be safe,” I said and stifled a frown when even I noticed how naïve that sounded.

“What about your looks?”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re too easily recognized, Jessie. You do remember how Jimmy Beak plastered your lovely mug all over the news last month?”

I sat up straight and sputtered out a four-letter word.

Right behind my ex-husband, Channel 15’s star reporter is my least favorite person in town. Jimmy Beak makes a habit of annoying Wilson whenever he has a tricky case to solve. And during the pesky week when I had been a murder suspect, he hadn’t exactly ingratiated himself to me either.

“Jimmy knows what’s going on?” I asked.

“Most of it, but he steers clear of the Wade On Inn. He’s scared of the place.”

I sighed a sigh of infinite relief.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Wilson warned me. “You won’t run into Beak, but I bet there’s plenty of people who remember his reports about the notorious ‘borderline pornographer.’” He pointed at me, and I repeated that four-letter word.

“What can we do?” I asked.

He scowled at the top of my head. “How about your hair?”

“I can go brunette,” I suggested. “I warn you though—you won’t like it.”

He pulled on my one-inch blond locks. “I promise not to laugh.”

“Gee thanks.”

“What else?” He leaned back and assessed my person as if I were a batch of spaghetti sauce that hadn’t turned out quite right.

I pursed my lips and waited until he lost the frown. “I can change the way I dress,” I said. “Candy will help me.”

Wilson raised an eyebrow. “Miniskirts and stilettos? The idea is to keep you safe out there.”

I assured my beau a miniskirt was not in my future. “But I can borrow some of Candy’s jewelry,” I said. “The gloriously tacky stuff. And I’ll wear way more makeup than usual, and maybe a pair of tight jeans.”

He raised his other eyebrow, and even I had to chuckle at the uncharacteristic image I was conjuring up.

“What about your car?”

My face dropped. “What about it?”

“You can’t be driving into the Wade On Inn’s parking lot in a silver Porsche with those vanity 'Adelé' plates.”

“You are jealous of my car.”

“We’ll switch vehicles. You can use my truck.”

“No way!” I protested. Surely the man didn’t expect me to drive around in his beat-up, rusty old pickup truck? Ugly? You have no idea.

“I’m not crazy about being seen in your car either,” he said.

“Liar.”

“No, really. Everyone’s figured out the Add-A-Lay thing, Jessie. You should hear the jokes that go around the station.”

“My pen name is brilliant, I’ll have you know. It ever so subtly reflects the nature of my stories.”

“Subtle?”

“Your friends are just jealous.” I stood up and shooed Snowflake from his lap. “I mean, how many other men your age have a lady friend whose mind is constantly in the gutter?”

Wilson told me I’m a little scary and buried his face in my chest. “So you’re willing to do this?”

“Of course,” I said as he unbuttoned my blouse and pulled me closer. “But I do have one question.”

“What’s that?”

“Do I get to keep my winnings?”

***

Wilson got around to addressing that last question a bit later. He rolled over from what was fast becoming his side of the bed and fished his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans.

“I realize this is pathetic,” he said. “But the chief would only allot five hundred cash for the whole Wade On Inn operation.” He counted out five one-hundred-dollar bills and laid them on my night stand. “Sorry, Jessie, but that’s all we have to play with.”

Snowflake walked over from the foot of the bed and sniffed the money with what I can only describe as disdain.

“Five hundred should get me going.” I tried sounding optimistic. “But I can’t walk into the Wade On Inn flashing hundreds right off the bat. I’ll start with a few twenties.”

“You’re the expert. But if you lose that, our little game is up.”

“If I lose?”

“Oops.”

“Now I will lose some of it,” I said. “But only to lure the regulars into complacency.” I patted his chest. “I’ll be playing to win, and therefore, I will.”

“Well then, you can consider whatever you win as your official salary, courtesy of the Clarence Police Department.”

I thought about my father and laughed out loud. “Daddy must be rolling in his grave right now.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because, Captain Rye. Cue-It Hewitt’s little girl has managed to get the Clarence Police Department to be her stakehorse. I have the cops—the cops!—bankrolling me.”

I laid back and stretched contentedly. “Daddy would say this is one sweet gig.”

Chapter 3

Who was that vision of loveliness? Who was she?

Trey Barineau stood at the window of his drawing room, but he barely noticed the hamlet of St. Celeste nestled in the valley below Luxley Manor. For the Duke was thinking only of the lady of the lavender fields, and of that glorious moment two days earlier when he had lifted her into his carriage.

Trey reminded himself he was a gentleman, but he couldn’t help but notice how her bodice had gotten torn. Her left shoulder was bared, and as she leaned forward, he had caught the slightest, sweetest glimpse of her bosom.

The Duke broke out into a cold sweat and had to sit down.

As they drove into town, he had endeavored to engage the fair damsel in conversation, but she was far too distressed and clutched the golden necklace she wore, as if for courage. At last she seemed to relax, and as she released her necklace, Trey again noticed her almost-exposed bosom.

He had gotten a bit distracted just then and lost control of the carriage. As they veered off the lane, the startled lady clutched his arm, clinging to him for fear of life and limb. Thank goodness he had managed to right the carriage before they tipped over!

Trey wiped his brow and returned to the window. He again reminded himself he was a gentleman, but still his thoughts wandered to what might have happened if the carriage had but overturned. Surely the lady would have fallen on top of him? And her frock would have ripped open even further?

The Duke of Luxley stared out the window, but his mind was most assuredly somewhere else.

***

The Honorable Trey Barineau might not have understood what had gotten into him, but Adelé Nightingale certainly did.
An Everlasting Encounter
had to have at least one vivid sex scene within the first fifty pages or the thing would never sell. So until I concocted a scheme to get Trey and Sarina back together again, in the flesh, the Duke of Luxley would continue to enjoy a hearty and hale imagination.