The Miss Fortune Series: Nearly Departed (Kindle Worlds Novella) (9 page)

Cookie
lifted her cane and swung it into Gertie’s butt.

I popped
the wheelie of my life, turned my chair around and charged straight for Cookie.

“No! Get
out! Save yourself!” Gertie yelled at me.

I grabbed
an abandoned glass of beer from a nearby table. “Hey, Cookie!”

She looked
over at me and I emptied the glass into her face.

“Run!” I
yelled at Gertie.

I popped
another wheelie, spinning myself in the direction of the exit. Gertie ran past
me and out the door. I was hot on her heels.

“Come back
here!” Cookie yelled.

I zoomed
out the door and down the wheelchair ramp into the dirt parking lot. Several
cars away I saw Delphine, sitting in her mobility scooter alongside her van,
her face full of confusion as Gertie, her mustache hanging down at one end on
her face, raced past her.

Delphine
spotted me. “Mama?”

Oh, crap.

I pushed my
accelerator stick as far as it could go and hauled butt across the lot toward
the back end, where Ida Belle had parked her van.

“Mama! Come
back here!” Delphine yelled to me, thinking I was Cookie.

Delphine
pushed her scooter to its limits and raced alongside me. “Mama! You come back
here,” she screamed, trying to pull my hand away from my accelerator stick.

“Stop her!”
screamed Cookie, who had just exited the bar. “That’s not me!”

Delphine
looked behind at Cookie. “Mama?” Then back at me. Evil overtook her face. I
could finally see the family resemblance. She took a hard left, bumping my
wheelchair with her scooter. I spun around, facing an advancing Cookie who charged
toward me, waving her cane with one hand.

Headlights
hit us. It was Ida Belle. Time to abandon my cover. I leapt out of the chair
and ran for the side of the van.

“Unlock the
door!” I yelled.

The door
unlocked and I swung it open. As I hoisted the upper half of my body inside, Cookie’s
cane slammed into my back. A hand grabbed my foot. I turned and saw Delphine in
her scooter, her hands clamped on my shoe, trying to yank me out of the van.
She grunted and gave it her all, ripping the shoe off my foot.

I was free.

I grabbed
onto the armrest and dragged myself further into the van. “Gun it!” I yelled to
Ida Belle.

The van
jerked forward, away from Cookie and Delphine. Ida Belle then swung it around,
wide enough to avoid mother and daughter and skirted past them. Delphine threw
my shoe at our fleeing van, knocking me in the side of my head and causing my
prosthetic ear to slip. I closed the side door and scrambled into a seat.

We didn’t
speak a word until we were off the dirt road and onto the highway.

Ida Belle
whistled. “Another fun night at the Swamp Bar.”

“And it didn’t
need to happen,” I said, trying to readjust my latex old-person ear. I finally
gave up and left it flapping against my face. “I overheard Fred telling one of
his goon friends he came to Gertie’s funeral in order to establish an alibi. He
was in Mudbug stealing some copper wiring to sell to China just after the
funeral started. No way could he have been the bomber.”

Gertie
turned in her seat to face me, her mustache still dangling over the side of her
face, her bowler smashed on top. “Meaning we’re still at square one.”

I nodded.

We needed
another suspect.

We returned the borrowed van and
drove to my house in Gertie’s ancient Cadillac, ready to plan our next move. Removing
latex and washing the remnants of Cookie from my body and psyche topped the
list. At least we didn’t have to break back into Delphine and Cookie’s shed to
return the stolen backup wheelchair, as I’d left it back at the Swamp Bar. No
doubt Cookie would recognize it as her own.

“You both have
overnight bags in Gertie’s trunk, don’t you?” I asked as we headed up my
walkway.

“Sure. We
never know when one of our outings will land us in jail,” Gertie said. “Why do
you ask?”

“Because
she wants us to spend the night here,” Ida Belle said.

“You think
whoever put the bomb in my casket is going to try to get at me again?”

“I have no
idea. But I’d feel better if we were all together.” I stopped halfway up the
walk and held out my hand, stopping Gertie and Ida Belle. If I wasn’t mistaken,
someone was sitting on the swing of my darkened porch. “Weapons ready, ladies,”
I whispered, jerking my head toward the figure.

I reached
inside the waistband of my old-lady pants and pulled out my Glock. Ida Belle
did the same. Gertie retrieved her pistol from her purse. I motioned to Gertie
to come up from the right, then signaled Ida Belle to hang to the left. I planned
to meet the intruder head on.

Slowly we
advanced.

The
darkened outline stood. “What the hell?”

It was Carter.

We stopped
our advance and shoved our weapons back where they came from as Carter stepped
out of the darkened porch and onto the walkway.

“Were you
three going to shoot me?”

“I don’t
know what you mean,” I said.

He shook
his head. “For a minute there I thought I was stuck in one of those old reruns
of
Charlie’s Angels
my mom watches.”

“I want to
be Kelley,” Gertie said, raising her hand. “Ida Belle, you be Sabrina, and
Fortune can be Jill. You can be our Charlie, Carter.”

Carter’s
gaze fell on me. His jaw dropped. “Fortune?” He blinked several times. “Why are
you dressed up like that?”

“Dressed
up?” Yes, really lame. All that cabbage I ate today must have seeped into my
brain. I couldn’t think.

“Except for
the droopy ear and… that thing coming out of your stomach… you look like Cookie.”

I looked
down. One of my prosthetic boobs had dropped even lower. I grabbed onto it and hoisted
it back up. Somehow the saggy boob now pointed upward toward the Moon, but that
was the least of my concerns at the moment.

He looked
at Gertie, still wearing her trench coat, smashed bowler and dangling fake mustache.
“I’m not even going to ask.”

“We’ve been
busted, ladies,” Gertie said, trying to secure her mustache back over her lips.
“We wanted to surprise you, Carter.”

“Surprise
me? Oh, that I definitely am.”

“Yes, with
a blue ribbon at tonight’s costume contest at the Swamp Bar.”

“I didn’t
know the Swamp Bar had a costume contest tonight.”

Finally my
brain cells overcame the cabbage. “And that’s what we found out when we went
there.”

“Imagine
our embarrassment,” Ida Belle said. “I’m just glad I decided not to dress up
tonight.”

Carter
nodded and held his hand to his chin. “Uh-huh. We received a call about a brawl
there tonight.”

“Yep, the
Swamp Bar is one tough place.” I looked at Ida Belle and Gertie. “Why don’t we
make a pact never to go to that dive again?”

“I’m with
you,” Gertie said.

Carter
folded his arms across his chest. “Seems Cookie made a surprise visit and found
a lookalike dancing with her beau. And then the lookalike ran off with Charlie Chaplin
and left Cookie’s stolen backup wheelchair behind.”

“There were
other people dressed like Cookie and Charlie Chaplin?” Gertie asked, frowning.
“I knew I shouldn’t have told Babs who we were going as. One sip of cough syrup
and that woman turns into a blab machine.”

“I’m so
glad we left before the trouble started,” I said.

“Delphine
called to file a police report about her mama’s stolen wheelchair.”

Gertie wrinkled
her nose. “Really?”

Carter
nodded. “But then I reminded her that everyone at the Swamp Bar took photos and
videos of her swinging her cane at the two people who were dressed up. And if
we found them and charged them with theft, they would probably turn around and
have Cookie arrested for assault. Delphine decided to call it a wash.”

“Well,
you’re right,” Ida Belle said. “Those other people probably would want Cookie
charged with assault.”

“I know I
would,” Gertie said. “If it was me. Which it wasn’t.”

“Oh, I know
it wasn’t you.” Carter stepped forward, inches away from me. He locked eyes
with me, his glare so intense I had to look down at his shoes. “Because Fortune
gave me her word she would call if anything out of the ordinary happened. And
Fortune gave me her word she would stay out of my investigation.”

I looked up
at his face, awash in disappointment. And hurt. It was the hurt that made me
reach out for his hand.

“Well, I’d
best be going,” he said. But he held onto my hand for another few seconds,
studying French Fry’s masterpiece. “What are those things hanging off your
face?” he asked.

“Fake skin
tags.”

He shook
his head, released my hand and strode toward his SUV, parked a few houses away.
It was dark, but I could still see his disappointed face as he gave one last
glance our way before sliding inside his car and slamming the door.

We watched
as he sped away.

“Did he
really buy our story?” Gertie asked.

“Of course he
didn’t buy our story. You okay?” Ida Belle asked me.

“No, I feel
like crap.”

“That’s the
cabbage soup talking,” Gertie said.

“No, I’m
pretty sure it’s guilt.” I walked up the steps to the porch, unlocked my front
door, passed through the living room and up the stairs to the bathroom. I knew
I could get rid of Cookie from my body, but no amount of hot water could get
rid of the image of Carter’s hurt face.

I let
Gertie have my bed and Ida Belle the guest room, while I slept on the couch, or
at least tried to anyway. My mind kept going round and round in a crazy loop of
images and thoughts, starting with a crazy 100-year-old woman beating me with a
cane, dissolving to flapping ears, Carter’s hurt face, and a bomber’s blurry
face with a huge question mark plastered over it.

* * * * *

A scream jolted me from my
half-sleep.

“Gertie!” I
yelled, jumping from the sofa.

I grabbed
my Glock from the coffee table and dashed up the stairs, running into Ida Belle
and Gertie on their way down, both dressed in pajamas and carrying Glocks. Ida
Belle sported a head full of curlers.

“Was that
you?” I asked Gertie.

“No. We
thought it was you.”

Another
scream, more like a wail.

“Sounds
like a man,” Ida Belle said.

I turned
and tore down the stairs. “Sounds like it’s coming from outside in the back.”

I ran to
the back door, with Gertie and Ida Belle close behind.

“Oh, shit!”
The voice outside sounded in pain. “Crap, crap, crap, crap, crap!”

I slowly
unlocked the door and nodded to Gertie and Ida Belle, then pushed the door open
and leapt outside, pointing my Glock at a darkened figure.

“Don’t
move!”

It took a
few seconds for my eyes to make out that the figure was a man, doubled over,
holding one arm in the other.

“I don’t
see anyone else,” Gertie said.

Ida Belle
flipped on the outside light.

A head of
blond hair. His face pointed toward the ground. “Straighten up,” I commanded.

He did,
still cradling his left arm that was dripping with blood.

“Jo-Jo?”
Gertie said.

“Miss Hebert?”
He dropped his jaw. “This is your house?”

“No, it’s
mine,” I said, suddenly aware I was wearing sleep shorts and a T-shirt. His
eyes skimming my body might have had a hand in my awareness. “Maybe you’d like
to explain why you’re standing outside of it at midnight with a bloody hand.”

“He stabbed
me.”

“Who
stabbed you?”

“The man I
caught trying to break in.”

This night
just kept getting worse.

* * * * *

An hour later, Jo-Jo sat at my
kitchen table, the knife wound on his forearm cleaned and wrapped in a bandage.
He was eating a piece of pie left over from Gertie’s funeral after-bash. I had earlier
given chase in the direction Jo-Jo said the mystery man ran, but I couldn’t see
anyone. I even put on pants and shoes and drove through the neighborhood, but
after finding nothing unusual, came home. Gertie and Ida Belle now wore robes.

Jo-Jo gave
us a play-by-play of what happened. He was visiting an old school friend who
lived on this street. On his way home he saw a guy in a black hoodie slipping
between a couple of houses, one of them being mine. He stopped and parked his
car, then snuck around the back and saw the guy messing with the backdoor lock.
Jo-Jo then took his knife from his pocket, the one he always carried, and called
out to the guy, asking what he was up to. He thought it would scare the guy
off, but instead, Hoodie Guy came charging at him. In the scuffle, Jo-Jo
dropped his knife and Hoodie Guy tried to stab him in the chest, but Jo-Jo held
his arms up to defend himself. Jo-Jo screamed, Hoodie Guy ran off, and would we
mind if he had more milk to go with his last two bites of pie?

Gertie went
to the refrigerator and came back to the table with a bottle of milk, filling
Jo-Jo’s glass.

“Thank you,
Miss Hebert. You always were so kind.” He forked another piece of pie and slid
it in his mouth.

“Anything
else you can remember about this guy?” I asked.

Jo-Jo
shrugged. “Nothing more than I told you. He was a little taller than me. Kinda
stocky.”

“We should
probably call Carter,” Ida Belle said.

I nodded.
Ida Belle fished her phone from her robe pocket and brought up his number.

“Oh, wait!”
Jo-Jo said. “I remember something else. He had an accent.”

“An
accent?” I reached over and snatched Ida Belle’s phone from her hand. She
arched an eyebrow, but didn’t say a word.

“Yeah,”
Jo-Jo said. He finished off the milk and set the glass on the table. “It wasn’t
one I ever heard around here. Kinda sounded like… like… I don’t know… Russian?”

“Russian?”
Heat crept over my face. Ahmad was known for using Russian hitmen.

“What is
it, Fortune?”

“You know
what, Jo-Jo. I think we’ll call the sheriff’s department tomorrow. We’ll tell
him all that you said.”

“Okay.” He
stared at his empty plate and glass.

“Thank you
so much for chasing the guy away, Jo-Jo,” Gertie said.

“Anything
for you, Miss Hebert,” he said, smiling.

He
continued to sit.

“You should
probably be going,” Ida Belle said.

“Oh.” He
stood from the table. “Sure. Well, I’m glad I could help out. Do you need me to
stand guard out there, in case he comes back?”

“No, we’ll
be fine,” I said.

“Sorry
about your arm.” Gertie ushered him into the living room, where she then
steered him toward the door. “You should see a doctor about it.”

He
shrugged. “It’s not that deep. I’ve had worse. Thanks for the bandage.”

Ida Belle
opened the door. “When you see your mama next, you tell her we all said ‘hi.’”

“I’ll do
that.” Jo-Jo stepped outside and Ida Belle quickly shut the door behind him.

She turned
toward me. “A Russian accent? That’s bad, right?”

Gertie
placed her hands on her face, her eyes filled with concern. “Are these the
people who are looking for you?”

I nodded.
“He’s not Russian, but he’s known for using Russians.” I plopped down on the
sofa. “It doesn’t make sense. The bomb wasn’t that sophisticated. And it was
directed at Gertie, not me.”

Ida Belle
sat next to me. “Maybe someone’s trying to throw you off. Or throw off law
enforcement. Make it look like a local yahoo going after Gertie, and you get
hit in the process.”

Gertie
dropped into the chair next to the sofa. “What do we do now?”

“The only
thing I can do.”

“And what’s
that?”

“Call my
guy at the CIA.”

“You’re
going to have to leave, aren’t you?” Gertie asked, her eyes getting teary.