Whiskey Sour Read Online Free PDF Page A

was living with my mother. That translated to deadbeat loser in the eyes of most people. And if the gossip mill was right, I was about to be an unemployed deadbeat loser. Which was why I had no choice now but to kamikaze my way through the cases Kate kept handing me.
    I’d managed to live with this down in the dumps feeling hanging over me for the last six weeks—a combination of desperation and wondering when the axe was going to fall and lop off my head. I was getting an ulcer, though I’d somehow managed to survive my current trials and tribulations without jamming a fork in my eye. But the urge to self-mutilate was becoming stronger every time I pulled into the driveway of my mother’s house. I was going to have to find another place to live. Soon. And maybe change my name and hair color. I’ve always wanted to be a blonde.
    I waved at Mrs. Meador as she swept the walk in front of The Good Luck Café—a thankless job since the clapboard sidewalk never seemed to be free of mud and sand. I wound through the crooked streets of Whiskey Bayou and turned left off of Main Street onto Shot Glass Drive, and then I took another left on Tumbler Street until I came to my mother’s house.
    It was a small, cottage- style house made of gray stone with a dark shingled roof, and it was the last house on a dead-end street of similar houses. The front door was painted bright red, and magenta and yellow flowers sprang up out of the planter boxes beneath all the windows.
    It was a cute house, and it probably would have been a nice place to grow up if there’d been more than one bathroom. As it was, the thoughts of my childhood home brought back memories of pounding fists on doors and screaming matches between me and my sister.
    My mom’s Dodge Charger, an exact replica of the General Lee from the Dukes of Hazzard that she’d bought off eBay with the insurance money from my dad’s death, was missing from the driveway. She was a huge fan of the show, and she said driving the car through Whiskey Bayou was a great way to keep the old people out of her way because the engine sounded like it came from a monster truck or Hell’s Angels, and you could hear it coming a mile away.
    I breathed a huge sigh of relief that I’d gotten lucky and had beaten her home. I didn’t need her to see me in my current condition. Not that she’d lecture me or anything about being careful. My mom was a free spirit and didn’t often think of things like safety or taking preventative measures. More likely she’d give me suggestions on how to do better and insist on accompanying me on my next job. It’s happened before. And as much as I hated to admit it, I had a sinking suspicion that I was a lot like my mom.
    What I didn’t expect to see was the bright yellow Volkswagen Beetle parked in front of the house. I was starting to wonder if I’d done something to piss off God, because it really felt like I couldn’t catch a break. I mean, there was that one incident where I’d almost had sex in a church crypt, but I’d felt really bad about it afterwards, so I figured I’d been forgiven. Apparently not.
    The Beetle could only belong to one person—Rosemarie Valentine.
    Rosemarie taught choir in the room next to mine at James Madison High. It wasn’t easy teaching about the Battle of Little Big Horn over the constant sound of Rosemarie’s warbling contralto. I kept a bowl of earplugs by my door on test days and frequently wished I could keep Jack Daniels in my desk drawer. She was a nice woman, but being with her was like herding toddlers or small dogs. I lacked the energy.
    The Beetle’s engine shut off and the door wa s flung open, birthing Rosemarie from its interior with a lot of groans and flailing arms and legs. Her curly blonde hair was somewhat wilted by the heat and only added about three inches to the circumference of her head instead of the normal five. Rosemarie wasn’t a small woman, and I could almost feel the Beetle giving a sigh of