Whiskey Rebellion (Romantic Mystery/Comedy) Book 1 (Addison Holmes Mysteries)

off to my thoughts.
    “You’re totally having delusions of grandeur, aren’t you?”
    “Maybe a little,” I said, pouting.
    “Why don’t I show you how exciting detective work is? Finish your beer and get out of your pajamas.”
    “You won’t regret this, Kate.”
    “That’s what you said when we were in the tenth grade and you talked me into sneaking out and borrowing my mom’s car to go to Brad Cooper’s party.”
    “Yeah, but she never did find out how that dent got on her fender.”

    The rain was still pouring when we left my apartment and headed out to the parking lot. Kate had no problem with parking in range of falling bricks, and after I looked at the car she was driving, I could see why she wouldn’t care.
    “Nice car,” I said, eyeing the taupe Taurus with immediate dislike.
    “The first rule of thumb is to always blend in to your surroundings.”
    I looked at my shiny red Z and back at Kate’s Taurus with a shake of my head.
    “Are you sure you don’t want to take my car?” I asked. I grimaced as the sticky stuff on the door handle attached itself to my hand.
    “No, I just told you we need to blend in. People have a tendency to notice flashy red sports cars. Especially one that says HISTORY on the license plate.”
    “All right, all right, show me the ropes,” I said. “Who are we going to bust?”
    “No one,” Kate said with an eye roll.
    We headed into Savannah at a boring, law-abiding speed and it was everything I could do not to fidget in my seat and sneak glances at the speedometer. We turned into a sub-division of middle class, ranch-style houses built in the seventies. There were cars of various makes and models parked along the street, and I was ashamed to say Kate was right. My car would have stood out like a sore thumb, even with the added cover of the rain. She parked behind a minivan that had “Wash Me” written in the dust on the back window and then shut off the engine. I cracked my knuckles, not used to sitting in silence with Kate.
    “So if the first rule is to blend in,” I said, “what’s the second rule?”
    “The second rule is that we do not confront or apprehend,” she said. “Not ever. And the third and most important rule is that we never break the law. Your only job is to watch, photograph and take notes for the file. That’s ninety percent of what we do. We rely on the facts and our instincts to get us out of trouble if the need arises. Then it’s case solved and we file it in the drawer.”
    “Cool. I’ve got great instincts.”
    To give Kate credit, she did keep her face perfectly blank after I made this statement. I had terrible instincts, and no one knew that better than Kate.
    Kate had always been the serious one, bordering on anal, and then she evened it out by having a sense of humor so dry it was almost too late to laugh by the time you thought about what she was saying. Kate never got into tr ouble. Unless she was with me.
    W hile my body was finishing my homework and doing chores, my mind was thinking of different ways Kate and I could have the best adventure possible. Whether that be taking apart her parents’ television to build a robot to do our chores or stalking a teacher home so we could see if he was really a superhero in disguise. About the time we reached our senior year, Kate was finally able to tell me no and think of creative ways to keep me from doing anything too over the top or just plain stupid.
    I owe d Kate a lot.
    I was startled back into reality as the Taurus sputtered to life and Kate drove out of the neighborhood.
    “Where are we going?” I asked, confused. “We just got here.”
    “Addison, we’ve been here for half an hour. I’ve taken pictures and given you a full rundown of what you can expect when you’re on your own. You, however, have been humming the theme song to Growing Pains and checking the mirror to see if your roots are showing.”
    She was right. I was hopeless. Sitting still was not one of my strengths.
    “You’re a good friend,” I said, patting her on the arm.

CHAPTER FOUR

    Monday

    “You look like you’ve had a rough day.”
    I winced at the chirpy voice that was, in my opinion, the equivalent of fingernails on a chalkboard.
    Rose Marie Valentine teaches choir in the room next to mine, and unfortunately her singing voice is even worse than her speaking voice. The walls are thin at James Madison High School, and sometimes I wish I could teach kids about the Battle of Little