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

fates throw at me to make my life miserable?
    “I’ve got our things all laid out,” she said excitedly. “This is going to be so much fun. It’s been ages since we’ve been on a mother-daughter outing. The last one was when we took that camping trip to Allatoona Lake. You got poison ivy and a second-degree sunburn. That was a memorable trip.”
    No kidding.
    “What things did you get ready?”
    “Our outfits, of course. We don’t want anyone to recognize us.”
    I looked at the outfit on the chair and started laughing hysterically. Tears rolled out of my sore eyeballs, but it couldn’t be helped. My mother had dug a black trench coat out of the back of my closet that I never wore anymore because it was missing the buttons. She’d laid a black fedora over it I recognized as my father’s.
    “Where’d you get Dad’s hat?”
    “I ran home and got it while Dr. Jones was here. Isn’t this exciting?”
    “Uh huh.” It was then I actually got a good look at my mother. She was dressed in head to toe black—a skintight black cat suit with bell -bottom legs, ballet slippers and giant hoop earrings. But the kicker was the Do-rag tied around her head. She looked like a slutty pirate.
    “It’s ninety-five degrees outside. I can’t wear a trench coat. And you can’t wear that outfit. You’re a mother for goodness sakes.”
    “Columbo always wore a trench coat, no matter what the weather was like. And it was wearing outfits like this that made me a mother in the first place. Don’t be such a prude, Addison.”
    “Hmmm,” I said. She was right. Columbo always wore a trench coat, and he never looked out of place. And I guess my mom had the right to dress however she wanted, no matter how much I hated it. I could only hope our disguises worked because I couldn’t bear to give everyone in town more to talk about.

    Since my car was still at the impound we were left with the Dodge for transportation.
    “Where are you going?” I asked when I noticed her heading into Savannah.
    “All this planning has made me hungry, and I don’t want to eat in Whiskey Bayou. Those people ask too many questions, and I assume you want to keep our after hours activities a secret.”
    My stomach growled at the mention of food. The last time I’d eaten was with Nick the night before. And mom was right about the people in Whiskey Bayou asking questions. There was nothing normal about either of us in our current state.
    My mom pulled through a Burger King drive-thru and placed our orders, and the guy at the register only looked slightly appalled at the two of us. His bland reaction did wonders to ease my self-esteem issues.
    “I can’t believe John Hyatt could be cheating on Fanny. First Greg, now John. I don’t know what the world is coming to. Men need to learn how to keep their flies zipped if you want my opinion. John Hyatt and his family are practically legend in this town. Whiskey Bayou would be a ghost town if his family hadn’t used their own money to support the businesses during Prohibition and the Depression. And then the train depot stopped running and all those jobs were cut. The man is practically a saint. And now this. An adulterer.”
    The thought had crossed my mind more than once of what the ramifications would be if I brought down a pillar of the community . Would I lose my job? Would they take my picture down from the wall in the Good Luck Café from the time when I ate all those hot dogs and won a free T-shirt? The consequences were too unbearable to think about.
    We pulled into a parking space and ate our burgers. A knock on the window had both of us jumping in our seats. A middle-aged man with a comb-over and thick glasses looked at us and blinked like an owl as he caught a good look at us. My mom rolled down her window slowly.
    “Sorry to disturb you,” the man said. “But I found this on the ground next to your door.” He handed my mom a five-dollar bill, said goodbye and ran to a blue Honda Civic before she could tell him thank you.
    “Holy shit ,” I said, cramming our wrappers back in the bag. “That’s Harry Manilow getting into that car. He’s one of my cases.”
    “Harry Manilow? I just love his songs. Especially Mandy . Is he cheating on his wife?”
    “You’re talking about Barry Manilow, mom.”
    “Oh, well, who’s Harry? Are they related?”
    I decided not to roll my still sensitive eyes to save myself the headache. Also because I had kind of been wondering the same thing