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

miss church. I rolled out of bed, suddenly wide awake, and threw on a robe. I weaved my way around buckets filled with water on my way to the kitchen, and went through the routine of making coffee, ignoring the red flashing light on my answering machine while I waited for the coffee to percolate.
    “Come on, come on.” I shifted back and forth on my feet impatiently. I couldn’t take it any longer, so I poured half a cup and drank it down quickly, sighing as the cobwebs cleared from my mind.
    I refilled my cup, opened the refrigerator door and stood there a few minutes, wondering what I could do with one egg, a slimy head of lettuce, two bottles of ketchup and a six-pack of Corona. I closed the door with a sigh and made a note to stop by the grocery store.
    T he red light from the answering machine was making my eye twitch, so I forgot about eating and went to play my messages.
    I hit the play button and fell back into an overstuffed chair to await the inevitable.
    “Addison? Are you home? This is your mother.”
    She always says that , like I’m not going to recognize her voice.
    “Why did a policeman bring you home? You’re not in trouble are you? Make sure you let me know if you need bail. I was thinking about buying a new washer a nd dryer. Why aren’t you ever home?”
    Click.
    I did some deep breathing and relaxed further into the chair while I waited for the next message.
    Beep.
    “Addison? It’s your mother again. I wanted to remind you about services this morning.”
    There was a small stretch of silence after this announcement and the disapproval came through the recording loud and clear.
    Click.
    Beep.
    “I saw you yesterday,” the voice said.
    I sat up straight and spilled hot coffee on my hand. “Ouch dammit.”
    “I watched you dance for me on stage.” The voice was distorted and I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman.
    The spit dried up in my mouth and my flesh pebbled with chills, despite the fact my air conditioner wasn’t working.
    “Naughty, naughty, Addison. I never would have guessed you’re such a bad girl. I wonder what the fine, upstanding citizens of Whiskey Bayou would think if they knew your secret.”
    I’d been wondering the same thing myself and had come to one conclusion—it couldn’t be good.
    “But don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me. For now. And my condolences on Bernard Butler’s demise. He must have been in the wrong place a t the wrong time. Just like you.”
    A shrill laugh came through the recording that had chills snaking down my spine, and fear like nothing I’d ever experienced caused my skin to go clammy with the sweat and had spots dancing in front of my eyes .
    The banging at the door made me shriek and drop my coffee mug onto the rug, spilling the rest of the contents. I looked for the closest weapon, but all I saw was a bunch of decorative pillows and a dozen or so candles that I used when the lady in the apartment below mine makes deep fried tofu.
    “Open the door, you lazy bitch. ”
    I let out the breath I’d been holding with a nervous laugh. I knew that voice. I scrambled to my feet and wondered how I’d ended up crouched in a little ball between the sofa and the wall. I braced my hand on the doorframe and tugged on the knob. The door pulled open with a creak of rusty hinges and swollen wood.
    “You’ve got to get out of this place. It’s a disaster waiting to happen,” Kate McClean said as she breezed by me and threw a bag of donuts on the short bar that’s attached to my kitchen.
    Kate was short, about five-foot-two, though she’d argue with God Almighty himself and insist she was an inch taller. Her chin-length blonde hair was cut in an easy to maintain style and her face was scrubbed free of makeup. We were the same age, but if I were meeting her for the first time I’d think she was still in high school. She’d already changed out of her church clothes into her habitual outfit of torn jeans and a white t-shirt. She avoided the water buckets and peeling linoleum like a pro and poured herself a cup of coffee.
    “Which is why it’s being condemned,” I said as I finally shouldered the door closed.
    I opened the bakery bag and breathed in the fresh scent of warm pastries and decided my mom must be representing me pretty well at church because God sent donuts instead of making me eat slimy lettuce.
    “Forget the coffee,” I told her. “It’s after noon, and everybody knows if you eat donuts after noon you’re