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

dirty diapers. I was hard-pressed to tell the difference between the two and reminded myself to get my birth control prescription filled as soon as possible. Not that I was having a lot of sex or anything lately, but I didn’t want to take any chances. I wasn’t ready to be responsible for a child. I was barely responsible for myself.
    Summer in Savannah wasn’t forgiving, and it sure as hell wasn’t for the faint of heart. It was barely eight o’clock in the morning and heat roiled in invisible waves off the pavement beneath me, baking the soles of my flip-flops and frizzing my hair, as the temperature pushed triple digits.
    The air was thick with syrupy humidity. The breeze non-existent, the moss covered trees completely still. I hadn’t heard a bird chirp in more than twenty minutes. I was pretty sure they were all dead—either from the heat or the stench—I couldn’t be sure.
    The Lone Ranger Trailer Park was located on the northwest side of Savannah, away from any tourists who might accidentally discover that not every part of the historic city was picturesque. The trailers were parked on a cleared off gravel lot, and if there was grass anywhere I’d yet to see it. Just miles of dirt and cement. The trailers sat haphazardly, a patchwork quilt of tin and rust, and bags of trash and old car parts littered the area.
    I’d had no choice but to hide behind the dumpsters. The park was almost completely open unless I wanted to venture into the trees and marshland and set up camp—which I didn’t, because twelve year old me knew from experience it wasn’t fun to have a snake slither down your blouse.
    Sweat gathered in places best left unmentioned, and I’d reached the point that the smell of my body no longer made my eyes water. Even raising the Long Range Nikon in my hands exerted more energy than I had left to give. Noogey Winthrop was going to have a lot to answer for if I ever got hold of him.
    Six months ago, Noogey had been living the high life. He’d owned a mansion in Miami, a two hundred year old plantation house in Savannah, and three other homes across the world. He’d driven expensive cars and bought outrageous jewelry for his mistress. He had stocks and bonds and a thriving company, and he’d just gotten permission from NASA to have his ashes shot into space. But somewhere along the way, Noogey’s luck changed.
    When Noogey’s wife caught wind of the mistress, she filed for divorce and decided to take half of everything he owned and then some, since there had been no prenuptial agreement. They had three kids between the ages of twelve and seventeen, and Mrs. Winthrop was going to make Noogey pay. More power to her. In my opinion, Noogey was lucky she hadn’t run him down with a car or gone Lorena Bobbitt on his ass.
    Unfortunately, getting taken to the cleaners wasn’t sitting too well with Noogey. All of a sudden, his company wasn’t turning a profit, his cars were being repossessed, and his debt almost doubled his net worth.
    The theory going around was that all Noogey’s money was really being siphoned into offshore accounts, and his wife had hired us to prove his guilt. My job should have been simple: Find evidence that Walter Noogey Winthrop was spending above his means. But I’d learned over the past months that hardly anything about my job was ever simple. At least when I did it.
    Noogey was a tough nut to crack, and he and his mistress had moved into the Lone Ranger Trailer Park so their story would be more convincing. I had to admit I was pretty convinced. The smell alone would have made me confess to any crime after ten minutes.
    I had a perfect view of Noogey’s trailer from my crouched spot, and I’d gotten a couple of good shots of the primer gray rectangle. The knob on the front door hung precariously and a hole had been kicked in the bottom of the door. Their patch of concrete was empty except for a late model hatchback with a missing bumper and an oversized weathervane that looked as if it had fallen off the roof at some point.
    I knew Noogey wasn’t home. Kate McClean, my boss at the McClean Detective Agency and my best friend, had told me Noogey had left on an early flight to the Caymans on business. And he hadn’t taken along Marika Dubois, his current ladylove.
    I pulled out my phone and dialed Kate, hoping above all else that she needed me to come into the office and start work on another job besides this one. One that was more sanitary. And maybe one with