Down and Dead in Dallas, page 26
Jackson’s brow furrowed. “If Mr. Perini retires, where’s he going?” He’d been in Dixie, Florida, for a lot of years.
“Here.” Rose smiled. “He says he’s always planned to move to Sampson Park permanently. He’d be free to help any associate anywhere in the wor… er, anywhere around who needs it. Wouldn’t that be great?”
“If it’s what he wants, it would,” Jackson said. “Good for you and Matthew, too. He’s got so many established contacts in Dixie.”
“Including Barry.” Rose was fond of Barry, Mr. Perini’s assistant. “Matthew and I are excited at the prospect, though if it doesn’t happen, that’s fine, too.”
“If the move comes to pass, what happens in Even?” Jackson asked.
“An associate would come in from Dallas to take over.”
“Not me, right?” Jackson asked. “Christine and I—“
“Have no reason to die that we know of. Stay in Dallas. Live wherever you like,” Rose said. “No, this is an associate… well, she’s definitely down and dead there. But she could live a great life in Even.”
The puzzle pieces fell into place for Christine, and she chided herself for it taking so long. This group had a franchise of funeral homes, for pity’s sake. When one of the residents or someone new needed a fresh start, like Caro, they facilitated one.
After the mountains the group had moved to help Caro and everyone else, Christine saw the need for their services, but who could have expected to find anyone offering them? “So what about Martin and his henchmen?”
Dexter Devlin stepped forward, to Caroline’s side. “The henchmen have returned to their former lives. Martin can no longer afford to employ them.”
Christine’s jaw dropped open and a gleam lit in her eye. “You took him down.”
“We did,” Dex said, smiling at Caro.
She looped her arm around his waist and laughed, hard and deep. “What Dex uncovers with forensic accounting is a sight to behold.”
“So did Martin really hook up with the mob and breach the Park perimeter?” Jackson scanned and spotted Lucas in the group. “Was it him?”
“A group of teens wanting to see the Little Independence Day celebration,” Lucas said. “We fudged a little to keep you and Christine anchored until we figured out what was going on with Caro.”
Christine looked at her sister. “Wait. I’m confused… So Martin hasn’t found Sampson Park?”
“Absolutely not.” Caroline guffawed. “If he had, he’d be worse off than broke.” She smiled. “Nobody messes with this family, Christine. Not without paying really steep consequences.”
“All righty, then.” Lester clapped his hands together. “Let’s go people. We got a wedding to plan.”
“Now?” Christine said.
“Naw, we got a few days. Chaplain Goodman is still on the mountain communing.” Lester planted a kiss to her cheek. “Glad you made the cut, my girl. You’ll be a good match for our Jackson.”
Miss Emily elbowed Lester out of the way and hugged Christine. “I couldn’t be happier. The sparks between you two is a sight to behold. I want my boy happy, Christine, and I want you happy, too.” She glanced to see Caro, talking softly with Dex. “Sorry about the little delay in easing your mind about your sister,” Miss Emily whispered. “Caro’s exerting her authority, doing only what she chooses to do.” Miss Emily dropped her voice a wee bit more. “It’s her rebellious stage.”
And they were all indulging her. Caro looked well and happy, and more confident. “She’s wearing that authority thing well,” Christine said. “Why is her hair still red? Do you know?”
“She says blondes get treated like doormats but nobody messes with redheads. No one is ever going to mess with her again. Not that any of us would tolerate anything of the sort. Especially Dex. She’ll figure out that her hair color doesn’t matter directly. That kind of insight comes from inside. Right now, she needs what she needs. And she needs the physical sign reminding her she can handle herself, you know?”
Pretty much what Mr. Jenkins had said. “I’d much rather see her strong and confident like this than scared to death like she was with Martin.”
“That’s a real killer, to be sure. But, honey, don’t you give that sorry bit of baggage another thought. He will never touch her again. She’s learned self-defense from Lucas, and to ride a horse and to shoot. Patches has been training her, and he says she’s very good. She’s motivated, is my take. But the best thing is she’s worked closely with Dex and gotten back all her assets Martin had stolen from her. Now she knows she can because she has. I’ll leave it for her to tell you. She’s learned all kinds of tactics—not that Martin Easton will ever get close enough to her for her to need them. Point is, our Caro is not fragile or helpless anymore and she knows it. She’s empowered and capable of dealing with anything Martin or anyone else throws her way.” Miss Emily leaned close and dropped her voice so only Christine could hear. “Between you and me, Dex has made it his mission in life the past six months to see to it Martin’s got nothing left to throw at our Caro.” She sniffed. “If anything, I expect he’s terrified of Caro now and of what she might do to him next. Those demons are in his own mind, of course. She’s moved on.”
Shock pumped through Christine. “Martin really is bankrupt?”
Miss Emily tilted her head. “Not bankrupt. He can live modestly, but let’s just say, he’ll have a hard time scraping together enough money to make anyone else miserable.”
“That’s a kindness to the world.”
“We do what we can.” Miss Emily nodded and again whispered with a twinkle in her eye. “I think our Caro is developing a fondness for our Dex.”
“Caroline and Dexter Devlin?” Christine couldn’t wrap her mind around that.
“They’ve worked together a great deal since Caro arrived, and Dex has spent more time here than away.” Miss Emily chuckled. “He’s definitely smitten, but he’s taking things really slow. Caro needs time to heal and time being healed, if you know what I mean.”
She did. Gratitude swelled and thickened Christine’s voice. “Thank you, Miss Emily. For everything.”
She cupped Christine’s jaw. “We’re all someone’s bridge, sweet Christine.” She glanced left and her mouth rounded in an O. “Lester, be mindful of that flower bed. Gracie’s planted her some flower seeds there.” He stepped in it, and she frowned. “Lead-footed man.” She rushed to catch up to him.
Jackson circled Christine with an arm at her shoulder. “Pretty awesome family we have, isn’t it?” He dropped a kiss to her jaw. “I love happy endings.”
Christine’s mind still whirled, but her heart was settled and sure. She nodded. These people were awesome and genuine. A few little questions remained, but they would sort out with time. When you knew the hearts of people, you didn’t have to worry so much about their motives, and she was crystal clear on their hearts. Be someone’s bridge.
By grace, she had become part of them, as had Jackson. Now all of these people were her bridge, and she would forever be theirs. Her family. “Especially when happy endings are really new beginnings.”
“You still want to marry me, Christine?” Jackson turned serious, but the look in his eye proved the choice was hers to make. “I didn’t realize you thought you were facing actual death. I thought you understood death is relative here. It was a surprise to hear… I love you, but I need to know… Do you still want to marry me?” he repeated. “No pressure.”
“More than anything, Jackson.” Christine tiptoed and kissed his lips.
Read on for a Sneak Peek at Down and Dead in Dixie, the first novel in the Down and Dead, Inc. series…
Dixie Prologue
Down and Dead in Dixie
Wednesday, October 22nd
Biloxi, Mississippi
If I'd known I was going to die today, I'd have worn more comfortable shoes.
I'm not fond of heels, but I have to wear them, and knee-length black dresses for my job. I'm a hostess at Biloxi, Mississippi's best four-star restaurant, The Summer House, and believe me, I'm not a whiner and I'm not complaining about the black dress. If I hadn't been wearing it, and I hadn't bumped into the garbage dumpster left behind after Hurricane Katrina, and my dress hadn't snagged on the rusty sucker (which probably had me flashing anyone caring to look), then the two jerks in the dark sedan who shot Edward Marcello dead on the street probably would have seen and shot me, too, and I'd have died then with him.
As it was, catching my hem was catching a break—odd for me, because my standard requirement to catch-a-break is to need both hands and a net to just miss out on any luck at all. I guess I was saving it all up for tonight.
So my dress snagged on the dumpster, I stepped back to keep it from ripping and hit a crack in the concrete. My heel sank and wedged in the crack—ruined my brand new shoe—I turned my ankle and went down hard, face first and kissed the dirt. Well, actually, I kissed the concrete. So I’m also sporting raspberry scrapes on my face, arm and knee. The ankle is shot.
That was the fall by Daisy Grant, Star Klutz (though usually I'm at least a little bit more graceful), which kept me from getting my chest blown open.
As it turns out, all I managed on the being murdered front was a short-term reprieve. Instead of dying on the street, I'll apparently die elsewhere. But at least I get to pick the spot the second time, and for an orphan who's been on her own since her sixteenth birthday (I’d maxed out on foster care and being forcibly separated from my only living relative, a baby brother, Jackson) getting to choose anything is pretty special. Even if it is something most people consider morbid like where you die.
Before you judge me, remember that this morning I had no idea I'd die at all. And I didn't bring this on myself. I was just leaving work and walking to my car, minding my own business and not bothering anyone. Now listen, I work, I pay taxes, and since Jackson moved to Dallas last year, I call and check on him at least three times a week. I feed stray cats because I can't stand the thought of anything being hungry (been there, done that, it sucked) and I don't even gripe about Lester, the old man in the apartment next door who stomps around at three in the morning—he's an insomniac; what's he supposed to do at 3:00 a.m.?
Lester forgets his pants half the time but I don't complain about that, either. Nobody's perfect. So he's forgetful; he can't help it. I just bought him some new boxers. His briefs were kind of ratty anyway, and he's pretty fond of dollar bills, so I figured he might remember to wear money-print boxers and, so far, it's working out. The cops haven't hauled him in for indecent exposure in almost two weeks— pretty harsh consequences for walking to the mailbox—and that means I haven't had to go bail him out in almost two weeks. That’s progress, but it's all beside the point. The point is I'm a reasonably good person. I didn't ask for this fate twist. I didn't want my fate twisted, and I sure don't deserve it. Trust me, I’ve had a bellyful of that business already.
The thing is we don't always get what we deserve, do we? More often than not we get what other people, who might or might not be good people, shove in our faces. They make us choose either to suck it up and take whatever they dish out or to kick up dust. Unfortunately, I'm not much good at sucking it up, and when I kicked up dust this time, I didn't know who would be standing in the cloud.
Okay, I’ll take the hit for that. I should've looked first and I didn't. I didn't, and done is done. Now I know, but now it's too late and there's no sense whining about something you can't change. All it does is make you sick inside and it doesn't fix a thing. The bottom line is this dust cloud won't settle . . . not so long as I'm breathing.
Some things you just never see coming. I mean, who could have expected something like this to happen at all, much less twice—in one day?
Yeah, if I'd known I was going to die today, I'd have worn more comfortable shoes.
Probably flats.
Dixie Chapter 1
Down and Dead in Dixie
"Miss Grant."
Clasping my shoe, I looked up at Detective Keller. In his mid-fifties, he stood leaning against the door-frame, a little stoop-shouldered and rumpled, though there wasn't a wrinkle in his white shirt or crease-pressed slacks—definitely married to sport those kind of creases—and ruffled his gray, thinning hair. Parted just above his ear, it swept over his reddened pate. The expression on his face was suck-lemon bitter, warning me the coming news was suck-lemon bad.
"The shoes are a total loss," I said, deliberately delaying so I had time to prepare myself for hearing it. Keller was a seasoned detective and if he dreaded telling me, the news had to be the kind that knocks you to your knees and keeps you on them for the duration. "The whole heel cracked off." I flicked it with a fingertip. It swung, dangling by a jagged piece of leather.
"Your ankle doesn't look much better," he said, glancing down at it. "Sure you don't want to run over to the hospital for x-rays? It could be broken, bruising up so bad so quick. Hard to tell with all the swelling."
It was swollen and black-and-blue and it hurt like the dickens. So did my arm and knee, and the scrape on my face burned like fire, but I had to choose: x-rays or groceries; I couldn't afford both. Being kind of fond of eating regularly, I chose groceries. "It's okay. But the shoes really tick me off. I worked double shifts for two weeks to buy them." Tonight was the first shift I’d worn them, and adding insult to injury, they pinched and gave me blisters.
He nodded seeming genuinely empathetic and walked into the cramped office doing double duty as an interview room. With a muffled grunt, he sat down across from me at the scarred table. "Miss Grant, I hate to say this, but right now, you've got a lot bigger problems than your shoes."
I lowered my throbbing foot to the floor. "You've identified those men." I'd pulled two photos from a grouping in no time flat and told the officer, These are the shooters.
"Yes, we have," Keller said with a tense sigh. He seemed to age right before my eyes. "You don't know who Edward Marcello is, do you?"
"He's the guy who got shot, right?" I was nearly certain Keller had given me the same name earlier by the dumpster at the scene. "Isn't he a local businessman?" Used cars. Pawn shops—something like that. I'd definitely heard his name, but I couldn't recall where. I was still pretty shaken up. Seeing someone mowed down on purpose . . . well, it's not something an everyday-average woman like me sees, you know?
"Miss Grant . . . Daisy," Keller said, softening his voice. "Edward Marcello is Victor Marcello's only son."
"Okay." This should mean something to me. I knew it should, but I stumbled, lost and blindly seeking. Understandable under the best of circumstances, and these couldn’t in any manner qualify as the best. I'd only lived in Biloxi for a little over a year. Jackson and I had been in New Orleans when Hurricane Katrina hit and we’d been evacuated to Houston. It didn’t suit either of us. Jackson got a job in Dallas through Craig Parker, a friend he had made at chef’s school, and that left me at loose ends. Nothing to keep me in Houston, so I came to Biloxi. It was struggling for normalcy but the scars from Hurricane Katrina ran as deep here as in New Orleans. That storm turned everything on its ear. Years now, and the whole gulf coast still seemed pretty much a mess. "What's your point?"
"Victor is the head of the Marcello family. Edward was being groomed to take over." Keller talked slowly, as if I was dimwitted. "Don't you watch the news?"
"I don't have a TV. Well, I did have one until last Christmas Eve when some jerk ransacked my apartment and stole it. But I gave up cable months before then—I needed new tires—and we only get one local channel." Lester complains about the thirty-year-old programming on it, but I'm not sure of what we even get. Honestly, I hadn't turned the TV on after daybreak for a couple months before the set was stolen and I have no idea what local programming is on at night. I work three to eleven six days a week and pull extra shifts anytime I can get them. One day, I’m going to buy me a house. I’ve never had one of my own—a real home, I mean, and I’ve always wanted one. It’s a big dream, and big dreams take hard work. Who has time for TV?
"Organized crime." Keller leaned forward and laced his hands on the tabletop. The lines in his face deepened. "You have heard the term before, right?"
"Of course, but what does it have—" The bottom dropped out of my stomach. "Edward's murder was a mob hit?" Oh, man. This I did not need. This no one needed.
Keller nodded. "The two men you identified are Lou Boudin and Tony Adriano. They're members of the Adriano family."
"More mob people?" I couldn't believe it. A bad situation just nose-dived straight into the bowels of hell.
"Rival mob families," Keller said, a quiver in his deep voice. "Boudin is a suspected hit man. Tony is higher up on the family food chain. Third in line to take over the Adriano family."
"Oh, no." What had I done? I'd fingered the mob on a family turf-war hit? This situation ranked a lot worse than just kicking up a little dust. I’d kicked up a whole storm. What was I going to do? "Forget it," I told Keller, and reached for my handbag on the floor beside me. "I—I've been thinking and I'm not at all sure those two men were the shooters."
My hand shook so hard I dropped the strap and had to stretch again for my purse. I hauled it into my lap, reached into my wallet and grabbed my Grant half-dollar. It’d soothed me through hard times since I was six, and just rubbing its shiny gold surface now helped calm my insides down to a bellowing roar. Any comfort beyond that was hopeless. "Actually, I'm sure now I was mistaken."
Keller pinched his lips together. "A short while ago, you were sure it was them. Definitely sure, I believe, were your exact words.”
They had been. A lump lodged in my throat. I couldn’t swallow it so I croaked around it. "Adrenaline. You know how it is. Terror messes with your mind." I palmed the coin, stood up and checked my watch. "Look, we were shorthanded tonight and I've been on my feet since before noon. I—I don't know who I saw. I'm not even sure the car was a sedan. Really."
