by Emmy Grace
Shay doesn’t move a muscle. Doesn’t unwind the legs that are wrapped around one of mine, doesn’t unclench the hand that’s fisted in my shirt. We both just lie perfectly still, panting like marathon runners.
“Lucky, you okay?”
“I’m fine, Clive. Could you, uh, get her off me?”
Shay has a death grip on me. It’s like a spider monkey, all jacked up on caffeine, crawled on top of me and won’t let go.
Then I hear another voice. “Get her gun, Clive. If she makes a move, I’ll blow her head off.”
I manage to crane my neck enough to look up and back. Oh, so it was Liam who cocked the gun. He’s standing a couple of feet away, legs braced, arms straight, leveling a gun at my nemesis. His expression is hard and serious and probably a little bit pleased.
As Clive takes Shay’s gun, I extricate myself from her many limbs and haul myself to my feet. I stand up, brush myself off, and turn to Liam with a smile. “We got her!”
He turns that intense stare on me, but after a few seconds, his usual droll expression returns. “You look like you’ve been wrestling with a bear in the woods for two days.”
“Octo-gorilla,” I correct. When he frowns, I wave him off. “Never mind. I’ll explain it later.”
Clive nudges Shay to get her up on her feet and move toward the door. She goes along with him, but we all know the only reason she does is because Liam has her in the crosshairs of his pistol. Truly, if not for that, she’d still be fighting. And I think she could take Clive. Heck, she might tie his skinny arms up like a pretzel and leave him for dead.
Thank God for Liam. He was shrewd enough not to get too far away from the action, action that always seems to happen wherever I am. He must’ve started toward the airfield shortly after we did, left Philbin to his own devices. Not what Miss Haddy intended, I don’t think, but I’m still grateful. This could’ve gone very differently otherwise.
I walk toward him, glancing left and right as I go, looking for my other flip-flop. It must’ve come off during my octo-gorilla wrestling. I find it wedged under one of the captain’s chairs, so I dig it out with my bare foot.
When I finally reach Liam, he’s shaking his head. “You always this much trouble?”
I give him my brightest smile. “If I can help it, Dunning,” I say, patting him on the shoulder as I pass. “If I can help it.”
20
“You want me to what?” Regina’s expression is as confused as it is incredulous.
“Someone has to be at the finish line when all the kids arrive. I figured that should be me since I’m the one organizing this thing.”
“Whoever even heard of running with the bulldogs? How on earth did you even come up with it?”
I cut another length of ribbon and lay it in the pile. “That’s what Miss Haddy wanted me to do in exchange for the Shay information.”
“A running with the bulldogs fundraiser?”
“Well, not that specifically. I was just trying to think of a fun way to help Mrs. Peterson. That’s the woman who rescues Frenchies. She has eleven. Did I tell you that?”
“That’s ten too many, in my opinion.”
I glance over at Mr. Jingles, who is on his belly, legs laid out flat, scratching his stomach on the rug. “Don’t listen to her, Mr. Jingles. She’s just a cold-hearted Cajun.”
“I’m not cold-hearted,” Regina defends. “I just don’t know why anyone would want so many animals.”
“Because they’re sweet. And wonderful. And they love you no matter what you look like or how bad your day has been. And they never leave your side. Unless they have to poop. Or chase a cat.”
Lucy growls on cue as if she’s remembering just such a chase.
“Lucy-Fur,” I caution in my sternest tone. She pins her ears back and slinks off to the bedroom. I have to stop her from getting too riled up. That’ll only get the others going.
Regina sighs. “So, tell me again what I have to do?”
I explain it one more time.
“You want me to smear peanut butter on my face, lie down in the street, and let a bunch of bulldogs lick my face while I try to get a ribbon from around one of their necks, and then run to the finish line with it while being chased by a pack of Frenchies?”
“Exactly. See? I knew you’d get it.”
“And then what?”
“You won’t win, of course, because this is for kids. You’ll just be there to sort of guide them. But you can steer them toward the finish line if any of them get off-track.”
“And then?”
“I’ll be waiting there to give the winner his or her prize, and then serve them all ice cream cones.”
“And who gets to wrangle all the bulldogs?”
“Uhhhh,” I reply sheepishly.
“Great, so I get to do that, too.”
“Oh, come on, Regina. This will be fun! The kids will love it, which means the parents will love it. The entrance fee for each kid was only ten dollars, but most of the moms gave way more than that. It is for charity after all.”
After I cut the last length of ribbon, I throw them all into the bag with everything else I think I’ll need for the run, and then pop into the bathroom to haul my hair back into a short ponytail.
After, I grab the bag, scoop up Mr. Jingles, and head for the door. “You ready to show these other Frenchies how it’s done, big man?”
He ruffs once, his tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth in a happy, goofy smile.
The three of us walk the short distance to the part of Main Street that is sectioned off for the event. I’m surprised to see that there are spectators lined up on both sides of the makeshift barricade. They start clapping when Regina and I make our way to the starting point. Earlier, I set up a pen to contain all the dogs until they’re released to chase and joyfully lick all the tiny, peanut butter-covered faces.
I set Mr. Jingles inside, and he goes immediately to sniff and fraternize with the others. Regina helps me tie ribbons around all the bulldogs’ necks. They look even cuter when we’re done. If that’s possible.
When I turn around, Miss Haddy is standing behind me. “This is quite a spectacle, sugar pie,” she says, surveying the crowd.
“I didn’t expect there to be this many people watching.”
“Oh, this is Salty Springs. People just need a reason to come out and socialize. The fact that it’ll help one of our own… Well, that’s just icing on the cake. We love to be involved, even though Louise wasn’t too keen at first.” Louise is Mrs. Peterson, the Frenchie rescuer and recipient of whatever money is made today.
“I hope the donation will be enough to help.”
“Oh, there will be plenty. A few other townsfolk decided to pitch in. Ann-n-Ann’s is providing refreshments. SueAnn said she’s already made a hundred and fifty dollars on sweet tea and bowls of cobbler. Mr. Shultz is setting up a table at the finish line where the kids can wipe their faces and then he’ll paint a little doodle on their cheeks after. You know, like how they do at those carnivals?”
“Wow! You’ve really turned this into a…thing, haven’t you, Miss Haddy?”
“Oh, well, I like to have something to do on the weekends before church on Sunday. And it’s nice having someone to collaborate with.” She elbows me in the ribs and winks one sparkling blue eye. “We’ll have to do business again some time. This is fun.”
I don’t tell her that this will likely happen again. Anytime there’s a mystery of some sort, I’ll be in the thick of things, trying to get to the bottom of it.
Actually, I probably don’t even need to tell her. Something about the way she looks at me makes me think she’s got my number. Obviously, that’s her talent—reading people. Just like mine is solving crime. It’s when we all put our gifts and talents together that things run smoothly in a town like this.
Kids start filing in from every direction, lining up in front of the “bullpen” I grab my jar of peanut butter and swipe a generous spread onto the face of ever
y child I pass. When they’re all giggling and tasting each other’s cheeks, I walk to the front of the pack of dogs, and even wilder pack of kids, and raise both arms in the air.
“Okay, kids on the ground.” With the guidance of their parents, who know the rules because of the instructions I sent out to all attendees, the children lie down on their backs in the street. Liam is at the gate of the bullpen, ready to release the hounds at my signal. “Don’t forget. Get the ribbon from around a Frenchie’s neck and run with it to the finish line. That’s where I’ll be. And then you get your ice cream. Okay?” A tiny chorus rings out in agreement. “Ready? Set? Go!”
Liam unlatches the gate and the dogs come bounding out. They’ve already caught the scent of the peanut butter, which they all love, and they go immediately to the kids to start licking.
I back my way toward the finish line, watching the fun. The street looks like a writhing mass of wiggling kids and wagging tails with the occasional flash of a pink tongue. It might be the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.
Regina is the first to get a ribbon, of course. She encourages the kids to reach for the bow and get theirs, too. Soon enough, laughing children start grabbing ribbons and lumbering to their feet, following Regina as she sets out for the finish line. On their heels are excited bulldogs, ready for more play and more peanut butter.
I cheer the kids on, and Regina does the same from behind. Parents are snapping photos and encouraging their kids. Dogs and children alike are in playtime heaven. On top of that, the sun is bright and the breeze is warm.
All in all, I think it’s the perfect day.
Until Liam approaches, wrapping two iron bar-like arms around me and dragging me to the ground.
“Okay, guys, let’s give Lucky a taste of her own medicine.”
Laughing, squealing kids take turns digging into a tub of peanut butter and wiping it on my face. Within seconds, there isn’t a clean spot on my entire head besides my eyeballs. And only them because I had the good sense and foresight to squeeze the lids shut.
Seconds later, a legion of warm tongues and squirming bodies overtakes me. I make a big commotion, squealing and mock-protesting, which the kids seem to love. But the truth is, I love it, too.
When the commotion around me dies off and my face is sticky with Jiffy residue and doggy saliva, I crack a lid. The kids—and dogs—have moved on to get their ice cream cones, which Regina seems to be taking care of. Liam is sitting beside me on the street, watching.
I sit up and watch with him.
“This is a pretty cool thing you did here, Lucky.”
“You can thank Miss Haddy for it. She drives quite a bargain.”
“That she does.” He’s quiet for a second. “You fit right in here, you know.”
“Do I?” I ask, but I feel like I do.
“Yeah, you do. Does it feel like home?”
I think, but only for a second. My heart is full and happy, and the only things missing are Momma Leona and Beebee. Other than that, kids and animals and joyous laughter—what more to life is there?
Maybe solving a crime or two. That sounds like heaven to me. And in this case, heaven just might be a place called Salty Springs. So, yeah, it feels like home.
THE END
UNLESS…
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Lucky and the Axed Accountant
Book Description
Lucky Boucher never has to go looking for trouble. Trouble finds her just fine all on its own.
What do a stolen book, a waxing kit, and an axed accountant have in common?
You guessed it. Me. Lucky Boucher, the girl that’s a magnet for trouble.
I’m minding my own business when I find the town accountant dead in his office. My sweet friend and ancient mobster, Miss Haddy enlists my help to solve the crime. It turns out Andrew Ames kept more than tax records. He was the guardian of a black book filled with the secrets of nearly every resident in Salty Springs, and now it’s missing. That means double duty for me—recovering the book and catching a killer. Fortunately, I’m never without help. In this case, my crotchety landlady, a maddening ex-FBI agent, my lucky pig, Gumbo, and my boss and best friend, Regina, who also provides me with a steady stream of new products to test.
If you know me at all, you know things work out in the end, but the middle… Well, I just have one word for you: disaster.
Lucky and the Axed Accountant Sneak Peek
Chapter 1
“You just put these little patches on whatever muscle might be sore and hook up the wires, and when the sensors pick up increasing inflammation, the stimulator will turn on automatically to work that muscle.”
I stare at my best friend and boss, Regina. I feel a lot like she just recited a poem to me all in Greek. “So, I don’t have to, like, move around or exercise or anything?”
“No.” My best friend growls at me. She does that when she’s getting frustrated. “Lucky, didn’t you read the packet that came with it?”
“I…scanned it. Briefly,” I confess, sheepish.
“In other words, you have no idea what you’re doing?”
“Not entirely, but when has it ever not worked out just fine?”
“You want a list?” She rolls her eyes toward the ceiling of my little carriage house kitchen and starts ticking off items on her fingers. “Most recently, the tooth whitening paste. The glow in the dark underwear. Before that, the ice box oven mitts. The acupressure slippers. Before that, the—”
“Okay, fine. You can stop. You’ve made your point.”
“Yes, I have, but why do I feel like this won’t make a difference?”
I smile broadly. “Probably because it won’t. Figuring it out on the fly is half the fun.”
“Do you want me to list the times when you’ve called me, fussing, when it wasn’t fun?”
I start slapping sticky patches on my shoulder. It is a little sore from my recent aircraft cabin scuffle with a diabolical criminal.
“How about I just put these on and go about my day?”
Regina shakes her head. “It’s what you’re gonna do anyway.”
I hook up the wires to the small box that I think is supposed to hook to my waistband. Good thing I’m wearing real pants today instead of something with a stretched-out piece of elastic at the top. I slide the clip on, and hit the button to turn the machine on. “It’ll be fine. Just you wait.”
My head snaps up, Regina’s at the same time. There’s a short pause, like our brains are syncing up, then we both launch into our best guttural British accents as we sing the chorus of the famous My Fair Lady song about “, “’Enry ’Iggins.”
We link arms and start to swing around in a goofy dance that would make barn yard square dancers proud, but right in the middle of it, a zing of electricity streaks through my shoulder and my left arm flies straight up in the air.
“Yeow!” I yelp.
Regina stops to stare at me. “What the heck was that all about?”
“I don’t know. I just got a little shock in my shoulder.” As we’re standing in my kitchen, pondering the wisdom of the device that’s now strapped to my body, my arm shoots up again. I manage to keep my surprise to a muted eke this time, but it’s still enough to excite the wild kingdom.
From the bedroom, where all my creatures are still sleeping, comes the startled bark of Mr. Jingles, my French bulldog. Regina slaps her hands over her ears just before the rest of the animal orchestra gets going. I hear the warning growl of Lucy-fur, my temperamental black cat, followed by the snort of my new pig, Gumbo (that’s the newest addition to the cascade of excitement). The squeak of Gator the Guinea pig’s wheel starts up next, which always scares my rescue parrot, Squishy into his panicked parroting.
“Carnegie Hall! Carnegie Hall!” squawks my strange bird.
I start laughing, and Regina takes her hands away fr
om her ears.
“What are you laughing at?”
“Listen to Squishy. He must think we sound pretty good. Like Carnegie Hall good.”
We listen in amusement for a few seconds before I go to remove Lucy from the mix. Most often, putting her outside will cause them all to settle down. Sometimes I have to put Mr. Jingles outside, too. Just depends. But usually, it’s Lucy that puts the fear of God in the rest of the critters. She can be as terrifying as her shiny black coat and name suggest.
I march into the bedroom and, sure enough, Lucy is on Gator’s cage and he’s running fiercely on his wheel. There’s a towel draped over the top of his little jailhouse (it’s made of bars, hello?). He can’t see the cat up there, but when she lands on it, it startles him and this is how he reacts.
I reach for her just as my left arm flies up into the air again. I give a squeak that causes Lucy to drop to her belly and pin her ears back. I curl her up in my right arm and hurry back through to the front door, where I deposit her outside until things can settle down.
“I don’t know if I should wear this thing out, Regina. It—”
Right on cue, it sends another bolt of electrical stimulation to my muscles and my arm rockets up like I’m raising my hand to go to the bathroom in Mrs. Arnold’s third grade classroom.
Regina grins. “No, I think you need to wear it for a little while longer. If you’d read the instructions, you’d know that it takes a few minutes for the machine to properly gauge the muscle and the inflammation. It’ll settle down. Don’t you worry.”
There’s a glimmer in her eyes, something I’ve seen before.
“You’re lying. You just want me to walk around town today with an arm I can’t control.”
She narrows her chocolate eyes on me. “I don’t know. Am I? The only way to know for sure is either test it or read the material. Oh wait, that’s right. You don’t have time to do one of those things right now, do you?”