Too Lucky to Live
Page 1
Too Lucky to Live
A Somebody’s Bound to
Wind Up Dead Mystery
Annie Hogsett
Poisoned Pen Press
Copyright
Copyright © 2017 by Annie Hogsett
First E-book Edition 2017
ISBN: 9781464207891 ebook
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
The historical characters and events portrayed in this book are inventions of the author or used fictitiously.
COMES A TIME
Words and Music by Robert Hunter and Jerry Garcia
Copyright (c) 1976 ICE NINE PUBLISHING CO., INC.
Copyright Renewed
All Rights Administered by UNIVERSAL MUSIC CORP.
All Rights Reserved Used by Permission
Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard LLC
“Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy’s Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota”
from Collected Poems by James Wright
© The Estate of James Wright.
Published by Wesleyan University Press, Middletown, Connecticut.
Reprinted by permission.
A CASE OF YOU
Words and Music by JONI MITCHELL
Copyright © 1971 (Renewed) CRAZY CROW MUSIC
All Rights Administered by SONY/ATV MUSIC PUBLISHING, 8 Music Square West, Nashville, TN 37203
Exclusive Print Rights Administered by ALFRED MUSIC
All Rights Reserved
Used By Permission of ALFRED MUSIC
HOW DO I LIVE?
Words and Music by DIANE WARREN
© 1997 REALSONGS (ASCAP)
Exclusive Print Rights Administered by ALFRED MUSIC
All Rights Reserved
Used By Permission of ALFRED MUSIC
Poisoned Pen Press
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Contents
Too Lucky to Live
Copyright
Contents
Dedication
Gratitude
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
Chapter Fifty-three
Chapter Fifty-four
Chapter Fifty-five
Chapter Fifty-six
Chapter Fifty-seven
Chapter Fifty-eight
Chapter Fifty-nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-one
Chapter Sixty-two
Chapter Sixty-three
More from this Author
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Dedication
For Bill. The forever believer.
Gratitude
To my family, Bill and John, who didn’t laugh when I sat down to write, even when I was inclined to doubt myself. Extra kudos to Bill who always encouraged me to take risks and honor my ambition. For Vicky and Chet—a sister and brother for me. And to Cujo the cat, my warmest, furriest friend. You were always there for me. Biting my ankles. Begging for food.
To my family of origin. Mark and Margaret. My father’s legacy came via the memories of people who witnessed his love for me in a time I don’t remember. Obviously, love is one kind of immortality. My mother’s confidence that I was destined for wondrous things ferried me over my own doubts about a million times. Momma, after you died I found a book in which you’d underlined the author’s counsel to: ”Write something every day.” And in the margin you’d penciled, “Ann.”
To Tina Whittle for solid advice, cheerleading, better ideas, empathy, networking, and Left Coast Crime. You helped me find my voice and my tribe. And to Lynn Lilly, for helping me feel good about my work, teaching me the power of revision, and, of course, for introducing me to Tina Whittle.
To Rip Ruhlman for taking my manuscript to read when you had no time to spare. And for always making me feel confident and appreciated. Rip, we were robbed when we lost you.
To Thrity Umrigar, amazing author, stalwart friend. When you said I was good, I was pretty sure you knew what good is. I owe you for that. And for Victoria.
To my agent Victoria Skurnick for sound advice, steadfast efforts on my behalf, and a speed-of-light response rate that dazzles every time. So grateful for your wisdom and kindness.
To Poisoned Pen Press. Everybody. My editor, Annette Rogers, who believed in my story and gave me courage to make it better. To Barbara Peters, who provided polish and fresh inspiration. To all the rest of the team, especially Rob Rosenwald, Diane DiBiase, and Beth Deveny, and the “Posse” of authors who made me feel welcome in their midst, even before I was one of them.
To Melissa Woods for help with permissions.
To Tony DeRoss and Adam Tully for advice about hospitals and libraries, respectively.
To the Northeast Ohio Sisters In Crime and The Persistent Fictioneers, for solidarity.
To my book groups. Reading with you all reminds me of why I love to write.
Group #1: Anne, Cathy, Elaine, Fran, Ida, Jane, Karen, Susan, Terry, Traci. You encouraged me from the beginning, read the earliest version, never gave up, and honored me with your friendship.
Group #2: Bernice, James, Janice, Juanita, Linda, Louise, Mary, Pat, Peggy, Rick, Vivian. You cheered me home. And never let me drown.
To my host of friends. You make the fun and bring the love. As far as I’m concerned, without fun and love there’s nothing worth writing about.
Elaine Martone, who has always been there with courage for the work, support for the disappointments, and champagne for the celebr
ations. And friendship forever.
Laura Starnik, who’s walking the same path with different goals. Some things are worth waiting for.
Joe and Mary Lucille (and Pat, behind the scenes), you have been my writer’s group and more. Support. Sustenance. The taste of home.
Bob Robinson, for those things, too.
The Usual Suspects: Bob. Doug. Thom. Dan. Kathy. The Ripley Yippees. And all the Shore Acres neighbors and readers.
Epigraph
“Comes a time when the blind-man takes your hand, says,
‘Don’t you see? Gotta make it somehow on the dreams you still believe.’
Don’t give it up, you got an empty cup only love can fill,
Only love can fill.”
—Robert Hunter and Jerry Garcia
“Winning the lottery is the worst thing that ever happened to me.”
—Billy Bob Harrell Jr.
Chapter One
Tuesday, August 18
You know you live in a rough neighborhood when somebody honks at a blind man in the crosswalk. The blonde in the Hummer laid on her horn, and the guy with the cane lost control of his flimsy plastic grocery bag. It ripped open and cans of tomatoes went bouncing and rolling all over the street. In about ten seconds, traffic in both directions ground to a big honking standstill, and the blind man stood frozen in the middle of it all.
Tough town, Cleveland.
I was sitting in the bus stop on Lake Shore across from Joe’s Super Market, waiting for the Number 30, so I ran out in front of the Hummer and pitched the driver a carefully calibrated look of outrage while I helped the guy gather up his tomatoes, his pound of ground chuck, some chipotle peppers in adobo sauce, a packet of McCormick’s Tex-Mex Chili Seasoning, and his MondoMegaJackpot ticket.
“Thanks!” he shouted. “I thought I was a dead man.”
“Happy to help!” I tried to sound as reassuring as I could over the din. “It’s going to be okay in about a minute. I’ll take your stuff. Grab onto my arm.”
By the time I got us sitting down in the RTA shelter, more traffic had piled up behind Little Ms. Hummer. Drivers everywhere were honking their brains out at her, and the light had turned red. Twice. I had plenty of time to catch her reluctant eye and read her lips. She was muttering “BITCH” at me as she drove off. Boiling. Ha!
All in all, it was a gratifying experience. I was enjoying the buzz of doing good while I sat there with the guy, his name being, as it turned out, Thomas Bennington III, so I let the Number 30 go by. For one thing, on closer inspection, he was cute.
After our brief exchange in the middle of the road, Thomas Bennington III had been silent. He was looking pretty composed, though, for a man who’d just escaped from the Valley of the Shadow of Joe’s. Since he was blind, I could take the opportunity to stare, and I seized it. Carpe stare, I say.
Right off the bat, I had to admit that he was way more than cute. Handsome was more like it. And young—early-thirty-ish, by my calculation—a bonus. Plus tall, tan, lean, and fit. He was clean, too, which I appreciated, given the general quality of grooming one often encounters at the bus stop. He smelled like good soap.
I nudged myself. Say something to this guy, Allie. Go on. Talk.
“Well, that sure was scary, Thomas. Are you okay? Was it okay for me to grab you like that? I didn’t want to alarm you. Everything was so loud. You must have been terribly disoriented—”
Oh, no. Shut up!
When I encouraged myself to speak, I should have warned myself not to babble. I took a deep breath and closed my mouth.
He smiled. There was a dimple. Oh, yeah.
“No, no. And it’s Tom. You were great. Seriously. That was—no kidding, I am happy to be alive.” Those were the first words beyond mere pleasantries he ever spoke to me. His voice was deep and chocolaty, with a dollop of Southern drawl. About eighty proof.
“Let’s just sit here,” he continued in that intoxicating voice, “and savor the moment. I need to count my arms and legs, okay?”
“Okay, Tom.” I was hoping he couldn’t hear my state of mind. “Let’s.”
It was a moment worth savoring. A cool breeze was flowing off the Very Great Lake Erie, located behind the subsidized housing across the street from Joe’s. On its way to our bus stop, this breeze had passed over the roof of a McDonald’s, adding the slightest watery tang of lake and algae to the rich bouquet of grilled meat and French fries. Top that off with Tom’s soapy goodness and I judged it to be about the most perfect smell ever. I inhaled, trying to be present whilst also trying to ignore a certain, almost unfamiliar, tingle.
“Mmm, Mmm.”
“Oh, yeah,” Tom agreed. “The world is smelling both good and interesting. You, especially. What’s that fragrance?”
“Jo Malone, Wild Fig & Cassis. I got it in the divorce settlement.”
“Good deal. But…” He paused, considering…“the cologne, not the car? This is the bus shelter you’ve rescued me into.”
I zoomed away from the car question. “Yes. The bus shelter. I thought you might need a minute to regroup. And I do have a car. It’s…ah…being worked on right now.”
This was kind of a lie. Well, technically, a total lie. My salsa red VW bug convertible, which was one of the handful of things I had salvaged from my sojourn among the affluent, needed a big, fancy, upscale repair job. I was saving to get it worked on. I figured this was going to take about two years of bus time.
I’m not sure why I was embarrassed enough to lie, since at that moment I still believed this Tom the Third was living in public housing and wouldn’t be shocked by my car-deprived situation. I felt off-kilter, like he was somebody I didn’t want to disappoint with my ordinary self. I mean, anyhow, who was I these days? Plus again, he was way above average in the hot department.
But he saw right through me.
“Could be it’s you working on it? Saving up for repairs, maybe?” There was that dimple again. In his wonderful, smooth-shaven cheek. God.
“Yeah. You got me.” I felt my ears warming. “You’re rather insightful—” I stopped myself.
“For a blind man? Oh, let’s not worry about the sight metaphors. There are about a billion. And I don’t want all the apologies and awkwardness to get in the way of our being friends. You can’t hurt my feelings about this, I swear. Okay?”
“Sure.” I added another Mmm Mmm to myself on the “our being friends.” He was handsome. He used impeccable grammar. He thought we could be friends. The trifecta.
What was I doing? I’d known him for maybe ten minutes. Two of which I’d spent rescuing cans and getting badmouthed via lip-synch. Where had my five years of total monogamy and the two ensuing years of absolute celibacy gone, that I could so easily start scoping out this guy’s dazzling white tee-shirt, his nice, tanned, well-defined arms? The way his dark glasses made him look stealthy like a sexy spy. How nice he smelled…?
What the heck?
I made up my mind not to go overboard with the brakes. First of all, how many blind serial killers did I think there were in Cleveland? And, second, wasn’t it non-monogamous behavior on the part of Mr. Tall, Dark & Unfaithful, Esquire that had landed me here at this bus stop in the first place? Six flavors of Jo Malone, a small but lovable red car, and a ridiculously insignificant amount of cash wasn’t much compensation for half a decade of Big Mistake. The universe owed me something, for goodness sake. How much could it hurt to ask?
“You were going to make chili?”
He shifted the torn bag he was now cradling on his knees. His hands played over the contents and he frowned. “I was. But apparently some tomatoes got away.”
I glanced out onto Lake Shore. Sure enough, there was a flattened Red Pack can, bleeding onto the pavement. “Oh, there’s a can out there that can’t be saved, I’m afraid. But listen…” I focused myself on sound
ing casual. “…why don’t you ride the bus with me to my house? I’ll throw in some of my tomatoes and you can share your chili stuff. I have Coronas and limes, too. If that works. And I can borrow a car from a friend to drive you home—”
I was struck by the audaciousness of inviting this man to come home with a voice he’d never heard before. I knew me, and I could see him, but what did he have to go on besides the odds against meeting a female serial killer at the bus stop? I backpedaled. “Or I could run into Joe’s and get you another can.”
He needed to decide. The next Number 30 was an ugly gray square in the distance.
“I’ll go with the bus, the tomatoes, and the sharing.” He operated the dimple again. “But I can’t go home with you unless you tell me your name.”
“Oh, sorry. Of course not. How did I skip over that? ” I hesitated a beat. “Al…exis. Alexis Harper.”
He turned his handsome face to me. Quizzical. “You don’t sound like an Alexis to me. You sound more like an…Alice.”
So he reads minds? This could be a big complication.
“I hate Alice. Don’t I deserve a fresh name after living under the cloud of Alice all these years? My friends call me Allie. Is that better? Are you psychic? Or what?”
He grinned. “I may be blind, but I’ve got an excellent fib detector. Also my blind-guy spidey sense. Which…hmm…tells me you might not be too dangerous. I will go with you, Allie-not-Alice, and commingle my chili with your tomatoes and beer. It’s a much better plan than the one I had when I started across the street. I believe I hear the bus.”
Hallelujah. This day was turning out so great.
Be cool, Alice.
“Don’t get too thrilled with yourself,” I answered him. “I can hear it, too. It’s only half a block away.”
Chapter Two
I’m going to go on record here that this particular evening—of this unadorned, shaping-up-to-be-predictably-ordinary Tuesday in August—was the best evening of my life. Not the best midnight nor the best wee hours of the morning, but for the part between, oh, say, 4 p.m. and 11:05? This is the evening that rules them all.
And what did we do? Nothing much. I showed him my house. Which is to say I told him some things about it. How it was vulnerable, perched as it was on the brink of the big lake. How it was run-down, and not at all posh, but deliciously all mine. Except for the part about being rented, of course.