Lacey Luzzi: Sauced: A humorous, cozy mystery! (Lacey Luzzi Mafia Mysteries Book 4)

by Gina LaManna

  I mentally patted myself on the back. Maybe I was getting better at this investigating business after all.

  “What concerns me is my informant’s claims that the fireworks are being used for the materials with which they’re built. Broken down and reassembled correctly, a person with the right know-how could disassemble these fireworks and create a bomb that could level the Twin Cities area.”

  “Do you think it’s the Russians?” I asked.

  “No, not necessarily,” Carlos said. “I don’t have much information to go on this time, which is why you’ll be teaming up with Anthony. You have two days to get me the information, or one of Minneapolis’ fireworks displays will most likely be turning out horribly wrong.”

  I gulped. “That’s a lot of pressure.”

  “Yes, which is also why Anthony is involved.”

  “Because you don’t trust me to figure it out on my own in time?” My relief at having Anthony involved outweighed my peevishness at Carlos’s distrust, but he didn’t need to know that. When dealing with the Family, I had to put up a tough outer face – even if we both knew it was a lie.

  Carlos didn’t justify my outburst with a response.

  Rightly so, Lacey, I told myself. The lives of innocent people were in my hands, and I needed all the help I could get. I stood up, sliding my phone out of my pocket. I needed to get Clay and Meg on this ASAP. The more the merrier when it came to mob work.

  “Lacey, one last thing,” Carlos said.

  “Yes?” I looked up from my phone, where I’d already pulled up The Google’s hangout app.

  “I also need you to find a bottle of Dave’s Special Grilling Sauce for the barbecue.” Carlos’s face looked serious, despite the seemingly easy request.

  I wrinkled my nose. “Uh, um, okay. Which is higher priority – the fireworks or the sauce?”

  “I trust you’ll find both,” Carlos said, leaving no room for negotiation.

  “Great,” I said. “Awesome. Do you have any information on where I can get this special sauce?”

  “No.”

  “Perfect.” I smiled. “Anything else?”

  Carlos paused, and I took a few steps towards the door. Maybe if I could just sneak out before he had a chance to respond...

  “Get married, please. Nora needs a wedding to plan. She’s been chatting my ear off, and it’s only getting worse.”

  I smiled at my grandfather. “I’ll definitely consider it. After all, my grandmother’s boredom is an excellent reason to get married.”

  Chapter 2

  My car puttered up to the curb outside of a rather droopy building. It was the building I called home. After a recent experiment entitled Becoming an Adult, a brief period of time when I’d attempted to live by myself, I realized that living with Clay in the middle of a neighborhood frequented by muggings and carjackings wasn’t so bad. There was something to be said for having someone to chat with during the late night hours when loneliness set in.

  Clay wasn’t always the best company, though. My favorite cousin could bounce money around the world in seconds, but for some reason, he took more pleasure in turning our tea kettle into an alarm system or wiring my sparkly dresses into bombs. That sort of thing got old after a while, and was typically quite dangerous. I had to admit though, that since Clay paid more than half the rent, I could deal with these experiments. In fact, I’d learned to consider his extra portion of rent as hazard pay; he set alarms and set up our phones to yodel instead of ring, while I scrimped by paying between twenty and forty percent of the rent check and keeping a few leftover bucks for my sugar bomb coffees. It all evened out.

  I parked just behind the green curb in my favorite spot. My shabby little Lumina was a great choice of car for the neighborhood. I couldn’t pay someone to steal it. Plus, it held the coveted parking spot behind Clay’s creep van, and nobody in their right mind would step near that thing. The irony was, that van could fly to the moon and jump over other cars – almost. Oddly enough, it didn’t have heat. Clay was sometimes too smart for his own good. Still, I’d bet members of the CIA were jealous of the van’s capabilities, and it had helped us out on assignments more than once.

  Jumping from my car, I realized the green paint that Clay had swiped over the curb in order to confuse people into not parking there had started to chip. We couldn’t have that happen. I added that to my list of notes to speak with Clay about, right behind getting revenge on an Indian Prince and setting up parental blocks on Nora’s Internet.

  While the paint on the curb was faded like crazy, the artwork on my front steps refused to peel off. The offensive word had grown on me a bit recently; somehow it had nestled cozily into a fond little spot in my heart. I was probably just happy to be living back at home with Clay and the word represented familiarity. I wondered once in a while if it’d be nice to have a front staircase that didn’t swear foul four-letter words at people. Then again, it did kind of child proof the place, and it made for a great reason not to bring the evil twins over here. I used the word twins lightly – Marissa and Clarissa were related only through their father, my Uncle Nicky. Despite being only a week apart, they had different mothers.

  Taking the steps two at a time, I was proud that when I reached the top, my level of windedness was only moderately high; which was still in “asthmatic grandpa” territory, but still. I popped open the door, surprised to hear two male voices, one of which I didn’t recognize.

  “Clay?” I called. “Are you here?”

  “In the living room,” my cousin replied.

  I exhaled a sigh of relief. I’d been slowly getting used to random people lying in wait in my apartment building – Meg and Anthony in particular had habits of “letting themselves in,” key or not. I grabbed a juice box from the fridge and purposely didn’t check the expiration date. I hadn’t bought Capri Suns recently, and Clay never grocery shopped. Still, I was willing to take my chances. Who knew? Maybe we had a friendly fridge ghost that restocked my sugary supplies.

  Heading into the living room, I realized the chatter of the other voice sounded like a real human being; I’d assumed that Clay had turned the television on or was watching cat videos on the Internet. Historically, Clay wasn’t big on hosting friends.

  “Tupac?” I called before leaving the kitchen. “Tupac the Cat, where are you?”

  Normally our fuzzy, fat cat growled at me when I came in, mistaking himself for a dog. The silly guy hated to cuddle and was an absolute grump, but we still fed him. I think by that point, Clay, Tupac, and I all had a mutual understanding that we each needed our space – especially the fuzz ball. And no, I didn’t mean Clay.

  I strolled into the living room, struggling to poke the straw into my juice pouch. I looked up at my cousin. “Have you seen Tupac?”

  Clay smiled, and so did the man standing next to him.

  “Oh, hey,” I said, sticking out my non-juice-boxed hand for a shake. “I’m Lacey.”

  “I’m Horatio,” the man said, squeezing my hand in a squishy, very fleshy palm. He smiled, looking nothing like a “Horatio.” His skin color matched that of my butt during the coldest winter months. He stroked a beard that was a sad attempt at an “evil genius“ style goatee when, really, the beard’s only success was making me gag a bit in the back of my throat.

  “Horatio, huh?” I asked. “Nice.”

  “Technically, it’s Henry,” he said. “But I go by Horatio.”

  “Logical,” I said with a bit of sarcasm. I noted the beach-ball-sized stomach attached to his figure, the wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, and the bright red track pants that showed enough booty crack to make Horatio – Henry – whoever he was, an exceptional plumber. “Whatcha got there?”

  Horatio turned to follow my nod. Behind him stood a contraption that looked like a cross between Nazi torture equipment and a machine that could be found at the gym. When I thought about it, they were really almost the same thing.

  “Oh, this?” Horatio asked. “It’s someth
ing Clay and I invented.”

  “Mmm. What does it do?” I walked closer towards a seat that looked like a dentist’s chair. Except, where the light would normally hang over the patient’s throat, there was a huge computer screen. Using a variety of lifts, pulleys, and strange metal rods, Clay and friend had somehow managed to attach a keyboard below the screen.

  “It’s a laying desk,” Horatio said. “Genius, right?”

  “What is it used for?” I asked.

  “Uh, it’s in the name,” Clay said. “A desk you can work at from a laying position.”

  “What’s wrong with a sitting desk?” I asked.

  “It’s in protest to the treadmill desk,” Horatio said. “We figured that since there’s a weird health nut crowd that wants to walk and work at the same time, there’s probably a much bigger American crowd—”

  “Literally bigger,” Clay said, and fist-bumped his friend.

  Horatio grinned, returned the fist-bump, and then continued. “There’s a much larger crowd that prefers to be lazy. So, there you have it!”

  “You made a desk that will make someone even unhealthier than they’d be if they just sat at a desk all day. Brilliant.” I flattened my lips in a straight line. “Really excellent. Exactly what America needs.”

  Clay beamed. “I thought so, too.”

  “That was sarcasm,” I said.

  “Try it out,” Horatio said. “You’ll like it.”

  “Nah, that’s okay,” I said. “Looks dangerous.”

  “Not if you use it correctly,” Horatio winked.

  I made a disgusted face before turning my attention to my cousin. “Look, Clay I have to talk to you. Sooner, rather than later, would be preferable.”

  “Great. I’d love to chat,” Horatio said. “I love helping out new friends. Do you have an extra juice box? I love Capri Suns.”

  I gave Clay eyes, hoping he’d get the picture and either step away with me privately for a moment, or tell his friend to skedaddle for the time being. To my dismay, Clay’s wandering glance focused on anything in the room except my eyes, so I turned toward his guest. “Of course. I’ll see what I can find. Clay, could you help me grab something from my room, please?”

  “I can help,” Horatio said, leaping to attention. “I like to make myself useful.”

  “Oh, never mind,” I said with a shrug. “I found it.”

  Before I had to make up an item that I’d supposedly just found, I scurried into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, looking for some sugary beverage to offer Horatio. There were no more drinks of any sort, but I did find Tupac tucked away behind a box of macaroni and cheese. It was actually weirder to find a box of mac and cheese in the fridge than my cat.

  I petted Tupac’s ears and whispered, “I understand. I wish I fit in there, too, sometimes.”

  Finding a clean drinking glass was nothing short of a miracle, and I popped in a few ice cubes and filled it up with tap water. I tossed Tupac an extra kibble for being so nice when guests were around, and left the door to the fridge slightly ajar in case he got the urge to come join the party.

  “I only had water,” I said, handing the drink to Horatio. “Sorry about that.”

  “Oh, no, this is fine,” Horatio said, raising the glass to his lips and guzzling as if it were the last bit of H2O on earth.

  “More?” I asked, as he downed the glass in one sitting.

  “Nah.” Horatio smacked his lips and rested a hand on his stomach. “That was great.”

  A flash of skin which happened to be the bottom of Horatio’s rotund belly protruded more than a little bit from the waistline of his shirt. His pants were not pulled up nearly high enough to cover the extra skin. I looked away.

  “So, what did you need to talk about?” Clay asked. “Horatio is a friend. We can all talk together.”

  “Mmm,” I murmured. “Yes, I suppose.”

  “Do tell! I love solving problems.” Horatio grinned. “I mean, my girlfriend is a therapist, so she has a ton of problems. I’m used to it.”

  “Your girlfriend talks about her clients?” I asked. “Isn’t that illegal?”

  Clay rolled his eyes, as if the thought of me caring about a tiny issue like legality was funny.

  “Oh, I don’t mean her clients,” Horatio said. “I mean her. She’s got problems coming out of the wazoo. Guess it takes one to know one, if you know what I mean.”

  “No, I don’t know.” I looked at Clay, wondering why he’d invited this crazy person into our home. Then again, maybe Horatio wasn’t lying, and his girlfriend did have problems. As a matter of fact, I could think of one problem she had right off the bat; a lingering ailment whose name was Horatio. Or Henry. Or whatever.

  “How did you two meet?” I looked back and forth between them.

  “Oh, the Internet. You know, Clay is always—” Horatio started.

  Clay butted in, “—what did you have to discuss, Lace?”

  I tore my astounded gaze away from Horatio, and I forced myself to remember the more pressing assignment from Carlos even though I had a sudden burning curiosity to find out what Clay was “always doing” on the Internet.

  “Uh,” I said, wondering what I could say to tip off Clay that’d I’d received a new assignment from Carlos and needed his help. There was nothing that intrigued Clay more than the promise of a puzzle to solve. “Our grandfather – he, uh, he wanted me to find a special sauce for the Fourth of July barbecue.”

  I emphasized sauce, hoping Clay would correctly assume that this was about more than a fancy style of ketchup.

  “My favorite sauce,” Horatio broke in, “is a nice, spicy Poupon. It’s technically mustard, but boy. A spoonful of that will clear your sinuses right out.”

  “Right,” I said. “Well, Clay. Maybe you’ve experienced the magic of this special sauce before. This is my first family barbecue, so I honestly don’t even know what to look for. I could use your help.”

  I didn’t mention a thing about my birthday, mostly since it was getting depressing having people forget about my birthday, especially a big one like thirty. I made the snap decision to stop telling folks about the occasion at all. I’d rather them simply forget it than just not care.

  “Dave’s Special Grilling Sauce is what you’re looking for,” Clay said. “This guy cooks it up out in the middle of nowhere. He doesn’t have a store, doesn’t own a computer – he sells it out of his shed off the side of the highway. It’s about forty minutes away, somewhere north of Stillwater.”

  “Let me guess,” Horatio said, pointing a finger at Clay as if it were a gun. “The guy’s name is Dave.”

  I glanced at Clay, to see if he could tell whether his friend was serious or not.

  Clay’s nose wrinkled and he gave a slight nod, “Yes.”

  “I knew it.” Horatio looked so proud, I had the sinking feeling that he hadn’t been joking. “Call me Detective Horatio.”

  “How do people know about him if he doesn’t have a website or a storefront?” I asked.

  Clay shrugged, looking down at his hands. “Uh, there was this one time…” Clay paused and looked to Horatio for help. “…Anthony gave me the address. But I’ve never been there.”

  “Let me guess. I’m a detective, I can figure it out. Listen to this,” Horatio said, pursing his lips in deep thought. “I’m sensing that someone drove by this teensy little stand, saw the sign, and picked up a bottle. Then, they loved it. Maybe they put up a post online and people went wild. It went…viral.”

  Clay’s eyes brightened. “You know, I think you’re right. Except it wasn’t just anyone, it was the most well-known food critic in the entire metro area. He discovered the sauce and published a piece in the Trib. The thing went, as you say, viral.”

  “Woohoo,” Horatio said. “I am on a roll. Call me Chief Detective Horatio.”

  “Is that right?” I asked with hesitation. I wasn’t sure I believed the entire story.

  “Yeah,” Clay said. “This whole hipster moveme
nt put Dave in business. The kids these days don’t like big corporate businesses like McDonalds. They like the whole indie business thing, and they adored his sauce so much that he could’ve gotten a deal on his own, but he refused. Dave kept his little stand.”

  “Great,” I said. “Do you know where this little stand is?”

  “Sure thing,” Clay said. “It’s—”

  “Hang on,” I said, standing up to grab a pen and paper. If I couldn’t get Clay alone to talk about the fireworks debacle, I might as well get cracking on the sauce issue. The sooner I got that out of the way, the more time I could focus on the bigger, more important issue.

  Heck, maybe I’d even give Meg a call and see what she was up to. We could take a quick zip up to Stillwater, grab Dave’s “shed on the side of the road” sauce, and maybe stop by my favorite candy shop on the way back. They offered free samples, so it would be worth the three-mile detour.

  “You ready?” Clay asked.

  I opened the pad of paper I’d scrounged up from the dredges of my purse. Flicking away an old piece of Trident, I nodded. “Hit me.”

  Clay read off an address that even sounded like it was in the middle of nowhere. I raised my eyebrows, scribbled it down, and then typed it into the map app on my phone. The room was silent as the app struggled to find the address.

  Finally, the screen flashed once: Address Not Found.

  “Dang, this place is in the boonies,” I said, trying to refresh the app.

  “It might not be on the map,” Clay said. “That is the address of his stand, after all, which just sits at a little roundabout. There’s not even a house there. You can barely call it a scenic overlook. Anthony warned me about this.”

  The app again blinked an error message at me. I looked up, perplexed. “How did people find places before cell phones?”

  Horatio laughed, but Clay didn’t. My question was not rhetorical.

  Clay even looked a bit surprised. “Great question. Let me look.”

  Horatio’s eyes followed Clay as my cousin pulled up a laptop and Googled the phrase: How to find an address without a phone?