Drop Dead Crime: Mystery and Suspense from the Leading Ladies of Murder

by Lisa Regan

Catriona jumped straight into the air with both feet.

  Glancing down, she caught a glimpse of Mason’s hand sweeping beneath her. He’d slid himself through a hole in the wall at ground level, his upper torso visible, much as she’d pictured Pinky when Soto told his tale.

  The scalpel in Mason’s hand arced up, trying to slice her, even as she rose into the air and out of reach. The whites of his eyes flashed as he strained to reach her. Before he could react, she landed hard on his wrist with her bare heel. Her other foot had found the cement floor, providing her much-needed balance.

  She heard the scalpel clatter to the ground.

  Mason yelped in pain. She kicked him hard in the face and pointed her gun at him.

  “Don’t move.”

  Mason’s opposite hand whipped out of the hole and she nearly fired before seeing him grab for his already bleeding nose.

  “Bitch!”

  Catriona dipped down and pushed the scalpel far from his reach with her fingertips. He made an attempt to wriggle back into his hole. She grabbed him by his armpits and jerked him into the hall, shoving him away from her so she could point her pistol from a safe distance.

  He stumbled before finding his feet and whirled to face her. Sneering, he wiped his bleeding nose on his arm.

  “What now?” he asked.

  She held him at gunpoint, her heart racing.

  “Your father was at the PGA Open when the fourth victim was kidnapped, killed, and dumped.”

  Mason grinned. “You got it. A dumb bitch like you. No one else got that.”

  Catriona ignored his taunting. “You killed your father. Used him as a patsy. Was he ever involved?”

  Mason laughed. “My father? He was a mouse.”

  “And you’re a monster. Congratulations. Let’s go.”

  Mason shook his head. “Where? I won’t lead you out of here.”

  Catriona glanced behind her. The dark hallway continued. She realized her work was far from over. She’d have to lead Mason at gunpoint through the maze—hopefully, before another booby trap blew or the little creep scurried into another mousehole—

  A cracking sound snapped behind Mason and he ducked, arms covering his head.

  Catriona stepped back.

  What now?

  A black dress shoe thrust through the ceiling. It appeared and disappeared several times in rapid succession as large chunks of the plywood ceiling tore away and rained to the ground behind Mason.

  Catriona smiled.

  I know that shoe.

  Broch dropped to the ground. No sooner did he hit the floor than he straightened and struck Mason full fist in the face. Mason fell back, his head landing at Catriona’s feet.

  She tapped his head with her bare toe. He didn’t move.

  “He’s unconscious.”

  Broch grinned. “That wis mah plan.”

  He scooped up the boy and threw him over his shoulder like a sack of flour.

  “Let’s git oot o’ ’ere.”

  Epilogue

  Broch and Catriona leaned against her truck as the EMTs carried a body bag from the warehouse, waiting for the police to finish questioning the guests and get to them.

  Konrad wandered over to them.

  “The publicity—”

  Catriona held up a hand to silence him. “A woman and one of your fake troopers died, Konrad.”

  He nodded. “No. You’re right. Sorry.”

  “And you’re still going to be fired.”

  Konrad wrinkled his nose. “You think? Even if the movie does well?”

  Catriona sighed. “You’re right. No one will even remember how stupid your stunt was after what Mason did hits the press.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking. I mean, it’s not my fault the kid was crazy.”

  “The families of the deceased might still hold you responsible though.”

  Konrad paled. “Shit. That reminds me. I have to call my lawyer...”

  Konrad headed toward his trailer without another word.

  “Whit an eejit,” muttered Broch.

  “Welcome to Hollywood.”

  He nodded. “Ah wish ahd come back tae Scootlund instead o’ this devilish place.”

  “But then you wouldn’t have met me.”

  He smiled. “True. Ah tak’ it a’ back.”

  “Thank you. Hey, I forgot to ask—how did you end up in the ceiling anyway?”

  “The big room with the tent fae a top. Ah hoisted masell up the wall, tore awa’ the cloth, ’n’ bolted alang the tops o’ the walls. ’Twas wide open up thare.”

  Catriona nodded slowly, picturing what he’d done. “Huh. Pretty smart.”

  He crossed his arms against his chest. “Aye. Ah ahm.”

  She smirked and glanced at him from the side of her eye. “And... what was the deal with that kiss in there?”

  Broch shrugged, a smile curling the edge of his lips.

  “A dinnae ken whit ye mean.”

  ~The End~

  About the Author

  Amy Vansant is a Wall Street Journal and USA Today bestselling author, specializing in fun, comedic reads about accident-prone, easily distracted women with questionable tastes in men.

  So, autobiographies, mostly. Ha! But seriously… She writes happy, occasionally slightly twisted, thrilling, romantic comedies, mysteries, and urban fantasies.

  Follow Amy

  Website: http://www.AmyVansant.com

  Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Amy-Vansant/e/B001K8WXV0/

  Twitter: https://twitter.com/AmyVansant

  Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/amyvansant

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/TheAmyVansant

  About the Kilty Series

  The Kilty series is a dark and funny, romantic suspense thriller series with a touch of paranormal. Young, smart, and mostly fearless movie studio “fixer” Catriona Phoenix finds lovable, hunky ancient Highlander (Broch, aka Kilty) who’s been whisked to modern-day Hollywood… and then all hell breaks loose. A Highlander followed her home… can she keep him?

  Kilty Romantic Comedy/Thrillers

  Funny, suspenseful romances with a touch of time-travel

  Kilty as Charged (I) Kilty Conscience (II) Kilty Mind (III) Kilty as Sin (IV)

  Pineapple Port Mysteries

  Funny, clean mysteries full of unforgettable characters

  Pineapple Lies (I) Pineapple Mystery Box (II) Pineapple Puzzles (III)

  Pineapple Land War (IV) Pineapple Beach House (V) Pineapple Disco (VI)

  Angeli Urban Fantasy

  Thrilling adventures with a touch of romantic comedy

  Angeli (I) Cherubim (II) Varymor (III)

  Slightly Romantic Comedies

  New adult/adult zany romantic romps

  Slightly Stalky (I) Slightly Sweaty (II)

  The Mitigatory (middle-grade fantasy)

  The Big Crazy

  A Skip Langdon Novella

  Julie Smith

  Before the phones went dead, Skip took the opportunity to make one last attempt at talking sense to the world’s most stubborn individual. This time making it a demand. “Ollie, get Iggy in his carrier. Don’t argue; I’m coming to get you. In a district car. You need to get out before that tree in your yard comes down on your house.”

  She was still in New Orleans, because if you were a cop, the mandatory evacuation order didn’t apply. You had to go to work as soon as the wind subsided. This was because thousands of people didn’t heed the order, and there’d be crime as usual, not to mention out-of-control traffic due to impassable streets. All with a side of looting.

  So Detective Skip Langdon, NOPD, was holed up in the palatial French Quarter digs of her landlord and best friend, Jimmy Dee Scoggin, trying to batten down whatever hatches she could against Hurricane Katrina, which was already dumping barrels of rain. The person to whom she was trying to talk sense was Olivia Brown, a neighbor who lived in a “dependency unit,” much like Skip did herself, but Ollie’s was more like a flimsy cottage than
the sturdy brick slave quarters Skip inhabited behind Jimmy Dee’s historic Creole townhouse. And Ollie, like so many New Orleanians, wouldn’t evacuate without her pet, in this case a half-feral feline named Ignatius.

  Jimmy Dee, who employed her as a housekeeper, was quite sure she’d literally blow away if she didn’t just grab the damn cat and get over to his house. He’d made Skip promise to drag her over there by whatever means necessary. Although Skip couldn’t believe she’d just threatened a district car. That was probably a bridge too far.

  “You’re too late,” Ollie answered.

  “What, you’re already dead?”

  “I’m already here,” she said, “and I’m not alone.” The doorbell rang.

  “Here,” Ollie said, handing Skip a carrier full of wet, yowling cat. “Okay if I bring some friends? These guys don’t have anywhere else to go.”

  Although it was bucketing down rain, she stood aside for a short, plump woman; a short, beer-bellied man with a beard; and a sodden golden retriever, which shook himself all over Jimmy Dee’s Oriental carpet the second he lumbered inside. “Oooohhh, Breesy,” crooned the woman, laughing, not even slightly apologetic. “You might be named for a Saint, but a saint you ain’t.” It sounded like a line she used a lot. To Skip, she said, “Hey, I know you. Where do I know you from?”

  Skip sighed. “We meet again, Delta Dawn. Come on in.”

  “Hey, how do I know you?”

  “Is that Dickie you’ve got there? Dickie, you too, before you drown.”

  She tossed Ollie a look.

  “They’re my neighbors,” Ollie said, skulking in with a guilty look. She seemed the only one who minded dripping all over the carpet. “Their shutters don’t work and they already lost a window. I knew Jimmy Dee’d want me to bring ’em.”

  He would, of course, Skip thought. But it would be less awkward if I hadn’t handcuffed Dawn that time she threw a beer bottle at Dickie at the Tin Roof. Everyone knew the Drunkersons, aka Dickie and Dawn Horvath, at least by sight. They were neighborhood characters in their fifties, half boho music fanatics, and the other half just routine New Orleans nutballs. Everyone knew them, but it was the rare person who wanted to know them better. Ollie, who had to put up with them living next door, was usually pretty vocal on that subject.

  Skip put the cat carrier on the floor, causing Breesy to stick his nose through the wire cage part and Iggy to whack the hell out of it. Breesy proceeded to squeal like a mating skunk, and Dawn shot Ollie a look of pure hatred. “Look what your goddam cat did to my baby!”

  Oh, boy, Skip was thinking, gonna be a long night, when Ollie laughed. Maybe she was getting hysterical. “Good thing we didn’t bring along that drenched kid we found.”

  “Kid?” This was the last thing Skip needed. But if there was a juvenile out in a hurricane, she had no choice but to get him or her inside.

  Ollie shrugged. “He wouldn’t come. But we did kind of give him your address. I think he might have followed us.”

  Sighing, Skip opened the door again. She knew Ollie was lying. She’d brought the kid. She just didn’t want to spring the whole package on Skip at once.

  Sure enough, a short, skinny figure, possibly a male teenager, was standing against a building across the street, looking straight at the house, as if he expected something—like an invitation. He was hugging his chest against the rain, and Skip could have sworn she could see him shivering, even from that distance.

  She beckoned him, yelling, “Come on in!” and hoping he wouldn’t resist. Chasing a kid down the street was her absolute last choice for a way to spend the next part of the evening.

  The kid didn’t have to be asked twice. Without even looking for oncoming cars, he ran straight for the door. The wind had picked up and was now hurling small objects through the sheets of rain. No question, it was miserable out there, and starting to get scary. He must have already made the decision to accept any shelter he could find.

  He hurtled through the door, the wind at his back, dripping more water, it seemed, than the other three and the dog combined. “Wet out there,” he said.

  “Well, you’re welcome to stay here. What’s your name and how old are you?”

  He straightened up and looked Skip right in the eye. He had to look up to do it—she was six feet tall to his five-six or so—but it showed a lot of self-possession under the circumstances. He was African American, light brown, skinny as a stake, and as blue-eyed as Ollie was. And those piercing eyes said it all —I’ve got more nerve in my little finger than you Billy Bob Bubbas do in all four of your giant bodies. Mess with me at your own risk.

  “Billy,” he said. “You got a mop? Lemme clean up this mess.”

  “I’m Skip,” she answered. She held out her hand and he responded with a jiveshake meant to intimidate, but she could tell he was surprised she could anticipate and follow each intricate move. Such was life as a cop. “Dickie here’s gonna clean up the mess. You’ve got to warm up. Go get in the shower while we still have hot water.”

  Which caused both Dickie and Dawn to set up a whine, “Hey, I need the first shower. I got a condition.”

  “He’s got a condition.”

  Ollie broke in, “Okay, new plan. You guys can share Sheila’s bathroom—it’s got a bathtub and a shower. Billy, off to Kenny’s— I’ll show everybody where everything is, and collect your clothes for the dryer.”

  “Sheila and Kenny?”

  “Jimmy Dee’s niece and nephew. Sheila’s sweats will fit Dawn, and I’ll round up something for everybody else. Skip, can you mop?”

  “Sure, but one thing first. This is gonna be a long night. If anybody brought weapons, hand them over.”

  “You kidding me?” Dickie said.

  Billy snorted. “What kinda racist shit is this?”

  Ollie didn’t say a word, just opened her backpack, and laid a Ruger LCR in Skip’s open palm.

  “Ohhh, nice,” Skip said, before she realized she shouldn’t.

  “Shee-it,” Dickie said, and opened his own backpack, extracting a .38 and a hunting knife in a sheath, but not before Skip caught a glimpse of a green box, labeled “Depends.” Oh, boy. The aforementioned condition. Talk about a long night.

  “I don’t gotta give you nothin’,” Billy said, and turned toward the door, as if to brave the storm again, giving a clear view of the bulge in the back of his jeans. Whip-quick, Skip threw him against the wall and grabbed the gun.

  The kid’s eyes dilated. “Who the hell are you? You a cop or something?”

  “I’m somebody who’s trying to help you out, okay? You could be killed out there. But you’re a stranger in this house and so are those two with the dog. No guests here are going to be armed tonight, especially those under twenty-one. You okay with that?”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  She let him go. “Glad to hear it.” Gladder than he knew—she’d have really hated to cuff him. “Okay, Ollie, show them where to go. I’m going to put the guns in the safe.”

  She didn’t know the combination of Jimmy Dee’s safe, but they didn’t know that. One of his desk drawers had a key— that had to be good enough.

  She cleaned up the hall, tried to soothe Ignatius, who howled intermittently, and examined Breesy for any serious nose damage, deciding he mostly had his feelings hurt.

  Earlier, she’d set out to thaw the spoils of Jimmy Dee’s last fishing trip and a very nice beef tenderloin. They were going to lose electricity soon, and she’d need to salvage whatever was in the refrigerator.

  Aside from that, there was some deli ham and cheese, so she made a tray of sandwiches and some iced tea. Dickie was the first one back, wearing a seersucker robe of Jimmy Dee’s that gapped just enough so she could see all kinds of things she wished she couldn’t—chest hair, a watermelon where his stomach should have been, the bulging incontinence briefs. It was hard not to avert her eyes.

  Dickie eyed the iced tea. “Got anything stronger?”

  “Sorry, no.”

  �
�Well, I do.” He retreated and came back with a bottle of bourbon.

  She thought about confiscating it. The neighborhood didn’t call the Horvaths the Drunkersons for nothing, and she’d personally broken up a bar fight between them. She could do it again if she had to. She decided to bet on the delightful proposition that tonight they’d pass out instead of fighting.

  Gradually, everyone else filtered in for sandwiches, clad in whatever sweats, shorts, and T-shirts Ollie had managed to dredge up.

  “How about a drop of that bourbon?” Ollie asked timidly.

  “I’m in,” Billy said.

  “The hell you are,” Skip told him.

  Dawn clutched the bottle to her pillowy bosom, as if she thought she could hide it between her breasts. “Get your own.”

  That incensed Skip, not to mention Ollie, whose eyes flashed like a furious cat’s. Ollie was a big, raw-boned, take-no-prisoners New Englander. Skip had seen her in bar fights too. She patted air to keep her quiet and spoke softly to Dawn. “Give her a drink.”

  “Why should we?”

  The voice of justice turned out to be so young it had barely changed. Billy spoke up, “’Cause she rescued you from the fuckin’ storm, assholes. Are you kiddin’ me? How cold can you be?”

  Sulkily, Dawn poured Ollie a short one, and that set the tone for the night. Ollie’s good deed had backfired on her. Although she was going to get a couple of drinks out of it, they were all going to have to go through the hurricane with hostility snatching at them like claws. Skip regretted not confiscating the booze, but not for long.

  Soon Katrina really got to rocking and rolling, terrifying Breesy, who peed on the rug and then stood shaking in a corner as Dawn and Dickie proceeded to get more and more annihilated, prompting Skip to decide the hooch was a great little babysitter.

  Let the Drunkersons drink while she and Ollie raced about, inspecting, making sure the windows were tight, fetching pots to catch the leaks on the second floor, fussing over a banging shutter it was too late to fix, and generally obsessing.