by Vicki Hinze
DOWN & DEAD IN DIXIE
Down & Dead, Inc. Series
by
Vicki Hinze
Down and Dead in Dixie
Published by Magnolia Leaf Press
P O Box 235
Niceville, Florida 32588
All characters and events in this book are fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.
ISBN 978-1-939016-05-8
Copyright @2014 by Vicki Hinze
Cover Design by VK Hinze, canstockphoto.com (Manipulated)
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or via any means, including electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or via any information storage and retrieval system without the express written permission of the copyright holder and publisher.
Published in the United States by Magnolia Press, Niceville, Florida.
Printed in the United States of America
2014—First Edition
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Down & Dead in Dixie
“Move over Janet Evanovich! Vicki Hinze is romping through Dixie’s criminal underbelly, and she’s bringing the sassiest heroine since Stephanie Plum. Down and Dead in Dixie is a rip-roaring page-turner that delivers laughs, fantastic characters and twists galore. This one is a must read!” ~Peggy Webb, USA Today bestselling author of the Southern Cousins mystery series
"A lovely recipe of suspense and tenderness seasoned with a clever wit that only Vicki Hinze could cook up!" ~Debra Webb, USA Today Bestselling author of The Faces of Evil
Clean Read. This book is suitable for most readers.
Daisy Grant is in a heap of trouble. She literally stumbles into the middle of a mob turf war between families in Biloxi, Mississippi, and witnesses a family-on-family hit. Now everyone is after her: the family mourning the loss of its eldest son, who wants Daisy alive to testify; the family protecting its eldest son from a murder rap, who wants Daisy dead so she can’t testify; the local authorities bent on building a case despite their mole infestation; and the FBI whose previous witnesses against the families all end up dead before trial. Daisy quickly discovers that to live, sometimes ya gotta die.
But when you’re not a pro at dying, you can mess up, and when you mess up, you’d better get creative fast—even if it means working with seniors running on less than full tanks, with a way-too-attractive man you’re determined to protect; and if you’re drafted into an underground business you had no idea even existed that keeps you up to your earlobes in death.
Yep, to live, sometimes ya gotta die. And sometimes to get death right, it takes . . . practice.
Table of Contents
Praise for Down & Dead in Dixie
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
If You Enjoyed This Book . . .
Author’s Note
About the Author
Prologue
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.
Chapter 1
"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."
"Miss Grant . . . Daisy, sit down." Detective Keller waited until I did, then closed the door. "I don't want to be overheard, and I'll deny having said anything I'm about to tell you. You understand me?"
The inside scoop. Definitely worse than suck-lemon bad. Bracing, I nodded.
"It's too late to change your mind."
"I'm not changing my mind," I lied. "I was a little tied up falling and wrecking my shoes and hitting the concrete.” I lightly rubbed the burning raspberry scrape on my face. “Edward was across the street and it was dark. I didn't have a clear look, you know?" I had seen perfectly. Edward had stood right under a streetlight, but I didn't want any part of this situation.
No doubt my denial would supremely tick off Edward's dad, Victor. Ticking off the head honcho of a mob family could not be a good thing. But ticking off the Marcellos and the Adrianos had to be even worse. This mess absolutely called for ignorance and distance. Lots and lots of distance.
Worried and more than a little annoyed, Keller frowned. "You don’t get it, Daisy. These families have connections everywhere, including inside this police station. If it took five minutes for Victor Marcello and the Adrianos to find out you'd identified Boudin and Tony as Edward's shooters, I'd be shocked. Honestly, they probably heard it within fifteen seconds of the words leaving your mouth."
Fear and dread slammed into me. Acid churned in my stomach and the irritating smell of pine cleaner intensified, making me nauseated. "Well, what am I supposed to do?" Before Keller could say anything, I held up a finger. "Don't tell me to testify and everything will be fine, because I really am not that stupid. If I talk, Boudin and the Adrianos will want me dead to shut me up. If I don't talk, Victor Marcello will want me dead to punish me. Either way, I'm dead, Keller."
"Either way, you're in jeopardy, but we've got a plan," he said, trying to stave off the hysterics hinted at in my shrill voice. "The FBI is on board because of the organized crime ties. I talked with a friend of mine, Special Agent Ted Johnson. He's deeply concerned about
your safety."
"I'm not feeling too confident about it myself." I swiped at a dust smudge on my dress at the thigh and anger rose with the sting on my skin. "If you and Johnson know these jokers are mob members, then why are they still on the loose?"
Keller looked me straight in the eye. "Because every time we nail them, the evidence disappears or the witnesses do, or else they end up dead before the trial."
I slumped back in my seat. Daisy Grant's death warrants numbers two and three, right there. Boudin or Adriano or Victor Marcello—one of them would do the deed. No way around it. This was the mob honcho's son, no less. The Marcellos and Adrianos obviously were already rivals, but now the Adrianos had declared war. Murder isn’t a subtle hostility that passes unnoticed. And, lucky me, I don't have to mess with one mob family. No, not me. I have to tick-off two of them—at the same time.
"Don't panic, okay?" Keller glanced back at the door. His eyes darted and his hand shook. He wasn’t happy to be stuck in the middle of this mess, either. "Like I told you, we've got a plan."
I grunted. "No offense, Detective, but if all your witnesses are missing in action or dead before trial, I'd say, your plans aren't working out very well." I squeezed my Grant coin. “Have these families killed cops, too, or just witnesses?”
My question irked him and stung his pride, but he chose to ignore it. "Special Agent Johnson is coming to get you. He'll hold you in protective custody until—"
"Protective custody?" Keller had to be kidding. "I can't do protective custody. I have to work or I don't eat. Understand? I can't hide out—and from what you've said, there is nowhere to hide, anyway." Some plan. They might as well paint a bulls-eye on my forehead.