“I’m outta here,” I said, heading for the steps.
“Sierra, where are you going?” Ruby called, but I didn’t answer. I kept walking off in the direction I’d seen John head with that perky little bimbo. If he could have picked the almost total opposite of me, he couldn’t have done better. She was short, terminally short. I bet in heels she didn’t come up over five feet four inches. And she was flat-chested. That is a problem I’ll never have to worry about. Her hair was dark and mine was macaroni blond—natural, not bottle—courtesy of my northern Italian ancestors. And she looked like one little puff would blow her away, a real lightweight in your most Junior League sort of way.
I was searching for them and cursing myself. What was wrong with me that I’d let myself get so worked up over a guy? It was just not like me. No, I take it back, it was just like me, but the me of my North Philly days. Since I’d moved to Panama City two years ago, I hadn’t made a fool of myself over anybody. In fact, I hadn’t even dated anyone—hadn’t wanted to, really.
I walked past the drivers and the pit crews, barely noticing the catcalls and the whistles. The smell of coffee and greasy hamburgers from the snack shack reminded me that I hadn’t eaten since lunchtime. My stomach finally won over where my brain had not succeeded. It was a much saner idea to eat a burger, drink a cup of coffee, and reflect upon my loss of control with John.
I stepped up to the dirty white shack and let the girl working the counter shove a wax-paper-wrapped hamburger into my hand.
“They all got chili and coleslaw on ’em, hon,” she said. “That’ll be three dollars with the coffee.” If my French maid costume seemed out of place at the track, she never noticed. Her eyes were glued to the track, where the last semifinal race had just ended.
“Aw, hell,” she said, turning to a young teenaged girl who was wrapping hot dogs. “Meatloaf done lost to Frank. There’ll be hell to pay at our house tonight. He’ll come home drunk, I guess.” The girl nodded, never looking up from the dogs. “Son of a bitch,” the cashier muttered.
I turned away with my food and wandered out behind the shack. The inner circle of the pit was reserved for parking. It was dark and the ground was a combination of gravel, red clay, and sparse grass.
“All I need is to trip in these heels,” I muttered. I almost bumped into a cluster of three picnic tables and decided the safest thing for me to do would be to sit down and eat while my eyes adjusted.
The loudspeaker began to blare over the constant sound of engines being pushed to their maximum rpms. From what I could catch, the starting lineup for the last race was being announced. I didn’t pay much attention. I just wanted the entire evening to come to an end so I could go home to Fluffy and the comfort of my double-wide.
As my eyes adjusted, I could see a trash bin about thirty feet away, and now and then I could discern shapes moving past, heading to or from the parking lot. Someone tossed a bottle and it hit the side of the Dumpster, clanging noisily above the dull roar of the pit.
I started to feel sorry for myself. I was sitting alone at a picnic table eating and thinking: What am I doing here? Why wasn’t I home, curled up with a book? True, Vincent had bribed me with money to be here, but was it worth it to come all the way to Wewahitchka, just so I could have my fantasy shattered? I didn’t think so.
I got up and started walking toward the Dumpster so I could pitch the rest of my hamburger and get back to the platform. I figured I might as well watch the race and talk to Ruby; that was better than stalking John and his new love interest.
“Son of a bitch,” I muttered, thinking of the cashier at the snack shack. “They’re all alike.”
Someone giggled. It sounded like it came from the other side of the Dumpster.
“Why, I don’t know what to say,” a woman’s voice said. It was Ruby. I started to say something, but hung back instead. If she wanted to ruin her evening by fooling around with Roy Dell, who was I to interrupt her? She’d learn soon enough that they’re all alike. Or maybe she knew something I didn’t. I doubted that.
I had turned to leave when I heard her again.
“I couldn’t, really,” she said, and I heard a different tone come into her voice, an edge. If that brain-damaged redneck thought he could mess with Ruby, he would be in for a surprise.
I whirled around and started back, only to hear her giggle again. I froze, uncertain about interrupting. A man’s voice rumbled and I couldn’t make out what he said. The loudspeaker had blurted out something, drowning out their conversation. I started to walk away again.
“Look here,” the man said.
Another giggle from Ruby and then the horrible, unmistakable sound of bone snapping. I sprang forward, lurching to cover the distance to the other side of the Dumpster. As I rounded the corner there was a brief painful flash as I collided with something or someone. The last thing I remember as I slid into darkness was the word “No!” echoing soundlessly inside my head.
HIGH PRAISE FOR
Nancy Bartholomew’s
The Miracle Strip
“From the first page, I was captivated by the genuine and distinctive voice of Sierra Lavotini.”
—Jeremiah Healy, author of The Stalking of Sheilah Quinn and The Only Good Lawyer
“Nancy Bartholomew is a major new talent in the mystery field. Her characters crackle to life and her tale moves without a false note and at a pace that should be the envy of many well-known writers in the field who have forgotten that character, story and pace are all essential. Nancy is terrific. I look forward to her next novel and will consume it the day it arrives.”
—Stuart M. Kaminsky, author of The Dog Who Bit a Policeman
“From the first sentence, THE MIRACLE STRIP grips you by the scruff and zips you along … Humor abounds, dialogue rings true, and the situation is outrageous. A triumph of a first novel.”
—Clay Harvey, author of A Flash of Red
“Fasten your seat belts because you’re in for a wild ride with this amazingly funny and suspenseful debut novel. Ms. Bartholomew has created a magnificent take-no-prisoners heroine who is a true delight.”
—Romantic Times
“A zany, satirical, and ultra-humorous look at the ever growing Florida literary detective community. The story line contains a wonderful who-dun-it, a great supporting cast, and a bubbly lead protagonist who will disrobe readers of any inhibitions … A miracle mix.”
—The Midwest Book Review
OTHER TITLES FROM
ST. MARTIN’S MINOTAUR MYSTERIES
THE HANGING GARDEN
by Ian Rankin
THE MANGO OPERA
by Tom Corcoran
ZEN AND THE ART OF MURDER
by Elizabeth M. Cosin
THE MIRACLE STRIP
by Nancy Bartholomew
THE MURDER AT THE MURDER AT THE MIMOSA INN
by Joan Hess
BREAD ON ARRIVAL
by Lou Jane Temple
BIGGIE AND THE FRICASSEED FAT MAN
by Nancy Bell
MOODY FOREVER
by Steve Oliver
Minotaur is also proud to present these mystery classics by Ngaio Marsh
TIED UP IN TINSEL
VINTAGE MURDER
WHEN IN ROME
THE MIRACLE STRIP
Copyright © 1998 by Nancy Bartholomew Long.
Excerpt from Drag Strip © 1999 by Nancy Bartholomew Long.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 98-7330
ISBN: 0-312-97095-1
St, Martin’s Press hardcover edition / September 1998
St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / October 1999
eISBN 9781466856929
First eBook edition: October 2013
The Miracle Strip Page 23