“Darned if I know, but we’d better get out there,” Lorraine replied.
Muffled voices coming from the direction of the bathroom door grew louder as the door opened then shut, muting them again.
Cautiously, I peered over the top of the stall to be sure both Valerie and Lorraine were gone. Coast clear, I slipped from the stall and stuffed the receipt back into my hoodie pocket, fully intending to hand it over to one of the investigating officers.
I shouldered the bathroom door and fell into a crowd gathered around the front desk as even more people piled into the station.
Coco was in the middle of it all, being pushed around, her purse swinging from the bend in her elbow as she tried to keep from teetering on her heels.
What in gravy’s name was going on?
“I’m tellin’ ya, sure as the day is long, the time has come!”
I tried to push my way through the throng of people who’d gathered at the station, but I didn’t need to look far to know who’d stirred up trouble.
Cappie.
He stood on top of Thurman’s desk, his hair—which I’m convinced hadn’t been cut since the seventies—in a thin, greasy topknot on his head, bouncing wildly as he hopped from bare foot to bare foot.
Cappie didn’t believe in shoes per se—he wore wooden clogs and for some strange reason, likely one of his many government-proof rituals, always kicked them off outside before entering a building.
He claimed the rubber on the soles was made from toxic something or other, and it would eat through his feet—or something like that. I’d zoned out on that particular rant against, as Cappie called them, the damn mutant robots running congress.
“May Layne ain’t responsible for old Myron’s murder! Listen up, Figgers, the po-po’s tryin’ to frame our girl and hide the truth from us!”
Oh, shoot. I didn’t know where Cappie was going with this, but I was in no mood to humor one of his conspiracy theories today. This was my mother he was dragging into another one of his nutty ideas.
Furthermore, how did he know thing one about Myron’s murder and my mom’s involvement? I loved Fig with the very depths of my soul—I didn’t love how quickly word spread, no matter how big or small the news. In a town this size, you couldn’t get a bunion without everyone knowing about it.
“Cappie!” Justice yelled. “Get down from there, or I’m gonna throw you in a cell!”
I wasn’t the only one who humored my pal Cappie—the entire town did. And what Justice means is, he’ll call Cappie’s daughter Noreen, and she’ll make him spend his nights at her cute bungalow where she can keep a close eye on him. The bungalow he declares is filled with listening devices ala the government. He’d moved out of her house and into a camper on a patch of her land because of it.
Cappie also hates Noreen’s house due to her very vocal pet cockatoos, which he’s convinced are also government informants. I don’t know how Noreen keeps her patience with Cappie, but so far, she hasn’t committed him or killed him, and in my mind, she deserves a medal for all the time she spends bailing him out of trouble.
“The devil I will, Copper!” he sang as he danced around the long granite countertop, his long, painfully thin legs, encased in thermal underwear, poking out of his frayed denim shorts with a sort of layered effect.
Justice pushed his way through the crowd and looked up. “Cappie, I’m gonna give you one last warning.”
“I’m not comin’ down until you let May go and tell the truth! We deserve to know the truth!”
What truth?
Thurman snuck up from behind Cappie and made an unsuccessful swipe for him, knocking into his chair, sending the contents of his desk and his person to the floor.
As pens and pencils scattered on the ground, someone from the crowd shouted, “What the heck are you goin’ on about, Cappie? You got us all worked up over poor May. Speak your piece!”
Cappie cackled and stuck his tongue out at Justice. “Listen up, Figgers! May Layne didn’t kill nobody. She’s an innocent woman bein’ framed by the corrupt system!”
Several people gasped, and then Davis Turner, a tried and true Walleye Fisherman’s Club Member, shouted, “So who killed him, Cap?”
“Zombies!” Cappie bellowed, waving a knobby, weathered finger. “We got us a case of the living dead right here, folks! He’s stealin’ brains and eatin’ ’em for dinner!” And then he began to chant and clap. “Free May Layne! Free May Layne!”
Everyone around me erupted, joining Cappie, stomping their feet, and demanding my mother’s release.
I covered my face with my hands and groaned.
Where was Rick Grimes from The Walking Dead when you needed him?
~
Buy the complete book:
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About Dakota
Dakota Cassidy is a USA Today bestselling author with over thirty books. She writes laugh-out-loud cozy mysteries, romantic comedy, grab-some-ice erotic romance, hot and sexy alpha males, paranormal shifters, contemporary kick-ass women, and more.
Dakota was invited by Bravo TV to be the Bravoholic for a week, wherein she snarked the hell out of all the Bravo shows. She received a starred review from Publishers Weekly for Talk Dirty to Me, won a Romantic Times Reviewers’ Choice Award for Kiss and Hell, along with many review site recommended reads and reviewer top pick awards.
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eBooks by Dakota Cassidy
Visit Dakota’s website at http://www.dakotacassidy.com for more information.
A Lemon Layne Mystery, a Contemporary Cozy Mystery Series
1. Prawn of the Dead
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01LXSGBYC
2. Play That Funky Music White Koi
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01LZQPY5E
3. Total Eclipse of the Carp
Witchless In Seattle Mysteries, a Paranormal Cozy Mystery series
1. Witch Slapped
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01M16055Q
2. Quit Your Witchin'
3. Dewitched
4. The Old Witcheroo
5. How the Witch Stole Christmas
6. Ain’t Love a Witch
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0721NLMTG
Wolf Mates, a Paranormal Romantic Comedy series
1. An American Werewolf In Hoboken
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00WROKCEQ
2. What’s New, Pussycat?
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00WTMPGGK
3. Gotta Have Faith
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00XBBV310
4. Moves Like Jagger
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01HDH4BXO
5. Bad Case of Loving You
A Paris, Texas Romance, a Paranormal Romantic Comedy series
1. Witched At Birth
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00ZJIOZCC
2. What Not to Were
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01FDVBIYW
3. Witch Is the New Black
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01FVSB6YY
/> 4. White Witchmas
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01HPIRLK6
Non-Series
Whose Bride Is She Anyway?
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B011AEY9GK
Polanski Brothers: Home of Eternal Rest
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B011JG7T4I
Sexy Lips 66
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01NC3GYM6
Accidentally Paranormal, a Paranormal Romantic Comedy series
Interview With an Accidental—a free introductory guide to the girls of the Accidentals!
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00XBBV3EW
1. The Accidental Werewolf
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3. The Accidental Human
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5. Accidentally Catty
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6. Accidentally Dead, Again
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7. The Accidental Genie
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8. The Accidental Werewolf 2: Something About Harry
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9. The Accidental Dragon
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10. Accidentally Aphrodite
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11. Accidentally Ever After
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B01BOBPFRQ
12. Bearly Accidental
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01N04KW3G
13. How Nina Got Her Fang Back
14. The Accidental Familiar
15. Then Came Wanda
The Hell, a Paranormal Romantic Comedy series
1. Kiss and Hell
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2. My Way to Hell
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The Plum Orchard, a Contemporary Romantic Comedy series
1. Talk This Way
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2. Talk Dirty to Me
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3. Something to Talk About
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4. Talking After Midnight
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The Ex-Trophy Wives, a Contemporary Romantic Comedy series
1. You Dropped a Blonde On Me
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2. Burning Down the Spouse
http://www.amzn.com/B004LRPDSW
3. Waltz This Way
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Fangs of Anarchy, a Paranormal Urban Fantasy series
1. Forbidden Alpha
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0135LYKB0
2. Outlaw Alpha
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B013TRWDAA
Dakota Cassidy recommends … Renee George
Pit Perfect
Barkside of the Moon Mysteries, Book 1
Renee George
Chapter 1
When I was eighteen years old, I came home from a sleepover and found my mom and dad with their throats cut, and their hearts ripped from their chests.
My little brother Danny was in a broom closet in the kitchen, his arms wrapped around his knees, and his face pale and ghostly. Until that day, I’d planned to go to college and study medicine after graduation, but instead, I ended up staying home and taking care of my seven-year-old brother.
Seventeen years later, my brother was murdered. At the time, Danny’s death looked like it would go unsolved, much like my parents’ had.
Without Haze Kinsey, my best friend since we were five, the killers would have gotten away with it. She was a special agent for the FBI for almost a decade, and when I called her about Danny’s death, she dropped everything to come help me get him justice. The evil group of witches and Shifters responsible for the decimation of my family paid with their lives.
Yes. I said witches and Shifters. Did I forget to mention I’m a werecougar? Oh, and my friend Hazel is a witch. Recently, I discovered witches in my own family tree on my mother’s side. Shifters, in general, only mated with Shifters, but witches were the exception. As a matter of fact, my friend Haze is mated to a bear Shifter.
I wouldn’t have known about the witch in my genealogy, though, if a rogue witch coven hadn’t done some funky hoodoo witchery to me. Apparently, the spell activated a latent talent that had been dormant in my hybrid genes.
My ancestor’s magic acted like truth serum to anyone who came near her. No one could lie in her presence. Lucky me, my ability was a much lesser form of hers. People didn’t have to tell me the truth, but whenever they were around me, they had the compulsion to overshare all sorts of private matters about themselves. This can get seriously uncomfortable for all parties involved. Like, the fact that I didn’t need to know that Janet Strickland had been wearing the same pair of underwear for an entire week, or that Mike Dandridge had sexual fantasies about clowns.
My newfound talent made me unpopular and unwelcome in a town full of paranormal creatures who thrived on little deceptions. So, when Haze discovered the whereabouts of my dad’s brother, a guy I hadn’t known even existed, I sold all my belongings, let the bank have my parents’ house, jumped in my truck, and headed south.
After two days and 700 miles of nonstop gray, snowy weather, I pulled my screeching green and yellow mini-truck into an auto repair shop called The Rusty Wrench. Much like my beloved pickup, I’d needed a new start, and moving to a small town occupied by humans seemed the best shot. I’d barely made it to Moonrise, Missouri before my truck began its death throes. The vehicle protested the last 127 miles by sputtering to a halt as I rolled her into the closest spot.
The shop was a small white-brick building with a one-car garage off to the right side. A black SUV and a white compact car occupied two of the six parking spots.
A sign on the office door said: No Credit Cards. Cash Only. Some Local Checks Accepted (Except from Earl—You Know Why, Earl! You check-bouncing bastard).
A man in stained coveralls, wiping a greasy tool with a rag, came out the side door of the garage. He had a full head of wavy gray hair, bushy eyebrows over light blue, almost colorless eyes, and a minimally lined face that made me wonder about his age. I got out of the truck to greet him.
“Can I help you, miss?” His voice was soft and raspy with a strong accent that was not quite Deep South.
“Yes, please.” I adjusted my puffy winter coat. “The heater stopped working first. Then the truck started jerking for the last fifty miles or so.”
He scratched his stubbly chin. “You could have thrown a rod, sheared the distributor, or you have a bad ignition module. That’s pretty common on these trucks.”
I blinked at him. I could name every muscle in the human body and twelve different kinds of viruses, but I didn’t know a spark plug from a radiator cap. “And that all means…”
“If you threw a rod, the engine is toast. You’ll need a new vehicle.”
“Crap.” I grimaced. “What if it’s the other thingies?”
The scruffy mechanic shrugged. “A sheared distributor is an easy fix, but I have to order in the part, which means it won’t get fixed for a couple of days. Best-case scenario, it’s the ignition module. I have a few on hand. Could get you going in a couple of hours, but…” he looked over my shoulder at the truck and shook his head, “…I wouldn’t get your hopes up.”
I must’ve looked really forlorn because the guy said, “It might not need any parts. Let me take a look at it first. You can grab a cup of coffee across the street at Langdon’s One-Stop.”
He pointed to the gas station across the road. It didn’t look like much. The pale-blue paint on the front of the building looked in need of a new coat, and the weather-beaten sign with the store’s name on it had seen better days. There was a car at the gas pumps and a couple more in the parking lot, b
ut not enough to call it busy.
I’d had enough of one-stops, though, thank you. The bathrooms had been horrible enough to make a wereraccoon yark, and it took a lot to make those garbage eaters sick. Besides, I wasn’t just passing through Moonrise, Missouri.
“Have you ever heard of The Cat’s Meow Café?” Saying the name out loud made me smile the way it had when Hazel had first said it to me. I’d followed my GPS into town, so I knew I wasn’t too far away from the place.
“Just up the street about two blocks, take a right on Sterling Street. You can’t miss it. I should have some news in about an hour or so, but take your time.”
“Thank you, Mister…”
“Greer.” He shoved the tool in his pocket. “Greer Knowles.”
“I’m Lily Mason.”
“Nice to meet ya,” said Greer. “The place gets hoppin’ around noon. That’s when church lets out.”
I looked at my phone. It was a little before noon now. “Good. I could go for something to eat. How are the burgers?”
“Best in town,” he quipped.
I laughed. “Good enough.”
Even in the sub-freezing temperature, my hands were sweating in my mittens. I wasn’t sure what had me more nervous, leaving the town I grew up in for the first time in my life or meeting an uncle I’d never known existed.
I crossed a four-way intersection. One of the signs was missing, and I saw the four-by-four post had snapped off at its base. I hadn’t noticed it on my way in. Crap. Had I run a stop sign? I walked the two blocks to Sterling. The diner was just where Greer had said. A blue truck, a green mini-coup, and a sheriff’s SUV were parked out front.
An alarm dinged as the glass door opened to The Cat’s Meow. Inside, there was a row of six booths along the wall, four tables that seated four out in the open floor, and counter seating with about eight cushioned black stools. The interior décor was rustic country with orange tabby kitsch everywhere. A man in blue jeans and a button-down shirt with a string tie sat in the nearest booth. A female police officer sat at a counter chair sipping coffee and eating a cinnamon roll. Two elderly women, one with snowball-white hair, the other a dyed strawberry-blonde, sat in a back booth.
Ain't Love a Witch? (Witchless in Seattle Mysteries Book 6) Page 23