Heartache Motel: Three Interconnected Mystery Novellas (Henery Press Mystery Novellas) (22 page)

ELEVEN

Home for Christmas

I gave the police a statement and all my contact information. Dale loaned me a Blackberry charger, and I put together a last story for Bob before I headed back to the Heartache after Darcy.

Memphis police shattered a theft ring Friday just in time to stop a priceless piece of music history from being sold for scrap.

“We’ve been working with Graceland security on this investigation for months,” MPD Det. Bart Sanders said. “I’m happy to report that while a belt worn by Elvis Presley in several stage performances was the thieves’ latest target, it has been returned safely to its case at Graceland unharmed.”

I filled in the rest of the specifics, including the tension among the locked-in tourists throughout the day and the relief when the thief was caught and the gates opened.

Bob, who was always stingy with compliments, replied with a heartfelt “attagirl” that was up there with the best Christmas gifts ever.

Turned out, the Elvis wannabe in the gift shop was undercover Memphis Detective Bart Sanders, which was why the reports in the police computer were locked. And Dale was very interested in the conversation I’d overheard that morning, because there had also been a rash of thefts from the employee locker room.

“Small potatoes, compared to this,” he waved a hand in the general direction of the trophy room as he walked me to my car, “but I’d sure like to wrap that up before New Year’s.”

“They didn’t use names, and I didn’t see them,” I said apologetically. “But they were both women. And they said it was ‘Christmas money and Christmas is over.’”

“Thanks.” He smiled.

“Thank you. This was a hell of an exclusive.”

I opened the car door and paused.

“Paul doesn’t happen to have a brother who works at the Heartache Motel?” I asked.

“Yep. Twin brother. Drag queen who works in the bar there. The PD has a unit headed over there to bust most of their kitchen staff, from what Bart told me.

“He said the detective you talked to found a whole slew of convicts there. When Paul got out of prison last year and moved here, he hooked up with them because his brother works there, and presto: theft ring.”

“Was Natalie—uh, Paul’s brother—in on it?”

“No criminal record, so no way to know yet,” Dale said.

I smiled. “She was nice.”

“Maybe she was just ignoring it because she didn’t want Paul to go back to prison. It happens.”

I thanked him again and eased into the car. I’d gashed my leg on gas-powered hedge trimmers, and Dale had called a female security guard up to apply antibiotic cream and a dressing.

It didn’t seem to be bleeding anymore, but I didn’t want to irritate it.

“Come back anytime.” Dale smiled as he closed the door.

“But just for the regular tour,” I grinned, waving as I backed out.

I dropped my bags next to the desk and scooped Darcy up, fishing my wallet out of my bag. Man-Margret laughed and shook her head, shooing away my Mastercard with a wave of her scarlet-tipped fingers.

“On the house, sugar. What a day. The cops hauled off half my kitchen staff, and your pooch...she’s my hero. Guess why she was raising hell at that vent? Just guess.”

“Rattly furnace?” I asked, already sure from the look on her face that wasn’t it.

“I sent maintenance up there to take the cover off because it popped back at her when she clawed at it. I saw it.” She shook her head and my stomach lurched.

“No.”

“Oh, yes. That blasted snake was in the heating vent! They took it away about an hour ago. Good riddance. And you and this sweet pup are welcome here any time you’re in Memphis.”

I grinned. “I appreciate that.”

Having seen more of Graceland than I ever intended, I was pretty sure we wouldn’t return anytime soon. I smiled a goodbye in my rearview mirror and squealed when NPR quoted my story on the air ten miles into Arkansas.

“Merry Christmas to me,” I sang, wondering if the politics editor at the
Washington Post
was on holiday. He was a hard guy to impress, but it would sure be nice for him to see this.

I punched the speed dial for my mom.

“I’m on my way,” I said. “We’re going to need coffee, but just wait ’til you hear this.”

“I’m mixing the cookie dough now,” she said. “Drive safe.”

My mom flew out the front door before I’d even put the car in park, screeching despite the wee-morning hour of my arrival.

“My baby!” She swooped me into a tight hug.

We hurried into the house, swathed in its annual dose of “Christmas threw up,” not a surface visible that wasn’t festooned with holly or pine or some incarnation of Santa. I smelled the cookies before I remembered.

“I forgot your present!” I clapped a hand over my mouth. “I was locked in Graceland for half the day, and I forgot to get you something. I’m sorry, mom.”

She grinned and shook her head, her eyes suspiciously shiny as she watched Darcy settle into the bed she kept next to the fireplace. “You’re all the present I need, baby girl. Merry Christmas. Welcome home.”

I hugged her again. It was good to be home. Happy and uncomplicated.

“You got a gift, though.” She straightened when I let her go and pointed to the tree before she turned for the kitchen at the ding of the oven timer.

I pulled a red-foil wrapped box from beneath the branches, checking the tag. “Miss Clarke,” it read.

My pulse fluttered. Or more complicated. It was too big to be a lock picking kit, though I wouldn’t have put it past him if he’d had a way to get it there in the ten hours since I got off the phone with him.

“FedEx brought it, signature required and insured, with a return address in Maryland.” Mom scooped cookies onto a cooling rack, and I burned my mouth when I bit into one. She stared at me with raised eyebrows. “Who’s in Maryland?”

“A friend,” I said around a searing mouthful of cookie. I poured a glass of milk and perched on a barstool, setting the box on the counter.

“Aren’t you going to open it?” she asked.

“I’m pretty sure you know what’s in there as well as I do,” I said. There was no mistaking the size or weight.

“I want to see them.” She reached for the box and I swatted her hand away, pulling the paper back carefully. My breath caught just a little when I saw the spiky Louboutin logo, all the same.

“A friend, huh?” Mom poked me and I rolled my eyes and shook my head.

“It’s complicated,” I said.

“Because of Kyle?” she asked.

“Sort of.” No way I was telling her any more. “I’m supposed to go over there tomorrow, don’t forget.”

I flipped the lid open and a tiny scream escaped before I could stop it, Kyle forgotten for the moment.

“Is that newsprint?” My mom breathed as I lifted the most perfect, beautiful shoes I’d ever seen from a careful bed of tissue.

“These were a limited edition,” I said. “I’ve never seen one single pair on eBay.” I slipped my right foot into a shoe, the delicious feel of never-worn artwork on my feet making my stomach flip. “Perfect.”

She pulled a heavy linen card from the box.

“I tried to find something as beautiful as you,” she read. “This was the closest I could get.”

I snatched the card, trying to keep my breath even as I studied every line of the heavy, slanting black script.

“Who is J?” Mom’s voice sounded far away. “Spill it.”

“I wish I knew how to answer that.” I popped the rest of the cookie into my mouth and stared at the shoes.

Crooks and murderers are far less complicated than men.

About the Authors

As a girl, Terri L. Austin thought she’d outgrow dreaming up stories and creating imaginary friends. Instead, she’s made a career of it. She met her own Prince Charming and together they live in Missouri. She loves to hear from readers!

After seeing Paper Moon as a child, Larissa Reinhart fell in love with stories about confidence capers. QUICK SKETCH is the Cherry Tucker prequel to PORTRAIT in the mystery anthology THE HEARTACHE MOTEL. HIJACK IN ABSTRACT is the third in the Cherry Tucker Mystery Series from Henery Press, following STILL LIFE IN BRUNSWICK STEW (#2) and PORTRAIT OF A DEAD GUY (#1), a 2012 Daphne du Maurier finalist. She lives near Atlanta with her minions and Cairn Terrier, Biscuit. Visit her website larissareinhart.com or find her on Facebook.

LynDee Walker grew up in the land of stifling heat and amazing food most people call Texas, and wanted to be Lois Lane from the time she could say the words “press conference.” An award-winning journalist, she traded cops and deadlines for burp cloths and onesies when her oldest child was born. Writing the Headlines in High Heels mysteries gives her the best of both worlds. LynDee adores her family, her readers, and enchiladas. She often works out tricky plot points while walking off the enchiladas. She lives in Richmond, Virginia, where she is working on her next novel. Find her at www.lyndeewalker.com.

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