Whiskey Rebellion (Romantic Mystery/Comedy) Book 1 (Addison Holmes Mysteries) by Liliana Hart Page A
Authors: Liliana Hart
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I’d be damned if I really meant any apology to that weasel, but no pain, no gain, right?
“I’ll do that,” she said and started to close the door in my face.
“I’m sorry, but I didn’t get your name.”
“Loretta Swanson. I’m Mr. Hyatt’s estate manager. Try to stay dry,” she said and closed the door.
Was she kidding? I was going to need a canoe if this rain continued on much longer.
I got back in the car and thought for a minute. Loretta Swanson, an estate manager that Fanny Kimble hadn’t mentioned once when Kate had questioned her. Did Loretta make it a point to not work the nights that Fanny was staying over, and better yet, how was it even possible that both women hadn’t stumbled across each other in the thirteen months of John and Fanny’s engagement. I needed to talk to Fanny Kimble.
There was something that bothered me about Loretta Swanson. You wouldn’t think a typical estate manager would be able to afford six hundred dollar shoes. Loretta was someone that John Hyatt treated like a queen. And my gut told me Fanny had a good reason to be jealous. I was going to have to bite the bullet and have another visit with John Hyatt. I might even have to apologize to him for real to get the information I wanted.
Gretchen Wilder was a sex-crazed librarian, but the Thunderbolt Public Library didn’t close until seven o’clock, so I had time to swing by my mom’s and mooch dinner before playing peeping Tom.
My mom wasn’t the world’s best cook, but her pantry was always stocked and I was willing to bet there was no slimy lettuce anywhere in her kitchen.
I once again parked behind the General Lee and sloshed my way to the back door. The rain was lessening, which was good now that I was soaked to the skin, and I wiped my feet on the doormat before opening the door to the kitchen.
The smell of Lemon Pledge and coffee that had sat on the burner all day hit my nostrils. I was chilled and shivering, my hair hung in my face, and I was willing to bet my waterproof mascara was smudged under my eyes.
“Addison?” my mother said. “Is that you?”
“Do you have a lot of strange, wet women walk in your back door on a daily basis?” I asked sarcastically.
My mother clucked her tongue like mothers do and went about laying down towels on the floor so I wouldn’t drip. Mom was a pretty woman, barely fifty, and looked exactly like I would in the next twenty years—long dark hair that had no gray thanks to Clairol, dark brown eyes and olive skin. She was a little wider in the hips and a lot more blessed in the bust, but if I ate a steady diet of Hostess Cupcakes I could probably graduate to a C cup in the next ten years.
“Let me get you a pair of clean sweats and underwear,” my mother said.
“Just the sweats. I’m not wearing your underwear. That’s weird.”
“You can’t go around without undergarments on,” she said scandalized. “What if you were stopped by the police on your way home?”
“They might let me out of a ticket,” I said, teeth chattering.
If my mother was upset about me not wearing underwear, I shuddered to think what her reaction would be if she ever found out about The Foxy Lady.
“Where did I go wrong?” she asked as she went to get dry clothes. I didn’t have an answer to that question, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t her fault. I think I was wired differently from birth. Maybe she smoked pot or something while she was pregnant. It would sure as hell explain what was wrong with my sister.
“Have you ever done anything questionable in your life? Something you regretted?” I asked my mother when she came back in with a pair of dark grey sweats, socks and old running shoes.
“Of course. But the choices we make shape our destiny. I wouldn’t change anything I’ve done because I wouldn’t be who I am today.”
“Hmmm. That’s pretty wise.” If I hadn’t stripped at The Foxy Lady I never would have met Nick. Not that we had a relationship
“I’ll do that,” she said and started to close the door in my face.
“I’m sorry, but I didn’t get your name.”
“Loretta Swanson. I’m Mr. Hyatt’s estate manager. Try to stay dry,” she said and closed the door.
Was she kidding? I was going to need a canoe if this rain continued on much longer.
I got back in the car and thought for a minute. Loretta Swanson, an estate manager that Fanny Kimble hadn’t mentioned once when Kate had questioned her. Did Loretta make it a point to not work the nights that Fanny was staying over, and better yet, how was it even possible that both women hadn’t stumbled across each other in the thirteen months of John and Fanny’s engagement. I needed to talk to Fanny Kimble.
There was something that bothered me about Loretta Swanson. You wouldn’t think a typical estate manager would be able to afford six hundred dollar shoes. Loretta was someone that John Hyatt treated like a queen. And my gut told me Fanny had a good reason to be jealous. I was going to have to bite the bullet and have another visit with John Hyatt. I might even have to apologize to him for real to get the information I wanted.
Gretchen Wilder was a sex-crazed librarian, but the Thunderbolt Public Library didn’t close until seven o’clock, so I had time to swing by my mom’s and mooch dinner before playing peeping Tom.
My mom wasn’t the world’s best cook, but her pantry was always stocked and I was willing to bet there was no slimy lettuce anywhere in her kitchen.
I once again parked behind the General Lee and sloshed my way to the back door. The rain was lessening, which was good now that I was soaked to the skin, and I wiped my feet on the doormat before opening the door to the kitchen.
The smell of Lemon Pledge and coffee that had sat on the burner all day hit my nostrils. I was chilled and shivering, my hair hung in my face, and I was willing to bet my waterproof mascara was smudged under my eyes.
“Addison?” my mother said. “Is that you?”
“Do you have a lot of strange, wet women walk in your back door on a daily basis?” I asked sarcastically.
My mother clucked her tongue like mothers do and went about laying down towels on the floor so I wouldn’t drip. Mom was a pretty woman, barely fifty, and looked exactly like I would in the next twenty years—long dark hair that had no gray thanks to Clairol, dark brown eyes and olive skin. She was a little wider in the hips and a lot more blessed in the bust, but if I ate a steady diet of Hostess Cupcakes I could probably graduate to a C cup in the next ten years.
“Let me get you a pair of clean sweats and underwear,” my mother said.
“Just the sweats. I’m not wearing your underwear. That’s weird.”
“You can’t go around without undergarments on,” she said scandalized. “What if you were stopped by the police on your way home?”
“They might let me out of a ticket,” I said, teeth chattering.
If my mother was upset about me not wearing underwear, I shuddered to think what her reaction would be if she ever found out about The Foxy Lady.
“Where did I go wrong?” she asked as she went to get dry clothes. I didn’t have an answer to that question, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t her fault. I think I was wired differently from birth. Maybe she smoked pot or something while she was pregnant. It would sure as hell explain what was wrong with my sister.
“Have you ever done anything questionable in your life? Something you regretted?” I asked my mother when she came back in with a pair of dark grey sweats, socks and old running shoes.
“Of course. But the choices we make shape our destiny. I wouldn’t change anything I’ve done because I wouldn’t be who I am today.”
“Hmmm. That’s pretty wise.” If I hadn’t stripped at The Foxy Lady I never would have met Nick. Not that we had a relationship
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