Read Online Girls Just Wanna Have Guns by Toni McGee Causey - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Toni McGee Causey
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gun,” Allison agreed. At nineteen, the twins had seen a lot of Bobbie Faye disasters, but nothing quite this up close and personal.
Ce Ce looked over at Maimee, who was giving her statement to the cops and who was now extremely disgruntled at being detained. Several other customers gathered at the worn, chipped red Formica tables over in the little breakfast nook Ce Ce had installed near one of the counters where she sold biscuits and gravy and chicken tenders to the fishermen heading out for a day on the lake. Those who weren’t answering the cops’ questions had their attention riveted to the little TV mounted above the food counter, where footage from the local TV news showed a crater in the Highway 171 bridge. Ce Ce grabbed Alicia’s arm to steady herself as the camera zoomed to the remains of a Honda Civic with telltale Bondo and duct tape holding on the rear quarter panel—or what was left of it.
“That’s Bobbie Faye’s car,” Alicia whispered, and Ce Ce swallowed hard.
Ce Ce’s best friend, Monique, bustled out from the back office area and gaped. Monique, a mom of four hellions,was squat and heavy, red hair and freckles, and looked like the safest, sweetest, nicest person on the planet. Her sunny disposition was probably a result of having a flask handy twenty-four/seven—something Ce Ce didn’t entirely fault her for.
“How did you get into a crime scene?” Ce Ce asked her. As the owner, they’d let Ce Ce in, but no one else was supposed to get past the perimeter until the cops were done with the evidence collection.
“Oh, honey, I used to babysit Earl over there,” Monique waved at one of the cops. “Hey,” Monique said as she took in the extent of the damage, “I thought we cast a bunch of wahootsie thingies to keep Bobbie Faye safe in here.”
Monique had insisted that she wanted to learn how to cast the spells, but her extreme lack of attention to detail (especially as she’d drink whatever was in the flask throughout the lesson) was going to get them killed if Ce Ce wasn’t careful.
“Honey, whatever we did wasn’t strong enough.”
Excitement brimmed in Monique’s big blue eyes. “Are we about to go all kick-butt in the voodoo-rama department?”
Ce Ce scanned the room and then turned toward the storage area where she kept her supplies. “You bet your sweet freckled ass we are.”
Cam stood near the crime scene tech as she checked over the car. It reeked of burnt rubber and the sour tang of seared metal. The tech, Maggie, was older than God, and she always wore a nice suit with a red flower in the lapel. A short woman who barely came up to Cam’s sternum and was as wide as she was tall, Maggie nonetheless moved with an elegant grace that made Cam think of ballet lessons and etiquette classes instead of the grisly reality that was Maggie’s day job. None of this whole scene was improved by the dead-fish smell wafting upward from the bayou below them.
“I’m not seeing remains,” she said to Cam in a volumelow enough, Cam suspected, that the news couldn’t catch it on their boom mikes, which were extended as far out from the police barrier as possible. It was always an insane feeding frenzy with a Bobbie Faye case—the news ratings usually spiked on days when she created a wide path of destruction, and per usual, every TV station, radio station, newspaper (even high school), and Internet news site was represented. Cam tried to stand between Maggie and the cameras as she worked, but the cameras had set up on both ends of the bridge just beyond police barricades, so there was no avoiding them. “I’ll get you something more conclusive once we go over the debris,” she told him, “but I think your girl must’ve gotten out before the bomb blew.” She leaned into the car through the missing doorway. “Looks like we got a good fire crew this time—they did the best they could not to destroy the evidence. I might get lucky.”
Cam allowed himself a small sigh of
Ce Ce looked over at Maimee, who was giving her statement to the cops and who was now extremely disgruntled at being detained. Several other customers gathered at the worn, chipped red Formica tables over in the little breakfast nook Ce Ce had installed near one of the counters where she sold biscuits and gravy and chicken tenders to the fishermen heading out for a day on the lake. Those who weren’t answering the cops’ questions had their attention riveted to the little TV mounted above the food counter, where footage from the local TV news showed a crater in the Highway 171 bridge. Ce Ce grabbed Alicia’s arm to steady herself as the camera zoomed to the remains of a Honda Civic with telltale Bondo and duct tape holding on the rear quarter panel—or what was left of it.
“That’s Bobbie Faye’s car,” Alicia whispered, and Ce Ce swallowed hard.
Ce Ce’s best friend, Monique, bustled out from the back office area and gaped. Monique, a mom of four hellions,was squat and heavy, red hair and freckles, and looked like the safest, sweetest, nicest person on the planet. Her sunny disposition was probably a result of having a flask handy twenty-four/seven—something Ce Ce didn’t entirely fault her for.
“How did you get into a crime scene?” Ce Ce asked her. As the owner, they’d let Ce Ce in, but no one else was supposed to get past the perimeter until the cops were done with the evidence collection.
“Oh, honey, I used to babysit Earl over there,” Monique waved at one of the cops. “Hey,” Monique said as she took in the extent of the damage, “I thought we cast a bunch of wahootsie thingies to keep Bobbie Faye safe in here.”
Monique had insisted that she wanted to learn how to cast the spells, but her extreme lack of attention to detail (especially as she’d drink whatever was in the flask throughout the lesson) was going to get them killed if Ce Ce wasn’t careful.
“Honey, whatever we did wasn’t strong enough.”
Excitement brimmed in Monique’s big blue eyes. “Are we about to go all kick-butt in the voodoo-rama department?”
Ce Ce scanned the room and then turned toward the storage area where she kept her supplies. “You bet your sweet freckled ass we are.”
Cam stood near the crime scene tech as she checked over the car. It reeked of burnt rubber and the sour tang of seared metal. The tech, Maggie, was older than God, and she always wore a nice suit with a red flower in the lapel. A short woman who barely came up to Cam’s sternum and was as wide as she was tall, Maggie nonetheless moved with an elegant grace that made Cam think of ballet lessons and etiquette classes instead of the grisly reality that was Maggie’s day job. None of this whole scene was improved by the dead-fish smell wafting upward from the bayou below them.
“I’m not seeing remains,” she said to Cam in a volumelow enough, Cam suspected, that the news couldn’t catch it on their boom mikes, which were extended as far out from the police barrier as possible. It was always an insane feeding frenzy with a Bobbie Faye case—the news ratings usually spiked on days when she created a wide path of destruction, and per usual, every TV station, radio station, newspaper (even high school), and Internet news site was represented. Cam tried to stand between Maggie and the cameras as she worked, but the cameras had set up on both ends of the bridge just beyond police barricades, so there was no avoiding them. “I’ll get you something more conclusive once we go over the debris,” she told him, “but I think your girl must’ve gotten out before the bomb blew.” She leaned into the car through the missing doorway. “Looks like we got a good fire crew this time—they did the best they could not to destroy the evidence. I might get lucky.”
Cam allowed himself a small sigh of
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