Read Online Whiskey Rebellion (Romantic Mystery/Comedy) Book 1 (Addison Holmes Mysteries) by Liliana Hart - Free Book Online
Authors: Liliana Hart
Ads: Link
immortalized me on film. The problem was Mr. Butler wasn’t so alive and well now, which meant he couldn’t have been the one to tape the photo to my window.
I looked around but didn’t see anyone skulking about or looking guilty—not surprising since anyone standing in the parking lot of my apartment complex for more than five minutes had a ninety percent chance of being hit by falling debris. The problem with this latest development was that the most likely person to have Mr. Butler’s phone was his killer. And now the killer was taunting me. Never a good situation to be in.
I folded the picture and stuck it in my bag in case I ever decided to take up scrapbooking and got into my car. One stupid picture left by a killer wasn’t going to slow me down. No sirree. My life was headed in a new direction, and this new direction was going to have nothing to do with strip clubs or dead bodies.
I decided to do a bit of snooping for John Hyatt’s fiancé before I went into Savannah. I drove down Main Street and took a left on Whiskey Road. John Hyatt lived on the corner in a large three-story plantation house with an expansive front yard and beds of flowers everywhere. Scarlett O’Hara would have loved John Hyatt’s house.
There was a three-car garage attached to the house on the street side, and a wrought iron fence surrounded the Hyatt compound. It seemed like a lot of space for one man, but he’d inherited it from his parents and seemed to enjoy the lavish lifestyle it represented. There was a w hite van parked in the driveway that I knew wasn’t John’s, so my curiosity level went up a notch.
I looked through John’s file one more time to refresh my memory. Fanny Kimble and John Hyatt had been engaged for thirteen months, and their wedding was scheduled for October of this year. That seemed like a long time to be engaged to me, but I wasn’t really an expert on r elationships. Fanny was a true southern debutante, so a wedding that would eventually cost more than the governor’s inaugural ball might take longer than normal to plan.
Fanny stated in her interview with Kate that she was only allowed to stay the night on Mondays and Thursdays, and John had to pick her up from her house so the neighbors wouldn’t gossip if they saw her car parked in his driveway all night.
“Hmm, a cautious man, John Hyatt. Reputation is everything.”
I drove down the street and turned around in the cul-de-sac. I pulled into the driveway of John Hyatt’s neighbor and got out of the car, surveying the neighborhood as nonchalantly as possible. It was a wealthy neighborhoo d of men that worked sixty-hour weeks and socialite wives who spent all their time in Savannah shopping. The houses were deserted at this time of day.
Except for Victor Mooney’s house.
Victor Mooney had never worked a day in his life and thrived on the drama of others. Nobody knew where his money came from, but he had enough to buy himself a new Cadillac every year and donate money to projects when he wanted them named after him.
He had the door open for me before I made it to the front porch, and I hoped my hunch would pay off.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Mooney,” I said with my company smile in place—the smile that dripped sincerity and showed a lot of teeth. It was a southern technique perfected at birth.
Victor Mooney was in his late sixties and resembled a freshly scrubbed pot-bellied pig. His skin was pale and pink and his round belly sat on two stubby legs. He always wore red suspenders and carried peppermints in his pockets.
“Addison, what brings you here on this beautiful day? A girl your age should be out leading some man about by the nose, not visiting with dirty old men.”
His cheeks pinkened and I wanted to pat the top of his bristly white head. His blue eyes twinkled as he bent down to kiss my hand. He led me into his living room by the elbow and sat me in an uncomfortable Queen Anne chair that was made for midgets.
“I’m actually
I looked around but didn’t see anyone skulking about or looking guilty—not surprising since anyone standing in the parking lot of my apartment complex for more than five minutes had a ninety percent chance of being hit by falling debris. The problem with this latest development was that the most likely person to have Mr. Butler’s phone was his killer. And now the killer was taunting me. Never a good situation to be in.
I folded the picture and stuck it in my bag in case I ever decided to take up scrapbooking and got into my car. One stupid picture left by a killer wasn’t going to slow me down. No sirree. My life was headed in a new direction, and this new direction was going to have nothing to do with strip clubs or dead bodies.
I decided to do a bit of snooping for John Hyatt’s fiancé before I went into Savannah. I drove down Main Street and took a left on Whiskey Road. John Hyatt lived on the corner in a large three-story plantation house with an expansive front yard and beds of flowers everywhere. Scarlett O’Hara would have loved John Hyatt’s house.
There was a three-car garage attached to the house on the street side, and a wrought iron fence surrounded the Hyatt compound. It seemed like a lot of space for one man, but he’d inherited it from his parents and seemed to enjoy the lavish lifestyle it represented. There was a w hite van parked in the driveway that I knew wasn’t John’s, so my curiosity level went up a notch.
I looked through John’s file one more time to refresh my memory. Fanny Kimble and John Hyatt had been engaged for thirteen months, and their wedding was scheduled for October of this year. That seemed like a long time to be engaged to me, but I wasn’t really an expert on r elationships. Fanny was a true southern debutante, so a wedding that would eventually cost more than the governor’s inaugural ball might take longer than normal to plan.
Fanny stated in her interview with Kate that she was only allowed to stay the night on Mondays and Thursdays, and John had to pick her up from her house so the neighbors wouldn’t gossip if they saw her car parked in his driveway all night.
“Hmm, a cautious man, John Hyatt. Reputation is everything.”
I drove down the street and turned around in the cul-de-sac. I pulled into the driveway of John Hyatt’s neighbor and got out of the car, surveying the neighborhood as nonchalantly as possible. It was a wealthy neighborhoo d of men that worked sixty-hour weeks and socialite wives who spent all their time in Savannah shopping. The houses were deserted at this time of day.
Except for Victor Mooney’s house.
Victor Mooney had never worked a day in his life and thrived on the drama of others. Nobody knew where his money came from, but he had enough to buy himself a new Cadillac every year and donate money to projects when he wanted them named after him.
He had the door open for me before I made it to the front porch, and I hoped my hunch would pay off.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Mooney,” I said with my company smile in place—the smile that dripped sincerity and showed a lot of teeth. It was a southern technique perfected at birth.
Victor Mooney was in his late sixties and resembled a freshly scrubbed pot-bellied pig. His skin was pale and pink and his round belly sat on two stubby legs. He always wore red suspenders and carried peppermints in his pockets.
“Addison, what brings you here on this beautiful day? A girl your age should be out leading some man about by the nose, not visiting with dirty old men.”
His cheeks pinkened and I wanted to pat the top of his bristly white head. His blue eyes twinkled as he bent down to kiss my hand. He led me into his living room by the elbow and sat me in an uncomfortable Queen Anne chair that was made for midgets.
“I’m actually
Similar Books
