Read Online Wounded Earth by Mary Anna Evans - Free Book Online
Authors: Mary Anna Evans
Tags: thriller, Suspense, Florida, New Orleans, Strangers, Terrorism, Woman in Jeopardy, Relics, Nuclear, Environment, private eye, A Merry Band of Murderers, Floodgates, Domestic Terrorism, Effigies, Artifacts, Florida Heat Wave, A Singularly Unsuitable Word, Mary Anna Evans, Findings
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Lincoln Log Lodge. The conversation had stalled. The Lincoln Log was a pretty good hotel, definitely better than okay, but it wasn't a top-of-the-line facility by any stretch of the imagination.
J.D. was a little surprised, but not much. When he was on assignment, he generally arranged for accommodations no more expensive than his clients used for themselves. He knew a company the size of BioHeal would do better than this, even for its run-of-the-mill employees. As for the CEO—well, the CEO of any comparable company would have had top-flight accommodations. And she certainly wouldn't have been driving herself around in an economy rental car.
That was Larabeth. Maybe he hadn't seen her in five years, but he had worked for her, off and on, for seven years before that. Even in the early days, she'd made plenty of money, enough to pay a green-as-grass private investigator to do work that was interesting but didn't add a cent to the bottom line.
As her business grew and she got wealthier, nothing changed. He thought she was fairly healthy about money—she had everything she needed and most of what she wanted—but Larabeth didn't seem to want things like Lamborghinis or diamonds.
Fine with him. He admired that. His parents were Lamborghini-and-diamond-type people, and they were tiresome on their best days. But he was a teeny bit frustrated to go jetting off to a region famous for nothing so much as corn and corn-fed beef, only to find that his steak was tough. It was also garnished with a sprig of parsley, a cherry tomato, and a wisp of white iceberg lettuce
But J.D. could never stay irritated with Larabeth for long. He had stopped being irritated with her about two days after their last argument, but he'd been too proud to call. Since she also had more than her share of pride, they had lost five years of—five years of what? Friendship? Cordial business ties? Unconsummated sexual banter?
It was best not to let his thoughts stray down sexual paths. She might notice. He cast about for a neutral topic.
“So, do you still have that ugly car?”
Larabeth bristled. “My car was never ugly. It was a classic Mustang, playboy pink with a black interior. A real ‘girl car’ from the ‘Sixties. I have another one just like it now.”
“What happened to the old one? Did you finally run its tires off?” How many times had he baited her about that silly car?
“Oh, I still have it.”
“You have two identical ugly pink cars.”
“They're getting old, you know. I drive one while the other visits my mechanic for pampering. I pay a fortune in maintenance, but what's money for?”
Oh, he did prefer her attitude to gotta-drive-a-brand-new-Beamer snobbery.
“Good Lord,” he snorted. “I suppose they have matching vanity plates: “LARABETH1 and LARABETH2?”
“No. I hate vanity plates. They're so. . .vain. Jean-Pierre thinks their license plates should say SALLY1 and SALLY2. He named them after that song ‘Mustang Sally.’”
J.D. groaned. ”Jean-Pierre. Would he be your Parisian lover?”
“No. My Cajun auto mechanic. I think he'd work on the Sallies for free, but he doesn't. My maintenance bills will probably put his kids through college.”
“She pays a fortune to keep two identical ugly cars,” he said. “I wish I had that kind of money.”
“I notice that you're still driving an anonymous beige car. Where's your imagination?”
“Where's your common sense?” he grumbled. “Detectives have to drive anonymous cars. You can't do surveillance in a car that glows in the dark.”
He liked the way she laughed at him. There she sat, toying with her food, looking just as poised and graceful in her jeans and loafers as she did in her business suits. She had even looked comfortable in the cornfield in that damnable protective jumpsuit. She looked so charming and he was so pleased to see her again after the terrible way they had parted, that he spoke without thinking and said precisely the wrong
J.D. was a little surprised, but not much. When he was on assignment, he generally arranged for accommodations no more expensive than his clients used for themselves. He knew a company the size of BioHeal would do better than this, even for its run-of-the-mill employees. As for the CEO—well, the CEO of any comparable company would have had top-flight accommodations. And she certainly wouldn't have been driving herself around in an economy rental car.
That was Larabeth. Maybe he hadn't seen her in five years, but he had worked for her, off and on, for seven years before that. Even in the early days, she'd made plenty of money, enough to pay a green-as-grass private investigator to do work that was interesting but didn't add a cent to the bottom line.
As her business grew and she got wealthier, nothing changed. He thought she was fairly healthy about money—she had everything she needed and most of what she wanted—but Larabeth didn't seem to want things like Lamborghinis or diamonds.
Fine with him. He admired that. His parents were Lamborghini-and-diamond-type people, and they were tiresome on their best days. But he was a teeny bit frustrated to go jetting off to a region famous for nothing so much as corn and corn-fed beef, only to find that his steak was tough. It was also garnished with a sprig of parsley, a cherry tomato, and a wisp of white iceberg lettuce
But J.D. could never stay irritated with Larabeth for long. He had stopped being irritated with her about two days after their last argument, but he'd been too proud to call. Since she also had more than her share of pride, they had lost five years of—five years of what? Friendship? Cordial business ties? Unconsummated sexual banter?
It was best not to let his thoughts stray down sexual paths. She might notice. He cast about for a neutral topic.
“So, do you still have that ugly car?”
Larabeth bristled. “My car was never ugly. It was a classic Mustang, playboy pink with a black interior. A real ‘girl car’ from the ‘Sixties. I have another one just like it now.”
“What happened to the old one? Did you finally run its tires off?” How many times had he baited her about that silly car?
“Oh, I still have it.”
“You have two identical ugly pink cars.”
“They're getting old, you know. I drive one while the other visits my mechanic for pampering. I pay a fortune in maintenance, but what's money for?”
Oh, he did prefer her attitude to gotta-drive-a-brand-new-Beamer snobbery.
“Good Lord,” he snorted. “I suppose they have matching vanity plates: “LARABETH1 and LARABETH2?”
“No. I hate vanity plates. They're so. . .vain. Jean-Pierre thinks their license plates should say SALLY1 and SALLY2. He named them after that song ‘Mustang Sally.’”
J.D. groaned. ”Jean-Pierre. Would he be your Parisian lover?”
“No. My Cajun auto mechanic. I think he'd work on the Sallies for free, but he doesn't. My maintenance bills will probably put his kids through college.”
“She pays a fortune to keep two identical ugly cars,” he said. “I wish I had that kind of money.”
“I notice that you're still driving an anonymous beige car. Where's your imagination?”
“Where's your common sense?” he grumbled. “Detectives have to drive anonymous cars. You can't do surveillance in a car that glows in the dark.”
He liked the way she laughed at him. There she sat, toying with her food, looking just as poised and graceful in her jeans and loafers as she did in her business suits. She had even looked comfortable in the cornfield in that damnable protective jumpsuit. She looked so charming and he was so pleased to see her again after the terrible way they had parted, that he spoke without thinking and said precisely the wrong
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