Lucky and the Falling Felon Read online

  Lucky and the Falling Felon

  The Carriage House Capers, Book 1

  Emmy Grace

  EG Books

  Copyright © 2019 by Emmy Grace

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover by Mallory Rock Rock Solid Cover Design

  Created with Vellum

  For Mom and Ang. I finally did it.

  I’m home. Thank God, I’m home.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Lucky and the Axed Accountant

  Lucky and the Axed Accountant Sneak Peek

  Connect with me

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  1

  I’m about to leap from a perfectly good plane at twelve thousand feet when my phone rings. I check the caller ID. The screen shows the name “Beebee” stamped across a smiling brown face that boasts a cap of solid white hair and twinkling brown eyes.

  Beebee is my adopted grandmother. She and her daughter, Momma Leona to me, took me in when I was a knock-kneed nine-year-old down on my luck. Very down on my luck. And right now, she’s Skyping me.

  Holy moly, I regret teaching her how to use the service. She calls at the worst times. Like when I’m on the toilet first thing in the morning, or being blinded by coffee-infused shampoo in the shower, or that time I got my big toe stuck in my underwear and nearly tore it off (my underwear, not my toe). Or like just a few days ago, right as the smoke detector was going off when I burned my toast to a crisp.

  Her timing is worse than an alligator bite.

  “Hi, Beebee!” I have to scream into the phone just to be heard above the roar of the plane’s engines.

  “Lucky? What in the world?”

  “This isn’t a very good time, Beebee. Can I call you back later?”

  I always try to take her calls, no matter how inconvenient. Since I moved to South Carolina from my home of Gator Cove, Louisiana, she worries about me even more.

  “What’s on about your head, chère?” BeeBee’s face crunches up into a nervous frown. I know she’s nervous because her Cajun gets thicker when she’s tense. And right now, it’s pretty dang thick. That whole sentence ran together like water and mud in the bayou.

  “It’s a long story, and I’ll tell you all about it later, k?”

  I see her move her head like she’s trying to see around me. She forgets that if I don’t move the phone, she can’t see anything more than I want her to see. And in this case, that’s a very good thing.

  Beebee believes she has “the gift.” Not to be mistaken with Hoodoo, which gives me the heebie-jeebies, she believes she can bless people. She believes she blessed me, forever changing my luck from good to bad. Most people who know me believe it, too. That’s how I got my nickname, Lucky. I’ll take it, because my real name is Annabelle Boucher. Yes, pronounced Boo-shay, just like in the movie.

  Now you know why I prefer just Lucky.

  I must admit that my luck did take quite a turn for the better after that. I still get in all kinds of messes, but for the most part, I come out unscathed. Which is sorta how I got my current job testing new consumer products for the company my best friend, Regina, helps run. Since I’m practically invincible, they give me all the tricky products to test. And by tricky, I mean dangerous or otherwise inadvisable.

  Like night vision skydiving goggles, which necessitate me hurling my fragile body from an airplane, in the pitch black of night, to see if the goggles actually work like they’re supposed to.

  “It’s time!” Dax hollers as he rolls the door up in the side of the Twin Otter skydiving plane. He’s the coordinator for the kinds of tests that involve more elaborate setups. Setups like planes and parachutes and pilots, oh my!

  “I gotta go, Beebee. Talk soon.” I hang up and put my phone in the zippered pocket of my vest.

  Cold air is swirling all around me, and when I look ahead, I get a glimpse of the coal-black night sky. It’s like an abyss.

  Oh, dang, that’s dark!

  A little shiver runs through me and I gulp. Unfortunately, my throat is every bit as dry as my mouth, which bears a remarkable resemblance to a cotton patch at the moment, so it’s not a very effective swallow. This isn’t uncommon, though—the nerves. Not for me anyway. I’ve got cojones the size of Buicks right up until the rubber meets the road. Then, whatever is in every human being that says DO NOT DO THAT, YOU IMBECILE kicks in and makes me rethink any and all lunacy I’m about to engage in. Thankfully, it goes away pretty quickly, but I do a whole lotta regretting for about twenty seconds or so.

  “You okay, Lucky?” Dax asks when I keep staring at the opening like a cow staring at a new hole in the fence.

  “Yep. Fine.” I nod, but I don’t make eye contact. Not yet.

  I start my pep talk. “You can do this, Lucky. You can do this.” I’m bouncing on the tips of my toes, trying to get myself motivated to jump. It seems unnatural to leap from a functional airplane with nothing but a thin piece of nylon to keep me from meeting the ground with a definitive splat. I console myself with facts like there have been several recorded instances of skydivers surviving a free fall resulting from a failed parachute. They just broke a bunch of bones.

  Not that I want to hit the ground and break a bunch of bones.

  I feel sweat bead on my upper lip.

  It’s just a little jump. You’ve done this before. It’ll be exactly like doing it in the day, only darker. Much, much darker.

  If the goggles work well, it’s supposed to be like skydiving during the day, only greener. But if they don’t…it’ll be like skydiving blind.

  My hands start to flutter like two big butterflies. It’s a nervous tic of sorts. People often mistake it for either being in pain or needing to pee. Neither is the case with me. It’s just my nonverbal equivalent of an explicative.

  I mutter under my breath as I brace myself in the opening and lean out to look down. Not that I can see anything; it’s too dark. The ground feels a million miles away, and there’s nothing between me and it but inky nothingness.

  “Hey, what’s going on?” Dax asks, raising his voice over the sound of air gushing into the belly of the plane.

  I don’t answer him, because I’m lost in thought.

  Night vision skydiving goggles. Really? What kind of idiot would even make such a thing? Better yet, what kind of idiot would actually use them?

  Evidently, the Annabelle Boucher kind of idiot.

  “Lucky!” he barks.

  “I’m ready,” I yell.

  I snap my goggles down into place and turn to give Dax a smile and a thumbs-up. Here goes nothing!

  And so, I do what I always do in situations like these. I step right up to the edge, I take a deep breath, and, against my better judgment, I jump.

  When my feet leave the solid surface of the plane floor, the bottom drops out of my stomach. It’s like stepping off a diving board, only there’s no water that comes after a few seconds. There’s just more falling. And more falling.
And more air. And more falling. And more time to wonder what in the Sam Hill you were thinking. And this time it’s even worse because, despite the green-tinted landscape the night vision goggles afford me, I can’t see that well.

  I fling my arms and legs out wide, spread eagle, and a scream bubbles up. It’s totally involuntary, of course. Just like the little drop of pee that leaks out in spite of my tightly clenched muscles.

  I’ve been skydiving before. I’ve tested other crazy products developed by other crazy people before. But skydiving at night is a whole different thing. Or “thang” as we say in the South.

  The company offered me a tandem partner, but I waved them off.

  Oh, no, I said.

  I don’t need one, I said.

  I’m experienced, I said.

  Except for SWEET MARY! I’m in a free fall, at night, with goggles that make it feel like I’m in a video game gone awry.

  There’s a small altimeter in my goggles, and it looks like it’s broken. The blue numbers are whizzing by in front of my left eye so fast I can't make them out. At my right eye is supposed to be a little red light that tells me when to pull the cord for my chute. Where are you, red dot? WHERE ARE YOU?

  The farmland below is getting closer and closer. In the eerie glow of the night vision, I can make out trees in a big circle and, at their center, an open field. That’s my landing spot.

  It’s zooming toward me. Alarmingly fast.

  Following the brief failure of my bladder, my heart is the second organ to lose all sense of decorum. I’m pretty sure it’s darting around in my chest, looking for a way out. A way out like through my rib cage, Alien style.

  My lungs are the next to go. They start doing some sort of strange quivering, making me pant like a triathlete.

  Let me assure you, I am no athlete.

  I’m beginning to get lightheaded when, thank the Lord, the red light at my right eye starts to blink. Time to deploy my chute.

  With trembling fingers, I jerk the ripcord, yelping when it pulls me up sharply to slow my descent. “Whooooo,” I squeal, adrenaline pouring into my bloodstream. I know this rush is why people skydive.

  They’re all insane, of course.

  I’m falling at a much more tolerable rate now, and most of my bodily functions have resumed somewhat normal function. Right up until something clips the edge of my parachute. Even with the limited peripheral vision that my goggles afford me, I see the object go by. It startles and confuses me.

  It looked like...

  No, it couldn’t be.

  Before I can give it too much consideration, I notice the way my speed has increased. I glance up and see that my chute is wobbling, trying not to collapse.

  “Don’t you dare!” I growl frantically at it, the white material billowing lazily against the blue-black night sky, like a paper lantern that’s been shot with a BB gun.

  Before full-on panic can set in, a gust of wind whooshes up from below and fills the canopy of my parachute.

  It stabilizes.

  I exhale.

  “Oh, thank you, Jesus.”

  Immediately, my mind goes to the falling object that nearly took out my only means of not discovering what terminal velocity is, firsthand.

  Thanks to the goggles that give me vision in the dead of night, I can scan the ground as it gets closer and larger, looking for some kind of blob, but I see nothing. I stop looking. My attention is torn between what the heck hit me and try not to die, but self-preservation insists that I prioritize my landing. If I don’t stick it, I could end up getting hurt. For real. I’ve seen some nasty broken ankles from improper landings. And those are best-case scenarios. And while I might be lucky enough not to die, I’d really rather not know what it feels like to snap multiple bones in my body at the same time. I’m pretty sure that’s not on anyone’s bucket list.

  I pull my toggles to steer into the wind and slow myself down. I rehearse landing protocol over and over and over again in my head. And I wait, counting the seconds until the balls of my feet touch the ground.

  The moment they do, I more or less melt to the left, hitting each body point that I’m supposed to as I touchdown. The rapid succession is meant to absorb the energy of the landing—balls of the feet, side of the calf, side of the thigh, side of the hip, side of the back.

  Nothing snaps. Nothing twists. Nothing hurts. And then I’m down.

  It went off without a hitch.

  Victorious, I stand up. Just as I’m about to bust out a very convincing version of “Gangnam Style,” my chute somehow swirls around and gets just enough wind in it to flip out behind me and start dragging me backward. Fast.

  I’m not proud of some of the words I mutter as I try to extricate myself from said parachute. Let’s just say that I would really impress some sailors with my colorful and specific vocabulary.

  When the gust dies down, I wiggle and squirm until I can turn around and face the parachute. I need to dig in with my heels and pull backward. And seeing where I’m going with my night vision would be nice, too.

  Unfortunately, the way that played out in my head isn’t quite how it happens. Instead of expertly wrangling and wrapping my parachute to subdue it, I end up wrestling it with flailing arms, wayward legs, and even my teeth at one point. What I end up with is a massive wedgie and rope burn on my palms, but at least the chute isn’t dragging me anymore.

  I’m about to lumber to my feet for a second time when another gust of wind causes it to take off again. I go face-first into the pasture. And I say pasture because what I thought was just an open field suddenly boasts the undeniable aroma of cow poop. I clamp my lips shut with enough force to make a bear trap jealous. Please, God, don’t let it get in my mouth.

  Finally, Mother Nature decides to take pity on me and slow her roll. The wind dies down again, just enough that I can get to my feet again. With movements so fast I’m pretty sure they blur like I’m traveling at the speed of light, I untangle myself, wrench my arms out of the harness, and run ten feet away before it can reach out and grab me again. I’ve had plenty of joyrides for the night. I don’t need another, thank you very much.

  Once I’m free, I spin around in a circle to get my bearings. Somewhere around here should be a vehicle waiting to take me home. I see nothing. I even flip up my goggles so I can see with my normal vision, but that’s no help. While there is a floodlight on one corner of a barn not far away, it isn’t enough to see very well by, so I snap my goggles back down into place.

  I scan the area, but I don’t see any signs of life. Human life, that is. What I do see is one little pig, standing in the pasture all by himself. He’s squealing and dancing around on his little feet, which makes me wonder what’s got him stirred up. Possibly what fell past me?

  I walk toward him. He’s bouncing nervously around a dark spot on the ground. I head straight for it. It’s fairly large, but I can't make out what it is yet, not even with my night vision. Why did this have to happen at night?

  When I reach the spot, I see that the ground is caved in a little, so I know it was a heavy object. Long and large, by the looks of it.

  I glance over and see the little pig staring at me with a wary eye. I can’t tell if he’s terrified or curious. Or maybe, like me, a numb-ish combination of both.

  “I won’t hurt you,” I tell him.

  He oinks in response.

  I crouch a little and creep toward the crumpled heap on the ground. I’m not sure what I suspect that it might do to me—jump up and bite me? explode? sprout wings and fly?—but I approach with extreme caution. Inch by inch, I ease in until I can bend down to get a better look.

  I jerk back when I realize what it is.

  My heart speeds up and the pig starts oinking.

  It’s a body.

  A human body!

  2

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what in the world?”

  Everything I see has a green cast to it thanks to night vision in the darkness, but even so, I can make out a fe
w details. The body belongs to a man. In a business suit. A nice one by the looks of it. He isn’t crushed as badly as I’d have thought, but he’s broken. One of his arms isn’t in the right place and his leg is sticking up at an odd angle. But the fact that he’s this much intact means he must’ve been dropped from below fifteen thousand feet. Skydivers have had chute failures and survived from that height. This man could’ve, too.

  Well, if he hadn’t been stabbed in the chest first.

  There’s an object sticking out of his chest. If he’d landed facedown, it would’ve gone all the way through. His shirt is dark underneath whatever killed him. I know what that stain must be.

  I flip up my goggles again and take the phone out of my pocket. I dial 911. My fingers are shaking with adrenaline. A reaction to the exhilaration of the jump and finding a dead body, I suppose. At this point, maybe more the dead body. I’m not afraid, though. Just…well, kind of excited. As morbid and awful as it sounds, I’ve always been bizarrely fascinated by death. Probably has something to do with my childhood. That doesn’t make it right, but at least it explains it.

  “911, what is your emergency?”

  “Hi, my name is Luc— er, Annabelle Boucher and I’m at...a farm on the outskirts of town, and there’s a dead body out here.” It occurs to me a few seconds too late that I have no idea exactly where I am, which is going to make getting help a challenge.

  “Lucky? Is that you?”

  I’ve only been in Salty Springs a little over six months, but the people I’ve met, I see often. It’s like half the town is a bunch of regulars and the other half is a mystery. Maybe it’s where they work. Maybe it’s their proximity to the heart of town. Or maybe that’s the way all towns and lives are. You see the people in your sphere most often. At any rate, I’m not really surprised that she recognizes my voice. South Carolina is still the South, but nothing is quite as uniquely Southern as Louisiana, and I’ve still got a touch of that color in my accent.