Lucky and the Drowned Debutante Page 3

  “Are you trying?”

  “Regina, if you don’t stop telling me to move body parts that I can’t move, I’m gonna climb up there and sit on your head.”

  “Uh, that might be helpful if you could do that.”

  I assume she means climb into the boat rather than sitting on her head. Although, considering that she’s stuck up there with a stodgy woman named Europe who carries a clipboard like it’s a Faberge egg, she might be wishing I’d sit on her and make her pass out. Put her out of her misery.

  “Can you flip over, Lucky?” It’s Dax this time.

  I wish someone would ask me a stupid question.

  Or maybe the same question over and over again.

  Yeah, that would definitely change everything.

  I roll my eyes. At least the orange suit of humiliation and the frigid lake water haven’t stolen my sarcastic inner voice. If worse comes to worst, I’ll still be able to entertain myself while I wait for the jaws of life or a med-evac chopper to come and pull my porky body out of the water.

  “Dax, I’m not the only thing in the water. Just throw the rope. And try not to choke me with it.”

  I hear more mumbling followed by a light slapping sound as rope hits water. He missed.

  He tries again.

  And misses again.

  There are a couple of minutes between a few more throws. And, shocker, he keeps missing.

  A championship rodeo roper Dax will never be.

  Another minute passes. More mumbling happens. Then Regina hollers out again.

  “Lucky, we’re going to pull up close to you so I can slip the rope around your arm. Dax throws like a girl.”

  I hear a huffing sound. No doubt Dax taking offense at that.

  “You’re gonna what?”

  “We’re going to pull up—”

  “I heard that part. Will the engine be running?”

  I assume so, but I’m hoping they’ve found paddles aboard.

  I hear more muttering.

  “The engine will be running, but we will come along beside you, so you’ll be safe.”

  “Dax, have you ever steered a boat close to something before?”

  I personally have not, but I’ve seen people try and fail. Because…water. You can’t exactly make sharp turns or use brakes when you’re going slow.

  “Uh, no, but it can’t be that hard. I got you, Lucky.”

  “Dax, don’t you dare chop me up with the motor. I mean it. I will haunt you. I will haunt all of you until you’re catbird crazy.”

  I’ve always considered catbirds to be crazy. I mean, they’re birds that yowl like a cat. They’re like the schizophrenics of the avian kingdom.

  I hear the engine fire up. I take a deep breath and hold it.

  The rumbling motor gets closer. And closer. Slowly approaching me with its sharp blades slicing through the water. I give one more glance to the woman floating in the water beside me. “Don’t worry about me. I’m lucky. I’ll survive,” I tell her.

  Then I squeeze my eyes shut and pray for the best.

  I feel the water shift and slosh around me as the boat pulls up alongside me. I see a length of rope hit the water to my right like a braided snake. I try not to think of it that way, though, because snakes aren’t my favorite, and the last thing I need to do is panic.

  “Regina, hurry up,” I tell her as I try to wave my arms again.

  “I’m trying. Hold still.”

  “You’ve been telling me to move my arms and now you want me to be still? When I’m a few feet away from being blendered to death?”

  “Blendered?”

  “Yes, blendered. It’s when a bunch of sharp blades turn something whole into something drinkable.”

  “No one’s blending you, Lucky. Or drinking you.” A short pause, then, “Tada!”

  “Did you get it?”

  I have to ask because I can’t feel a thing.

  “Yep. It’s tied around your elbow.”

  Thank God.

  “Now what?”

  “I’m going to pull you around so I can reach the button.”

  I float like a beach ball as Regina maneuvers me around. I feel her fingers fiddling with the suit at my neck, but nothing happens.

  “Well? You gonna push it?”

  “Ummmm, I am.”

  Her fingers fiddle some more.

  “Nothing’s happening.”

  “Lucky, I can sorta see that.”

  This time, murmuring becomes whispering. I’m close enough to hear them, so they have to be extra quiet as they hatch another plan I undoubtedly won’t like.

  “What madness are you three plotting now?”

  “We’re going to have to drag you over to shore, Lucky.”

  “Drag me?”

  “Yeah. I’ll hold onto you as Dax drives over there to the bank. Then I’ll let you go.”

  So many things going through my head right now.

  So.

  Many.

  Things.

  I’d like to start with all the selfish ones, the ones that relate to me drowning or being minced, but dead green eyes ensure that I keep my priorities straight.

  “Regina, close your eyes.”

  “Why?”

  “Uh, because there’s a dead woman right beside me and I’m gonna have to drag her to shore with me.”

  “A dead… What?”

  “Looks like she drowned. I can’t leave her out here. We might not be able to find her again. And I’m pretty sure Chief Sheriff doesn’t have scuba gear to drag the lake.”

  The Salty Springs Chief of Police, Clive Sally, alto happens to be the Sheriff, hence the interesting combination title. Clive is ten thousand years old, moves as slow as molasses, and is the nicest man on the face of the planet.

  Probably because he’s been on said planet since God said, “Let there be light.”

  But what he’s not is high tech. Or prepared. Or capable of donning scuba gear even if he had some. I think his joints are mostly rusted into one position. He may even sleep standing up, propped in the corner like the Tin Man. I’m not sure.

  It’s in consideration of all these facts that I decide I will drag the drowned debutante back to shore with me, thus saving everyone a whole lot of trouble.

  Except Regina, of course.

  Because she has the weakest stomach of any grown woman I’ve ever met.

  “You mean, she’s…” I hear her voice garble up like she’s barely holding down whatever she’s eaten today. Probably a tiny bit of food and a whole lotta coffee.

  “Focus on the shore, Regina. Do not throw up in here. I repeat, do not throw up in here.”

  “It’s a lake. There are probably worse things in there. Like a d-dead…”

  I picture her slapping her hand over her mouth.

  “But I’ll be floating in your breakfast. I’ll never be able to get that out of my head. Best friends shouldn’t get to see each other’s stomach contents as often as I’ve seen yours, much less float around in them.”

  “Stop talking, Lucky.”

  “Not to mention that there’s a virtual crime scene bobbing six inches from my face. I don’t know how long she’s been in the water, but the acid from—”

  I hear a blech sound a half a second before something warm hits me in the back of the head. It cuts off any and all other things I might’ve been going to say.

  “Oh, Lucky, I…”

  “You didn’t,” I say, strangely calm yet completely disgusted.

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. You said not to throw up in the lake.”

  “I didn’t mean to throw up on me instead!”

  “I didn’t do it on purpose.”

  Warm liquid is running down the back of my head, around my neck, and toward my chin. With it is a scent, a scent I’ll never be able to forget.

  Yep. I’m wearing my best friend’s breakfast.

  Oh my God.

  Oh my God!

  “Regina?”

  “Yeah?
”

  “We shall never speak of this again. Do you hear me?”

  “Yeah.”

  Now that we’ve got that out of the way…

  “Dax?” I yell.

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you have a knife?”

  “Uh, yeah. Why?”

  “Don’t ask questions. Just give me the knife.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Dax?”

  “Yeah?”

  “That’s a question.”

  After a short pause, during which probably everyone on the boat is formulating a theory on what outlandish thing I might be about to do with a knife, I feel a tapping against my gloved hand. I turn my palm up as much as I can and close my fingers when I feel something press into it.

  I glance over and can make out the knife in my hand. I work it around in my fingers until it’s pointing down rather than up, and it make a jabbing motion toward my wrist. The tip of the knife just barely penetrates the material, but it’s enough.

  After the small pop! I hear a slow hissing sound. Again, not my favorite, but in this case, I’ll take it. It means the air is coming out of my ridiculous suit.

  No one says anything for a good four minutes as I go from tightly stretched sumo to saggy-skinned Fat Bastard, post bypass. Inch by inch, my feet sink in the water until I’m finally back upright.

  Finally.

  When I can move like a normal person with normal appendages, I flap my arms until I’m turned toward the boat. There is a trio of faces staring down at me. They’re all leaning over to watch me in the water.

  “Call Clive. Have him meet me…” I point in the direction of the shore. “Wherever that is.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Drag my deflated orange body and a dead girl to shore. After I do this.”

  I cup my hand just enough to get a good scoop of water behind it and I fling a big splash of pukey, dead womany water toward the boat.

  Regina has the good sense to duck. Dax just closes his eyes and takes it like a man. Europe’s reaction might be the most surprising. She just stands there, like the world’s most disapproving statue, as disgusting water drips from her black-rimmed glasses. Thankfully no one’s mouth was open, although that might’ve been a little bit hilarious.

  I raise my hand to my forehead in a salute before I turn and paddle slowly toward shore. Behind me, I hear the outraged voice of my best friend calling after me. “Luuuucky!”

  I grin.

  Misery does love company, don’t you know.

  4

  I haul myself onto the bank, pulling the corpse up behind me just enough that I hope she won’t float off. I crawl a few feet away from her and then I collapse onto my back.

  My heart is beating like I just ran a triathlon, which probably has everything to do with my hate-hate relationship with exercise. I’m not in the best shape, although I was round just a few minutes ago. Round is a shape.

  I’m staring up at the trees when a face breaks into my field of view. It’s a handsome face. A familiar face. But not a face I was expecting to see.

  Liam Dunning.

  Resident hot guy farmer.

  Son of the mayor.

  Ex FBI agent.

  All around grouchy pants.

  The first thing I notice are three red streaks on his left cheek. “Wh-what happened to y-your face?”

  His brows drop into a frown. “Scratched myself.”

  “L-looks like you fought with Lucy-f-fur.” I’m still gasping for breath. “What are you d-doing here?”

  “By the sound of it, I’m about to be administering CPR.”

  “N-no. I’ll b-be fine in-in a second,” I huff.

  That’s a lie.

  I’m not sure at all I’m going to be fine.

  I see spots.

  Purple ones.

  But after a minute or two, those spots turn white and I realize they’re clouds. Clouds in the sky are normal; therefore I must not be having an aneurysm after all.

  Liam is standing at my head, arms crossed over his chest. He’s upside down and looks twenty feet tall. It’s like lying at the base of a giant sequoia and staring up its long trunk.

  I see his lips quirk. Not much, but I’m getting to the point that I can read his tiniest expressions for what they are. Or at least what I think they are.

  This one reads like suppressed amusement.

  “What?” I say with my best Liam frown.

  “You look like a giant piece of candy corn.”

  “I’m not striped.”

  “Fine, then you look like a giant traffic cone.”

  “I’m not shaped like a triangle.”

  “I’m being polite here.”

  “Polite? Since when are you polite?”

  “I’m always polite. I’m just blunt.”

  “Blunt? Is that what you’re calling it?”

  “That’s what it is. Like right now, I’m being polite by not mentioning whatever it is that I’m smelling.”

  I feel my chin start to tremble. “Liam?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s Regina’s puke.”

  “Why do you smell like Regina’s puke?”

  “She threw up on me.”

  He snorts. “I know how that feels.”

  That’s right. I threw up on his arm at the circus.

  Interesting, because now that I’m on the receiving end of someone else’s bodily fluids, I realize how well he took it when I hurled on him.

  “Liam?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s…it’s in my hair,” I explain sullenly. “I’m covered in puke water. And I floated on a dead woman.”

  “I heard. That’s why I’m here. Clive’s on his way.”

  “Liam?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Are you gonna help me up or just stand there and stare at me?”

  He reaches down and grabs my hands, hauling me to my feet like I weigh no more than a chicken nugget.

  A soggy, disgusting chicken nugget.

  My blaze orange suit hangs on me like saggy boobs. I lift my arms and material practically drips from them. Material and gross lake water.

  I might never swim again.

  “So, where’s the body?”

  “Right there,” I say as I turn to indicate the bank. The empty bank. “I pulled her up right there. Where did she go?”

  I race to the water’s edge, which takes forever despite how quickly I’m trying to move. It’s like trying to run in one of those squirrel suits that’s seven hundred sizes too big.

  I scan the shoreline.

  No body.

  I scan the surrounding woods.

  No body.

  “What are you doing?” Liam asks.

  “I’m looking for her.”

  “In the woods? I thought you said she was dead.”

  “She is.”

  “Then how would she get into the woods?”

  I stomp my foot. “Stop being so infuriating and help me look.”

  I glance out over the surface of the water and spot a white mass bobbing in the lake a short distance from shore.

  “There she is. About two car lengths away,” I say, pointing.

  “Two car lengths? Is that how you measure?”

  I wave him off like a pesky fly. “I have boobs. I’m not supposed to be good with feet and yards and meters. I know cars. I measure by cars. Leave me alone.”

  Liam stops at my side and looks in the direction I’m indicating. “Ah, yes. I see. Three Fiats away.”

  Slowly, I lower my hand and turn a withering side eye to Liam. “One more word and I’ll stab you with the knife I used to puncture this outfit.”

  “Is that supposed to scare me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you forgetting that it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve cut me?”

  To this, I say nothing.

  He’s right.

  I did cut him with a knife.

  Recently.
>
  When we were under cover investigating a clown’s murder and I was posing as a knife thrower. Just the thought of what happened in his bathroom makes my stomach slop with nausea.

  “Good times, good times,” I mumble sarcastically.

  “For you maybe. But me? I’m scarred for life. Literally.”

  “Oh, quit whining. Chicks love a man with scars. I did you a solid.”

  “Are you’re saying I should invite them all over to see my battle wound?”

  “As grumpy as you are, if you can get a woman back to your place, you should probably do whatever you can to keep her.”

  “For your information, I have no problem with women. Other than you.”

  “Then tell me, Woman Whisperer, how are we going to get that woman back here?”

  I’m referring, of course, to the dead body that’s currently floating farther and farther from shore.

  “Oh, for chrissake,” he grumbles, stripping off his flannel shirt and then the plain white tee he’s wearing underneath as he kicks off his boots. I try to ignore the smooth skin and rippling muscles that are revealed, but I do have eyes. And ovaries. And right now, they’re both saying the same thing.

  Good lawd have mercy!

  I watch Liam dive into the cold water and set off after the body. His long arms and strong legs propel him effortlessly through the water.

  Once he reaches the body, he wraps his forearm around the head, tucking it into the bend of his elbow. As he’s situating her, I see him pause. Like, really pause. It looks like his face goes pale underneath his tan, but it’s hard to see him clearly from this distance.

  He turns and starts making his way back to shore. If it were me, trying to swim with her like that, we’d be two drowned girls instead of just one. A lifeguard I am not. But Liam gets her back to land with no problem.

  When he’s in shallow water, Liam gently and respectfully picks up the body rather than dragging her onto the bank like I did. Of course, he has the advantage of upper body strength, so he can do that. I’d sprain my spleen attempting such a thing.

  He walks out of the water a few feet and lays her on a dry patch of leaves. He stares down at her for a minute.

  “You know her.” It’s not a question. It’s an observation. I can tell by his expression that he knows who she is.

  He nods once. “It’s Dahlia Hayes.”

  “Who’s Dahlia Hayes?”

  “She… We went to high school together.”

  I suck in a breath. “Oh Lord, I’m so sorry, Liam.”