Gina Cresse - Devonie Lace 05 - A Deadly Change of Luck by Gina Cresse Page A
Authors: Gina Cresse
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like that. I’d be a little peeved. Heck, I’d be more than a little peeved, I’d be downright mad. I’d be boiling over. My wig would be frizzed from the steam coming out of my ears.”
I chuckled at the thought of steam bellowing out of her ears. “Calm down, Fiona. It’s only money.”
“Only money? The last person I heard utter those words was pushing a beat-up old shopping cart down main street and living under the Harbor Street overpass.”
Fiona and I finished lunch and she left me to work on my project. On her way out the door, she promised she’d help in the search for the culprit who stole the ticket, for a six percent commission, of course.
I’d made my way to the master bedroom, lugging the big garbage can behind me. I began sorting through the rubble and got pretty good at tossing objects across the room and making rim shots into the trashcan. I picked up a blanket that was piled on the floor and uncovered a wrinkled calendar. It was one of Lowell Herrero’s Cow Calendars. I sat down on the floor and smoothed the pages, smiling at the amusing pictures as I flipped through them. When I’d gotten to the December page, I started back at January, only this time I decided to read Lou Winnomore’s entries. There weren’t many—a couple of doctors’ appointments, a scheduled tune-up for his car, a few birthdays, and an anniversary.
It looked like Lou didn’t have a whole lot going on in his life— either that, or he had a terrific memory. Then I thought, no, if his memory was that good, he wouldn’t need to mark down the birthdays of his family members and his own wedding anniversary. I studied his entries again. Something nagged at me as I scanned the pages, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I finally shook it off and tossed the calendar into the barrel. I had too much work to do. I couldn’t afford to lose focus.
I’d worked up a decent sweat and could feel the perspiration drip down my forehead. I’d just about finished cleaning out the bedroom, so I decided to take a little break. I headed down the hall to the bathroom and ran the cold water. I splashed it on my face, then realized I didn’t have a towel to dry off. I looked at my dripping face i n the mirror when it struck me— the entries in the calendar, that is. I used the front of my shirt to dry my face and hands and ran back to the bedroom. I dumped the trash barrel out on the floor and dug through it until I found the calendar. I quickly flipped through the pages and noted the circled dates. “That’s it!” I said. The dates that were most important to Lou were the same numbers he’d played on his winning lottery ticket. That made sense to me. A lot of people use special dates for their lottery picks. I felt relieved that I’d solved that nagging question, much like when I finally remember someone’s name, two days after I swore it was on the tip of my tongue.
I began throwing everything back in the trash barrel, but I still had an uneasy feeling. People who play special numbers tend to always play those numbers. Lou probably played the same numbers every time he bought a ticket. I wondered how often he played the lottery. I also wondered who else knew about Lou’s special numbers. I decided not to throw the calendar out.
I returned to the kitchen and pulled my phone from my purse. I called Fiona’s office.
“Fiona? This is Devonie. Do you know how Lou Winnomore died?”
“ Winnomore ?” she replied, puzzled.
“Yes. The previous owner,” I reminded her.
“Oh, him. Gee , I don’t know. He was old. I think his ticker just gave out on him.”
“Heart attack?”
“I think that’s what Chuck said, but you know I can’t swear to it.”
“So you don’t know if an autopsy was done?” I asked.
“Autopsy? You may as well ask me what color the Queen of England’s underwear is. I haven’t got the
I chuckled at the thought of steam bellowing out of her ears. “Calm down, Fiona. It’s only money.”
“Only money? The last person I heard utter those words was pushing a beat-up old shopping cart down main street and living under the Harbor Street overpass.”
Fiona and I finished lunch and she left me to work on my project. On her way out the door, she promised she’d help in the search for the culprit who stole the ticket, for a six percent commission, of course.
I’d made my way to the master bedroom, lugging the big garbage can behind me. I began sorting through the rubble and got pretty good at tossing objects across the room and making rim shots into the trashcan. I picked up a blanket that was piled on the floor and uncovered a wrinkled calendar. It was one of Lowell Herrero’s Cow Calendars. I sat down on the floor and smoothed the pages, smiling at the amusing pictures as I flipped through them. When I’d gotten to the December page, I started back at January, only this time I decided to read Lou Winnomore’s entries. There weren’t many—a couple of doctors’ appointments, a scheduled tune-up for his car, a few birthdays, and an anniversary.
It looked like Lou didn’t have a whole lot going on in his life— either that, or he had a terrific memory. Then I thought, no, if his memory was that good, he wouldn’t need to mark down the birthdays of his family members and his own wedding anniversary. I studied his entries again. Something nagged at me as I scanned the pages, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I finally shook it off and tossed the calendar into the barrel. I had too much work to do. I couldn’t afford to lose focus.
I’d worked up a decent sweat and could feel the perspiration drip down my forehead. I’d just about finished cleaning out the bedroom, so I decided to take a little break. I headed down the hall to the bathroom and ran the cold water. I splashed it on my face, then realized I didn’t have a towel to dry off. I looked at my dripping face i n the mirror when it struck me— the entries in the calendar, that is. I used the front of my shirt to dry my face and hands and ran back to the bedroom. I dumped the trash barrel out on the floor and dug through it until I found the calendar. I quickly flipped through the pages and noted the circled dates. “That’s it!” I said. The dates that were most important to Lou were the same numbers he’d played on his winning lottery ticket. That made sense to me. A lot of people use special dates for their lottery picks. I felt relieved that I’d solved that nagging question, much like when I finally remember someone’s name, two days after I swore it was on the tip of my tongue.
I began throwing everything back in the trash barrel, but I still had an uneasy feeling. People who play special numbers tend to always play those numbers. Lou probably played the same numbers every time he bought a ticket. I wondered how often he played the lottery. I also wondered who else knew about Lou’s special numbers. I decided not to throw the calendar out.
I returned to the kitchen and pulled my phone from my purse. I called Fiona’s office.
“Fiona? This is Devonie. Do you know how Lou Winnomore died?”
“ Winnomore ?” she replied, puzzled.
“Yes. The previous owner,” I reminded her.
“Oh, him. Gee , I don’t know. He was old. I think his ticker just gave out on him.”
“Heart attack?”
“I think that’s what Chuck said, but you know I can’t swear to it.”
“So you don’t know if an autopsy was done?” I asked.
“Autopsy? You may as well ask me what color the Queen of England’s underwear is. I haven’t got the
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