Whiskey, You're The Devil: An Addison Holmes Mystery (Addison Holmes Mysteries Book 4) by Liliana Hart Page A

people liked to live to raise their children and pretend everyone around them was living the American dream. In reality, it was a hotbed of affairs, illegitimate children, and both extreme poverty and wealth—all within a two-mile radius.
    It was like living every day of your life under a microscope, only the people watching weren’t doctors or scientists, but instead nosy neighbors who could offer no solutions or support but were happy to spread the gossip anyway and flavor it with their own opinions.
    I’m not saying it’s true, but it’s possible I might hold some resentment towards the citizens of Whiskey Bayou. Let’s just say I wouldn’t shed a tear if the bayou swallowed it whole one day and it sunk straight to the bottom like Atlantis. After the fiasco that had been my almost wedding and after losing my teaching position, there was nothing short of kidnapping me and locking me in someone’s basement that would get me to move back.
    We passed the railroad graveyard and a few businesses that had already closed for the evening—because nothing but the Good Luck Café stayed opened after six o’clock—and I found a parking spot just in front of the café.
    I could see my mom and her husband Vince at a back booth through the plate glass window. Phoebe was already there and a guy I didn’t recognize was sitting beside her. This was not news. Phoebe had paraded a lot of guys through family dinners over the last fifteen years.
    The Crown Vic backed into a parking spot across the street and I rolled my eyes. He wasn’t even trying to be subtle.
    “Go on in,” I told Rosemarie. “I’ll be just a minute.”
    I didn’t recognize the plainclothes cop behind the wheel, but by the way his eyes widened I was willing to bet he recognized me. Nick was well respected in law enforcement and because of his role as media liaison everyone knew who he was, despite the large size of the department.
    He rolled down the window and I got a better look. I recognized him for a cop immediately. It was in the eyes. He was somewhere in his mid-forties or early fifties and his skin was sun darkened and sagged just a bit beneath the eyes and jawline. His hair was light brown and sprinkled with gray and his eyes were the color of aged whiskey. He had on a tan polo shirt and jeans. A guy meant to blend in with everyone else.
    “What’s your name?” I asked him.
    “Lester Graham,” he said, tipping his head in my direction. “Detective Sergeant.” He showed me his badge and I glanced at it briefly. “I told Nick this was a bad idea.”
    I smiled and watched the tension drain out of Lester’s face. I’d found over the years that my smile was my best weapon at disarming any situation, and Lester was just following orders. Nick, on the other hand, was in a whole lot of trouble.
    “Why don’t you join us for dinner, Lester. Looks like you’re out of Twizzlers.” There were three empty bags of Twizzlers laying on the passenger seat and about forty-two Styrofoam coffee cups tossed onto the floorboard.
    He grimaced and looked a little uncomfortable. “That wouldn’t be the best idea. Socializing with a suspect is frowned upon.”
    “She’s seriously a suspect?” I asked. I knew when you lined up the facts that it made sense for Rosemarie to be the prime suspect, but no one paid attention to the facts. It’s why the world was going to hell in a hand basket. “Have you spent any time with her? If she’s a killer then I’m Jack the Ripper.”
    “You are the girlfriend of death. Maybe that’s not the best comparison.”
    I snarled before I could control myself and Lester jumped back in the seat. “I am not the girlfriend of death. So I’ve found a couple of bodies. It’s not like I killed them. How about a little sympathy?”
    Lester nodded frantically. “And just to be clear I’ve never called you that. I’ve just heard it around. You know how it is with cops.”
    “Right. Who came up with the name?”
    “Jacoby in