Lucky and the Falling Felon by Emmy Grace

Author:Emmy Grace [Grace, Emmy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: EG Books
Published: 2019-09-02T22:00:00+00:00

12

The next morning, I’m awakened not by the raucous noises of my pet jungle, but by pounding at my door. I crack an eye and glance at the clock. Six forty-one.

I ease out from under the covers, trying not to disturb the sleeping pig on the other side of the mattress, or the snoring dog at the foot of the bed. I grumble all the way to the door.

All I can say is this had better not be Liam Dunning, and it had better be important, whoever it is.

I peek through the curtain and see Mrs. Stephanopoulos standing on the stoop.

“Good morning, Mrs. S. Everything okay?” I ask when I open the door.

“Were you still in bed?” I nod. “It’s good for the blood to be up before the sun,” she says, nudging her way inside.

I take a deep breath and follow her into the living room. Guess I won’t be going right back to sleep.

“I’ll keep that in mind. What can I do for you this fine morning?”

“Were you expecting company last night?”

“No,” I answer, but then reconsider. “Well, Regina had dinner with me.” Sorta. “But other than that, no. Why?”

“I saw someone poking around outside your back window last night.”

“Really? What time?”

“Around three. I was awake. Finishing a crossword puzzle and having some warm milk.”

“Sleep problems?”

“Occasionally.”

“This person, what did he look like?”

“Well, for starters, it wasn’t a he.”

That surprises me. I assumed it was probably Liam Dunning, already violating our agreement. But a woman?

“A woman? What did she look like?”

“Older. Maybe fifties. Blonde. She crept off down the street. Got into a black Mercedes. Watched her drive down the road and turn right onto Sunset.”

“Who in the world…?”

“Would you like to know who it was?”

I grit my teeth. Of course, I want to know who it was, woman!

But I don’t say that. I kindly reply, “Well, if you know, then yes.”

“You should’ve assumed I’d know. I know everyone in this town,” she says, eyebrows slashing down in disapproval.

I wait quietly, somewhat impatiently for her to tell me who was nosing around my house in the dead of night. When she doesn’t, I prompt kindly, “Uh, so you know who it was?”

“Looked to me like Leslie Vickerman. She’s the head of the DAR committee. Daughters of the American Revolution. That’s one of those hoity-toity clubs for women with too much time on their hands. Never had much use for those people, especially after they tried to get me to declare my house a historic property and tell me what trees I could and couldn’t cut.”

“Vickerman?”

Mrs. S. nods.

This is an interesting development.

Maybe my landlady really does know what goes on in this town. She is awfully snoopy. That’s bound to come in handy for someone her age.

There’s a short pause, during which my mind is racing from one possibility to the next. Obviously, something else entirely is going through Mrs. Stephanopoulos’ head.

“Time for my morning bowel movement,” my landlord proclaims as she levers herself up off the sofa and heads for the door.

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