Lucky Score by Deborah Coonts

Lucky Score by Deborah Coonts

Author:Deborah Coonts
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: Cozy Mystery
ISBN: 9781944831622
Publisher: Author
Published: 2018-02-06T13:00:00+00:00

WITH A SIXTH SENSE that was as spot-on as it was disconcerting, Miss P walked through the office doorway, sidestepping Jean-Charles, who dipped his chin and smiled as he walked out.

“Been having fun?” Miss P’s snark couldn’t quite hide her concern. She thrust a familiar white bag with a red-and-yellow palm tree logo at me. “Double-double. Animal style. Two orders of fries, extra crisp. And a diet soda. No joy juice until your liver is back in the pink.”

My knees threatened to buckle. “In-N-Out, the best hangover cure known to man. I should double your salary.”

“Just give me a hug.” She pulled back the bag and started unloading the contents, spreading them on an unfolded napkin on my desk. “It’s not about money. We never have been.”

I did as she asked, squeezing her tighter and holding her longer than necessary because I felt like it.

She went back to unwrapping my hamburgers. The aroma alone took away the pain. The food filled the void. One comfort for another—not always healthy for the body, but sometimes the only thing that would heal the soul.

“You got some for yourself?” I asked with my mouth full. My mother, Mona, would be appalled, which made me proud. Mona, with the heightened sensibilities of a reformed hooker, knew Miss Manners backward and forward. My father grew up in the Mobbed-up Vegas and made a name for himself in the corporate-run rendition. My family—quixotic to be kind. Batshit crazy to be more accurate. And me, where did I fit? I didn’t know, but I felt right at home.


Maybe that’s what Jean-Charles threatened.

A girl was supposed to leave her father’s house. I’d just found my father. And it dawned on me that I had never left his house—I’d just made it mine. Was that the same as leaving or staying? Who knew?

Miss P perched across from me and retrieved a much smaller sack from the bag for herself.

In the comfort of friends, we both said nothing as we shared the fine repast.

Curiously, even though my stomach hurt as I pushed away from the desk and leaned back in my chair, all the other parts that previously had been filled with pain had quieted. “We’ve got one hell of a mess.”

“By my count, we have three, maybe four.” Miss P meticulously folded the paper wrapper from her hamburger, a dainty single, no cheese, and then flattened the box her fries had come in before slipping them back into the sack—her way of forcing order out of chaos.

That sort of OCD thing made me nuts, but it seemed to help her find calm.

I cocked one eyebrow at her, which she studiously avoided. “Are you ready now?”

“Quite.” She pulled the pad on my desk around to face her, then found a pen under the unsigned papers, corporate memos, and other time sucks that had found their way into the pile.

“Jeremy—” I began.

“On his way.”

Jeremy was Miss P’s much younger husband—an Aussie hunk that set many hearts swooning. But she had won his, earning my eternal appreciation.


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