Chapter One
The lump under the sheet stirred, ever so slightly. I
poked it with my toe. No response. I poked again. Put my
lips up to his ear.
"Give you a hundred dollars if you'll get up and put the
coffee on."
The only response was an exaggerated snore.
"A hundred dollars and I'll scratch your back for five
minutes."
He pulled the sheet up over his head and turned his back
to me.
I sighed. "Okay. A hundred dollars, back scratching,
plus... "
Before I could finish the offer he turned and put arms
around my neck, lazily running a finger down his bare
spine.
I slapped his hand away.
"Forget it, MacAufiffe," I said. "A hundred dollars, back
scratching and first dibs on the shower. That's my final
offer."
He groaned loudly but sat up, pulling half the covers with
him. It was June, but we'd cranked up my air-conditioner
the previous night and the room was chilly. I snatched the
covers back.
"Deal," he said, then padded, naked, toward the bathroom.
I dozed a few minutes, until the doorbell rang. "Get the
door, Mac," I called, but the shower was still running
full blast.
"Damn," I muttered, feeling around on the floor far my
robe. "Who the hell's here this early in the morning?"
By the time I'd groggily made my way through the hallway
to the front door, the bell ringing had been replaced with
a persistent knocking. I put one bleary eye to the front
door peephole, took a look and tried to shake the cobwebs
away.
I looked again, but she was still there. I shot the
deadbolt and opened the door a crack, leaving the chain on.
A Southern belle from hell stood on my doorstep. She'd
poured her two-hundred-pound-plus self into a long hoop-
skirted ball gown made of some kind of white-and-green
flowered imitation satin. The sleeves had been pulled down
over her shoulders, forcing the double-D bosom forward at
a gravity-defying angle. A green velvet sash was wound
tight around her waist so tight that her chubby cheeks
were stained an unnatural pink. Her head was wrapped
turban style in a faded yellow towel. She fluttered a pair
of half-inch-long fake eyelashes and smiled coquettishly
at me.
"Hey, Callahan," she said sweetly, trying to push the door
open. "Tell your mama I'm here for my combout."
I held the door steady. "Edna's still in Swainsboro, at my
cousin's wedding, Neva Jean," I said. "What the hell are
you doing in that getup at the crack of dawn on a Saturday
morning?"
She fluttered the eyelashes again. "Come on and let me in,
Callahan," she said plaintively. "It's eighty-five degrees
out here already. I don' wanna sweat on my ball gown. Edna
promised she'd be back in time to comb me out before I
head up to Kennesaw for the big battle. She'll probably be
here any minute now."
"I've got company, Neva Jean," I said, tightening my grip
on the door. "I'll have Edna call you when she gets in.
See you later."
Before I could slam the door an arm snaked around in front
of me unlatching the chain. "What big battle?" Mac asked.
I hadn't heard him come up behind me. He opened the door
wide, forcing me to step back into the hallway. "Come on
in, Neva Jean," he said expansively. "Coffee's on."
She bunched her skirts up tight to her body and squeezed
past, treating Mac to another spasm of eyelash fluttering.
I gave Mac a sour look, but he smiled back
innocently. "You never heard of Southern hospitality?" he
whispered. He doffed an imaginary hat at the swaying
backside of Neva Jean McComb, assistant head House Mouse,
dressed up as a trailer-park version of Scarlett O'Hara.
Neva Jean doesn't always show up in costume at the front
door to the bungalow Edna and I share in Candler Park.
Usually, she and the other girls come in the back door.
Generally, they wear white slacks and one of our Pink or
white House Mouse smocks. We run a cleaning business, you
see, the best damn cleaning business in Atlanta, I think.
We're pricey, but when a Mouse has been in your house, you
know it's clean.
In the last year or so, we've acquired a sideline, one I
hadn't planned on after I quit the Atlanta Police
Department and bought the cleaning business. The new
business cards don't mention it, but J. Callahan Garrity,
the co-owner and president of House Mouse, has also
reluctantly -- gotten back into the private investigation
racket.
Slowly, I trailed Mac and Neva Jean back into the kitchen.
As usual, she had her head poked inside the refrigerator.
Her voice was muffled, but audible. "Didn't I see a plate
of sausage biscuits in here yesterday?"
"Gone," I said. "Mac had a midnight snack off 'em."
Neva Jean stood up straight and waggled a finger at
me. "Callahan Garrity, your mama would have a conniption
if she knew you were entertaining overnight company while
she was out of town."
Mac had the grace to blush, but I waggled my finger right
back at her. "Guess again, Neva Jean," I said. "Mac spends
just about every Friday night here. It's too far for him
to drive back out to Alpharetta."
Neva Jean gasped in horror, but Mac shook his head in
agreement. "It's true," he said, handing her a mug of
steaming coffee. "These Garrity women are very open-
minded."
While Neva Jean drowned her outrage in her coffee I sat
down at the oak kitchen table and ran my fingers through
my hair, trying to pretty up a bit for my gentleman
friend, Andrew MacAuliffe.
"Neva Jean," I said reluctantly, "run that battlefield
thing past me again, would you? Just exactly what are you
doing on a battlefield and why are you dressed in that
tacky getup?"