Wicked Whoopie Pies by Addison Moore (english novels to improve english TXT) 📕

bomb. It could be something far more nefarious. It could be dirty money. It could be nothing. But deep down, I know it’s something.

As much as I don’t want to do it, I have to. If I don’t deliver this thing, the people I care about could wind up dead.

I flip open the brass tabs on either side of the dark attaché and the lid loosens.

Here goes nothing. I pop the lid and my stomach drops.

Staring back at me are six bricks of a mystery substance wrapped in brown paper and packaging tape. I open my glove compartment and pull out an honorary pin I received a few months back—far before my arrest for moving Florenza Canelli’s body. And even though the department absolved me of any grievances regarding that little illegal maneuver, I don’t think I can ever absolve myself from it.

I puncture a brick with the sharp end of the pin, and to my horror a sprinkling of white powder jumps back at me. I dab my glove over it and lick it.

A heavy breath expels from me.

Yes. I know exactly what this is.

Everett was right. Jimmy Canelli had a litmus test for me and here it is.

A drug run. Cocaine.

The test of a lifetime.

Am I going to fail?

Or am I going to pass?

That is the question.

I seal it up and land that briefcase behind me. No sooner do I pull my gloves off than a knock erupts at the window.

“Lottie?” My heart leaps into my throat as I roll down the window and then I see her for who she is.

“It’s me, Charlie,” she growls as if I had meant to insult her. “Can I get a lift back to the B&B? My ride took off.”

“Was your ride Carlotta?”

She nods.

“Get in.” I unlock the door and she does just that.

“So what’s in the briefcase?” she asks as she buckles herself in and my stomach drops again. “I saw you open it and taste it.” Her eyes meet with mine as a dangerous smile twitches on her lips. Every last inch of this Lottie Lemon knockoff is dangerous and I am not amused. Carlotta is right. Charlie is a ball of trouble. “How did it taste, Detective? Is it the good stuff?” Her gaze hardens as it lingers over mine. “Don’t worry. I won’t say a word. This will be our little secret.”

I don’t say a word either. I drive us back to Honey Hollow, drop her off at the B&B without so much as a goodnight, and head back to my cabin. I don’t even bother taking the briefcase out of my truck.

I shower, attempting to take the Canelli grime off my skin then fall into bed.

Sleep never comes.

Everett was right.

I’m no hero. I’m a moron.

Everett

Sleep.

It was something I once took for granted. Something I enjoyed in another time and place, in another life altogether. And now here we are, the walking dead. Bona fide zombies. Day walkers. Evie has called Lemon and me every sleepless name in the book.

Lyla Nell is relentless in her pursuit to keep us from getting a single solid wink. She’ll make a hell of an attorney one day. She’s as tenacious as they come. And to think if she has this much power over me while less than twelve pounds and twenty-three inches, I can’t wait to see what the full-grown version has in store. Lord knows Evie is already giving me a run for my money and then some.

It’s Saturday—prom night and the big church showdown all rolled into one. Lemon took Evie to have a facial at the Razzle Dazzle Day Spa, and Lyla Nell went with them. Carlotta is most likely snoozing. She doesn’t like to roll out of bed until well past noon. It’s just Pancake, Waffles, and me catching up on some b-ball.

My phone pings, and I fully expect to see Evie staring back at me with seaweed on her face, but it’s not Evie. It’s a text from Luke Lazzari.

Meet me at the butcher shop. I’ve got a gift for you.

I stare at the text an inordinate amount of time. A gift.

I like gifts in general, but I don’t want a single thing that Luke Lazzari wants to give me.

I put my big boy pants on and drive down to Leeds. Before I know it, I’m sitting in that cavernous tin can that smells like blood and too much cologne, staring at Luke Lazzari’s face. His bald head is shiny, his eyes look far too pale, and he’s wearing a suit that looks as if he could have plucked it right out of my closet.

“What can I do for you, Luke?” There, I cut right to the chase.

A quiet chuckle bumps through him. “I thought you could read plain English. I called you here because I have a gift for you.” He slides a blue metallic package my way. “Dark roasted espresso beans from the old country. Best brand on the market. That cost more than gold per ounce. You’re gonna love it.”

“Thank you,” I say without flinching because I sense the real nature of our visit is about to be made known.

He reaches below his desk for something before slapping a dark briefcase onto the table between us.

“Go ahead.” He slides it my way. “Open it up.”

I do as he requests and my heart stops as I stare down at rows and rows of one hundred dollar bills wrapped and stacked.

Luke clears his throat. “One hundred thousand dollars. I want it washed. Take a few weeks.”

“I can’t do this.” I shut the briefcase and slide it back his way.

“Sure you can. Your wife’s got that nice little bakery. Looks pretty busy to me. You’re a smart man, Baxter. You’re gonna figure this out.” He bores those lucent evil eyes to mine. “If you walk out of here today without this briefcase, it’s game over. Our deal is done.”

I glance down at the dark menace between us.

And here it is, a litmus test