Silver Stilettos

Published by: eXtasy Books

ISBN :978-1-4874-4279-8

Page :64

Word Count :16937

Publication Date :2024-12-06

Series : #

Heat Level :

Available Formats : Silver Stilettos (prc) , Silver Stilettos (pdf) , Silver Stilettos (mobi) , Silver Stilettos (epub)

Category : Contemporary Romance , Romantic Suspense and Mystery , Romance , What's New

Product Code: 978-1-4874-4279-8

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Sixty -sumthin’-sumthin’ CeCe McPhee, alleged suspect in a murder investigation never expected to find her life ripped from the headlines in the Dumpster Dancer Case. Can she find the real perp or will the killer find her first?

One flashy dress. One pair of silver stilettos. One tiny dancer. One cold dead female in a downtown dumpster. One missing girl. One Glock and ticking clock. Plus, rookie PI, CeCe McPhee equals a recipe for murder. Can CeCe find the missing dancer or is this her last tango as the real killer hunts her down?

I rolled my sorry rear end out of my damp bed. Ugh, menopause wasn’t for sissies. I made my way to the microwave to reheat my leftover Starbucks Caramel Brulée and toasted an everything bagel. I smeared pecan honey cream cheese on it while I waited two minutes and thirty seconds for my latte to heat. I scarfed down my brunch. And prayed I was ready for whatever came next.

My aging air conditioner was no match for the hundred-degree-plus temperatures currently tormenting and broiling Macomb County, Michigan. It worked overtime to keep my Victorian house relatively cool. I had high hopes of turning it into a charming bed and breakfast someday soonish rather than later. Did I know anything about operating a BnB? That would be a hard no. But a girl could dream. Speaking of dreams more than menopausal hot flashes made her wet. Those bitchin’ change of life lightning bolts didn’t wet her granny panties but the fireman in my dreams certainly did. She shifted squirming because the hot dream man looked a lot like my boy Sean.

I heard a loud groan followed by a long shudder and a clunk. Apparently, that was my tortured air conditioner’s swan song. It was as dead as Al Capone.

Expletive deleted. Hell, why should I delete it? I’m a big girl. I can say F- okay I can’t now but tomorrow gives me another chance. Is the F word a sin? Cussin’ with God’s name is but does cussin’ itself count as a sin? Poor vocabulary maybe but a sin? You have more important things to think about now. Things like the heat wave and busted air conditioner. Getting to work. Paying the bills.

Dollar signs danced across my mind, and then they executed a perfect pirouette. Repairs or replacements were going to cost big bucks. Serious big bucks in all caps big. Crapola. No, that’s a simple cuss word no sin there. Why am I thinking about sin? Then she blushed. Because there was a sin involved in her dream. In it, she was frickin’ fooling around. With a hard, horny fireman, a huge no-no when your brothers and all your relatives were cops. Oh hell, why a fireman? Something in my subconscious must be making an appearance. Or is it something else altogether? I forced myself to stop trying to answer a dumb question. Ya dream what you dream. It is what it is.

On top of all that, Bandit, my three-legged, raccoon-masked rescue dog wanted to go outside. He wanted to eat too. He always wanted food. I swear I feed him dinner two or three times a day. I wasn’t sure. When you’re sixty-plus years old, you get a tad bit forgetful and Bandit counted on that. I fed him, walked him, and now, due to the broken air conditioner, I’d take him to work so he wouldn’t broil inside my charming but very hot house. My place of work was my bar. It was in better condition than my house. Hmm…and me. I sighed. Not a happy camper here. Is this all there is? I was restless and unmoored. I need to get laid.

Despite Bandit’s whines and frantic scratching at my bedroom door, I had overslept. Thank God, I wasn’t opening this afternoon. Chloe was. Last night was rough, and I was still irritated. I had to break up a frickin’ fight. Again. According to the patrons’ chatter, a newbie firefighter—ah ha, now I know why a firefighter—wandered into my cop bar. I grabbed my Louisville Slugger and threatened the knuckleheads that I knew karate. And I wouldn’t hesitate to use it. They were wise enough to take it outside. Those cretins didn’t know that I knew karate all right—Natalie Karate, my BFF, best friend forever from my Regina High School days. The hot weather enflamed my less-than-sunny Irish disposition and made me hotter than hell.

With Bandit in the passenger seat, I drove to the alley in downtown Mt. Clemens, adjacent to the Clinton River and located in the heart of Mt. Clemens on the main drag through downtown. It was a great location.

I pulled into my usual parking spot behind TiK-Its Bar and Grill, the family bar I inherited and managed. Operating a cop bar had its perks. I knew most of the officers, detectives, and dispatchers since, well, like I said, it was a cop bar. Did I mention I came from a long line of cops? I’m not sure I said that or not. Like I said memory is tricky especially when it comes to mundane things like feeding a dog or taking my meds. My brothers, father, and cousins were too. I’m not sure what exactly I am. I used to teach high school. Back in the day, you didn’t need hazard pay to teach like you should get now. Sadly, even today there is still no hazard pay for teachers whose students have shot up the place. Back then there were no such things as school shooters either. Sure, they were shootings. With a pea shooter and saliva wads of looseleaf paper—not bullets—like nowadays.

Once we arrived at TiK-Its, Bandit went nuts pawing at the car window, so I let him out. He immediately headed for the dumpster. Lifting his leg, he let loose a long steady stream. He kept on barking like a rutting male walrus. A very loud walrus. Not that I’ve ever heard a rutting walrus. I have heard a rutting male, though. Close enough.