Trouble in Queenstown by Delia Pitts: Featured Excerpt

Chapter One

I was horny. After a week-long dry spell, the itch was nagging again. A pesky throb teasing my gut. I knew just where to go for a scratch.

Queenstown men were plentiful and lonely at the Kings Cross Tavern, so I quit my office at ten P.M. to navigate Center Street in search of a fresh one.

Private investigator was a new line for me. No sergeant with daily assignments anymore; no academic dean setting my agenda. Now I made my own hours, worked my own cases. Small-bore stuff: divorces, employment backgrounders, process serving. Skimpy dough for measly jobs. A monthly retainer from my partner eased finances, but I was my own boss.

Evander Myrick, Investigations. The tag looked slick on business cards, snappy on the front door. Bearing my father’s name gave an advantage to me. Until they met me, most clients assumed I was a man. I lost a few bigots who couldn’t swallow the shock, but most people stuck.

Gusts skidded from the frozen surface of Lake Trask, whipping my calves as I trotted against the red light. Snow glare lit the street, mocking the flicker of leftover Christmas decorations dangling from lampposts.

I’d worked late every night this week. I deserved my prize. The tavern promised easy rewards.

At the bar’s entrance, I planted my boots on the mat and scraped until little Matterhorns of snow gathered in the treads of the rubber carpet. Icicles lined the roof overhang, their drips seeping inside the collar of my wool coat.

Before I could jerk the handle, a patron barreled out. I recoiled, arms spread to regain my balance. The man pushed a plaid cap off his nose and peered at me.

He slurped, “Baby.” More gargles. A leer exposed his tongue. “Oh, baby.”

White guy, my height, five-nine, maybe thirty pounds heavier. I stepped right; he followed, arms stiff. The lunge carried his hand to my breast.

He squeezed. “Oooo, yeah, baby.” The growl slathered my face with fumes of rye whiskey and salted peanuts.

I chopped the edge of my hand to his throat. His eyes bulged. A fat tear dripped. Jaw wobbling, he swiped his lids.

He swung a fist and grazed my coat button.

I shot a left jab to the point of his chin. No body weight, just a burst of energy from shoulder to wrist. His teeth clicked like castanets as his neck twisted. His head flew sideways, body following. The face-plant was highlight-reel-worthy. In the gray snow, blood dotted a halo around his cap.

I tramped his shoulder with my boot. No groans or twitches. I didn’t want him to smother. Of course I did. But January was for new beginnings, so I grabbed his jacket collar and pulled him to a sitting position.

Orange stripes of hair slanted across his brow. His lids shivered like mice were running under them. Saliva bubbled at the crack of his lips. Propped against the cement foundation of the tavern, my sparring partner looked like a puppet with his strings cut.

The fight was a nice warm-up round. I rolled my shoulders and shook my hands to release the tension. Now for the main event. I jerked open the green door and stepped across the threshold. I’d shed the icicle water inside, where the bartender, Mavis Jenkins, could rebuke me.

It was our standard game: I’d commit an outrage; Mavis would tut-tut. The moral balance kept us both sharp.

I flapped my arms against my flanks. I took a census of the dimly lit room. Mid-January dragged down the numbers. Five white men sat at tables arrayed along the perimeter; three white men hunkered at the horseshoe-shaped bar. Four Black men and three Latinos clustered at tables near the swinging kitchen doors at the rear.

I polled the racial math of every room I entered. In case I needed allies. Or witnesses. Or alibis.

The bartender and I were the only Black women on the premises. She owned the tavern. I was a private detective. Grit, if not math, was in our favor tonight.

I smiled at my friend and flicked water from my ears. Mavis Jenkins was short, round-hipped, and light-skinned. Lanky and slim, I was her dark foil. I shrugged off the coat, pinched my knit beret, and hung both on pegs to the left of the door.

“I knew your mama from way back, Vandy Myrick.” The bartender’s voice rumbled toward me. “And Alma Myrick didn’t raise her child in no barn. Stop messing my floor.”

“Got it,” I said. Not an apology, but close.

I crossed the wide-planked floor at a measured pace. I flexed my left hand, checking for pain. The knuckles stung; tomorrow I’d feel the ache in my rotator cuff. But I rolled easy, arms still, head high. I heard breaths drawn, held, then spewed as I passed. I looked fine for forty-seven, so I gave my audience a good eyeful.

I reached the barstool opposite Mavis and tossed her a wink. I tugged my sweater, smoothing its hem over my hips.

Leaning close, I delivered the news: “You’ve got a spill on your front stoop.” I balled my left fist on the bar top, rolling the knuckles.

Mavis glanced at the scratched skin. “Need to call the cleanup crew?”

“Nah, you’re good. He’ll find his way home.”

“Tidy Sutton was drunk on his ass when I refused him another round. He called me every name, but a child of God. So when Tidy stumbled out, I figured he’d meet some kind of trouble.”

“That boozehound was Tidy Sutton?” Surprise tweaked my voice. “He anchored the defensive front line for the Panthers’ varsity team.”

“Always cleaned up, hunh?” Mavis got the old nickname’s simpleminded joke. “Well, those high school glory days are long gone.” She swiped her cloth over a nonexistent smudge. “For all y’all.”

I settled into the green leather cushion, grinning. “When you’re right, you’re right.” My head tilt subbed for regret in our little play. “As usual.”

“’Bout time you learned that. You been back seven months and still thick as a side of beef.”

Queenstown was my childhood home. Land of skinned knees, Jheri curls, and coke-bottle eyeglasses, science contests and track meets, fried perms and prom snubs. After Q-High, I’d escaped to Temple University in Philadelphia. Seven months ago, I’d returned in pain. When I left at seventeen, I couldn’t sneak into the tavern. I’d had to find boys and booze elsewhere. Since returning, I’d made up for thirty years of lost opportunities.

I watched Mavis rummage below the counter: she retrieved an aluminum bowl filled with lemons and limes, a paring knife, and a bamboo slab. Under her pale fingers the fruit fell into neat quarters. “And ’bout time you showed up this evening.”

This was Thursday. I’d already hit the bar Monday and Tuesday this week, so the gap was negligible. But I played along. “You missed me? I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be.” Narrowed eyes didn’t screen her amused glint. “I got a new job for you. Big bucks this time.”

“What’s up?” I always wanted fresh clients.

I didn’t need to place my order. Mavis knew the drill: simple syrup spiced with finely ground black pepper; a shot of lemon juice, three ice cubes, club soda. A swipe of lime around the rim and a sliver of celery plopped into the drink completed the work. No gin, no vodka, nothing but fizz. A mocktail minus the ironic name. She set the glass on a coaster between my forearms.

I sipped and sighed. “This virgin Tom Collins is the best you’ve made so far.”

“You say that every time,” she growled. “And every time I ask you to skip calling it virgin.”

Dry for a year, I’d quit cold turkey. There were times when my tongue curled with longing and doubts clanged through my head. But I’d made a promise to my daughter. Sticking to that pledge held my life together, like a staple clamped in the corner of a frayed letter. Shredded or ripped, I was going to keep my promise to Monica.

“Lower your voice, girl.” Whispering, Mavis swiveled her head. “You call it Clean Collins if you gotta name it, hear?”

I glanced around the bar, antenna up for disturbance. Two of the Black men guffawed when the third slapped their table. The Latinos passed a cell phone between them, pointing at a photo. At the far end of the counter, a white man in a trucker cap raised his glass for a refill. No one paid attention to my conversation with Mavis. As she skated to replenish her customer’s order, I tipped my glass until ice struck teeth.

When Mavis took her spot in front of me, I asked, “What’s this new job you got for me?”

“Big-time connections,” she said. “Large cash. Right up your private eye alley. I got you a date with Leo Hannah, prince of Queenstown.”

Lights in the tavern shimmered as I swiveled on my stool. I knew the name. Hannah was a big deal. What could he want with me?

Chapter Two

While Mavis fixed her shrewd bartender eyes on me, warmth rose up my neck. If I played this right, Leo Hannah could be my breakout client, my jump to the major leagues. I touched my left earlobe, hoping to quell the pulsing heat there.

“You do need the job, don’tcha?” Mavis said the jab loud.

I glanced at the other bar patrons. I didn’t want these men to learn I was a private investigator. Personal security dictated that caution. Queenstown, New Jersey, was small, nine thousand souls crammed into twelve square miles fenced by cornfields, warehouses, pharma labs, and tract housing. Privacy was hard to come by in Q-Town, and worth guarding.

“What’s Leo Hannah want with me?” Low, to hide the tremor in my voice. Cool, like it didn’t matter.

Mavis dropped her jaw to reply. Before she could answer, a fist of January cold pushed a newcomer into the bar. He was tall and underdressed in a fake leather biker jacket that grazed his belt. He clapped hands before his lips like he meant to pray the chill away. Construction-worker grime framed the nail beds. Nice cheekbones, dirty blond hair hanging in ropes across his brow. Eye color indeterminate, not that I cared. The blue-and-gray-plaid flannel shirt and crosshatched jeans were a country song cliché poised to burst.

My future boyfriend took the stool nearest the entrance, eyes wide and neck stiff, as if he intended to bolt. When he raised a hand, then a dimpled chin, Mavis scurried to take his order. She pulled a spigot, scraped the foamy head, and delivered his draft beer in double time.

As soon as she returned, I bit on our previous line. “Don’t let sweetness over there turn your head, Mavis. What’s this job you found for me?”

“Leo Hannah came in around seven asking if I knew a detective.”

“You know him personally?”

“Never seen him before. But when he gave his name, of course I knew him. He’s Leo Hannah.”

“As in Mayor Hannah?”

“The one and only. She’s his auntie.”

I bobbed my head. Josephine Hannah had won reelection the previous November to a fourteenth two-year term as mayor of Queenstown. She was the longest-serving municipal leader in Mason County and a key broker in statewide Democratic party politics. Governors came and went; congressmen were bought a dime a dozen; county freeholders fizzled into obscurity. But Mayor Hannah was North Star permanent. Two attributes made her famous: dedicated service to her community and a take-no-prisoners leadership style. When Jo Hannah decided something would benefit Queenstown, she battered the gates of heaven and hell until she delivered the goods. In this state, crossing the mayor was a trick never tried twice. Disturb her, you paid in precious skin. According to legend, trout in Lake Trask grew fat nibbling on people who’d defied Jo Hannah. When anyone in Trenton, Princeton, Perth Amboy, or Newark needed a favor or a rock-solid guarantee, they kissed the ring of the mayor of Q-Town.

“Hannah connections could be a giant win for me,” I mumbled over the bar.

Mavis’s panting brushed my forehead. She whispered, “When you hit big coins inside those Hannah pockets, just remember ya good old girl did you a solid.”

I swallowed the dregs. “Did Leo Hannah want me in particular?”

“He didn’t put it that way.” She scratched a circle in the curls over her ear. “He asked if I knew the name Evander Myrick. I said yes.”

“Maybe he wanted my dad.”

“Nah, he said he needed a detective, not a cop.”

Mavis knew my father was a retired police officer, now confined to a nursing home. She’d figured Leo was looking for an active investigator, not an out-of-commission cop. I asked, “Did he say why he wanted a detective?”

Mavis poked her tongue inside her cheek. Dryness forced a hack. “He said he wanted to save his wife.”

Her lips hitched into a grimace. She dropped her glance to the towel twisted in her fist.

Leo Hannah sounded like a truckload of drama. Toting a butt load of cash. I sucked my teeth. “So you told him I was the woman for the job.”

“I didn’t tell him nothing. He was muttering and slotting his eyes sideways like one of those old-time crybaby dolls. I could smell the man’s crotch sweat across the bar.” She rubbed knuckles at her nose to erase the memory. “I fished your card from under my cash register tray and handed it to him before he shit a brick.”

“Did Leo say when he’d look for me?”

“He ’bout broke my thumb grabbing that card. He studied it so long, I thought he was going to kiss it. Then he tucked your card in his breast pocket like it was his last valentine. He said he’d stop up to your office tomorrow morning first thing.”

“Then I better get this night wrapped fast and tight,” I said. To ease the tension, I forced a chuckle. “That Brad Pitt looker at the end of the bar. What’s he drinking?”

She squinted at the man in the plaid shirt. “You right, baby Brad, before Thelma and Louise took a header off that cliff.” A shrug, a sigh. “Yuengling on tap.”

He flashed strong teeth at me. No wink; a sign of class. Maybe.

“Then build a Clean Collins for me,” I said. “And tap another Yuengling, so I can tap my new friend.”

When she frowned, I paused to let the gripe bloom in her head. As her lids blinked, I figured Mavis was counting the men I’d picked up at the tavern in the past six months.

I stood, turning a slow circle, to remind her I was free. “Bad moves, no strings,” I said. “My brand. My way.”

Sure, I wanted sincere ties, that web of real connections. I wanted to rebuild a family. Rejoin the human race. But not here. Not tonight.

Mavis puffed her cheeks. She wasn’t the Salvation Army. She didn’t play the rescue game. When she laughed, I knew we were clear.

Carrying the drinks to my country crooner, I dodged a collision with the white man in the trucker cap. He rolled to the entrance, flung the door wide, and disappeared into the snow cloud draping the street.

Without spilling a drop, I kicked the door shut and slid onto a leather stool next to the chosen one. Itch, meet scratch.

Chapter Three

When I opened my eyes, dawn’s gooey light frosted the ceiling of my bedroom.

I tugged my camisole from the twist around my throat. Tender goodness surged through my body. Throb erased for now. The essential ache, done right.

I blinked and tried again. Same glare, same silky ruffles at my neck. I pulled until the pink slip glided into place near my hips. The distance from my bed to the bathroom was only ten feet, but I wanted to cross it with dignity.

At the foot of the bed, I stubbed my toe on a cowboy boot. Mud-dappled green alligator skin, two-inch underslung heel. I kicked the boot, then studied its owner, sprawled under the sheets. Dishwater-blond hair curtained the cheekbone whose chiseled contours had enthralled me last night at Kings Cross Tavern. I couldn’t see the green, maybe blue, eyes. No telling if they were still fascinating. His face was pressed into the crook of his arm. Despite the sunlight piercing my lace curtains, Derek, or maybe Darren, was still asleep.

“Rise and shine, Captain America,” I said.

I needed to get ready for my meeting with Leo Hannah. Time was a-wasting.

I hoisted both boots by their loops, then dropped one beside the bed. The clomp was satisfying. But Dan or Dirk snuffled, then snored. I’d learned last night that behind his baby face was a dim but eager-to-please personality. Slow but steady. Malleable and mellow. Not saying he was stupid, exactly. But he played follow-the-leader to perfection. I liked that in my one-off boys. I dropped the other boot. Dion or Dylan refused to budge.

“I’m taking a shower. Be gone when I come out.”

I left the or else unspoken. If Darryl—that was the name, Darryl—remembered anything about last night, he’d know better than to mess with me. Men in Q-Town were fast learners. The ones who’d tried to cross me knew better. Be smart. Don’t challenge the Black lady dick when she gives a direct order. I wasn’t the only bitch in town. But I was the toughest.

Darryl was smart enough. When I returned to my bedroom fifteen minutes later, he was gone.

I pulled a tube of ointment from my nightstand and dabbed antiseptic over the scratches on my knuckles from last night’s skirmish. Nice wounds to show the guys at Mel Diamond’s Boxing World. My sparring partners called me Holyfield, as if the boxing legend who shared my name had materialized in their modest gym. “How’s the ear, champ?” they’d shout while tugging on mangled lobes. If my interview with Leo Hannah went as I hoped, maybe this evening I’d drop into Diamond’s for a few rounds with a speed bag.

Black jeans were the non-negotiable comfort food of my wardrobe. I held a navy sweatshirt against my chest—too casual. I studied a sunflower-tinted blouse, the one my partner, Elissa Adesanya, insisted I wear when I accompanied her to court. She’d taken some third-year elective class on jury psychology. According to her, the demure bow tie helped relax white jurors who were uneasy facing a Black attorney and a Black detective. Maybe Elissa was right: in the past six months I’d seen her win eleven verdicts when I wore the lucky yellow getup. I pressed the blouse to my waist. I shook my head at the mirror; insincere, too fussy. Not the look I wanted for my meeting with Leo Hannah.

I dragged a long-sleeved white tee from the stack in my closet. That did the job. I needed this sober look for Hannah. He was worried about his wife. I wanted to fulfill his fantasy of the tough but empathetic private eye. A spade Sam Spade. I needed him to believe I was the best person to guarantee his wife’s safety. I chose a gray tweed blazer to complement the silver pearls of wisdom sprouting in my black hair. I smoothed a bud of pomade over my unruly kitchen, then waved a brush past my cropped Afro.

My home was a Victorian house on Queenstown’s Main Street. I’d purchased the abandoned heap six weeks after I returned. I’d come home with a heavy purse and a burdened heart. If crying could bring back Monica, that miracle would have happened long ago.

But the gut remodel of my new house provided solace of a kind. So did the three-week affair with my architect. His stilted drawings were serviceable, not fabulous. But I did appreciate his other talents, so we enjoyed the hell out of our brief association. The general contractor was smarter than the architect. He built magic out of my sketches. And managed to stay in my bed two weeks after his contract was done.

I turned a 360 in the mirror, then fastened a thin gold chain around my throat. I adjusted the dangling letter M so it nestled against the notch of my collarbone. Gold stud earrings. Black ankle boots claimed from Monica’s closet, a fuchsia smart watch. Her boots and watch always prompted memories. For a second, I traced circles on the underside of my wrist, remembering.

I was ready to comfort Leo Hannah, reassure his imperiled wife, and slay the dragons threatening her.

As water for oatmeal heated on the stove, I thumbed through messages from Elissa. She was gone for the week, attending a trial lawyers conference in Miami. Her wife, Belle Ames, had extended her own holiday break into January to coincide with the boss’s absence. Texted photos proved they were enjoying the beach. In one, sleek Elissa lounged in a teeny-weeny tangerine bikini that made her dark skin glow; in another, Belle rocked a jade one-piece to display her thick curves. Her blond pixie wig was in place as usual, which meant she had no plans to touch ocean. In all the family shots, sun dashed the midwinter paste from Belle’s brown cheeks and made Elissa’s eyes narrow into sexy glances.

Should I text Adesanya and Ames about my plans to meet Leo Hannah? I wanted to crow I’d netted a big new client. But I ditched the idea as I stirred a second teaspoon of brown sugar into my oatmeal. Let the A-team enjoy all the fun they’d earned. They’d catch up soon enough.

The drive to the office was ten minutes. I promised when spring hit, I’d stow my Jeep Cherokee. The twenty-five-minute walk was an investment in my health. I needed the exercise. But January was not the time to start a new regimen. Why risk shocking your system after the rough slog through the holidays? March was soon enough. Or April.

Our offices were on Center Street above the Queenstown Pharmacy, an old-time druggist holding the fort against the onslaught of national chain stores. From our break room, we could see the Kings Cross Tavern across the street.

I parked in the cramped lot behind the building, pulling into my usual place next to the slot designated for Elissa. No name on the brick wall for me yet. Our administrative overlord, Belle, would get to it in her own sweet time. Belle was our bookkeeper, data puncher, publicist, hand-holder, brow-mopper. Pushing Belle was never smart. I could wait.

I unlocked the door to our suite, flipped on the lights, and recoiled when stale air lapped at my face.

My colleagues wore expensive fragrances: ferns and velvety moss for Elissa, pushy lilac for Belle. I’d dropped the perfume habit since returning to Q-Town. No point in aimless luxury, was there? But stepping into our offices now, I missed the mingling of their fragrances. Without it, the reception area smelled vacant and unhappy, like a dressing room in a discount clothing store.

I had work to do before Leo Hannah arrived.

After hanging my overcoat and blazer in my office, I dragged the vacuum cleaner from the storeroom and retrieved baking soda from the refrigerator in the break room. Sprinkling the all-purpose deodorant across the blond carpet, I plowed for ten minutes. Furrows careened around the glass coffee table, the six upholstered guest chairs, and the eight-foot-high oak bookcase.

Stooping to thrust the vacuum under Belle’s desk, I missed the whoosh of the door.

Wet sniffs jerked me upright. A harsh cough spun me around.

“I’m looking for the offices of Evander Myrick.” Not a question, a command for the cleaning lady.

I stepped forward. Leo Hannah was an inch shorter than me, with narrow shoulders and chest flaring to broad hips that strained his camel-hair coat. Waiting for my reply, he stuffed brown leather gloves in his pockets, adding to the bulk at his thighs.

He looked around, brows lowered, searching for someone with authority and rank. He wanted that somebody to appear, pronto. Preferably someone white and male. Anybody but me.

I pressed my lips to squelch the smirk. Privilege stymied was fun to watch.

Hannah wasn’t good-looking, but the tilt of his jaw said he’d been told the opposite all his life. Olive skin, clean-shaven around a snub nose and soft mouth. His cologne hinted at spicy forests. Brown eyes framed by fans of black lashes. I knew three college girlfriends who’d contracted eye infections trying to achieve the luxuriant lashes Leo Hannah claimed from birth.

I said, “You’ve come to the right place.” I made him wait two beats. “May I have your name.” I wasn’t dealing in questions, either.

Copyright © 2024 by Delia Pitts. All rights reserved.