Leann Sweeney

Shoot from the Lip

The fourth book in the Yellow Rose Mysteries series, 2007

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

In the writing of this book, I was fortunate to have two wonderful experts help me get things right. Any mistakes I’ve made are my fault, not theirs. I thank Officer Sheridan Rowe of the Houston Police Department and Joyce Gigout, a skeletal remains and cold case expert with the Harris County Medical Examiner’s Office. These two women offered their expertise over and over. If this story rings true, it’s because of them. I would also like to thank my husband for his unbelievable support. Also, my writing group regulars, Amy, Bob, Charlie, Kay, and Laura, as well as Susie and Isabella. These folks are the best at offering intelligent insights when it comes to writing a mystery. Thank you Patti Nunn of Breakthrough Promotions and Jeffrey Cranor, my webmaster. Lastly, I am grateful to Carol Mann, Tina Brown and my amazing editor Claire Zion, three very wise women.

1

My daddy used to tell me the biggest troublemaker I’d ever meet watches me brush my teeth in the mirror every day. If the folks I’d let into my house that Sunday in October had an ounce of Daddy’s insight, they might not have come calling.

My first words after I opened my door were, “Please don’t turn on that camera.” I smiled like a politician at the two people I’d seen through my new small-screen security monitoring system-the young woman with her three-ring binder and designer sunglasses, the man with the big video camera. I don’t ignore media people. I’ve learned it’s better to face them, ’cause I sure as hell don’t want them behind me.

The slim young woman turned to her older, balding companion and said, “We’ll wait on any footage, Stu.”

I searched beyond them, looking for their TV news van, but they must have arrived in the dark SUV parked at the curb. “What can I do for you?”

“A production assistant was supposed to call and let you know we were coming,” the woman said.

“No one called. You sure you have the right address?”

“Abby Rose?” the woman said. “Yellow Rose Investigations?”

“That’s me.” I leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.

She smiled and removed her sunglasses. “Great, Abby. Now can we talk inside? It’s, like, so hot already.”

Since most people in these parts know eighty-degree mornings in Houston aren’t unusual this time of year, and I’d heard no familiar twang in her voice, I suspected they weren’t locals. “First off, you need to tell me who you are.”

She pulled a business card from the binder pocket and handed it to me. “Chelsea Burch. Venture Productions. And this is Stu.” She turned to him. He still had the video camera balanced on his shoulder. “Stu… what is your last name?”

“Crowell,” he said gruffly.

She arched her penciled brows. “Like Simon Crowell from American Idol? Are you kidding me?”

“Crowell, not Cowell,” Stu said.

“Oh.” She turned back to me, apparently unbothered by not knowing Stu’s last name, something that obviously had pissed him off. “Anyway, we’ve seen pictures, have your bio. We’re beginning production here in Houston.” Before I could ask exactly what they were producing, she went on. “I’m an assistant producer working for Erwin Mayo of Venture Productions. He’d like to involve you.”

Involve me? I didn’t like the sound of this. The address on the card said Burbank, California, meaning Hollywood had come calling. If they had my so-called “bio,” they probably knew that Yellow Rose Investigations didn’t pay my rent; my inheritance did. Our adoptive father left my twin sister, Kate, and me buckets of money when he died. They no doubt knew plenty more about me, while I knew nothing about them. I definitely needed to find out what this was about-and quick.

But again, before I could speak, Chelsea said, “Listen, Abby, if you won’t let us in, could I please have a paper towel before this sweat dripping from my scalp ruins my makeup?”

I widened the door. Wouldn’t want Chelsea Burch melting like a theatrical witch. “Do me a favor and keep your finger off that record button, Stu,” I said.

He nodded his agreement-air-conditioning is a powerful weapon-and I led them past my office, where I’d been finishing up the paperwork on my last case.

Chelsea glanced around my living room. “This is cute.”

My living room is far from cute. Messy, eclectic and coated with cat hair, maybe. Not cute. The vanilla candle burning on the table by the sofa used to be cute, but was now a smoldering glob of wax. Smelled good, though.

Chelsea moved aside this morning’s Houston Chronicle and sat down on the sofa. Her blond hair had gone limp from the humidity and hung around her face in thick, product-laden chunks. She wore an embroidered peasant shirt with long sleeves and stretch denim jeans-not exactly the best wardrobe choice for today. Then I noticed the cowboy boots-baby blue and powder pink.

“You like?” She smiled and held up one foot. “Boots are so hot right now.”

“Literally,” I said under my breath. When it’s this warm, you see girls wearing boots in Western dance clubs only in the evening-and those would be real boots-boots that do not look like they were first worn by some gaunt runway model at a Paris fashion show. “What production brings you to Houston?” I asked.

“Reality Check. You’ve heard of it, right?” Chelsea said.

“I think so.” I noticed Stu had set the camera on the wood floor and was perspiring heavily. He, too, had chosen to wear blue jeans. I offered him water.

“Oh, me too,” Chelsea said. “What brand do you have?”

“T-A-P,” I spelled.

“Funny,” she said. “No bottled?”

“I have Dr Pepper in a bottle, Diet Coke in a can and water from the fridge door. Take your pick.”

“Just water, thanks.” Bitchy edge in her voice. Clearly my Hollywood producer didn’t like the beverage selection in my home.

I caught Stu’s eye-roll as I left to get them their water. He had her number, too.

The trip to the kitchen gave me time to wrack my brain regarding Reality Check, the television show she’d mentioned. As I held glasses under the icemaker, I remembered they did home makeovers and cosmetic surgeries, gave scholarships, sent people on luxury vacations. Then I could hear the commercial’s voiceover in my head: Reality Check-the lifestyle makeover show. Turning American dreams into the real thing.

What the hell did a show like that want with me?

When I returned and handed them their glasses, Stu was sitting cross-legged on the Oriental rug with my cat, Diva, in his lap.

Chelsea had apparently rediscovered her “California Dreamin’ ” attitude, because her tone was pleasant when she said, “Our research assistant learned about you through the local media, Abby. She said you arranged this wonderful reunion for a college basketball player. He was adopted and hired you to locate his birth family, right?”

“Yes.” I sat in one of the armchairs, thinking, That’s how these people found me. Several years ago, after learning that my daddy had illegally adopted Kate and me when we were infants, I’d taken a new path in life. Rather than spend all my time at the family computer business, which ran itself anyway, I chose to work as a PI and help adopted people locate their birth families. One of my clients, a college athlete with celebrity status, had recently appeared on a local morning program and, though I had asked him not to mention my name, the perky, way-too-eager host managed to get it out of him anyway.