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3:15 P.M.
“Hello?” I answered my phone.
“Ummm, hi. This is Ray Platt from The Bayou Funeral Home. I’m the one in charge of getting a Ms. Shannon Spada’s funeral planned. I was given this number by your husband, Mr. Tiago Spada? Is that correct?”
My heart leapt at the mention of being Kettle’s wife, but fell just as quickly when I realized just why he was calling.
“Yes, that’s me. How can I help you, Mr. Platt?” I asked softly, looking at my toes that were in serious need of a coat of polish.
“This is quite unusual, but I contacted Mr. Spada since he’s the primary contact. However, we have the deceased’s parents here trying to plan the funeral, and since Mr. Spada advised us to speak with you on the matter, since he was otherwise occupied, I’m calling to see just what you would like us to do. He said, and I quote, ‘Tell her she’s got full sway. Make it pretty, baby.’ Now, what would you like us to do?” Mr. Platt asked.
I wiggled my toes in the 70’s carpet in the clubhouse’s bedroom that Kettle and I’d stayed the night in, and came to a decision.
“I’ll be there in less than thirty minutes. Can you stall them?” I asked him.
“Certainly, Mrs. Spada, I’ll see you momentarily.” He said primly before hanging up.
I growled in frustration. What kind of parents would disown their own daughter, and then show up to plan her funeral? What sick bastards they must be.
Then I was shoving my feet into socks, followed by my boots. I made sure to tuck in the pleats of my pants so the boots looked smooth where they met my jeans, and stood. I pulled another piece of borrowed clothing on, this one donated by Trance, much to Kettle’s vexation, and then shrugged my beautiful vest that declared me ‘Kettle’s Property’ over that.
By the time I exited the bedroom where I was reading my book after a large leftover-filled lunch, I was feeling mean.
I wanted to kick Kettle’s parents’ asses. Although it was more like I’d probably just yell at them.
I was sadly deflated when I made it into the clubhouse’s main room only to find Tunnel, the prospect who was such a sweet man that I still couldn’t see how he fit into this group of bad asses.
That’s not to say that he probably couldn’t be badass, he just didn’t act like one each and every time I’d been in his company. I was also sure that Kettle’s parents wouldn’t be too intimidated by the man. He was like a sweet, baby cop who’d hesitate on doing anything that might harm someone. However, I had a feeling I could probably convince him to go with me...or at least let me out.
“Tunnel?” I asked sweetly, stopping just short of batting my eyelashes at him just in case he noticed my ruse.
He turned around quickly from where he was shoving a fat piece of ham into his mouth the size of a small horse and cocked his head slightly. “Yes?”
“Uhh,” I hesitated. “I’m in need of a favor.”
Life has a way of being…tragic.
A mistake, by definition, is something you do that is misguided or wrong.
Going to that funeral home was a mistake.
I should’ve known better. Should have listened to that inner voice begging me to listen to what Kettle had commanded that morning before leaving.
Don’t go anywhere. No matter what. It’s not safe.
Why didn’t I listen?
• • •
KETTLE
3:55 P.M.
“Why, out of all the places in the world he could use as a front business, did he choose a funeral parlor?” Dixie asked as he shook his head.
“You got me.” I murmured.
“Nobody’s going to check out a hearse and coffin for drugs. Hell, most people down here pull the fuck over for a hearse. Some even have police escorts. What better way than that? The man’s a relative genius. I can’t believe I’ve never even thought about that before.” Trance said shaking his head.
