The Vanishing Victim Read online

  Table of Contents

  The Vanishing Victim (Miss Fortune World: The Mary-Alice Files, #3)

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  From the Author

  Aloha, Y’All

  Also By Frankie Bow

  Copyright © 2018 by Frankie Bow

  All rights reserved.

  This story is based on a series created by Jana DeLeon. The author of this story has the contractual rights to create stories using the Miss Fortune world. Any unauthorized use of the Miss Fortune world for story creation is a violation of copyright law.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author and the publisher, J&R Fan Fiction, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Stock art: Pixabay, Freepik

  Chapter One

  MARY-ALICE ARCENEAUX picked at her strawberry waffle and stared out the window of Francine’s Diner. There was nothing wrong with Francine’s strawberry waffle. It was crisp and fluffy, soaked with sweet strawberry syrup and crowned with real cream, whisked with vanilla and a sprinkling of powdered sugar. But Mary-Alice’s mind wasn’t on breakfast. She was thinking about Boon St. Clair.

  Mary-Alice liked Boon a lot. But the handsome widower happened to be working for Mary-Alice, supervising her kitchen remodel. Getting involved with a hired man—well, it simply wasn't done. Worse, ever since Boon had begun to call on Mary-Alice, he hadn’t charged her for any work. They had never discussed it; the bills simply stopped coming. Mary-Alice believed Boon’s intentions were good (Mary-Alice generally believed the best of everyone). But accepting the free work put her in an awkward situation. Not only was she was in Boon's debt, but if something went wrong, she couldn't complain. Not that the work had been anything but impeccable so far, but what if a problem did come up?

  Neither could Mary-Alice imagine confronting Boon to insist on paying. That would be throwing his gift back in his face. She would rather die.

  “More tea, Aunt Mary-Alice?” Mary-Alice hadn't heard Ally approach her table. The young waitress stood over her holding a sweating pitcher of iced tea. “Can I box up that waffle for you?”

  “No thank you, darling. I'm just taking my time. Enjoying a nice, leisurely breakfast.”

  I can’t possibly tell anyone back in Mudbug about Boon, she thought. They wouldn’t understand. I hardly understand it myself.

  Mary-Alice gazed out the window, across the white, crushed-shell road off toward the General Store. Had she possessed x-ray vision, she could have seen her own house farther down, through the trees. The old Cooper Place was at the end of a long drive, its back porch jutting out over the bayou. Boon and his crew were there now, scraping up yellowed linoleum and pulling down termite-eaten cupboards.

  Mary-Alice loved her new home in the heart of Sinful, steps from Francine's Diner.

  I should be looking forward to getting my new kitchen, Mary-Alice thought. But here I am, so vexed that I can scarcely stomach Francine's strawberry waffle. Ida Belle would scold me for letting myself get muddle-headed about a man, and she would be right. But Gertie? Now I believe Gertie might understand.

  Mary-Alice took out her phone and dialed Gertie Hebert’s number. Keep your voice down, she reminded herself. People that shouted into their phones in restaurants reminded her of old Marceau Mirande, who paced the streets of Mudbug yelling out orders to his banker. The only difference was that poor Mister Mirande didn't have a phone.

  Just as Gertie picked up, a crash reverberated from the kitchen.

  “Mary-Alice?” Gertie called out. “Is this you? Are you okay? What's going on?”

  “I’m fine,” Mary-Alice whispered. The dining room had gone quiet. “I’m at Francine’s.”

  A large, disheveled man stumbled out into the dining room. Mary-Alice thought he might be in his fifties, and judged he might once have been handsome. Right behind him was Francine, red-faced and brandishing a long wooden spoon. Mary-Alice had never seen Francine so angry.

  “Victorin Lowery,” Francine hissed, “so help me, if you made my soufflés collapse you are a dead man.”

  “But Francine, honey,” he slurred, “I was just looking for a li’l drink, that’s all—”

  “A dead man, Victorin. Feet pue tan!”

  Francine shook the spoon and glared as the man staggered out toward the front door. A wave of boozy body odor assailed Mary-Alice as he lurched past her table.

  “Cooyon!” Francine muttered as the glass door swung shut. Then she turned and strode back into the kitchen.

  “Mary-Alice. Mary-Alice! What happened?”

  As the hum of conversation resumed, Mary-Alice told Gertie about Francine’s intruder.

  “Who was he?” Gertie asked.

  “Victor, I believe his name was? The poor man was in just awful shape, I can tell you that. He absolutely reeked of liquor.”

  “I believe you’ve just seen Victorin Lowery,” Gertie said.

  “Do you know him?”

  “He’s our town drunk. One of 'em, anyway. It’s strange that he’s decided to bother Francine. What’s he hoping to find in a diner in the middle of a dry town?”

  “Well, there’s cooking sherry,” Mary-Alice said. “When he went past I saw he was holding a bottle, hidden halfway up the sleeve of his jacket. Francine was behind him, so she couldn’t see. I didn’t believe it would have been right for me to get involved, so I didn’t say anything at the time.”

  “Well, that’s a step up for him. Walter had to ban him from the General Store. He was shoplifting bottles of Sinful Ladies Cough Syrup. After Walter locked those away, Victorin started stealing mouthwash.”

  “What a terrible thing to be a slave to drink. Oh, Gertie, I remember what I was calling about now. I wanted your opinion on a personal matter. If it's not too much trouble, of course.”

  “Sounds like it’s something we should sit down over. I'm at Fortune's. Come on over.”

  Mary-Alice pulled up to Fortune Morrow’s dark blue Victorian house, the one that had belonged to Fortune’s late Aunt Marge. Mary-Alice knew Marge Boudreaux by reputation. She had been a founding member of the Sinful Ladies’ Society. People spoke of Marge as being “ahead of her time,” which was more polite than coming right out and calling her crazy.

  Fortune herself was a little “ahead of her time,” Mary-Alice mused as she climbed the porch steps. Fortune was a former beauty queen, who could act a perfect lady one minute, and cuss like a soldier the next. She worked as a children’s librarian and was still unmarried at 28. But Fortune had a good heart, and that, Mary-Alice believed, was what mattered.

  And to be fair, Fortune was a Yankee, which probably explained everything.

  Gertie answered the door.

  “Is that what I think it is?” Gertie cast a greedy look at the pink bakery box Mary-Alice was holding. “Come on in, and let's get that box open.”

  “Is Fortune here?” Mary-Alice asked as she followed Gertie into the house.

  “She had to take a call. It might be a while.” Gertie set the box on the kitchen table and opened it. “Francine's blueberry cheesecake squares. These are just my favorite. I'll get some plates. Oh, Mary-Alice, honey, your blouse!”

  Mary
-Alice looked down to see a purple smear of blueberry topping on her flowered shirt.

  “Oh, mercy. Do you think Fortune has any club soda to hand?”

  “Marge used to keep her cleaning supplies in the closet at the end of the hall. You might find some stain remover there.”

  Mary-Alice went down the hallway in her usual quiet way. As she passed a closed door, she heard Fortune's voice. Mary-Alice didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but she couldn’t help but hear.

  “Well, of course I hated it at first,” Fortune was saying. “I mean, a whole summer in Stinkhole, Louisiana with a bunch of—no, I wasn’t going to say that. Look, Harrison, I was wrong, okay? I’ll admit it.”

  Mary-Alice wondered what Fortune was talking about. She had lived in the state all her life, and had never heard of a town called Stinkhole. Mary-Alice opened the closet at the end of the hallway. Amidst bleach bottles and tins of brass polish, Mary-Alice found a package of stain wipes. She pulled one out and headed back to the kitchen, scrubbing at the stain.

  “I’ve made real friends here, Harrison,” Mary-Alice heard as she passed the closed door again. “Yeah, I just met an Arceneaux who's not pure evil, believe it or not. Name’s Mary-Alice. I don’t know, some kind of distant cousin. No, she doesn’t know.”

  Mary-Alice hurried back to the kitchen before she could hear any more. She felt embarrassed at her eavesdropping, but at the same time, curiously exhilarated. Fortune Morrow was talking about her! Mary-Alice wondered what Fortune had meant by “not pure evil” and decided it must be some kind of Yankee compliment.

  Mary-Alice and Gertie had just finished setting up the kitchen table when Fortune came in.

  “Hey, Mary-Alice, nice to see you.” Fortune shot Gertie a quizzical look. Apparently, Gertie had invited Mary-Alice over without telling Fortune. “Are those blueberry cheesecake squares? Awesome. Don’t mind if I do.”

  Fortune popped an entire square into her mouth and then licked her fingers. Mary-Alice thought this oddly un-beauty-queen-like.

  “So what’s up? Did you just stop by to fatten me up?”

  “Well, as a matter of fact, I was hoping to ask your advice about a delicate matter—” Mary-Alice began. A hammering on the front door cut her short. Fortune sprang up and opened the door.

  Ida Belle stood in the doorway clutching her shoulder. Her white hair was in large plastic rollers. Under her hand, a red stain spread on her yellow t-shirt.

  Chapter Two

  MARY-ALICE WENT FOR her handbag and pulled her mobile phone out.

  “My heavens! I’m calling 9-1-1.”

  “No,” Ida Belle cried. “No phone calls. Gertie, fetch me some disinfectant and a butterfly bandage. I’ll be fine.”

  Gertie laid a first-aid kit on the coffee table as Ida Belle sank into a chair. Mary-Alice noticed that the kit appeared to be well-used. Bandage boxes and rolls of gauze had been opened, the iodine was nearly gone, and the tube of antibiotic ointment was all squeezed out. Mary-Alice wondered why the first-aid kit contained a bottle of Sinful Ladies’ Cough Syrup.

  “Ida Belle's tougher than she looks.” Gertie took out the cough syrup, unscrewed the top, and poured it over Ida Belle's shoulder. Ida Belle closed her eyes and went a little pale. “Ida Belle, you remember that to-do we had in Muang Khua? Mary-Alice, Fortune, you should've seen her. Stitched herself right up. No painkillers or anything.”

  “Where?” Mary-Alice asked.

  “A nightclub,” Ida Belle muttered through clenched teeth.

  “Nightclub,” Gertie agreed. She took out a pair of tweezers and began peeling the bloody shreds of fabric away from the wound.

  “Ida Belle, you should see a doctor.” Fortune plopped down on the side of the couch closest to Ida Belle's chair. Gertie hovered behind Ida Belle, tending to her shoulder like a white-haired ministering angel.

  “No doctor,” Ida Belle whispered, and then perked up. “Say, do I smell blueberry cheesecake squares?”

  “Hold still, Ida Belle,” Gertie scolded.

  Fortune disappeared into the kitchen and returned with the blueberry squares.

  “Why ever don't you want to see a doctor, Ida Belle?” Mary-Alice asked.

  “Just killed a man. If you’re going to be nosy about it.”

  “Fine, I’ll play along,” Fortune leaned forward. “Who’d you kill, Ida Belle?”

  “Whom did you kill,” Gertie corrected Fortune as she fussed with Ida Belle’s shoulder.

  Ida Belle opened her eyes. “I need something to drink.”

  Mary-Alice stood up to get Ida Belle a glass of water, but Ida Belle used her good arm to grab the cough syrup. She took three solid chugs and handed the empty bottle back to Gertie. Mary-Alice sat back down.

  Ida Belle wiped her mouth on the sleeve of her good arm and began.

  “Well, I was in my garage working on my bike, just minding my own business. I had the door open, of course, and I heard a noise. When I looked up, who do you suppose it was? It was that drunk Lowery, and he was poking around our cough syrup.”

  “How did he know that was our cough syrup?” Gertie cried. “Those boxes were supposed to be labeled Quilting Supplies.”

  “When you say ‘that drunk Lowery,’ do you mean Victorin Lowery?” Mary-Alice asked.

  Ida-Belle gave her a sharp look.

  “That’s him.”

  “He caused quite a fuss at Francine’s this morning,” Mary-Alice said. “Francine chased him right out of the kitchen with a wooden spoon in her hand.”

  “It’s true,” Gertie confirmed. “I heard the whole thing this morning when I was on the phone with Mary-Alice.”

  “Why, Ida Belle, after Francine ran him off, he must’ve decided to try your place next,” Mary-Alice said.

  “Bad move on his part.”

  “Anyway,” Ida Belle continued, “I grabbed my shotgun. Just to scare him off, you understand. But instead of clearing out, he came right at me. Well, I tried to aim for somewhere below his knees, but just as I squeezed the trigger he dropped down on his haunches and it seems he got a shot in before he died. My, those blueberry squares do look good. Gertie, would you mind passing me just a taste?”

  Gertie grabbed a blueberry square and stuffed it in Ida Belle’s mouth.

  “And you just left him there?” Gertie dabbed at Ida Belle’s shoulder, making her wince. “Did you remember to close your garage door, at least? So people don’t walk by and see a dead body lying there?”

  Ida Belle said something through her mouthful of blueberry cheesecake square, which Mary-Alice didn’t understand.

  “Ida Belle, you’re hurt,” Mary-Alice said. “At least we should fetch you a doctor.”

  “You didn’t do anything wrong,” Fortune added. “It was self-defense. You have nothing to worry about.”

  “I don’t want anyone poking around my garage. And no offense, Mary-Alice, I know she’s your cousin and all, but I cannot put my trust in our local justice system what with Celia in charge. That woman reminds me of Pol Pot, only with less compassion.”

  “Well, you have to do something, Ida Belle,” Gertie said. “Or you’re going to have a big, smelly problem on your hands.”

  “We need to call the sheriff,” Mary-Alice insisted. “Whenever people have a chance to call the police and then they decide not to, things end up very badly for them.”

  “Another insight from your mystery novels?” Ida Belle snapped.

  Mary-Alice's rouged cheeks flushed even pinker than usual; Ida Belle was right. Just about everything Mary-Alice knew about crime and the justice system came from the books she had read.

  “Ida Belle!” Gertie scolded. “That was uncalled-for. Mary-Alice is only trying to help.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, Mary-Alice. I'm just not having the best day right now, as you may have noticed.”

  “You have to admit, Mary-Alice has a point,” Gertie said. “If you shoot someone and you don't report it, it makes you look guilty. Like you have something to hide.”


  Ida Belle widened her eyes at Gertie.

  “Something to hide? You mean like boxes of moonshine disguised as quilting supplies stacked in my garage? In the middle of a dry town? Whose mayor has hated me since high school?”

  “Since elementary school, actually,” Gertie said.

  “How's the shoulder?” Fortune asked.

  Gertie stepped aside, giving Mary-Alice a clear view of the wet, red patch blooming on the neat square of gauze. Mary-Alice felt lightheaded and quickly looked down at her folded hands.

  “Never better,” Ida Belle said. “I’ll just rest here a while and then I’ll be on my way.”

  Gertie placed her hands on her hips.

  “Is that so? You’re fixin’ to walk on out of here with a bloody piece of gauze stuck to your shoulder and no shirt on?”

  “Take anything you want from my closet,” Fortune said.

  “Don't get me anything pink,” Ida Belle hollered after Gertie. Then to Fortune:

  “I'll stay here ‘til dark. Then we can load up some cleaning supplies in your Jeep, and you three can drive me home and help me clean up. We can weight the body and dump it in the bayou. I only got one good arm, so I can’t lift anything, but I can supervise.”

  “I have a better idea,” Fortune said. “We can...Wow. I forgot I had that.”

  “I said I didn't want anything pink!” Ida Belle complained, as Gertie popped a hot-pink flowered poncho over her head.

  “It’s perfect. It keeps you covered and you don’t have to move your arms.” Gertie pinned Ida Belle's hair rollers back into place. “What's the plan now?”

  “How about this?” Fortune said. “Gertie, you drive Ida Belle back to her house. I'll call the sheriff and report Ida Belle's injury. When the sheriff shows up, I'll tell him Ida Belle asked Gertie to drive her home. That’ll give you time to clear your moonshine out of the garage. Then when the sheriff goes over there to talk to you, Ida Belle, tell him what you told us. He was an intruder, you felt threatened, and you shot him. And whatever you do, don’t touch the body and don't step in the blood.”

  “I suppose that’ll do,” Ida Belle said. “Not that I’m in any position to argue. Fortune, when you call, see if you can’t get Deputy Breaux.”