Welcome to Last Chance (Last Chance #1)(14)
Author: Hope Ramsay

“But you said—”

“I said you had talent, and I mean it. And that talent isn’t related to your bra size or the firmness of your backside. You have to respect that talent. It takes hard work to break into country music. Years of it, and even then, it’s about the longest shot there is in the world. And even when you have the golden ring in your fingers, it can still slip away.”

“Yeah, well, I’m a dreamer.”

“Okay, darlin’, you can dream all you want. But if you want to do something about it, then you better know every blessed word to ‘I Will Always Love You,’ as well as the words to the second verse of ‘Amazing Grace.’ If you want to make it in Nashville, you need to respect your voice and learn what material is right for you. ‘I Will Always Love You’ is a standard. It’s been recorded by Whitney Houston, Dolly Parton, and LeAnn Rimes. You’re not a country musician if you don’t know that song by heart.”

“Yeah, and I suppose you’re just the man who’s going to teach me the words, huh?” There was a deep cynicism in her tone that surprised him.

“No,” he said firmly. “I’m done with Nashville.”

She angled her head toward him. “Why?”

Clay shrugged. He was not about to share his tale of woe about Tumbleweed with this girl. “It’s a rough business. And I have obligations here.”

She blinked a couple of times, studying him in the dark for the longest time. “I accept your apology,” she said after a long moment.

“You do, really?” He was surprised.

“Yes. I’m thinking maybe you’re the first person I’ve ever met who has told me the truth. I mean everyone else just tells me they have a friend in Nashville, and if I’m willing to… well… you know.”

“Yeah, I know.” He balled up his fists at the idea of the guys who had led her on and taken advantage, including himself.

Clay leaned forward and put the flashlight on the step beside her. “Here, take this. I hate the idea of you sitting alone in the dark.”

He backed away, feeling a deep-down longing and a foolish hope that she might invite him to sit with her on that step and let him teach her “I Will Always Love You.” Or better yet, let him touch her. He longed for her touch. He could still remember the way she had touched him last night.

But she didn’t invite him to stay. She looked down at her feet.

Well, he ought to have expected that, since he hadn’t told her what she wanted to hear. And besides, she wasn’t what he needed. What he needed was some professional help from Miriam Randall, matchmaker extraordinaire.

Chapter 7

All right, let’s try this one more time,” Agent Hannigan said as he shoved the eight-by-ten glossy photograph of the Cambodian Camel into Woody West’s face. “Where did you stash the necklace?”

Woody stared down at the photo feeling hollow and scared. Freddie the Fence, Woody’s employer, was not going to be happy about this turn of events. Freddie was the largest handler of stolen property in the Southeast, and he didn’t tolerate screw-ups. Being hauled in and questioned by the FBI about stolen property classified as a screw-up of major proportions.

“I told you,” Woody said, looking up at Hannigan. “I never seen that necklace before in my life.”

“Who messed up your face?” the cop asked.

Woody closed his puffy eyes. He was not about to explain that he had a thing for playing the ponies and had run up twenty Gs in gambling debts to Carlos the Colombian, a well-known Florida loan shark, who now wanted his money back with interest.

Freddie the Fence would not be amused to learn that Woody was into the Colombian for all that money. And Freddie wouldn’t be happy to learn that the Colombian’s goons had caused Woody to lose Mary and the stolen property she was carrying. Woody was dead if he didn’t find Mary and that necklace, soon.

“Look, you guys,” Woody said, trying to sound nonchalant. “You don’t have squat to hold me here—unless it’s a crime to have a broken nose.”

“Woody, Woody, Woody,” Agent Wilkes said in a deep baritone. “C’mon, we know you’re a transporter for Freddie the Fence. You tell us where we can find the necklace, and we’ll cut you a break. Okay?”

Woody looked across the interrogation room at Agent Wilkes. He was a big dude with blue-black skin and a smile as wide as Texas. He was playing good cop.

“I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about,” Woody replied.

Hannigan reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a scrap of leopard-print fabric. “Okay, so why don’t you tell us about these?” He dropped the item onto the eight-by-ten photo of the Cambodian Camel.

Woody stared down at a pair of Mary’s thong undies. They were pretty hot, for a nice girl like Mary. Woody was starting to think how maybe he should have tried harder to get into Mary’s panties. The leopard print was kind of a surprise.

But the truth was, Woody hadn’t brought Mary along on this transport job for the fun of it. Freddie had told him to take Mary to Nashville as part of Woody’s cover. Freddie had handed Woody that necklace and told him to give it to Mary and tell her it was for luck. Woody had no idea that stupid thing was worth anything. It looked like a piece of crap from Kmart.

Freddie had also given Woody a plain white envelope that he was supposed to deliver to someone in Nashville. Woody had naturally assumed that the stolen property was in the envelope, not hung around the neck of a hairdresser, who moonlighted as a waitress, with dreams of being a country singer.

Did Mary know the necklace was priceless? That was an uncomfortable thought.

Woody looked away from the underwear. “Pretty kinky,” he said to Hannigan. “I took you for a granny pants kind of guy.”

“Quit stalling. You know darn well we found these in a suitcase in the back of your car.”

Woody shrugged. “So it’s a crime to have a suitcase in my car? Since when is transporting ladies’ underwear across state lines a federal offense?”

“Who is she, Woody?” Wilkes asked.

“Who is who?”

“Look, we know you walked into the Dew Drop Inn with a woman. Don’t be stupid. You’re in a lot of trouble. It would help if you could tell us where she went.”

“I have no clue.” It was the first honest thing Woody had said since the FBI had stormed his hotel room that evening. Mary had ditched him at the Dew Drop Inn right after the Colombian’s thugs had shown up, broken his nose, and forced Mary to withdraw two thousand dollars from her checking account to cover the weekly interest on the twenty Gs Woody owed the Colombian.

“Look, you guys, you don’t have anything on me. Why don’t you just let me go?” he said.

Wilkes and Hannigan exchanged looks that Woody didn’t trust. “All right, Woody,” Wilkes said. “But if you think for one second you’re home free, you need to think again.”

He knew that. Only Mary Smith and the Cambodian Camel could get him out of this fix. He had to deliver the goods to Nashville so Freddy the Fence would wire the thirty thousand into his checking account. He had to have that money before the Colombian did something permanently bad to his body—like sink it in the Gulf of Mexico.

Woody looked down at the glossy photograph of the Cambodian Camel. “How much you say this thing is insured for?”

“Several million.”

“Holy crap. It looks like something you could buy at Value Mart.”

“Yeah, well, it’s supposed to be a thousand years old.”

Woody looked up at Hannigan. “Really?”

“Yeah, Woody. And don’t act so dumb. The Camel was stolen from Oliver Cromwell Jones’s collection of Asian artifacts a week ago.”

“Asian? Do they have camels in Asia?”

“Don’t be stupid, Woody.”

“No, sir. I am truly sorry that I can’t help you out. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like the keys to my car so I can be on my way.”

So I can find Mary Smith, get that necklace back, and pay the Colombian off before he breaks my head.

For as long as Clay could remember, Miriam Randall had worn red Keds and rhinestone-studded eyeglasses that magnified her dark brown eyes and made her look like Mr. Magoo.

Early Friday morning, she sat in a ladder-back rocking chair on the front porch of her Queen Anne Victorian, keeping her eyes on her nephew, Dash, who was keeping his eyes on Miriam’s husband, Harry, as the old codger fired up a chain saw and attacked a fallen branch in their front yard. Clay sat on the porch railing keeping his eye on all of them.

“Dash, honey, you tell Harry to stop, now, before he cuts off something important,” Miriam directed.

Dash leaned on his cane and gave his aunt one of those looks that said No way am I getting on the wrong side of Uncle Harry. At ninety, Harry Randall was the original grumpy old man.

Miriam shook her head and turned back toward Clay. “I don’t suppose you could convince Harry to let you saw up that branch?”

“Ma’am, I’ve already made the offer and had my head taken off for it—figuratively, that is,” Clay said.

She nodded. “I suppose I should be happy he’s too stubborn to let anyone touch his yard. Maybe he’ll be too stubborn to die. What do you think?”

Clay’s heart lurched sideways. Harry was older than dirt, and no one lives forever—not Harry Randall or Uncle Pete. “I hope so, Miz Miriam,” he said aloud.

“Uh-huh, you hope, but you don’t have any hope. I can see that plain as day.” She pointed a crooked finger at him.

She shifted her weight in the chair. “So what can I do for you, Clay? I got a feeling this isn’t a social call.” One white eyebrow rose as she gazed at him in anticipation. Miz Miriam might be in her eighties, but those eyes of hers looked not a day over thirteen and full of mischief.

Clay breathed in the scent of the pine needles that the storm had ripped from their moorings. Then he took off his Stetson and looked down at it for a moment. “Ah, well, this is pretty awkward.”

Miriam giggled like a little girl. “I declare, Clay Rhodes, are you here seeking professional assistance?”

Clay clamped down on his back teeth. When put in those terms, it sounded pathetic. “You know, I think maybe I’ll just—” He started to get up.

“Sit down, Clay. So you’re looking for a wife, huh?”

He sat down. “I swear, Miz Miriam, if you tell my momma I will personally—”

“Honey, unlike Lillian Bray, I am the soul of discretion.”

He shook his head. “I am a fool, you know that?”

“Aw, sugar, I’m not going to say a word to anyone.”

“Then how are you going to come up with a list?”

“A list?”

He looked down at his hat and twirled it around in his hands. “You know, a list of eligible bachelorettes. I’m looking for a mature woman, say thirty-three or so, who wants to—”

“Clay, it doesn’t work that way.” Miz Miriam leaned forward and snagged the hat right out of his hands. She tossed it on the empty rocking chair beside her.