Shoot from the Lip Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  Teaser chapter

  THE YELLOW ROSE MYSTERY SERIES

  More Praise for Leann Sweeney’s Yellow Rose Mysteries

  “I adore this series.”

  —Roundtable Reviews

  “A welcome new voice in mystery fiction.”

  —Jeff Abbott, bestselling author of Panic

  “A dandy debut ... will leave mystery fans eager to read more about Abby Rose.”

  —Bill Crider, author of A Mammoth Murder

  “Pick Your Poison goes down sweet.”

  —Rick Riordan, Edgar® Award—winning author of The Sea of Monsters

  “A witty, down-home Texas mystery ... [a] fine tale.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  The Yellow Rose Mysteries by Leann Sweeney

  Dead Giveaway

  A Wedding to Die For

  Pick Your Poison

  SIGNET

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,

  Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:

  80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England

  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, January 2007

  Copyright © Leann Sweeney, 2007

  All rights reserved

  The Edgar® name is a registered service mark of the Mystery Writers of America, Inc.

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-12708-7

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For the kids, in order of appearance in my life:

  Shawn, Jillian, Jeffrey and Allison.

  I love you all so much.

  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 produ
ction 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.

  I’d been swamped with calls since, folks hoping I could help them with their adoption issues, too. This had forced me to create two flyers—“Tips for Locating the Child You’ve Given Up for Adoption” and the other titled “So You Want to Find Your Birth Parents? The Beginning Steps.” I was stuffing envelopes an hour a day now. Most people with a little computer savvy can locate who they’re looking for without a private eye’s assistance, and this seemed the best way to let them in on those secrets.

  “Abby, we’d like you to sign on as a consultant to our program,” Chelsea said. “Since we work somewhat like a documentary, I was hoping we could tape an initial interview later today—we will edit extensively, so don’t worry about running on and on, or—”

  “Taping?” I cut in. “When you’ve told me next to nothing? I’m not so sure about that. What does my being a private investigator have to do with consulting on a TV show?”

  “In the story we’re currently producing, plenty. Wait until you meet our makeover candidate and her family. In fact, let me show you.” She opened her binder and slipped two photos from a plastic sleeve.

  I took them from her. One was a Wal-Mart special eight-by-ten, the colors faded to blurry siennas and dull pinks. A teenage girl stood in the center of three younger children. The other was a four-by-six glossy snapshot of the teenager, but in this newer photo she was a dark-haired, hazel-eyed woman in her twenties with flawless nutmeg-colored skin and an expression that puzzled me. Fear? Anger? Sadness? Maybe all three.

  Chelsea pointed to the snapshot. “You’re looking at a real heroine. She’s been raising her brothers and sister since she was sixteen. Isn’t she Penélope Cruz all over again? The camera eats her up.”

  Stu said, “The family’s nice ... really a nice, deserving bunch of kids.”

  I looked at him. Here was someone I could relate to—sun-weathered skin, laugh lines everywhere and brown eyes that could tell you the truth without accompanying words. Plus the man had set his empty water glass on a coaster—unlike his companion—and he was making friends with my cat.

  “Tell me more,” I said, still wary.

  “Reality Check receives referrals for the life makeovers we do on air—thousands and thousands of referrals, by the way—mostly via our Web site,” Chelsea explained. “This particular one, however, came in through the mail. Unusual, but what a riveting, American dream story. That’s why we’re in Texas. We have our hands on a fantastic, heartwarming tale of courage and perseverance. You won’t believe all that’s happened to Emma Lopez in her short life.”

  “Why do you need my help?” And why do you sound like you’re rehearsing a script? But I suppose everything but getting up in the morning is easier with practice.

  “Problems, that’s why we need help. We had everything set to go. Then we mentioned something to Emma about the referral letter and whamo! She’s backing off all of a sudden. We can’t have that. Not now.”

  “You’ve lost me,” I said, shaking my head.

  “This is Emma Lopez, our makeover girl.” Chelsea tapped the snapshot with a cherry-colored nail. “Put herself through college and is doing the same for her younger brother, Scott. Anyway, their house, the only thing they own, is set for demolition by the city. The city would give them money to rebuild, but not nearly enough for the kind of home they deserve. Plus, the other kids are getting to be college age—”

  I held up a hand. Jeez. This one could talk the ears off a ceramic elephant. “You’re still not telling me what this has to do with adoption. I investigate adoption cases.”

  Chelsea raised her pointy chin. “Don’t you think I know? Anyway, the
referral letter mentioned a missing baby.”

  “Missing baby? Emma gave up a baby for adoption?”

  “No, not Emma. Her mother. And that’s why we need your help.”

  “Okay, Emma’s mother gave up a child for adoption,” I said.

  “We’re not exactly sure.” Chelsea gestured as if she were giving a speech, hands palms out to me. “And there’s the problemo, Abby. Emma got like, so whacked out when we mentioned her missing sister.”

  Stu looked at me. “I told Chelsea that Emma must not have realized we had the info on the missing kid before she signed on for the show. She was taken off guard, and now she wants out of her contract.”

  Chelsea flashed an angry glance at Stu. “She’s not getting out of anything.” She paused, took a deep breath, then smiled at me. “Production delays. Very frustrating. But Emma will have America in tears. She is amazing. Reality Check wants to pay her back for all the suffering she’s endured in her short life. We plan to make magic for Emma and her family, Abby. Magic for the world to see. That’s what we do. That’s who we are.” Broader smile, tooth veneers really gleaming now.

  “Okay. You’ve got me as confused as Jennifer Lopez’s ring finger. Could we start over, maybe in chronological order?”

  Chelsea laughed—an unattractive snorting laugh that gave me a perverse sense of satisfaction.

  “You are so cute, Abby,” she said. “Everyone on the set will fall in love with you and that great Texas accent. I really hope you’ll let us get you on tape.”

  Stu cleared his throat. “From what I hear about the referral letter, Emma’s missing sister would be about fifteen now.”

  Thank goodness someone had taken their Ritalin today and knew how to stay on track. “And where’s Emma’s mother?” I looked back and forth between them.

  “She disappeared in 1997,” Chelsea said. “As I said, Emma has been raising this family, been doing the most fantastic—”