Bayou Thanksgiving

  Riley Blake

  Copyright © 2020 by Riley Blake

  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.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Bayou Thanksgiving (Miss Fortune World: Bayou Cozy Romantic Thrills, #5)

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Author Note

  About Bayou Thanksgiving

  The Swamp Bar staff members host a benefit turkey shoot in neighboring Wasteland, but when Fortune and Gertie show up with the current Sinful Ladies Society president, something goes terribly wrong. Lining up to take her first shot, Ida Belle notices a sharpshooter adjusting his scope. And this assassin isn’t traveling alone.

  The Bayou Cozy Romantic Thrills series was written for those who have read (at minimum) the first two books in the original Miss Fortune series by Jana DeLeon. These holiday-themed short stories stick with the key characters introduced in the first two novels in hopes that anyone will be able to follow along.

  Reading Order for Bayou Cozy Romantic Thrills

  Bayou Valentine

  Bayou Halloween

  Bayou Christmas

  Bayou Easter

  Bayou Thanksgiving—New in November 2020

  Bayou Holiday—Coming in December 2020

  Chapter One

  “I wish I could act surprised, but I’m just not.” I peered through my disheveled hair and studied the two senior citizens standing on my porch.

  Draped in camo and sporting rifles, they looked like they’d just stepped into their roles on a Vietnam War movie set. Some of their gear was at least that old.

  Ida Belle stared at my hair. She was probably wondering why I’d slept in my extensions. She would eventually ask, but not until she was satisfied that she’d given me enough time to confess any salacious details on my own. Since Deputy Charming was still in my upstairs bed, it wasn’t a good time to feed a friend’s curiosity.

  Gertie folded her arms and shivered. “Aren’t you going to invite us in?”

  “Since when do we need an invitation?” Ida Belle tried to slide by me, but I didn’t budge.

  “Not so fast. It’s five in the morning. Unless there’s a clear and present danger, I’m going back to bed. I need my beauty sleep.”

  Ida Belle’s lips twitched. “Looks like you had girly intentions last night. What’d you do, get all fixed up, put on makeup and hair extensions and go to bed with a mirror in hand.”

  “Ha. Ha. Good one.”

  “Don’t listen to her. Ida Belle does it all the time. That’s why she rarely removes her curlers before noon.” Gertie slapped her knee and cackled.

  “Did you spike her coffee this morning?” I asked.

  “Speaking of which, move aside,” Gertie said. “I need some morning in my cup.”

  “Why didn’t you find your morning over at your house?” I pointed. “Two blocks that way.”

  Ida Belle looked bored. She glanced upstairs and back at me. I could either let her in or she would yell for Carter.

  “The only time Ida Belle ever spruced up before bed was when there was someone—Walter—already there waiting for her.”

  Ida Belle glared at Gertie. “I’ll have you know that I never wore hair extensions.”

  “Because they didn’t work with your hair rollers!” Gertie laughed aloud once more.

  This time, I joined her. Still, if I’d been a few years younger, I might have covered my ears. The image of Ida Belle in extensions or makeup was more than I could handle on a Wednesday morning. That was a Monday morning kind of image, the kind that you deliberately forgot about before the end of the week.

  I yawned. “Maybe you could come back around nine...tonight.”

  “She hasn’t even asked about our gear,” Gertie said, definitely disappointed by my lack of enthusiasm.

  “I’ve seen it before.”

  Ida Belle said, “Move aside, shooter.”

  The lone word was like a trigger. I worked my gaze from left to right, settling first on Gertie.

  Five-foot-two, one hundred and twenty pounds thanks to an oversized purse and sawed-off shotgun. The ugly orange foldable hunting cap conceals bed hair and bad color. Puffy jacket is not camo for show. The woman is packing moonshine.

  I focused on her hands.

  Loose grip on the gun’s muzzle means she doesn’t plan to use it. Death grip on a ten-pound handbag suggests she’s carrying her favorite weapon.

  I shifted my attention to Ida Belle.

  Standing taller than normal, every inch of her five-foot-two frame shouts determination. She’s headed out to make an impression and good or bad, she’ll leave one behind.

  “Which one of you dreamt about being G.I. Jane last night?” I smirked. That purse was definitely a weaponized piece of leather. “On second thought, this has more of a Private Benjamin feel to it.”

  “Ida Belle signed us up for a turkey shoot.”

  “Today?”

  “No, Fortune, we stopped by to get your opinion about what we plan to wear tomorrow.” She moved me out of her way with a gentle nudge. “All prospective hunters try on their camo, target practice, and then let their neighbors decide if they’re good enough to hunt turkeys for their family’s Thanksgiving dinner. We figured you might want to join us.”

  Gertie giggled. “She’s kidding, dear.”

  “I knew that.” Sometimes I wasn’t so sure.

  Since arriving in the bayou, I’d discovered Southern traditions, odd customs, and secret societies that served as the parish’s governing faction. Most of the time, I thoroughly enjoyed myself at the festivals and parades, any of the events actually, but in the wee hours of the morning?

  Not so much.

  “Get dressed,” Ida Belle said. “We’re meeting the others at The Swamp Bar. We’re late.”

  “The others?” I narrowed my gaze. “And by others, who do you mean?”

  Gertie set three mugs on my kitchen counter. “She means those who are participating in the shoot. No conspiracy here this morning.” She clapped her hands together. “Chop. Chop. We need to leave in ten.”

  “Is it against some Sinful code to give a girl a day’s notice?”

  Ida Belle slammed her rifle on my kitchen table and then glanced up. “Didn’t mean to wake the dead.” She giggled then mouthed. “Sorry, Carter.”

  “Ha, ha,” I mouthed right back.

  Meanwhile, Gertie set another mug on the counter. “Carter has been working around the clock. If he had known we planned to be here at five, he would’ve been darting out of here around three this morning. We were trying to be considerate of our young deputy. He needed his rest.”

  I grinned. “No. You needed the element of surprise.”

  “That too,” Ida Belle agreed.

  I turned back for the steps when something dawned on me. “Wait. Did you say we’re going to the Swamp Bar?”

  “Yes,” Gertie replied, pushing up her sleeve to check a camo watch that was probably purchased back in the forties. She tapped the facing a few times. “Shucks. We’ll never make it to the bar. Get dressed, Fortune. We’ll meet everyone in Wasteland.”

  I shuddered. Wasteland and I had a complicated past. “Why Wasteland?”

  “They have the best place for the turkey shoot, of course,” Gertie said. “Besides, if someone misses their target and hits the building, who’ll notice? The place is riddled with bullet holes. What’s a few more?”

  Chapter Two

  If Sinful had a polar opposite, it was Wasteland. While similar in size and location, the similarities stopped at the swamp.

  Sinful presented a postcard-flawlessness with small businesses boasting pretty storefronts and unique treasures. Residents seemingly cherished their sense of community with their quiet neighborhoods, variety of locally-owned eateries, and small town festivals.

  On Sunday, the pews were packed. On Monday, the streets were empty.

  Wasteland, on the other hand, lived up to its name. Most of the houses were four-room cottages clustered together in one subdivision appropriately called Wasteland’s Former Trailer Park.

  On those streets, littering wasn’t against the law. At best, public drunkenness was an admirable trait. At worst, it was a sport.

  According to an article written by Spirited Shaffer of the Wasteland Chronicles, Wasteland employed two officers and they both worked from home. They were paid out of the former mayor’s pocket so their only real duties involved watching over the mayor’s former business and vacant home.

  No one invited criminals to explore their options any better than Spirited Shaffer.

  At the thought, I jolted forward. “How many people will be in the shoot today?”

  Ida Belle shrugged. “Maybe ten or fifteen. Why?”

  “Is Mr. Shaffer covering t he competition?”

  “Probably not,” Gertie said. “As soon as the word got out that Ida Belle was a competitor, there wasn’t anything newsworthy.”

  I laughed. “You two are legends.”

  “In our own minds, maybe,” Ida Belle said.

  “We’ve got to be worthy of notoriety somewhere.” Gertie checked her rearview mirror. “But Ida Belle has this competition in the bag.”

  “And Gertie will take home second without so much as a hiccup.”

  “I brought along my nine in case you think we need a third hiccup.”

  Gertie hit the brake. Ida Belle stilled.

  “What? I’m a good shot.”

  “And a former sniper,” Gertie said.

  “Former being the keyword,” Ida Belle said, turning to face me. “You shouldn’t risk it.”

  “She’s right dear. What if you get caught up in the moment and start shooting to win?”

  “And beat Ida Belle?” Before I stepped on toes, I quickly added, “Not that I could, but we should come out here sometime and have a friendly competition.”

  Even if I could accomplish such a feat as beating Ida Belle, it wouldn’t be enjoyable if I succeeded. Ida Belle prided herself on being the best shooter this side of the Mason Dixon line. I wouldn’t dare take that away from her. It was almost like a birthright in these parts.

  I leaned forward again and was stunned to see traffic. Wasteland hadn’t been this busy since the steakhouse massacre. “What’s the holdup?”

  “Stoplight. Must be confusing those who haven’t been to Wasteland in a while.” Gertie wheeled the Cadillac around a van that looked like a throwback from the sixties.

  The driver must’ve been insulted when a little old lady outwitted him. He laid on the horn and hollered obscenities.

  Never to be outdone, Ida Belle rolled down her window, threw him a bird, and hollered, “Learn to drive!”

  The traffic light was a real stickler on busy days. It always blinked on green or held on red. Today, it was the latter which probably meant it would cause a time delay at the competition.

  Small towns seemingly ran on the crowd’s timetable. Any event was subject to change, with the exception of church. Catholic and Baptist services were never delayed thanks to the weekly race for Francine’s banana pudding.

  At the thought, my stomach growled. It could’ve been, in part, because of our arrival at the former steakhouse. I could almost smell their hickory smoked bacon. Even though I never actually ate there, I was very close to having my first meal when devastation struck.

  Thanks to that catastrophe, Wasteland was all but a ghost town. After the unfortunate incident on Valentine’s Day, Mayor Hollowman left his home and restaurant behind.

  From time to time, he encouraged a family member to reopen the restaurant. While they tried, none of them exhibited enough ambition to succeed. Then again, it was hard to make a go of it in a town with a population of zero to twenty, depending on how many Hollowmans were in town.

  As soon as we exited the car, I spotted a familiar face and waved. It was the least I could do.

  A year ago on Halloween, we had a bayou crisis. Officer Running could’ve hauled me in for questioning. Instead, he took Gertie and Ida Belle.

  “Great,” Ida Belle muttered. “If it isn’t Officer Walking.”

  “Running,” Gertie said, removing items from her trunk.

  “Have you ever watched him?” Ida Belle asked. “Why he doesn’t have the ambition to shake a stick at a gator.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t have the ambition to shake anything at those scaly beasts.”

  They laughed, but hushed abruptly when Officer Running crept in front of Gertie’s car.

  “Don’t look at him,” Gertie told Ida Belle. “It’s bad luck.”

  “Luck didn’t have a thing to do with it when that heathen hauled me in for a crime I didn’t commit.”

  “Hmm. Looks like Hollowman put up a new billboard.” Gertie changed the subject and read, “Turkey Shoot here today. Stop in for soft drinks and hard promises.”

  Ida Belle scoffed. “The only soft drink you’ll get here is from the water fountain.”

  “They have those in restaurants?” I’d only seen them in schools.

  “If they do? Gomer Hollowman is charging a dollar for every sip.”

  “I might pay that dollar if I could hear the promises.” Gertie dragged her purse from the car and tossed it on the hood. She immediately set her sawed-off shotgun there as well.

  Ida Belle gasped. “Hebert. What do you think you’re doing?”

  Already digging in her purse, Gertie never glanced up. “Looking for a buck so I can donate to Gomer’s cause.”

  “Don’t play dingbat with me. Your weapon is illegal and you know it.”

  “Of course it is,” Gertie said, unmoved. “But look around. Who’s going to tell me I can’t use it?”

  Ida Belle discreetly jabbed her finger in Officer Running’s direction.

  “He won’t say a word to me,” she said, seemingly certain.

  Curious, I took the bait. “Why?”

  “Intel and plenty of it.”

  I smirked. “Well of course you do.”

  “He made it easy.” Gertie wasn’t about to give up her scoop or her source. “But I won’t get my hands dirty unless he tries to keep me out of the competition.” She slung the gun over her shoulder and headed off to registration.

  I sighed. I could’ve been entering the competition as well, but then my cover as a former beauty queen and librarian would’ve been jeopardized.

  Might as well accept the fact that I’m sidelined for the day.

  Gertie returned a few minutes later and handed off a competition packet to Ida Belle. It had rules and such, but neither seemed too interested in those.

  “You’d better watch this one,” I teased. “She may surprise you out there.”

  “She could beat me if she could see, but you know Gertie. She isn’t about to wear her glasses.”

  “I don’t know where I left them last.”

  “Of course you do,” Ida Belle said. “But even without them, you’re a better shot than most of the contestants here. Half of ‘em can’t even figure out how to load their guns.” She pointed out those who were struggling. “But Gertie will take home a consolation prize. Wait and see.”

  “They have those?”

  “They always seem to find them for us.”

  Gertie explained, “I’ll be in the running for first place when the scores are tallied.” A slow smile crept across her lips. “Then, Ida Belle will hand in her target and sweep up like a champ. She’ll win the whole thing.”

  “Gertie will be destroyed.”

  She nodded excitedly. “Humiliated with the pain of embarrassment.”

  “And they’ll give her a comfort prize because of her age.”

  “We’ll probably score two turkeys,” Gertie added.

  I laughed. “You work every angle.”

  “Of course we do, dear, but this is for a good cause.”

  “What cause?”

  Ida Belle and Gertie exchanged a silent glance. They often helped those in need. And there were plenty of families that would appreciate a Thanksgiving turkey.

  “Speaking of prizes,” Ida Belle said, pointing at the billboard. “Gomer is known for riddles. What’s his point here?”

  “I’m on it.” Gertie hurried back to the steakhouse.

  “What am I missing?” These two could find a mystery even if there weren’t any clues. “Looks like any other Hollowman billboard to me.”

  The last one read: Our kitchen went up in smoke, bullets grazed the grass, don’t drink and drive, because then you’ll be an ass. The field beside it housed a lone donkey that stuck close to the road and billboard.

  “This sign mentioned promises.” She pressed her lips together. “I didn’t come all this way just to be given an IOU for a darn bird.”

  I couldn’t imagine throwing a dead bird in Gertie’s car, much less plucking its feathers. While I was all for Gertie and Ida Belle winning their turkeys, I didn’t want to ride home sandwiched between two large birds.

  As if she’d read my mind, Ida Belle said, “Just be glad that Francine agreed to cook Thanksgiving dinner. We’re all set for tomorrow.”

  “Ally said she was surprised that Francine was alone this year. She’s from a big family?”

 

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