Wickedly Sinful: Miss Fortune World: Sinful Stories, #8

By Shari Hearn

The good. The bad. The sinful. But which one is a killer?

 

This year's Founders' Day parade is marred by the murder of former Sinful High math teacher, Buster Blanchet. Enter Fortune and her cohorts, Ida Belle and Gertie, who've been hired to prove Tessa DuBerry, Buster's former colleague, didn't do it. But how can Fortune prove Tessa is innocent when the woman takes every opportunity to look guilty?

 

Join the Swamp Team 3 as they rip the lid off Sinful's wicked past in a desperate attempt to find clues that point to another suspect.

You know what that means—an undercover trip to the Swamp Bar!

 

Wickedly Sinful is Book 8 in the Sinful Stories series with the Miss Fortune World, and follows the events of Gators and Garters, Book 18 in Jana DeLeon's Miss Fortune Series. I wish to thank Ms. DeLeon for graciously allowing other writers to use her characters from her Miss Fortune Mysteries series to create their own stories set in Sinful.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J&R Fan Fiction
• Release date: May 24, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201442293

Book preview

PROLOGUE

1958 – SINFUL, LOUISIANA.

Marge Boudreaux peered into the viewfinder of her trusted Pentax camera, bringing the image into focus. Perfect, she whispered to herself as she snapped the photo.

It’s a silly time capsule, Marge, said her friend Gertie, who stood inches from her, cracking her gum.

Marge looked up at her and shook her head. It’s history. That thing won’t be dug up until we’re in our seventies.

Her other friend Ida Belle, who stood next to Gertie, laughed. Seventies? We’ll all be sitting in rocking chairs at the old folks’ home in New Orleans by then.

Marge returned her attention to her viewfinder, zeroing in on the line of Sinful High seniors approaching the capsule. They had gotten the day off from school to attend the gathering, with instructions to deposit items of family history, as well as essays on what life was like for Sinful teenagers in the 1950s.

Several yards away from the line of students stood the real target of her interest. Her calculus teacher, Mr. Buster Blanchet. Grateful she’d come equipped with two cameras dangling around her neck, she traded her wide-angle for a telephoto lens to get closer to the action.

Come on, she said aloud, do something you’ll regret later.

Marge, you’ve been trying to get him in a compromising position for months now, Ida Belle said. I doubt he’ll do something with all those people crowded around.

You never know. Aunt Louanne said arrogant people think they can do all sorts of things and not get caught. You just have to keep your camera handy when you finally see something that will be ‘helpful’ someday.

Marge’s Aunt Louanne loved spy novels. A little off her nut, she would disguise herself and spy on her fellow citizens. As the owner of Sinful Photo and a master photographer herself, she’d also built quite a collection of photos that had proved helpful.

Marge focused on Mr. Blanchet and smiled. Over there we have Mrs. Lebec. See the look Mr. Blanchet’s giving her? There, he’s moving over to say hi. Nothing wrong with our calculus teacher saying hello to the English teacher. Except, there it is. Finally. Marge stuck two fingers in front of the lens and snapped a shot. Their hands reached out and touched one another. They think no one else can see. She looked up at Gertie and Ida Belle, lifting her brows in triumph.

Let me look. Gertie took the camera from around Marge’s neck and pointed it in Mr. Blanchet’s direction. Wow. We always suspected those two were messing around. He’s super handsome and all, but his personality is as appealing as bayou slime.

I could have used a photo like this last month, Ida Belle said. He caught me making out with Steve Rochelle and made me wash his car or he’d tell my dad.

Oh, now his finger is wrapped around hers, Gertie said.

Don’t waste the shot, take it, Marge commanded as she inserted two fingers several inches in front of the lens just as Gertie snapped the photo.

Your fingers were in the bottom of the shot.

That’s okay, Marge said. It tells me this is blackmail material someday. She took the camera from Gertie and continued scanning the line of students.

You’ve never been scarier than you are right now, Marge, Ida Belle said. I like it.

Marge focused on their friend Emily holding an envelope. Her family had started the Sinful Times newspaper. No telling what scandalous headlines she included.

As she snapped the photo, she noticed Mr. Blanchet glancing at Emily, an odd expression on his face. Was it worry? Blanchet was the descendant of a train conductor who had stood accused, but never tried, of aiding and abetting a gang that robbed his train of a fortune in gold bars. A bad headline about his ancestors would definitely turn Mr. Blanchet’s stomach.

Or was he worried about the offering from Lily Ayot, a descendant of the sheriff who investigated the robbery? Marge snapped several photos of Mr. Blanchet. His hand pulled away from Mrs. Lebec’s hand as he watched student after student tossing in their offerings, several giving him a vengeful look.

Yep, Marge said, a picture is worth a thousand words. And someday, these photos might tell a doozy of a story.

CHAPTER ONE

SINFUL, LOUISIANA – Present Day

I glared at the scantily-clad woman glaring back at me in the full-length mirror in Gertie’s bathroom. They’d done it to me again. After promising they wouldn’t, they did. I flung open the bathroom door. At the same time, Ally opened Gertie’s guest room door across the hall from the bathroom.

Ally stood beaming in a full-length dress from the 1800s, a bonnet on her head. Her smile fell as her eyes took in my costume.

Oh.

Yeah, I said, clenching my jaw.

What are you supposed to be?

What does it look like?

Uh... Ally was too polite to say, hooker. Didn’t matter, her expression said it all.

Yeah. That.

I stomped down the hallway, taking great pains to make sure that I scuffed Gertie’s new oak flooring she’d installed several months ago. I don’t even remember flying down the stairs, but soon I stormed into the backyard, where members of the Sinful Ladies Society worked on the SLS float for the Founders’ Day Parade.

Where are they?

The ladies played dumb and shrugged in unison, but the sound of sawing around the corner of the house told me everything I wanted to know.

I charged at my two cohorts. You never listen.

Ida Belle completed a cut and turned off her saw. She scanned my outfit with a raised brow.

Ooh, someone has a bee in her bonnet, Gertie said as she took the completed board from Ida Belle and added it to a row of newly sawn wood leaning against the house.

Oh, if only I had a bonnet. Then I could use it to cover my boobs. And don’t get me started about my skirt that’s charging up Booty Hill.

Gertie stood back and appraised my outfit. She shook her head and looked at Ida Belle. You were right. Orange is not a good color for her. I’ll have to change it to a blue top.

I said I was done dressing up as a hooker.

Gertie sighed. You are not a hooker. You’re a saloon girl.

I take it saloon girls were the hookers of their day.

Ida Belle shook her head at Gertie. I told you she would never buy it.

Gertie waved her off and smiled at me. Think Miss Kitty from Gunsmoke.

I have no idea what that even means, I said, but if her name was Miss Kitty, I’m getting the message, loud and clear.

Gertie gave me one of her, you’re so young sighs. Miss Kitty was the glue that held everything together. She owned the saloon and was Marshall Dillon’s girlfriend. So you and she have something in common.

I assume she could afford an outfit that allowed her to bend over. How come I always have to be a hooker? I held up my hand. Nope, don’t answer that. Answer me this. Why isn’t Ally wearing something this revealing?

Gertie winced. I promised her mother long ago, when Ally was seven, that I would never dress her up as a hooker again.

So? You made that promise to me and broke it. And why did you dress seven-year-old Ally as a hooker?

Halloween of 1995. I made Ally’s costume, a nice little princess outfit, and Ida Belle and I took her out trick-or-treating. Wouldn’t you know we’d run into Celia taking her daughter Pansy out. I may have said something that Celia took as an insult, and all hell broke loose.

You told Celia the horse face mask she wore was realistic, Ida Belle said. She looked at me. Celia wasn’t wearing a mask.

I assumed not, I said.

Anyway, Celia said something to me, and Pansy said something to Ally about her costume, and Ally hauled off and took a swing at Pansy. By the time Sheriff Lee came and pulled us all apart, Ally’s cute little princess outfit looked like... Gertie glanced at my costume.

Am I wearing it?

Not all of it, of course. I had to add some here and there. You are bigger than Ally was at seven.

Don’t look now, but there’s a paw print on your butt, Ida Belle said. Pansy dressed as a lion that year. Don’t worry, we’ll get you something else to wear. The community theater has all kinds of period costumes.

Gertie threw her hands in the air. "But our float is called The Good, The Bad, The Sinful. If we don’t have a saloon girl, it won’t look authentic. She sighed. I guess I could go as the floozy."

Ida Belle shot a look my way.

Damn her pleading eyes. But she was right. Gertie dressed as a saloon girl was just asking for trouble. Okay, I’ll be the saloon girl. But I need a total redo on the outfit. I want to be the business-owner saloon girl with her eye on the future. And no paw print on my butt.

I felt eyes on me. I whipped around to find two men approaching.

80-something, doughy pale skin, white wispy hair, cane, slight limp. He must have been starving because his eyes were tasting every inch of me. Threat level: Creepy.

Old Man Wispy was accompanied by another man.

Midfifties, tanned, closely shaven dark hair, beard, wearing aviator sunglasses. Holding a steno notebook. Threat level: Low to medium. Aviator sunglasses say medium. The khakis say low.

Ahh, my two favorite gals, said Old Man Wispy, though it was hard to know if he was referring to Ida Belle and Gertie or my breasts that his eyes seemed glued to.

Ida Belle stepped in between us to break his concentration. Mr. Blanchet, nice to see you today. The tone of her voice conveyed anything but excited. She leaned slightly so that my face was visible. This is Fortune Redding, one of Sinful’s newest residents.

Oh my goodness, he said. I wondered when I’d get a glimpse of the infamous Fortune Redding. I’ve heard so much about you.

The pleasure’s all mine, I said, though I could tell the pleasure was all his. I extended my hand around Ida Belle for a proper greeting.

I pulled my hand away from his when it became apparent that he had no intention of letting go. For an old guy, he had an iron grip. I elevated his creepy threat level to low. He could take me if I were incapacitated.

Blanchet leaned in on his cane toward Gertie. I’m trying to determine which lovely lady left me a little surprise last night. Perhaps one of you Sinful Ladies?

Surprise? Gertie asked.

He shrugged. A lovely gift with a perfumed ribbon. I assume it’s from the same lady who’s been sending me sweet, unsigned missives for weeks now. About a dozen in all.

His gaze fell on me.

Not me, I said forcefully.

Gertie and Ida Belle shook their heads so quickly I feared they might be giving themselves whiplash.

Just thought I’d ask, he said, before gesturing to the man next to him.

I couldn’t tell if the younger man had been leering at my costume as well because his sunglasses hid his eye movements, but his appropriate handshake made me downgrade his threat level to low.

This is Wyatt Coburn, Blanchet said.

Coburn? asked Ida Belle. As in Emily’s son?

The younger man took off his shades, and I could see the pride reflected in his green eyes. That’s me.

Oh my goodness. Gertie placed her hand over her chest. I haven’t seen you since you were little. I think you were five and I ran into you and your mama on a shopping excursion to New Orleans. I can see Emily in you.

Thank you, he said. I consider that a great compliment.

Actually, Mr. Blanchet said, he’s the spitting image of his daddy.

I detected a wrinkle of annoyance on Wyatt’s face.

His daddy is Rockwell Coburn, Blanchet said to me. Founder of Coburn convenience stores. They’re all over the South.

Ida Belle pivoted toward me. Emily Coburn was Emily Fusilier back when we knew her. She’s a historian and has written several biographies on women in history.

Wyatt’s face beamed. Mom is the finest writer I’ve read.

Gertie placed a hand to her hip. You’re not so bad yourself, Mr. New York Times bestselling author. She looked at me. Wyatt writes... she looked at him and cocked her head. You’re hard to classify.

Isn’t that the truth? he said. I write a little of this and a little of that. From history to philosophy to how a wiener dog helped win a war.

"Chihuahua on the Case was one of my favorite books," Gertie said.

He smiled. I learned from the best. Mom always instilled a love of the written word in me.

Wyatt is writing a book about my train, Blanchet said.

Wyatt’s smile tightened. Well, a chapter at least. I’m writing a book about how the railroads built Southern Louisiana.

My great-great-grandfather, Charles Blanchet was a conductor on one of the lines, Blanchet said, craning his neck to get another eyeful of my boobs. In fact, he bought one of the train cars and lived in it while building the house I live in now. That very car is sitting in my driveway on a trailer bed. And this year it’s going to lead the parade.

I nodded. I see that train car on my runs along the walking path.

Well, when you’re on one of your runs, you’ll have to stop in for a chat.

I’ll do that, I said, knowing I had no intention of ever stopping by.

I’ll tell you all about the train robbery, he said to my left boob. The thieves made off with hundreds of thousands in gold, tens of millions in today’s money, then tried to pin it on my ancestor. Some have tried to dig up gold they think is buried underneath my grove of oak trees. Stupid people. I finally had to replace some of the trees with a concrete patio to dissuade them. Every year when I take my fishing vacation, I come home to broken concrete and upturned soil.

He looked at Gertie. I caught you digging there once.

I was ten and wanted a new bike, Gertie said. Seemed an easy way to get it.

Have you inspected many of the floats for the Blanchet Award? asked Ida Belle. The Sinful Ladies are blending three themes this year.

You’re my second float today. Care to give me a look at your progress?

Sure, said Ida Belle.

Wyatt held up his hand and addressed Blanchet. I think I’ll pass on this one. I’m not feeling too well, actually. But I do thank you for showing me your train and granting me an interview.

You’re quite welcome. Blanchet tapped Wyatt on the leg with his cane. Please say, ‘hello’ to your mama for me. And your dad. I’d love to meet him some day.

Wyatt’s smile formed a straight line. I didn’t buy his story of being sick. He probably couldn’t wait to be away from Blanchet. I knew I couldn’t.

Lovely meeting you ladies, Wyatt said before rushing away.

Blanchet followed Ida Belle around the back to see the float in progress.

He was your teacher? I asked.

Gertie nodded, frowning. Calculus our senior year. We all hated him.

I can’t imagine why.

You’re coming to the unearthing of the time capsule, aren’t you?

I shrugged.

Oh, come on. Marge contributed a photo of Celia. A really insulting photo.

I shrugged again. Just seeing Celia in person is insulting enough. I’ll work on the float, but I think I’ll give the time capsule a pass.

You know, you’ve been grumpy ever since I brought it up. Out with it.

It’s not exactly my history.

Her jaw dropped.

What? It’s the truth.

No, it’s not that. Your boob broke the seam. I’ve never seen a boob do that before.

I held my hand over my chest. You’re lucky I like you so much.

Hello... a shrill voice called out from around the corner of Ida Belle’s house. A woman, midfifties appeared.

I scooted behind Gertie, my hand covering my amazing, seam-popping boob.

I hope I’m not interrupting anything, the woman said.

Brown skirt, powder-blue top, brown pumps, and a string of pearls around her neck. Going for a Hunger Games look on her face, and not the Hunger Games character you’d be rooting for, unless you were Celia. Threat Level: High.

Gertie shook her head. Not interrupting at all. I’m just making some adjustments in Fortune’s costume for our float.

Oh, she said. Could I see it?

It’s not ready for prime time, I said.

Oh, well, with my final inspection, then. She craned her long neck and peered at the side of my costume. One of her brows arched upward.

Final inspection? I asked.

Fortune, this is Betsy Dugas. She’s the director at the Sinful Historical Society and will judge floats for the Historical Accuracy Award. Gertie whispered to Betsy, Fortune’s playing a saloon girl. We allowed her to design her own costume, and I think I need to reign her in a bit.

Indeed, she said, still smiling.

I reached in and grabbed a fistful of Gertie’s butt and pinched, causing her to yelp.

Betsy’s eyebrow ticked up again, but she remained silent.

You can head to the back yard to get a closer look at the float, Gertie told her. Buster Blanchet just arrived for his preliminary inspection.

Her smile drooped a bit. Oh, well, nice surprise.

I heard Buster say his train was leading the parade this year, Gertie said. I’ve never known a Founders’ Day Parade when the historical society’s float wasn’t in the lead.

She shrugged. A few months ago I gave into his begging, though I made him give the society something in return. Don’t tell, him, but we came out ahead. Her chuckle bordered on maniacal.

She started to move past us but stopped and looked at me. And thank you again for dropping off Marge’s photographs to the historical society in honor of Founders’ Day. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to thank you in person. I’ve been busy at the museum gearing up for the main event.

Just glad to be of some help, I said.

I remember seeing Marge around town with her camera. Such a loss. Do you take after her in that regard?

I shook my head. I’m not related to Marge.

Oh, that’s right, she said. You were pretending to be Sandy Sue Morrow. How peculiar. But I’m sure it all made sense.

I hate her, I said as she rounded the corner out of earshot.

Don’t we all, Gertie said.

But not as much as I hate this costume.

I’ll make you a new one. Go get changed. In a bit we’re going to spy on Celia’s crew and see how they’re doing. We need to make sure our float stands out more with old Buster Blanchet since the winner of this year’s Blanchet Award follows his train. The winning crew raises the time capsule. Just a reminder that we’d be a shoo-in if you had less fabric in your costume.

I glared at her.

All right. More fabric.

CHAPTER TWO

THIS FELT MORE LIKE it. Dressed in black yoga pants and T-shirt, hiding in the rafters of the Sinful Historical Society’s museum workroom, a large barn located a few hundred feet from the museum’s main building.

The barn was large enough to accommodate oversized exhibits, as well as provide space for community projects. Since Celia’s crew had won the Historical Society Award for best historical depiction in last year’s Founders’ Day Parade, they’d been given the honor of using the society’s barn as space to build their float.

To hear Gertie tell it, they didn’t win the award so much as they stole it from the Sinful Ladies Society. That meant spying on their float building wasn’t cheating, but rather, putting air back into the wheels of justice.

Crouching in the rafters took me back to my CIA days, not that long ago, but which felt like an eternity now that I’d been away from it for ten months. Sure I was surveilling a group of stick-up-their-butts God’s Wives and not a group of Middle East terrorists or Russian arms dealers, but I felt in my element again.

Gertie held a bag out to me. Want some chips?

Okay, sort of in my element. CIA missions to eliminate the head of a terrorist organization didn’t involve someone threatening to ruin my mission with a noisy bag of chips.

Shhh, I whispered.

Oh, they can’t hear us over their yapping, Gertie said.

Ida Belle pointed to a small piece of chip floating downward. No, but some of your crumbs are raining down on them.

I say we leave, Gertie said. "They might win the historical society award again, but I can already tell their float is going to get a big thumbs down with Blanchet. Their theme is Saving Sinful Souls. Blanchet hasn’t stepped foot in