Maggie Lee | Book 26 | The Hitwoman and the Teddy Bear Read online

  The Hitwoman and the Teddy Bear

  Book 26

  JB Lynn

  Copyright © Jennifer Baum THE HITWOMAN AND THE TEDDY BEAR

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted by US copyright act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in any database or retrieval system, without prior permission of the author.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via 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.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, establishments, or organizations, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously to give a sense of authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The Hitwoman And The Teddy Bear is intended for 18+ older and for mature audiences only.

  © 2021 Jennifer Baum

  Editor: Parisa Zolfaghari

  Cover designer: Hot Damn Designs

  Proofreader: Proof Before You Publish

  Formatting: Leiha Mann

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  Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Author’s Note

  Psychic Consignment Mystery Series

  Cursed Chicks Club

  Also by JB Lynn

  About JB Lynn

  Prologue

  You just know it’s going to be a bad day when an ass is calling your name.

  “Maggie! Maggie Lee!” Irma brayed.

  “What?” Pitchfork in hand, I turned to find out what Irma, the donkey, wanted now. I’d already given her an apple and scratched her ears.

  Most days, it’s kind of cool being able to talk to animals, but sometimes they can be overly demanding. Today was one of those days. I’d dealt with the lizard’s request for fresh crickets, the Doberman pinscher’s lament of endless hunger, and the donkey’s need for attention while I cleaned her stall.

  “Where’s Herschel?” Irma asked.

  “I told you, he has a cold. He’s staying in bed.” I stabbed the straw on the floor with the pitchfork.

  “Is he going to die?” Irma drummed her hooves. “Zippy said he’s dying.”

  I rolled my eyes and shook my head. “He’s not going to die.”

  “That little furball is a troublemaker,” God, the anole lizard curled up in my bra, muttered.

  “But Zippy said that Susan told Leslie he’s acting like he’s going to die,” Irma countered sadly.

  I bit back a laugh. I had no doubt that Aunt Susan had said that about her father. She’d never been the most patient nursemaid and Herschel had been acting like he was the first person to ever get the sniffles.

  Still, I could understand how Zippy, Herschel’s little white dog, could have misinterpreted Susan’s complaint. No doubt she’d delivered the criticism with dramatic flair to her sister. I put the pitchfork down and took the donkey’s face in both my hands. “He’s going to be fine,” I pledged. “It’s just a cold. He was well enough to deal with the building inspector who was here yesterday.”

  I didn’t mention that Herschel had complained nonstop about the sudden inspection. It had something to do with old walls and insurance or something. I really hadn’t paid much attention. Dealing with household construction emergencies wasn’t my highest priority. I was worried about a lot more important things.

  “He’s going to be okay,” I promised the donkey.

  “If you say so.” Irma did not sound convinced.

  “I do.” I kissed her nose.

  “Are you marrying the donkey?” my friend Armani asked from behind me.

  I glanced over my shoulder. “You’re back!”

  She nodded, but I could tell from the frown lines between her brows that she wasn’t happy. I gave Irma one last pat, picked up the pitchfork, hung it on the wall, and walked out of the barn. Armani followed.

  “Something bothering you?” I asked once we were outside.

  “Nope.”

  I glanced over at her, surprised by her restrained response. “I’m not psychic, but even I can tell something’s wrong.”

  She let out a heavy sigh, staring off into the distance.

  “Not a good visit?” I guessed. She’d gone to see her boyfriend, Jack Stern, a crime reporter who's been out of town, chasing down a lead on a story. I liked Jack, but his quest for the truth could be a bit inconvenient, so I wouldn’t be exactly heartbroken if they broke up.

  She waved her good hand dismissively. “It was fine.”

  I frowned. For someone who usually said whatever was on her mind—even when I didn’t want to hear it—her noncommittal responses were definitely out of character. “Well, if you decide you do want to talk about it, you know where to find me.” I began to walk toward the house, wanting a shower after mucking out the donkey’s stall.

  “Why aren’t the kids in school?” she called after me.

  I stopped, realizing a shower probably wasn’t in my near future. My gaze flicked over to the empty room in the barn where my nieces, Katie and Alicia, attended school.

  “It’s Sunday,” I reminded her, turning to watch her. “Marlene and Doc are watching a movie with them in the basement.”

  She nodded. “How’s your dad?”

  “Better,” I answered. My father was recovering from a gunshot wound and seemed to be on the mend. “They released him from the hospital and he’s staying at Ian’s place.”

  “Maybe I should visit,” she suggested.

  “Archie or Ian?” I teased lightly, knowing she thought my brother was attractive.

  When she didn’t respond to the good-natured taunt, I started to think something was really wrong.

  “I’m worried about Griswald,” she blurted out.

  My stomach dropped. I was worried about Aunt Susan’s husband, U.S. Marshal Lawrence Griswald too, but there was no way Armani could know that. I stepped closer to her. “Why?”

  “Dreams,” she muttered. “Terrible dreams.”

  My gut clenched. I already knew that someone was after Griswald, and while Armani’s dreams, visions, and predictions aren’t wholly accurate, there is always a kernel of truth in them. “Tell me about the dreams.”

  “Nightmares, really.”

  I nodded encouragingly.

  “Do you girls want chicken soup?” a voice yelled.

  Glancing back, I saw Templeton, Aunt Loretta’s fiancé, standing on the porch of the house wearing a floral chintz apron
and waving a soup ladle like it was a marching band leader’s baton.

  “Yes!” Armani replied before I could get a word out.

  Templeton waved us inside. “It’s ready.”

  “I love chicken soup,” Armani said, limping past me toward the house.

  Walking beside her, I reminded gently, “I’d like to hear about your dreams.”

  “After food,” she declared as she grabbed a can of cola out of the refrigerator.

  “It can’t be good news if it requires sustenance before delivery,” God declared.

  I had no doubt he was right. Someone wanted Griswald dead. First, they’d tried to kill him at the cemetery (which was when Dad had been hurt). Then, they had shot up a hospital room. And then, a week ago, a team of six had converged on this very house.

  Griswald didn’t know about that attempt, and I hadn’t figured out a way, yet, to tell him that a group of ninjas had incapacitated the attackers and spirited them away. It sounded ridiculous, and I doubted he’d believe me. The only way to confirm the veracity of the story would have been to tell him that a mobster’s bodyguard and a cop had been there also—and that was way too complicated.

  I had, however, managed to convey my theory that they had been after him, not my father, at the hospital. While I didn’t have proof, and the hospital gunman that was in custody hadn’t confirmed anything, Griswald had moved out of the compound and back to the house he owned. Somehow, he’d convinced Aunt Susan not to go with him. She’d been rattling around, griping at everyone, including her sick father, ever since.

  “Susan just brought some of this to Herschel. My chicken soup will heal whatever ails you,” Templeton bragged. “It’s better than penicillin.”

  “I’m allergic to penicillin,” Armani muttered. “Anything’s better than that.”

  The bitterness in her tone cut through me. Whatever she’d seen about Griswald had really upset her. I fought the urge to press her for details. There was no use trying to get information out of her until she was fed—not when Templeton was cooking. The man had a gift.

  I forced myself to keep things positive as we sat down at the kitchen table. “Do you use a secret ingredient, Templeton?”

  “Love,” he said. “I make all my food with love.”

  “And he makes love with food,” Aunt Loretta confided, wobbling in on her stilettos and patting her fiancé’s butt.

  “And there goes my appetite,” God groaned.

  Considering Piss, the cat, had delivered a still-squirming cricket to him earlier, I was surprised he wasn’t stuffed.

  As Templeton ladled steaming soup into bowls, Loretta told Armani, “Twenty-seven percent.”

  “Great,” Armani replied in a tone that indicated it was anything but, as she poured her soda into the soup.

  I looked away, repulsed, just in time to see Loretta scowl.

  “I thought you’d be pleased,” my aunt pouted.

  “I am,” Armani told her with zero enthusiasm.

  “She’s tired from her trip to see Jack,” I interjected, trying to smooth things over.

  “Ahhh,” Loretta nodded, turning her frown upside down. “A lover’s tryst can be exhausting. Eat more oysters.” Having delivered her advice, she tottered out of the room, calling, “You too, Templeton.”

  Her lover had his back to us, but I could tell from the way his shoulders shook that he was laughing.

  Meanwhile, Armani was chewing nervously on her cheek. Her concern about these dreams of hers was driving my anxiety about Griswald’s safety into the stratosphere. I swallowed nervously, wondering what I could do to help protect him when I didn’t even know who wanted him dead.

  1

  “Tell me about your dream,” I urged Armani after we’d eaten the best chicken soup I’d ever had.

  Armani stirred her spoon in her bowl despite the fact it was empty, staring down at it, instead of looking at me. “He’s being tortured.”

  I gulped. “Tortured?”

  She nodded.

  “Do you now where? Who?” I asked hopefully.

  She shook her head. “But he’s definitely in pain.”

  “Is there anything else you can tell me?” I asked hopefully.

  She looked up. “Why? Do you think you’re going to be able to rescue him or something?”

  I blinked. That had, indeed, been what I was thinking, but I knew it wasn’t the right answer to give. “I was thinking we could tell Brian,” I said, invoking the name of Griswald’s nephew, a police detective.

  She perked up a little. “Brian might help. He believes in my powers.”

  I nodded. She’d successfully played psychic matchmaker for the cop.

  “I’m going to call him right now,” she declared, pushing herself into a standing position and hurrying out of the kitchen.

  “He won’t believe her,” God opined from my bra as I cleaned up the soup dishes.

  “Maybe not,” I agreed.

  “You know what you’ve got to do,” he said.

  “Whitehat,” I muttered. I had no doubt that Ms. Whitehat had sent the ninjas to save my family, but I hadn’t heard anything from her since that night.

  “You’ve got to find out what she knows,” God urged.

  I knew he was right.

  “Call Zeke,” he ordered.

  I closed the dishwasher. “I’ll text him.”

  “Texting is impersonal.”

  “But it’s efficient,” I countered.

  “Maggie!” a voice squawked.

  I looked out the window over the sink and spotted Mike, the crow, perched on the ledge.

  I held up a finger to signal he should wait a second, then grabbed a slice of turkey out of the fridge and headed for the door.

  Glancing around to make sure no humans would overhear me, I said, “Hi, Mike.”

  “Hi there, toots,” he cawed.

  I held up the meat. “For you.”

  He bowed slightly, flew to my hand, snatched up the food, and flew a few feet away to eat it.

  “Of course you feed him,” God groused from my shoulder.

  “You already ate,” I reminded the lizard. “Stop being a baby.”

  “At least I’m not a cannibal,” he huffed indignantly. “Devouring one’s kind is repugnant.”

  I swallowed hard, suddenly queasy. “I’m sure that was chicken in the soup. It definitely tasted like chicken,” I murmured unconvincingly. Templeton didn’t seem like the type who’d try to pass human flesh off as poultry. Then again, I didn’t seem like a person who killed people for money. “I’m not a cannibal,” I muttered, trying to convince myself.

  “Not you!” God bellowed. “Him! Bird on bird is unnatural.”

  “Oh,” I mumbled, letting out a shaky sigh of relief.

  Mike was unabashedly gobbling down his kind.

  “Don’t insult our friend,” I whispered to God.

  “Your friends are a mix of assassins, mobsters, and cannibals,” he pointed out.

  “Speaking of friends,” Mike said, having gulped down the last of the remains of his species. “Your friend is here, looking for you.”

  Gulping nervously, I squinted at him. The last time a friend had shown up looking for me, she’d tried to frame me for her husband’s murder.

  “Who?” God asked. “Who’s looking for her?”

  “The cool one,” Mike replied matter-of-factly.

  I frowned, having no idea who the cool one could be.

  “Gino?” God guessed.

  “Who else? He’s at the top of the driveway.” Beating his wings, the crow flew off in that general direction.

  “How’d you know Gino is the cool one?” I asked as I began to trudge around the house to head toward the mobster’s bodyguard.

  “Birds of a feather flock together,” he replied. “They’re both wiseguys.”

  “I thought you liked Gino. Hold on tight.” I sprinted past the barn in the hopes that the donkey wouldn’t see me and ask about my grandfather again.
r />   The lizard muttered something about a bumpy ride, and then said clearly, “I do like Gino, but that doesn’t mean I don’t see what he is.”

  I sighed as I walked up the driveway. Why were all my relationships so dysfunctional?

  As I neared the street, I heard a hissing sound to my left. Glancing over, I saw Gino, hidden in the trees, waving me over.

  “Did the bird tell you I was here?” he asked as I moved toward him.

  I nodded. There was no point pretending around him anymore. He’d seen me talk to Mike when a band of automatic weapon-toting killers had surrounded the house.

  “Cool!” He fist-pumped the air. “That crow is awesome.”

  “Wonderful,” God drawled sarcastically. “He and the crow have a mutual admiration society.”

  Hearing the squeaking of the lizard, Gino squinted at my shoulder. “Do you talk to him, too?”

  I nodded.

  “Must be nice to always have someone to talk to,” he said.

  “It is,” I agreed.

  “You could show a little more appreciation,” God lectured. “The occasional thank you wouldn’t be uncalled for.”

  “Thank you,” I murmured.

  “For what?” Gino asked.

  “Not you, him.” I pointed to the lizard.

  To his credit, the mobster’s bodyguard didn’t roll his eyes.

  I waited for him to say what he was doing there.

  “The boss wants to see you,” he said.

  I nodded. I’d figured as much. “Can it wait? I promised Katie and Alicia that I’d play tag with them later.”

  An amused grin lifted the corner of Gino’s mouth. “You’re the only one who can get away with telling the boss to wait. I’ll tell him you’ve got Katie time and he’ll understand.”