Oliver WOLF: A Jessica James Mystery

A Jessica James Mystery
1. Auflage 2022
ISBN: 978-0-692-68536-5
Verlag: KAOS Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, Band 2, 375 Seiten

Reihe: The Jessica James Mysteries

If James Patterson and Janet Evanovich had a love child... meet Jessica James.
She knew she'd have to defend her thesis.
But she didn't think she'd be defending her life.
Is the professor's weird note the final nail in her coffin?
Is the hot art dealer putting the moves on her for real? Or is he the killer?
And why is the Russian janitor forging masterpieces in the broom closet?
Armed with only her quick wit and the secrets at the bottom of her book bag, Jessica had better find answers before her degree gets buried six feet under and her along with it.
You'll love this murder mystery with a twist because it's a perfect mix of suspense, humor, and romance that will keep you turning the pages.
Get it now.
WINNER of the 2017 Independent Publishers Award for BEST MYSTERY-THRILLER
'Edgy, thrilling, and captivating.' -The Chicago Tribune
'Witty and engaging. Jessica is instantly likable.' -Kirkus Reviews
'Very funny, yet profoundly dark.' -Reader's Magazine

Autoren/Hrsg.

Oliver, Kelly

Leseproben

Chapter One
The door jerked open, jolting passengers into consciousness, but no one got on or off the crowded Greyhound bus. Another worthless stop. Another suffocating belch of exhaust. And not enough time to get off the bus to use a real bathroom. No wonder the trip from Whitefish to Vegas took thirty-four painful hours. Jessica James squirmed in her seat, scrutinizing the other poor slobs schlepping beat-up duffels, bulging Wal-Mart bags, and greasy paper sacks for their low-budget journey. Just before the door closed, a paunchy middle-aged man sporting a comb-over climbed aboard. For all she knew, that was him, Zane Powers, the Mesmerizer. Her mom insisted she would find him in Vegas. But really he could be anywhere. Jessica sighed. The chances of finding the Mesmerizer were as slim as her making it to the next rest stop. She’d been holding it since Sage Junction. Nothing was worse than the smell of that blue toilet chemical. Curse her mother for sending her on this fool’s errand. Jessica was determined to find the washed up magician just to prove her mother wrong. She blew at her bangs. There were two types of people in the world: those who wanted to know and those who wanted to believe. Her mother was a believer, but Jessica wanted to know. Her mom always said, “God has his reasons” and “everything happens for the best.” Jessica wondered how gut-ripping tragedy was best for anyone. Her mom had faith, but Jessica wanted proof. Proof that Zane Powers was not her biological father. Near midnight, when the bus finally pulled into the Pocatello bus station for a layover long enough to use the bathroom, she nearly wet her pants in anticipation. She dragged her duffel bag down from the overhead rack to save her seat, and then took off at a brisk pace. Halfway down the aisle, she remembered her wallet and turned back. Barely able to hold it, she unzipped the side pocket of her bag and snagged her wallet. Better safe than sorry, as her Aunt Mary always told her. Timid and alone, Aunt Mary was both safe and sorry. The Pocatello bus stop smelled of fryer grease and hopelessness. Most of the other passengers were lined up at McDonald’s waiting for their dose of grease. Bladder full to bursting, Jessica made a beeline for the bathroom. By the time she came out, the line for food snaked around the corner and spilled out into the lobby. She had four dollars and change, just enough for a Happy Meal. She could use some happiness. As she waited at the back of the line, she slipped the tattered photograph out of her fringe jacket pocket and examined it under the florescent light. In old pictures, her mom was always laughing, head thrown back, a looker ready to take on the world. The man with her in the photo was tall, slender, and far too pretty. No way this dude from the circus provided the sperm responsible for her existence. Her dad—the one she’d known for the first twelve years of her life—was short, sinewy, and had a grin that could light up a moonless night. As a child, she’d worshipped him and wanted to be just like him… well maybe not a mill worker living in a trailer park, but a rodeo-riding cowboy who took off on a horse with only a bedroll. She’d lived for those weekends when he’d take her with him, riding for miles through pine forests and sleeping under the stars. No way. This Zane Powers dude just couldn’t be her biological father. Jessica squinted at the photo, trying to make out what the beautiful man was holding in his hand, besides her mother. She held the photo closer to the light. Her mom was radiant, and so young. She must have been a teenager. She was wearing the same kind of crop-top and cut-offs she still wore on scorching summer afternoons, whiling away the hours playing video poker and drinking Vodka Collins on the porch of her doublewide. Jessica recognized the building in the background as one of the horse barns at the fairgrounds. In the foreground, a giant arched façade read “The Mesmerizer.” Whoever he was, this Mesmerizer had made her mom happy, which was no easy feat. Jessica had been trying without success for most of her twenty-three years. A thumb-shaped shadow darkened the lower corner of the picture. Whose thumb? Her mom was tight-lipped about this Mesmerizer dude, but expected Jessica to drop everything and run after him anyway. And for some crazy reason, she’d done it. Maybe it was because her mom had looked so pathetic. She slipped the photo back in her pocket. Hard to believe a week ago, she’d gotten off another long bus journey from Chicago, ready to cook spaghetti and install a handicap rail in her mom’s shower. After the accident, her mom turned out to be way beyond pasta and minor carpentry. She inched forward in line and inhaled the distinctive smell of Mickey-D’s French fries. She was starving. She swore not to think about her mom or the Mesmerizer again until she reached Vegas. As soon as she got back to the bus, she was going to concentrate on her own life and studying for her qualifying exam. An announcement came over the loud speaker: “The bus for Las Vegas is departing in five minutes. All passengers should be on board at this time.” Jessica’s stomach growled and she looked longingly at a pigtailed girl who was munching on an apple turnover. She smiled at the girl hoping for a handout and got a tongue out instead. Even fast food wasn’t going to be fast enough. She’d miss her bus if she didn’t hustle. Sigh. She’d have to settle for yet another granola bar. She hightailed it back to the bus. Outside, a familiar stench socked her in the nose. She looked around and saw the culprit, a goth teenager leaning against the brick building, smoking a cigarette. The girl’s black leather jacket—either that or her piercing stare—reminded Jessica of her best friend, Lolita, who was probably at this very moment fleecing wealthy men in the penthouse suite of Chicago’s Palmer House. When she’d asked her to take the bus with her from Chicago to Whitefish, all Lolita had said was, “I don’t do poverty.” Jessica had never thought about Alpine Vista trailer park as poverty. But it was true. She’d grown up poor. She’d had no choice but to “do” poverty. Scarceness was her constant companion and had shrouded her childhood home, where thirteen hours ago, bleary-eyed and disheveled, she’d sat beside her mom in the stuffy bedroom of the doublewide, fingering the pinholes she’d poked in the vinyl chair when she was five, and worrying about whether her mom was really on death’s door or milking her injuries to get attention. According to Aunt Mary, her mom had drunk too many Vodka Collins at the Bulldog Saloon and had fallen off the bar and hit her head on a barstool. She was paralyzed from the neck down, maybe temporarily, maybe permanently, the doctors couldn’t say. Jessica remembered her mom’s tiny feverish hand, as sweltering as the insufferable Greyhound bus. Swaying with the bus, Jessica shuffled down the aisle to her seat. As she passed, the paunchy comb-over flashed a yellow-toothed grin. Suddenly the world was full of middle-aged men. She cringed. Now she imagined every middle-aged dude she saw might be her bio-dad. Guys she’d never noticed before had become persons of interest. Usually, she wouldn’t make eye contact with these sorts. And for good reason. She was creeped out by the way every single one of them gave her an ominous smile, like the wolf before he devoured Little Red Riding Hood. Her duffel was on the seat, right where she left it. Her faith in humanity restored, she slid in beside her bag and resigned herself to what seemed like an eternity in this wretched sardine can. Her stomach growled, and she realized she hadn’t eaten since a slice of stale pizza two hundred miles ago. As the bus pulled out, she regretted not joining the rest of the dirty dog passengers, who were now enjoying their Big Macs, Quarter Pounders, and French fries from Mickey-Ds. Note to self: given the choice between grease and hopelessness, next time, go straight for the grease. She riffled in her pack for a granola bar. Good thing Lolita had given her a Costco-sized box of peanut butter chocolate granola bars as a going away present. She counted out nine left. She had to ration them, one bar for every hundred miles. Curse her mother and her deathbed performance! Instead of trotting off to Vegas on some doomed errand for her mother, she should be in Chicago studying for her exam, but her mom’s melancholy was Jessica’s kryptonite, and she’d been helpless to resist her mom’s pleas. Her life in Chicago felt a universe away. It was another world, opposite from the one where she’d grown up. After two years in grad school, she was a misfit in both worlds. At posh Northwestern, they didn’t “do poverty” either. There, her peers drank craft cocktails and designer beers instead of whiskey and Coke or Coors Light. They read thick tomes and watched foreign films instead of flipping through People Magazine and following soap operas. They ate Thai food and went to the Art Institute instead of Burger King and the Catholic sewing circle. Even so, she’d learned that whether rich or poor, one thing was the same: men. Men could be jerks even if they had money, education, and drank Manhattans….especially if they had money, education, and drank Manhattans. At least the guys she’d grown up with were guileless and straightforward in their advances, pawing at her behind the bleachers or in the front seats of their pickup trucks. The Ivy...