Fortune and Pride Read online

  Chapter 1

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  FORTUNE AND PRIDE

  First edition. January 28, 2019.

  Copyright © 2019 Stephen John.

  Written by Stephen John.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Fortune and Pride (Miss Fortune World, #3)

  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

  Further Reading: Fortune and Glory

  Also By Stephen John

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  This next moment would tell the story. It would determine victory or defeat. After a long-heated battle, he would decide the outcome on the final play. It was now out of my hands. I had done all I could. I glared at my opponent. His eyes were steel blue and piercing. He gave me a knowing smile. He reached down and picked up the dice, shook them and tossed them onto the table without looking, as if he knew the outcome in advance.

  “Five twos,” he said. “Yahtzee! I win.”

  My mouth gaped open. He giggled.

  My opponent was a young boy named Augie. We were at one of the endless numbers of Starbucks in Seattle. His mother was reading a Jesse Jacobson action/romance novel in the chair next to the table.

  “Wanna play again?” he asked enthusiastically.

  “Not today,” I told him. “I would like a rematch, though. Are you here tomorrow?”

  “No, not again until next week,” he said. “My dad takes me school the next three days.”

  “And he doesn’t come to Starbucks?”

  “No. He hates coffee.”

  “Wow, a Seattle resident who hates coffee? I think there are only about six adults like that in the entire city.”

  Augie giggled.

  “Leave that poor woman alone,” his mother said. “It’s time for us to go, anyway. We’ve got to get you to school.”

  “Thank you for playing with him,” she said. “He loves Yahtzee.”

  “It was my pleasure,” I said. “I’m just killing time, anyway. Hey Augie, if I’m still here next week, I’ll be back, and next time, I’ll play better.”

  “It couldn’t get worse” he noted.

  “Thanks a lot.”

  It had been three days since I arrived in Seattle with the love of my life, Deputy Carter Le Blanc. Despite his best efforts to keep me from being here, I insisted on coming to the Pacific Northwest to support him while he helped out a buddy from his former military team, a man named Paul Pride.

  Carter is the deputy in Sinful, Louisiana. He’s a 6-foot-2 hunk with green eyes who drives a large pickup that sports insanely large tires. Carter and I have had a relationship that’s best described as up and down, on again, off again, and always filled with sexual tension. When we first met, the road was bumpy, and it was usually because he believed, for a short while, that I was somehow involved in one murder or another. If not that, then because I always collaborated with Ida Belle and Gertie to solve said murders.

  In the beginning, I hid the fact I was a CIA Agent, hiding out in Sinful under an assumed name, lying low while a Middle Eastern arms dealer was trying to have me killed. Eventually, he found out who I was and has been protecting my secret.

  Our relationship is “full on” at the moment, so much so I recently agreed to bring my toothbrush to his house and leave my pajamas at home, with all that implied.

  That was before I followed him here hoping to partner with him to help his friend.

  What kind of help does this Paul Pride need, you are probably wondering? That’s a good question, and one of many I do not have the answer to. Today, three days into my visit, I still do not understand what kind of sticky wicket Paul Pride is in, what he looks like, whether he is in danger, injured or missing, or what kind of actual help he needs. I also don’t understand why Carter and I are not only staying in separate rooms but also at different hotels two miles apart. Carter insisted on this arrangement without explanation. During our last serious conversation, Carter agreed to let me set the pace of our relationship, and I took a serious step to move it forward with the whole toothbrush/pajama’s thing. The current state of affairs has become a roadblock to ramping our relationship to the next level.

  I had hoped this would be our adventure, our mission, our mystery to solve together, Carter’s and mine. Until now, it had been Ida Belle, Gertie, and I teaming up on covert investigations we largely had to hide from Carter. It usually involved Carter toward the end, but we spent much of the time keeping things from him during our investigations. The situation with Paul Pride, I believed, would be my opportunity to team up with Carter from beginning to end.

  So far, not so much.

  Since we’ve been here, I don’t know where Carter goes each day, what he is doing, or why he will only meet me for dinner in the evening for two hours. He only tells me he is okay, and that this is the way it needs to be until the “time is right,” and that I need to trust him until then.

  What I know about his friend Paul Pride is limited. Carter and Paul served in a Force Recon unit in the Marines. The Force Reconnaissance units were an elite group, specially trained for deep reconnaissance and direct-action missions. The military charged them with independently operating behind enemy lines. They were trained killers, prepared to make whatever sacrifice was necessary to accomplish their mission, even if it meant their lives.

  Carter shared with me that Paul Pride had once saved his life, and that they served together on a covert mission with a group of Mossad Agents during an overseas tour. One of the most interesting facts in this story, and the one that got my full attention, is that one of the Mossad Agents was a woman, and Carter cared about her deeply. The woman had died. Although he carried the pain silently, I realized he had never fully gotten over her.

  Whether the circumstances with the woman had anything to do with the present situation is unknown. What I know is that recently Paul Pride’s sister emailed Carter and told him Paul had gotten mixed up with some bad people and needed his help.

  So, here we are, in Seattle—together, yet miles apart, and all Carter is telling me is that I should trust him, hang tight and wait. I don’t do waiting well, but I am trying.

  I trust Carter. He needs me; I know it, despite his protests otherwise. I only wish he’d let me in and let me know what he is doing. If something awful were to happen to him during the day, I wouldn’t even know how to find him if he wasn’t at his hotel. I know he senses how frustrated I am, and I don’t want to place undue pressure on him, but it’s killing me to know he may be in danger and is still keeping me at arm’s length. I am a CIA Agent, for crying out loud. I have skills.

  I thought about waiting outside his hotel and following him, but Carter is too good for that. He’d bust me in a minute.

  It had been a while since I literally had nothing to do but sightsee in a new town. The good news is, if sightseeing is what have to do, Seattle is a good place to do it. This morning, I got up, had a nice cup of coffee at Starbucks, and allowed a nine-year old to take me to the woodshed in a game of Yahtzee. I walked down to the waterfront and jogged five miles along the pier, with the Puget Sound and the Olympic Mountains serving as a backdrop. The view was breathtaking.

  I walked back to the hotel, showere
d and took a bus to Pioneer Square, where I had a wonderful breakfast at a great restaurant with a rather unfortunate name, Biscuit Bitch.

  I’m serious. The name of the place is Biscuit Bitch. You can look it up.

  It is a southern-style restaurant. You may wonder why someone who lives in Sinful, Louisiana would go to a southern-style restaurant in Seattle. The answer is, I miss Sinful. I miss home. I miss my friends: Ida Belle, Gertie, Walter, and Ally. I miss them all badly.

  I ordered a dish called the Straight-Up Bitch, which is biscuits with sausage gravy. Just because this in Seattle, they presented me with the option of having vegetarian/gluten-free shiitake mushroom gravy instead of sausage gravy. I passed on the shiitake, and once I tasted the B&G, I was so pleased I did. You’ll never find me admitting this to anyone living in Sinful for fear of being chased with pitchforks and torches, but the sausage gravy at Biscuit Bitch was as tasty as any I’ve had in the South.

  I checked my phone. Damn! No call from Carter. I was under strict instructions to not call him unless I had an emergency. I wondered at what level of boredom I would have to achieve for me to classify it as an emergency. As I ate the last bite of the Straight-Up Bitch, I pulled a brochure from my back pocket. It read, Things to Do in Seattle.

  My phone rang. Finally!

  Not Carter—damn.

  It was my friend and partner in crime-fighting, Gertie. “How are things in the Emerald City?” she asked.

  “Things suck,” I replied.

  “Carter is still not bringing you into the situation, I take it?” she asked.

  “No, and it’s killing me. I’m really getting flustered. I’m trying not to let it affect me, but it’s hard.”

  “You know, he’s only trying to protect you.”

  “I know,” I tell her, “but I’m a skilled field agent. He knows this. I’ve had years of martial arts training and I know how to handle a gun.”

  “But to him, you are his precious sweetheart,” she replied.

  “Oh—am I?” I asked. “Are you sure he feels that way?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “I miss you guys so much,” I said.

  “You don’t like Seattle?” Gertie asked.

  “No, I do. It’s a beautiful town. I found the coolest pair of shoes I’ve ever seen. They’re real girlie shoes, too, which is unlike me to buy. They are called John Fluevog. They are red patent leather with hard wooden heels. They are beautiful and oh, so comfy.”

  “So, Seattle is nice?”

  “Yes. It isn’t Sinful, though, and it doesn’t have you guys in it.”

  “Awww, thanks Fortune,” she said. “What are you going to do today?”

  “Hold on,” I said, reaching for my brochure. I had checked off the things I wanted to do in order. I had visited three places: the Space Needle which was a resounding disappointment; the Seattle Art Museum, way better; and I had taken in a Seattle Mariners day game. I enjoyed the game, but it’s sad to go to a sporting event alone. One hotdog, one beer, please. Even the peanut guy was flashing me looks of pity. I scrolled down my list of activities.

  Item number four was to visit the Museum of Pop Culture, formerly known as the Experience Music Project, and before that, the Jimi Hendrix Museum. I checked the address on my GPS. It was an eleven-minute bus ride. Sold.

  “It looks like the Museum of Pop Culture,” I said. “They have implements of destruction from the movie Lord of the Rings, and they have Dorothy’s dress from The Wizard of Oz. I’m heading there now.”

  “It sounds like fun. Have a great time,” Gertie said.

  “Tell Ida Belle, Walter and Ally I said hello and I miss them.”

  “I will. Goodbye.”

  I hopped on the bus and took a seat, marveling at the surrounding people. Seattle was a melting pot of cultures, from Caucasian to Asian, to Hispanic, to Native American, to Pacific Islander to African American. The multi-cultural influence was reflected in the people, the food, the art, the architecture, the clothes—everything.

  The Space Needle towered over the multi-colored metallic building that was the Museum of Pop Culture. When I first entered the building, I thought I was standing in a Las Vegas Casino lobby. The visual input was overwhelming. Dozens of people stood around me marveling at the giant sculpture made of guitars that towered before us. The incredible sculpture was a thirty-five-foot tall cyclone made of seven-hundred guitars, banjos and other musical instruments. Instead of taking it in, I was checking my phone for the fifth time in the last twenty-minutes to see if I had missed a call from Carter.

  I hadn’t.

  I craned my head back and forth looking at the guitar sculpture. It was an incredibly complex work of art and under most circumstances I would have been captivated. Today, my mind was elsewhere.

  Next up for me was the Fantasy Worlds of Myth and Magic exhibit. I saw William Shatner’s Star Trek uniform on a life-sized mannequin. He was so thin in those days. I think he could have worn the jeans I was wearing now. The thought made wish I had not eaten a full helping of biscuits and gravy.

  The exoskeleton from Terminator made me think of Celia Arceneaux, a rival of Ida Belle and Gertie in Sinful, and an unpleasant woman. She is high on my list in the worst person in the world category.

  The display that was the most crowded was the case that contained the actual hat worn by Margaret Hamilton when she played the Wicked Witch of the West in The Wizard of Oz. I loved that film. When I was a little girl, I put on a blue and white dress and put my hair in pigtails so I could pretend I was Dorothy.

  “Did you know that ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’ almost never made it into the film?” a familiar voice came from behind. “It became the most famous song in the movie.”

  I turned to see Gertie standing directly behind me. With her was Ida Belle and Walter. They were all smiling. A huge smile formed on my face as well.

  “Surprise!” they said in unison.

  Ida Belle and Gertie, of course, were my—I don’t know, best friends, adopted grandmothers, partners in crime-fighting—all the above. They were older but by no means retired. In addition to being very active in the community, these little old ladies had military training and knew how to kick ass, and they often did. The three of us had solved several crimes in Sinful thus far and they showed no signs of slowing down.

  Gertie is 72, short, petite, tone deaf and, I suspect, legally blind. It hasn’t stopped her from driving an oversized Cadillac around town, however, and the poor car bears the dents, dings and scratches to prove it. She was a spy during the Vietnam War. She is crafty but often acts like a confused senior citizen in order to lure people into doing or saying what she wants. She is also known for having a purse containing more stuff than you could find in Batman’s utility belt. We’re talking the television Batman, from the 1960s, of course—you know, the Adam West Batman who carried things like Bat Shark Repellent in his belt.

  Ida Belle is also 72. She was also a former Vietnam War spy and is currently the President of the Sinful Ladies Society. I once described her as Sinful’s Godfather, only a silver-haired female version, and I’ve yet to hear a better description. She drives an off-road sports motorcycle and plays Call of Duty under the name “Killing Machine 1962.”

  Walter is the owner of the general store in Sinful, is about Ida Belle and Gertie’s age, and is also Carter’s uncle. He is well loved by the town of Sinful even though he only attends church for funerals. He is the sweetest man I know, and if he were younger, it would be a toss-up as to whether I fell for him or Carter.

  “What are you all doing here?” I exclaimed.

  “We knew you were all alone and that Carter hasn’t brought you in on what he is doing yet,” Ida Belle said, “And, besides, Walter has never been to Seattle before.”

  Walter nodded, “It’s been on my bucket list.”

  I approached them all with open arms. We shared a huge group hug.

  “When did you get here?” I asked.

  “We came in lat
e last night,” Ida Belle said. “It was a long flight, and after we rented our car, Walter got lost on the way to the hotel.”

  Walter’s face reddened a tad; he shrugged, “My GPS was acting up.”

  “Uh huh,” Ida Belle replied. “We would have called you last night but it was very late. We slept in this morning, or we would have found you sooner. It was a long plane ride. We figured you’d want to go jogging this morning, anyway.”

  “So, the call you made to me this morning—?” I began.

  “Was just to find out where you were,” Gertie admitted. “We wanted to surprise you.”

  “And you did,” I said. I couldn’t stop smiling. I had the best friends in the world.

  “Did you know there is a man in the restroom off of the lobby in my hotel, and his job is to hand you a towel after you wash your hands?” Walter said. “There’s a tip jar there. Am I supposed to tip a man for handing me a towel?”

  “This town ain’t cheap,” Gertie said.

  “What is the appropriate tip to give a man for handing you a towel?” Walter asked.

  “What do you say we just enjoy the museum?” Ida Belle said, changing the subject.

  “What was it you were saying about ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’?” Walter asked. “That was my favorite song from the movie.”

  “According to my movie trivia book, the studio head, Louis B. Mayer, almost cut the song from the movie. He thought that Dorothy singing in a barnyard was unrealistic,” said Gertie.

  “Unrealistic? As opposed to a talking scarecrow and flying monkeys?” Walter asked.

  Gertie shrugged, “It’s Hollywood. Hey look!”

  Gertie found a mini-studio, where a patron could visit and participate by picking up a musical instrument and playing along with a song. For an additional fee, you could even capture the moment on CD.

  Gertie walked into the studio and sat down at a drum set. I rolled my eyes, thinking of the possibilities. She put on earphones and picked up the drumsticks. She scanned the selection of songs and punched a series of buttons.

  “Purple Haze,” by Jimi Hendrix, began to play. Gertie started to play the drums along with the song. Her drumming sounded like someone firing a shot gun, followed by a canon, over and over, totally at random. At least she was smiling and having fun.