Awed by its size and mesmerized by its beauty, Stormi walked toward the most notorious house in Mountain Grove. Admiring the flower gardens, ornate statues, and concrete fountain, she walked around the circle drive, reached the door, and peered up at the mansion’s steep gables, angled bay windows, and towering rooms. The house had an aura, a creepy sense of entitlement and resentment, almost as if it was watching her.


Ten minutes earlier, she had received a call from Brian Mellinger regarding his wife and some threatening package. Sadly, it was the most exciting complaint Stormi had encountered since returning to this piss-hole of a town, and the prospect of a new case was exciting, even if the incident was probably only someone’s idea of a prank.


After being somewhat greeted by a red-haired girl who seemed fascinated with the floor and constantly chewed on one fingernail, Stormi waited twenty minutes for the Mellingers, which did nothing to dispute her already distasteful opinion of the rich.


She had met some real doozies in her time. There was the billionaire supporting not one, but three mistresses. One day they found the cheating husband with a 38-caliber slug through his brain. Before Saint Peter could find his name on the official roster, the wife hired three top-notch, cater-to-the rich-and-stupid lawyers. Everybody suspected the wife had caught him with one of his girls and this was her way of getting even, but the lawyer came through, and she walked away scot-free. Then there was the young heiress who played the ponies one too many times, ran up a giant debt, had her bookie killed, and married her lawyer after he conjured up just enough reasonable doubt. To Stormi, the rich were all phonies, and she distrusted most of them. She had a feeling the Mellingers would fall into that category nicely.


The couple finally appeared on the balcony overlooking the downstairs. The stunning young woman, whose attire resembled something Daisy Duke might have worn, glided down the stairs as though emerging onto the Broadway stage. Following behind her was a sophisticated, dignified man who appeared as nervous as a politician caught in a brothel. Stormi met them at the foot of the stairs and extended her hand. “I’m Detective McGynn. I hear we’ve had an exciting few days around here.”


Mrs. Mellinger looked down her nose at Stormi’s waiting hand as though it held cow manure then gave her face an equally affectionate glance. “I should say so.”


The man came forward and shook Stormi's hand. “I’m Brian Mellinger and this is…,” he said with pride and embarrassment, “…my wife, Destiny. I apologize for your wait.” He motioned toward the adjacent room. “Won’t you please come in and have a seat?” Destiny gave Stormi a final glare before sashaying into the living room.


The Mellingers sat on opposite ends of the sofa. Stormi sat in a chair in front of them trying not to let her initial opinion of this woman get in the way of her job. “All right, let’s start with the package. You said you received it in the mail?”


Destiny lit a cigarette and took a drag like Betty Davis. “That is correct. I came downstairs and that nasty thing was on my kitchen counter.”


“You didn’t bring it from the mailbox yourself?”


Destiny placed her hand on her chest, which caused Stormi to stare at the monsters protruding from her blouse. “Of course not! That’s what I overpay these girls to do.” She shouted over her shoulder, “Isn’t that right?” Sarah and Jessica, lingering in the background, disappeared through separate doorways like two cats sprayed with water.


Stormi thought, I bet she doesn't even wipe her own ass. She suppressed a grin. “Did you open the package yourself, or do you overpay those girls to do that too?”


Destiny took another drag, leaned forward, and blew the smoke at Stormi. “I don’t like your attitude.”

Stormi met the challenge. “And I’m not too impressed with yours.”


“I really don’t give a shit,” Destiny seethed. “There’s some maniac sending me snakes in the mail, and I’m a little upset.” She seized Stormi up again, apparently still unimpressed. “I don’t trust anyone in this horrible town, including you.”


We’re off to a great start. “Why is that?”


“I watch TV. I know how police officers are. I don’t even like having you in my house.” She eyed Stormi suspiciously. “What is your first name? Why did they send you? Are you the only one working today, or are all the real officers on strike? What’s your background?”


Stormi tapped her mouth and contemplated which of the many answers she could actually say without her losing her job. She leaned forward, vowed not to get into a fistfight before she left, and enthusiastically began, “Well, let’s see. My father died when I was young, which screwed me up for a long time. Then my mama, well, she married this real asshole who beat her and terrorized us kids. That didn’t help. I have a crazy aunt who may, or may not, incorporate Alpo into some of her meals, and when I quit drinking ten months ago, I got a letter from Anheuser-Busch begging me to reconsider. Now, I’m sitting here because you received a snake from someone you’ve obviously pissed off and because of that, I get to listen to you belittle me and my skills.” She flashed a kiss-my-ass smile. “As far as my qualifications are concerned, I’ve been a cop for over fourteen years and have seen more than you ever will, God-willing. And no, everyone else is not on strike, but they did flee the room when your name mentioned. Now I know why.”


Destiny stiffened as though she'd never heard such insults, which Stormi highly doubted. Brian covered his mouth to conceal an unstoppable grin.


Stormi continued, “To sum it up, I’m good at what I do. Whether you believe me or not, I am here to help you. So, if you’re done wasting my precious time by interrogating me, what do you say we get back to the matter at hand?”