The Trouble With Tigers Read online

  The Trouble

  with Tigers

  Gail Koger

  Copyright © August 2019 by Gail Koger

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Gail Koger. Please do not participate or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized copies.

  Image/art disclaimer: Licensed material is being used for illustrative purposes only. Any person depicted in the licensed material is a model.

  Cover Artist: Valerie Tibbs

  Published in the United States of America

  This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events, existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Books in the Coletti Warlord series

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my parents.

  Prologue

  They call me Doctor Doolittle. I was two years old when my parents realized I could talk to the animals. How did they discover my unusual talent? They found me in the backyard surrounded by birds, skunks, coyotes, jackrabbits, dogs, cats and a big-ass mountain lion. I was giggling happily and petting them. My poor dad almost had a stroke.

  To say I have a unique family would be an understatement. My mom’s obsession with Christmas landed me with the swell name of Kandi Cain. Our home is a shrine to Santa and his elves. Don’t even get me started on mom’s need to dress as an elf every friggin’ day. It doesn’t matter if it’s August, she’s wearing a red tunic with red, green and white stripped leggings and curly toed shoes. Mom’s big into peace on Earth and goodwill to all. My dad not so much.

  My father, Nick Cain, is a very large Santa look-a-like. He was a mob enforcer for the Gambino family until he met my mother at a Christmas party. It was love at first sight. To keep her safe, my Dad quit his job and they quietly moved from New York to Apache Junction, Arizona. Apache Junction is a small tourist town located at the base of the Superstition Mountains. The town caters to people interested in visiting the numerous ghost towns and hunting for the Lost Dutchman’s gold mine.

  When Dad isn’t playing Santa, he’s a member of the Superstition Mountains Search and Rescue squad and a highly sought-after rattlesnake wrangler.

  I inherited my psychic abilities from Grandma Hester; along with her pet detective agency and her dazzling pink gingerbread house. To make things even more interesting, I just acquired the power to communicate with the spirit world. Maybe I can finally find out how my grandmother really died.

  Dutch Callaghan, my sexy-as-hell, pain-in-the-butt neighbor, is a Phoenix PD homicide cop. Our relationship started off on the wrong foot. I was hired to rescue a Yorkie from a brutal dog fighting ring and Dutch was investigating several murders. At the time, I didn’t know our cases were connected and went in disguised as an elderly nun. Let’s just say the Ninja Nun blew the hell out of Dutch’s undercover operation, but hey, I rescued all those poor critters. Dutch still holds a grudge, even after I used my special talents to help him apprehend the murder suspects.

  Dutch decided he wanted a relationship with me. I would love to have hot monkey sex with him, but that’s not gonna happen. I knew the minute Dutch discovered my father’s former occupation he’d slap the handcuffs on. Bad things happen when my father gets angry.

  Staying a step ahead of a determined cop is not that easy. Especially, when said cop considers me his personal psychic and animal whisperer.

  Chapter One

  Sweat slithered down my face and neck as I tried to coax a herd of costumed baby goats down the roadway. I’d get them under control and poof! They would see a butterfly or a cat and off they would go again. Their cries filled the air. Naa. Naa. Naa. Naa. Naa. Naa. Naa. Naa.

  To my surprise, my Yorkie, Tinkerbell, was great at moving the unruly goats in the direction I wanted them to go. Her protective boots clacked on the hot pavement as she quickly guided the hippty-hoppity strays back to the group. One of her ancestors must have had some sheep dog in them.

  Two patrol cars followed me with their lights flashing. They were supposed to keep us from getting hit, but the cars kept whizzing by. The irate drivers expressed their annoyance by loudly honking their horns. Which made the already skittish goats even more nuts.

  “Mother Goose you’re not,” Dutch yelled from the safety of the sidewalk.

  Why was he wearing a suit and tie in this heat? His big-ass grin made me want to summon a nearby flock of pigeons to shit on him. But I had promised not to do that again. So, I gave him the one-finger salute instead.

  Dutch’s amusement quickly vanished when a Channel Five News van squealed to a stop on the sidewalk, barely missing his foot. His teeth bared in a snarl Dutch confronted the driver. A cameraman bailed out of the van and started filming the baby goats running amok.

  The anxious owner, who was dressed as Mother Goose, stood in the library’s driveway with a pail of milk.

  I linked with the little brats. “Lookie! Milk!”

  Naa. Naa. Naa. Naa. Naa. Naa. Naa. Naa. Naa. Naa. Naa. Naa. Naa. Naa. Naa. Naa. The baby goats charged their owner, knocking her down and spilling the milk.

  The officers bailed out of their cars, started grabbing goats and stuffing them in the back of a horse trailer.

  My cellphone rang. I tapped my Bluetooth earbud. “Hello.”

  “I’ve got a situation. Meet me at Hilberto’s,” a deep male voice commanded.

  “Kinda busy right now, Harry.” I grabbed a goat wearing a pink bow and curly wig before it could run out into traffic. Naa. Naa. Naa.

  There was a long pause before Harry asked, “Is that a goat?”

  “It is.” I took off running after another goat who was trying to commit suicide in traffic. “No. No. No. Bad baby.”

  Tinkerbell nipped the baby in the butt and chased her back to the owner.

  Harry sniggered. “You made breaking news again and how in the hell did you get suckered into goat herding?”

  “Let’s just say the Mother Goose story hour at the local library didn’t go as planned. I’ll meet you in an hour.”

  “Roger that.” The line went dead.

  My friend Harry is a radical animal rights activist who regularly breaks the law. During the day he’s an investigator for the Humane Society. His boss has no idea of Harry’s after-hours escapades or that he uses their resources to track offenders.

  Harry’s the size of a small mountain and deadly in a fight. He likes to brag about the time he was The Roc
k’s stunt double in one of those scorpion movies. He still wears his red hair in those awful dreadlocks. They reminded me of molting snakes. Ugh.

  Naa. Naa. Naa. Naa. Dutch walked up holding a squirming goat dressed in an orange duck costume. “Whose bright idea was it to bring nine baby goats to story time?”

  “Believe it or not, the head librarian.” I put the goats in the trailer and added sarcastically, “They’re just so cute.”

  “The Captain is beyond pissed.”

  “That’s because Mother Goose there is his wife,” I said with a laugh.

  Dutch’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Captain Black has goats?”

  “And horses, chickens and a rather mean bull,” I replied.

  “You know this how?”

  “My mom buys fresh eggs from them.” I glanced down at my watch.

  “Got another critter to corral?”

  “No. A lunch date,” I said, trying not to grin at Dutch’s narrow-eyed gaze. Harry was happily married.

  “With a man?”

  “Yeah. That’s why it’s called a date.” I scooped Tinkerbell up.

  “Someone I know?” The question came out as an ill-tempered growl.

  “Nope. Gotta go.” I headed for my van.

  Dutch walked along side me. “Need a wingman?”

  “I think I have it handled.” I shuddered to think what would happen if Harry ever met Dutch. I slid the van door back and fastened Tinkerbell into her doggie seatbelt.

  Arf. Arf. Arf.

  “I’m glad you had fun, and no, we are not doing it again.” I removed her boots.

  Arf. Arf.

  “Cause it’s dangerous.”

  Tinkerbell licked my cheek. Arf.

  “I love you too.” I slid the door shut.

  Out of the blue, Dutch demanded, “What’s the guy’s name?”

  “Have I ever interrogated you about your women friends?”

  “No, but your mother has.”

  I opened the driver’s door. “That doesn’t count. Don’t you have a murder or two to investigate?”

  “Yeah, a dead clown,” Dutch answered.

  I stared at him for a moment. “A circus clown or a birthday clown?”

  Dutch shrugged. “More like a demonic clown.”

  “Huh? That’s a new one.” I climbed into the driver’s seat. “Good luck with your investigation.” I shut the door and started the engine.

  Dutch tapped on the window.

  I rolled it down. “What?”

  “How about you break your date and I’ll take you to lunch?”

  “I’m not breaking my date. It’s rude and unnecessary.”

  “It’s police business,” Dutch shot back. “I need your woo-woo stuff to figure out who the murdered clown is.”

  “I’m booked this afternoon. I’ve told you a zillion times, you need to call ahead for the woo-woo stuff. Gotta go. Harry’s waiting for me.”

  A smile of satisfaction flashed across Dutch’s face. “Harry what?”

  “None of your business.” I drove off. One look at the side mirror and I groaned. Dutch’s aura was all predator. He wouldn’t stop until he knew everything about Harry. Which would be bad. Really bad.

  Arf. Arf. Arf.

  “Yes, we’re going to Hilberto’s. Harry’s meeting us there.”

  Woof?

  I sighed. “Yeah, he needs our help.”

  Woof? Woof?

  “No, you won’t have to ride in a coffin again.” I hoped.

  Jingle Bells blared from my cellphone.

  Tinkerbell howled.

  “I know you hate Christmas music, but knock it off.”

  Arf. Arf. Arf. Arf.

  “Who taught you cuss words?”

  Woof.

  “Grandpa?” I rolled my eyes and hit the Bluetooth button. “Hey, mom.”

  “I finished my shopping early and wanted to have lunch with you.”

  “Sorry, mom, but I have a lunch appointment with a client.”

  Mom squealed, “Oh goodie! I’ve always wanted to tag along on one of your cases! How about we meet at Hilberto’s?”

  “That’s not a good idea. My client isn’t exactly law-abiding.”

  “I’ll bring your father.” The phone went dead.

  “Sonovabitch!” Harry had never met my mom or dad, and boy, was he in for a shock.

  Tinkerbell barked urgently.

  “I see it. I see it.” I swerved around a stalled car. Tinkerbell was worse than my mother as a backseat driver.

  Just ahead of us a building painted neon orange glowed in the sunshine.

  Juan Hilberto was living the American dream. He had turned old donut shops into Mexican food restaurants without an ounce of ambiance. The walls were covered with awful velvet paintings of matadors, tigers and Elvis. The Mariachi music was a tad too loud, but the food was to die for.

  Out front was a narrow patio full of battered picnic tables with bright red umbrellas that offered scant shade from the unforgiving sun.

  I pulled into Hilberto’s pothole-filled lot and parked next to my dad’s camouflage painted extended cab truck. A furnace blast of heat hit me as I opened the doors. Ugh. Phoenix summers sucked. I quickly unbuckled Tinkerbell’s seatbelt.

  Tinkerbell noticed my dad’s truck and wiggled in excitement. Arf. Arf.

  “Yes, Grandma and Grandpa are here.” I picked her up. “But no hot sauce this time.”

  Woof?

  “Because your farts smelled like rancid cheese.”

  Tinkerbell grinned and gave me a big smooch.

  Wiping the doggie slobber off my face, I cast a quick glance around. Satisfied that Dutch hadn’t followed me, I locked the van and carried Tinkerbell inside Hilberto’s.

  Harry sat at a back table with a beer in one hand and his gaze fixed on my Mom and Dad as they ordered.

  Mom waved at me and hollered, “I got tamales for you and shredded beef for Tinkerbell.”

  I gave her a thumbs up.

  Tinkerbell barked happily.

  I walked to Harry’s table. “Sorry, but my parents decided to join us for lunch.”

  “Now I finally get your name. How come you never told us your mom is a Christmas Elf?” Harry pulled out his phone to take a picture. “The guys are never gonna believe this.”

  This was why I never talked about my parents. I gave him the evil eye. “Put the phone away. Now. Or the next time we come across a rabid skunk, I stand back and watch.”

  Harry gaped at me. “You wouldn’t do that.”

  “Watch me.”

  “You’ve got a mean streak.”

  “You have no idea,” I replied.

  Harry suddenly chortled. “Damn, but your dad’s the spitting image of Santa. Got any reindeer?”

  “As a matter-of-fact, they do.”

  Harry let out a big, belly laugh and cried, “Ho. Ho. Ho.”

  My dad turned his disturbingly serial killer gaze on Harry.

  Harry’s laughter died abruptly. “Shit! What kind of Santa is he?”

  “You’ve heard of bad Santa? Dad makes him look like a pussycat and he’s always armed. So, whatever you do, don’t make him mad.”

  “I was a Navy Seal. I can handle him,” Harry blustered.

  “No, you can’t. Who do you think taught me all my combat skills?”

  Harry stared at my dad for a long moment. “Army Ranger or Green Beret?”

  “Something a little more specialized,” I whispered.

  “Damn. CIA?”

  I put a finger to my lips. “Shhh.”

  “Gotcha. Didn’t you did tell them this was a business meeting?”

  “I did, but mom has always wanted to tag along on one of my cases and once she fixates on something…” I let out a sigh.

  “Huh? I’ve got a missing emu my boss wants me to find. Would that work?”

  “It’s perfect. Ten minutes of running around in the hea
t, and mom will bail.”

  Harry eyed my dad. “Is he coming too?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “Can’t talk him out of it?”

  “Nope. My dad’s a tad protective.”

  “I can see why. Keeping a hot Christmas Elf safe would be a full-time job,” Harry said.

  “You think my mother’s hot?”

  Harry gulped. “Ah, well. You know. She looks a lot like you.”

  “Un huh.”

  Dad rumbled, “Are you going to introduce us?”

  “Harry, this is my father, Nick Cain, and my mother, Margaret.”

  Harry stood and offered my dad his hand. “Sir.”

  I winced as Dad did his death grip handshake.

  Mom put three bottles of water on the table and gushed, “I’m so excited. I’ve never worked a case before. What kind of critter do you need Kandi to find?”

  “An emu,” Harry replied, massaging his hand.

  Tinkerbell let out a low growl.

  I looked down at my little Yorkie. “What’s wrong?”

  Arf. Arf.

  ‘Stinky bad men? With guns?” I casually turned my head.

  Dad’s and Harry’s faces hardened into grim masks as three big, dirty bikers armed with sawed-off shotguns charged into the restaurant. They smelled like they hadn’t bathed in the last six years. Their badly stained tee-shirts were crawling with flies.

  The two older bikers stormed up to the cashier. The third biker stood guard at the door and grinned like a fool when he spotted my parents. “Santa’s got a hot elf.”

  “Get under the table, Margaret.”

  “What? Why?” Mom was clueless as usual.

  “The place is being robbed by some very naughty men,” I answered.

  Mom shook her head sadly. “Naughty boys don’t get Christmas cookies.” She scrambled under the table and pulled out her cellphone. “Maybe some Christmas music would help.”

  Harry shot her a narrow, sidelong glance of disbelief.

  Dad took the phone away from her.

  I linked with Tinkerbell. “Diversion.”

  She gave me a doggie grin, slid down my leg and commando crawled under the tables.

  Evidently the lookout had been smoking way too much wacky tobaccky because it took him a good minute to shout, “Get your hands up and don’t move.”