by Quinn Avery
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Any trademarks, service marks, product names or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. Namely: Ford Bronco, Vespa, “Yummy” lyrics by Justin Bieber, Adidas, Stranger Things, Lord Farquaad, Shrek, Law & Order, Olivia Benson, David Bowie, Soundgarden’s Superunknown, Barbie, Sweet Caroline, Nancy Drew, AC/DC, Chandler and Monica (of Friends), Joker and Harley Quinn (of Batman), Stormbringer (my favorite band!), Nirvana’s In Utero, Speedos, Chippendales
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Copyright © 2021 by Jennifer Naumann writing as Quinn Avery. All rights reserved.
Cover: Najla Qamber Designs
www.QuinnAvery.com
Tiki Trouble Series
Moscow Mules & Murder (Book 1)
Welcome to Beach Bummers on the white quartz shores of Santa Maria Island, Florida, where the weather is always perfect, drinks are served ice cold, and the locals’ secrets run deep! If you love the idea of escaping to a small beach town and sleuthing alongside quirky characters, you’ll love the Tiki Trouble series!
Zoey Zastrow needed a fresh start after her plans for a perfect life came crashing down. So she packed her bags, trading her snow boots and ice scraper in the freezing Midwest for flip flips and a waitress apron by the sunny Gulf of Mexico. She never imagined her new lifestyle would include amateur sleuthing. But there she was, killing it. Or rather, hunting down a killer.
After Zoey discovers a human skull while closing the tiki bar one night, she’s determined to unearth the mystery behind the discarded remains. Who was the woman? Was she murdered? And why is someone warning her not to get involved?
With the help of the island’s brand new police detective (who happens to be hotter than a shot of fire whiskey), the wacky tiki bar staff, and a new 3-legged sidekick, Zoey will turn the island upside down in search of answers.
Contents
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
Quinn’s Blueberry Moscow Mule
Also by Quinn Avery
About the Author
Acknowledgments
One
Until the night I found a human skull, my life had been relatively static. As I balanced on my tip-toes, tongue lodged between my teeth, sweat trickling down my aching back, right arm extended far over my head in an attempt to hang a sign advertising the tiki bar’s next drink special, I convinced myself there were worse things than living said static existence.
“High enough?”
“Your sense for decorating is worse than my ninety-year-old grandfather’s, and he has glaucoma in both eyes.” Beckett sounded like he was right behind me.
I glared over my shoulder. “Then why don’t you hang this? You do remember I’m your shortest friend, right?”
He rolled his emerald green eyes before pressing his fists against his hips in a superhero pose. “The special doesn’t start until tomorrow night anyway. If you can’t get it, I’ll have Molly help me in the morning.”
With a determined grunt, I bent my knees and jumped for the roof of the tiki bar. My stomach jutted in the other direction when my toes lost contact with the edge of the stool, and I became airborne. I landed face down with my hands trapped beneath me. Santa Maria Island’s white quartz sand may have been the softest in the state, but it did little to cushion my fall. To add insult to injury, the vinyl sign I was attempting to hang floated down over my head.
Beckett burst out laughing. "Zo! Are you okay?"
I wiggled an arm out from beneath me to flash a thumbs up. "Never been better."
He scooped me out of the sand and assisted me back onto my bare feet. "I'll never understand how you can rip up a dance floor, but everywhere else you have the coordination of a newly-born baby giraffe."
Brow furrowed, I shook the sand from my long red hair and excessively freckled skin. Thanks to my mom’s Irish heritage, I was often mistaken for a teenager despite being on the cusp of twenty-five.
Beckett grabbed my arm and batted his long lashes. He teetered on the hotter side of movie star handsome, and he knew it. "Any chance I can sweet talk you into closing up for me? I have somewhere to be."
"You always have somewhere to be," I muttered, admittedly a little jealous. My social calendar was as empty as a bottle of house tequila after margarita night. "Maybe I have plans."
"Binge watching Stranger Things for the umpteenth time doesn't qualify as 'plans', Zo. Pretty please?" he begged, sticking out his bottom lip. "I'll bring Dee Dee's tomorrow."
The offer perked my interest. Dee Dee's Donuts were my biggest weakness. Still, he had done a far better job of bribery in the past. "And?"
He puffed out his cheeks, thrusting a hand into his perfectly styled dark flow. "And I'll do your dishes at the end of your shift."
"And?"
"Seriously, Zo. You want a vial of my blood, too?"
I slammed the palm of my hand into his beautifully sculpted collarbone. "Last time I closed for you, you took me up to Clearwater for a night of dancing. Do you know how long it's been since someone took me dancing?" From the moment I could walk, I had taken dance classes all the way through my senior year in high school, then I'd continued with a hip-hop club in college. "I'm getting tired of having to dance alone in my bedroom with earbuds. If my landlady hears me play anything other than Elvis, she bangs on my door and claims her ears are bleeding."
"This is exactly why you need a boyfriend. Living with an insane old widow is detrimental to your health."
"Teenie is not insane. She's a saint to let me and Molly live with her."
"You're missing the point. At this stage in your life, you should be shacking up with some hottie who worships your every move." He grabbed my other arm and shook me. "Look at you, Zoey Zastrow! You're adorable, and funny, and sweet, and one of the nicest humans to inhabit this planet! It's a travesty that you're still single—a disservice to twenty and thirty-something year-old stud muffins in all of Florida! It's time you realize not all men are two-timing jerks, and go forth into the dating pool."
"Have you seen the dating pool for my age bracket?" I huffed, twisting out from his grip. "That water is tainted. It's full of mommas' boys who spend their days gaming in their parents' basements. I may as well date a hobbit."
"That might not be so bad. At least hobbits appreciate the value of food." Shrugging, he dug the keys to his Vespa out from his pocket and wiggled them in the air. "I promise I'll take you dancing if you'll promise you'll give the dating thing a try."
Before I could open my mouth, he smothered me in a designer-cologne-scented embrace. "Thanks, Zo! You're the best!"
He left quickly, probably because he didn’t want to hear me say no. That’s the trouble with good friends. They do things regardless of what you want.
I gazed past Beach Bummers' dark tiki bar to the moon-lit water b
eyond, reminding myself I was in paradise. After over two years of calling the island home, the briny smell and rushing sound of the Gulf's waves crashing onto the beach still gave me a sense of peace.
Fleeing South to waitress hadn't been anywhere on the vision board I'd created for my goals after college. My meticulously thought-out plan involved two years of post-grad in something-or-other that would earn me a fat stack of cash, then I would marry my long-term boyfriend before we moved to Duluth where Todd would become a successful trial lawyer, and I would stay home to raise our three beautiful children in a newly constructed waterfront home.
Then, mere moments before our commencement ceremony, the man who after that moment would forever be known as "Todd the Terrible" announced he was crushing my dreams for a big-bosomed State cheerleader.
That night, during a meltdown that involved the champagne intended for our celebration (purchased with the assumption that Todd the Terrible was going to propose), I made the decision to pack my worldly possessions and drive south the next morning until it no longer felt like my world was ending. I guess my situation didn't seem quite as dire once I reached the stunning white-quartz beaches on Santa Maria Island several days later.
Although waitressing at Beach Bummers was only supposed to be temporary until I found a job that utilized my bachelor's degree in business, I quickly became fond of my boss, the staff, the patrons, the beachfront location, and the generous tips.
With a resolved hum, I turned away from the water and popped my earbuds in, dancing to Justin Bieber while checking off the list of chores to be completed. By the time I had wiped down the tables and bar top, cleaned the bathrooms, straightened the stools and chairs, turned off every neon sign and rope light, mopped and locked the tiki bar, then gathered all the garbage, I was spent. And the most daunting task was yet to come.
The 10 yard dumpster was located on a patch of grass behind the 3-story resort, next to the employee parking lot. The contents stunk to high heaven from the brutal strength of the sun, and there were often nefarious critters lurking inside. I mentally crossed my fingers when flipping the lid open, praying a stray feline with a perilous meow would be the worst of my discoveries.
"You better take me dancing somewhere awesome, Beckett Barnett," I muttered, lugging the first trash bag over my shoulder. I heaved them in one at a time. The final bag was full of empty liquor bottles and required the use of both hands. The weight of it jarred me sideways. Both me and the contents of the bag spilled out across the narrow patch of grass. The top of my head collided with the dumpster.
Would anyone notice if I started wearing a helmet to work? I mused, scrambling back to my feet and rubbing my sore head.
Over the next ten minutes, I gathered the contents of the bag and pitched handfuls of bottles into the dumpster. On a normal night, I would worry about waking guests. But it was late, I was tired, and the stench made my gut churn. By the time I located what I thought was the last bottle, it took a moment for my brain to register the object pinned beneath my fingers. It was white, round, and smooth with two dark sockets.
And it was smiling at me.
A noiseless scream ripped from my lips as my heart gave a thunderous roar.
It was a human skull.
There was a dead human being. In my employer's parking lot.
As the Biebs was cooing, "you got that yummy, yum," in my ear.
The skull was partially buried, surrounded by small piles of dirt. One of the nefarious creatures that I feared I would cross had probably scratched the ground to unearth it, and said creature had given up when the large prize refused to give way.
Maybe it was only a prop. Smith, my boss, was known for throwing elaborate pirate parties. I bent on rubbery legs and rapped on the top of the skull with my knuckles.
Knock knock.
Who's there? I imagined it asking.
The dense bone smarted against my knuckles.
It was definitely real.
My breaths became tiny, panic-ridden bursts. I yanked my earbuds out and peered over my shoulder, wishing someone—anyone—was around. I'd even settle for the usual gaggle of drunk guests cackling like school girls and slurring songs from their glory days.
It obviously wasn't an emergency worthy of 9-1-1 even if it sort of felt like one. But what if I didn't call the police, and they found my fingerprints on the skull? Would I be considered a suspect? Would they think I had buried the person, then came back to visit their remains like a sentimental psychopath?
Despite the twist in my gut, I forced myself to study it closer. It was smallish, but not quite the size of a child's. More than likely, it belonged to a woman. Something inside its mouth caught in the moonlight, sparkling.
Was the rest of the person's body buried beneath? Did it mean the poor soul wasn't given a proper burial? How had they ended up here?
Underneath the jaw, a white plastic card lay partially exposed. It looked an awful lot like the security cards every Beach Bummers employee carried. Reaching for it with one hand, I covered my face with the other, wincing while peering through my fingers. After I plucked the card out from the dirt, the skull laughed at me.
It laughed.
What a chicken! it seemed to be saying. Did you think I was going to bite?
Then I realized the jaw had only moved because something was inside its mouth. A blue crab scurried out sideways, snapping its demon claws at me. Although I had learned to tolerate many of Florida's creatures since moving to the warm state, crabs were not among that list.
With the card still clutched in my fist, I fell back on my other hand, ironically crawling away from the crab like a crab.
Once I was able to get my limbs to cooperate, I ran the entire way home.
Two
My first waking thought was of the laughing skull.
Guilt for leaving it behind weighed heavy on my shoulders. What if something had returned in the night to take it away? Remembering the creepy crab, I shuddered. While I doubted it could've carried the skull away, I had witnessed stranger phenomenons since my move to Florida. I once watched a 10-foot alligator stroll down the beach with a pool noodle clutched in its jaw, and gators aren't even indigenous to the area.
Yawning, I plucked my phone off my night stand to check the time. Molly had sent a string of texts at 4 a.m.
Staying with a
