Moscow Mules & Murder

by Quinn Avery

  It was a beautifully cloudless Friday morning, and the charming island was alive with locals. I ran through my neighborhood of properties inland, mainly condos and lower-income housing intended for the island's service industry workers and travelers on a budget. Then I veered toward prime waterfront lots where a few 5-star restaurants nestled among elegant villas painted in Caribbean pastels, towering three or four stories high with balconies on every level that provided a proper jaw-dropping view of the turquoise Gulf. Some were built specifically as rentals with only a third or so occupied year-round by corporate types wealthy enough to retire long before they were riddled with arthritis and body parts in need of replacing.

  The city was thirty blocks long and ten wide. Its zoning laws required businesses downtown to use limited choices of paint colors and fonts on their storefront. It resulted in a quaint, uniformed appearance that drew tourists like ants to a gooey popsicle stick. Deep porches with white columns provided outdoor seating for those businesses that shared the 2-story buildings. The store owners typically lived in the studio apartments above, while the first level targeted visitors in the form of ice cream parlors and souvenir shops, rental agencies for homes and motorized rentals. Locals frequented most of the restaurants, especially Polly's Pizza and Dee Dee's Donuts.

  On Main Street, a handful of tourists buzzed about on 6-person golf carts, retro bicycles, and neon-colored mopeds. I waved at every shop owner opening for the day, and called out to the usual locals waiting on the sidewalk. I knew nearly every permanent resident of the island by sight, if not by name, and they all knew the redheaded waitress from Beach Bummers.

  As I passed the pink and white striped awning over Dee Dee's, I began to salivate in a Pavlovian response. I suspected Dee Dee snuck crack into her recipes. Just as with any other day during tourist season, an abundance of customers queued around the block. I could skip the line by waving at Dee Dee, then meeting her for my usual Bavarian cream with pink frosting and white sprinkles in the back alley like some kind of drug deal (more proof supporting my theory that she used crack). I resisted, however, reminding myself that Beckett had promised to bring donuts later.

  The police station was a small, white stucco building in the dead center of town. Its location marked the beginning of the end of the touristy hot spots, giving way to essential trades like dental offices and law firms, auto repair shops and clinics for both people and pets. Its sea green hurricane shutters had recently been repainted, and a crisp American flag proudly waved high above the clay roof with the State of Florida flag underneath. I tugged on the glass door etched with the official department's name, finding it locked.

  Blowing out a red curl that had escaped from my hair band, I plopped down on the stone steps and ran my bubble gum pink fingernails over my teeth. Should I have brought the skull along, or would that have been considered interfering with a crime scene? Then I belatedly remembered the employee card in my pocket. Too late to worry about interfering. How would I even go about starting the conversation?

  "Oh hey, I found a laughing skull," I muttered in a wheezy breath.

  I was startled by a deep chuckle. "What was that?"

  I knew everyone who worked with the local police department. Chief Shaw and his wife were regulars at Beach Bummers, and Avery, the station's office administrator, lived two blocks down the street from Teenie's house. The only deputy had relentlessly hounded me for a date after I first moved to the island.

  I had never laid eyes on the tall, dark, and dreamy man with an athletic build crawling out of a classic off-road vehicle parked at the curb. Between his sky-blue button-down featuring a white palm leaves print, khaki shorts, and tan sandals, I wouldn't have guessed that he was a man of the law if it hadn't been for the gold badge pinned to his shirt.

  My throat dried when I took in his dark brown flow with a shaved part on one side, and thick eyebrows nestled over eyes the color of melted chocolate. Despite the hard, masculine angles of his bronzed nose and square jaw, he had a kind face and lips that appeared as heavenly soft as a down pillow. When he threw me a little wave, I noted a wildlife tattoo covering his forearm that disappeared beneath the short sleeve.

  "You got that yummy, yum," the Biebs sang in my head.

  "I...uh...want to report a murder," I blurted. "At least I think. I found a skull. An old one. It didn't have any flesh on it or anything. It was smallish, but bigger than a child's. More like the size of mine. I'm ninety-nine percent certain it was real, but I'm no archaeologist. I'm just a waitress. At Beach Bummers tiki bar. Maybe you've heard of it? On the beach?" I wanted to slap myself. Since when was I a rambler? "That's where I found it—the skull."

  One of his dark eyebrows playfully quirked. "You've come to the right place. I'm the new detective on the island." My bones liquefied onto the steps when he threw me an adorable smile over perfectly straight white teeth. It was a mouth made for a toothpaste commercial.

  He offered his large, notably tanned hand. "Grayson Rivers."

  Electricity zapped my palm when I buried my hand inside his. His skin was soft, and there was a lot of strength behind his grip. “Zoey Zastrow.”

  He drew me up to my feet with very little effort, bringing me within inches of his handsome face. The scent of his sandalwood cologne made my belly all fuzzy and tingly.

  "Let's go inside, Zoey," he suggested, releasing my hand. The deep roll of his voice tinged with a slight West Coast accent only added more fuzzies. "This humidity is killing me."

  In a daze of exploding hormones, I nodded and waited behind him as he fiddled with the lock. Going to the police station that morning had been the best idea ever.

  When the detective pushed his way inside, he closed his eyes with the blast of AC and tipped his head back. "That's better."

  The urge to lick his protruding Adam's apple like a lollipop niggled my tongue. "It's not even noon yet, Detective," I reminded him with a soft giggle. "How long have you been on the island?"

  With a sheepish grin, he shrugged. "I just moved here from California last week. I guess it'll take a while to adjust."

  Based on his usage of pronouns, I hoped it meant he had made the trip alone and hadn't brought a wife and kids. I felt a twitch of shame when I realized I might be fantasizing about getting down and dirty with someone else's man.

  With another heart-failure-inducing smile, he motioned me past the receptionist's desk. "Come on back, Zoey."

  Every time he uttered my name in that sexy voice of his, I was sure my heart would catapult out from my chest and land inside his hands.

  He led me into the office adjacent to the chief's. It barely accommodated a bookcase, two sets of filing cabinets, and a desk. Small cardboard boxes occupied the metal chairs intended for guests, and the walls were stark white. A set of double hung windows provided a perfect view of the customers gathered outside Dee Dee's Donuts. My stomach gurgled with jealousy.

  "Sorry about the mess," Grayson told me. "I haven't had time to settle in, and our administrator has been out sick."

  "It's...cozy." Calling it “bland" would’ve seemed rude. "Could use a touch of color and some pictures on the walls." I studied the illustrations on his arm. The detailed wolf howling at the moon suited his alpha persona. "Maybe something with wildlife."

  He released a deep, delicious chuckle. "Maybe I should hire you to fix it up for me." As he removed a box from one of the chairs, I noted his left ring finger was delightfully bare. "Have a seat, Zoey. I want to hear more about this skull." His arm brushed against mine when he bent to set the box on the floor.

  With my heart dancing to a frantic tango, I lowered to the chair and watched him lower behind the desk. The way his broad shoulders shifted as he reached for a notebook and pen made my toes tingle. It had been forever since I had felt undeniably attracted to anyone. So long that I nearly forgot it wasn't socially appropriate to sigh out loud in appreciation.

  "Last night I was closing for Beckett, my friend-slash-coworker," I explained, quic
kly averting my eyes away from his tattoo. It probably wasn't appropriate to ogle his body like a psycho either. "He's always asking me to cover for him even though he knows I despise closing, but it's whatever."

  "You said this is at Beach Bummers?" he asked, scribbling in the notebook.

  "That's right. It's on the north end of the island. Our tiki bar is the best hangout around—always busy. You should come there for dinner and drinks some night. Smith, my boss is amazing, and everyone who works there is crazy friendly. Did I mention it's right on the beach?" My throat tightened as I imagined him only wearing a pair of swim trunks. That was something I needed to see as soon as humanly possible. "You could come tonight—I waitress from four to close."

  Instead of calling me out for being a crazy rambler, he grinned. "I might have to do that."

  My cheeks warmed, which was never good with my complexion. In a few more seconds, I would become as red as a clown's nose. "Anyway, I was throwing garbage into the dumpster behind the building, and I...er...dropped one of the heavy bags. I bent to pick everything up, and that's when I found it, half exposed in the dirt. It looked like an animal had dug it up. I thought at first..." More heat rushed through my cheeks when I remembered how he had chuckled when I had inadvertently mentioned the laughing skull. "You know what? Never mind."

  He tilted his head to the side. "You thought what?"

  "It's nothing. I uh...just saw the jaw...move. Turns out one of those terrifying blue crabs was camping out inside. I'm not too fond of crustaceans, so I...uh...ran. Home."

  If he deemed my reaction to be ridiculous, I couldn't tell by his friendly expression as he nodded with understanding. "What time was this?"

  "A little after three?"

  His thick brows drew down like angry caterpillars. "You were closing the bar alone at three in the morning?"

  "It's no big deal, Detective. Our worst crimes involve visitors skipping out on their dinner bills." When his frown didn't lift, I tried using a lighter tone. "Besides, I'm not alone, alone. There's always someone running the front desk inside the resort, and it's always booked solid with dozens of guests. Some of them are pretty wasted by that time of night, but they're harmless. They usually just want to sing something ridiculous like Sweet Caroline...and they sometimes want to dance. Who doesn't like to dance?"

  “Those guests you speak of might not always be so harmless,” he grunted in a deeper tone. “You should at least carry pepper spray. And please, call me Grayson.”

  All at once remembering the card, I dug into the hidden pocket in my shorts. "I found this underneath the...uh...skull. Its jaw. I know I probably shouldn't have touched it, but I had to see if it was what I thought it was. Then that horrible crab charged at me, and I didn't realize I was still holding onto it until I got home." I held it out to him.

  He carefully gripped the card's edges to examine it closer. "What is it?"

  "It's a security card from Beach Bummers. At least I think. This one looks old and the bar logo is a little different. Every employee is given one. They track our activity, from unlocking the register to checking in and out of our shifts."

  "Interesting." He dug through one of his desk's drawers and produced a clear baggie, then dropped the card inside. "Do you have time to take me to this skull and show me the exact spot you found this?"

  It was difficult to resist shuddering when I thought of the crab. "Yeah, but the tiki bar is at the other end of the island, and I sold my car after I moved here. Seemed like a silly expense when I could run or take the Gorilla Bus anywhere."

  "Gorilla Bus?"

  "It's a free shuttle service, driven by volunteers that work for tips. Some of them drive like maniacs, and some stink like—” I bit my tongue, deciding if I said weed, I would be ratting the drivers out to law enforcement, “—ummm, sweaty man, but it's a cheap way to get around."

  With a chuckle, he stood. "I'll drive as long as you don't mind running next door with me first. I've been dying to try those donuts." He threw me the most charming wink in the history of hot guy winks. "My treat."

  There was no muting the appreciative sigh that fell from my lips.

  Three

  Grayson pulled his parrot orange Bronco alongside Beckett's baby blue Vespa in the Beach Bummers parking lot. I ran my fingers along the Bronco's black dashboard before I hopped out from the passenger's door. I could've continued riding around in his open-air vehicle for hours. Every last accessory appeared to be as old as the truck, and the white vinyl bench was free of stains or tears. Either Grayson was a bit of a neat freak, or he had restored the truck to its original beauty. Although there hadn't been much conversation as we devoured our donuts, both the vehicle and its owner were a pleasant sight to behold.

  "What a cool little truck," I declared to Grayson. "I love going topless."

  A choking laugh burst from his lips. "What?"

  "I meant in your Bronco!" I exclaimed, shaking my ponytail. "You know, with the top off! The truck's top, not mine!" I momentarily webbed my hand over my burning face. "Seriously. Can we please pretend I didn't just say that?"

  "In that case, I enjoy going topless, too." His deep voice rumbled with another laugh. "And you're right, the truck is cool. It was given to me by my grandpa. He bought it new for my grandma in sixty-nine, but she hardly ever drove it anywhere because she couldn't get a hang of the three-speed manual transmission. I had it transported here on a flatbed trailer so I wouldn't rack up extra miles."

  "Knowing it has always been in your family makes it even cooler," I decided, grinning up at him. As we neared the dumpster, I pointed off to the side. "That's where I found it." I cringed at the dramatic tone my voice took when I added, "The skull."

  "Let's go check it out."

  As we walked side-by-side, I was hyper aware of our height difference. At 5'3", almost everyone towered over me. Grayson must've been over six feet tall. Todd the Terrible had only been 5'7" and possessed a massive Lord Farquaad complex. Much like the Shrek character, he would pitch a fit if anyone dared to make him feel small—especially if I ever wore high heels.

  "I don't see it," Grayson announced, turning to face me.

  "See what?" The skull, I quietly chided myself. "Oh yeah. Uh...over here." I squared up in front of the green dumpster, envisioning the trajectory of the trash bag, and moved off to the side. It was nowhere in sight. "Where is it?" I muttered, spinning around.

  I nudged the toe of my sneaker at the lump of dirt where I was sure the bag had landed. "I'm not crazy," I insisted. "I mean, I was tired, but not 'I see dead people' level of tired. Something creepy-crawly must've carried it away in the night. You have no idea how many nefarious creatures live down here." Feeling the burn of embarrassment crawling up my nape, I twisted back around to Grayson. "It was right here. I'd swear my life on it."

  He flashed the palms of his hands. "Don't worry. I believe you."

  "But you can't launch an investigation without it, right? I mean...what if the rest of the body isn't buried here?" I gnawed on my bottom lip. "What if the killer did away with it some other way, and only kept the head? Maybe they came back to visit their trophy, and decided to take it home so they didn't have to keep coming back here." I covered my face with my hands. "You must think I'm crazy. Even I think I sound crazy."

  "That's not at all what I'm thinking." When I removed my hands from my face, he dangled the bagged employee card between us. "I'm actually thinking we should have a conversation with your boss. Then I'll decide if the situation merits a full investigation."

  A smile crept over my lips. "I'll take you to meet him."

  He followed closely behind me around the side of the resort to the stone path through the powdery sand that led to the tiki bar. Although it didn't officially open until 11, a few regulars lounged on the rainbow selection of stools beneath the thatch roof and colorful lights swaying to the steel drum music. Some played a game of cards, some drank coffee and gossiped about the locals. As long as alcoholic drinks weren't ordered
at that hour, Smith never turned anyone away.

  From where Molly wiped down a table, she spotted me and immediately sashayed in our direction with a spark in her captivating blue eyes. She tugged on the knot tied at the bottom of her uniform, causing the swells of her double Ds to pop out from the shirt like a tube of crescent rolls. Beneath extra short black cotton shorts, her deeply tanned legs stretched on for miles.

  There was no denying Molly McGregor was a vixen—the kind who could've pulled off an actual set of horns and a tail. She was runner-up for Miss Southern Florida before meeting me, and had won every wet t-shirt contest she entered.

  My shoulders sagged. It would only take one flash of my bestie's insidious smile to place Grayson under her spell. As soon as I realized the mere idea of Molly hooking up with the detective made me green with envy, I swallowed back a snort. Who was I to say he would be interested in me anyway? I had acted like a squirrel on caffeine in his office, then made the ridiculous comment about riding topless.

  "Well hello there," Molly greeted us, flipping her smooth black hair over one shoulder. Her tongue slipped over her ultra white teeth and her gaze darkened. "Who's your handsome friend, Zo?"

  "Detective Grayson Rivers," he told her in a formal voice, thrusting his hand her way.

  Molly's meticulously arched eyebrows lifted as she gingerly shook his hand like a weirdo. "A detective?" Her oversized false lashes fluttered and she held her fingertips over her lips. "Are you here to arrest me?"

  "Tone it down, Lohan," I said, nudging my hip against hers. "He said he's a detective, not a B-movie director."

  Grayson coughed into his hand, muting a chuckle. "I'm here on official business."

  "Oh crap!" Molly gasped, eyeing his badge. "Does Zoey need a lawyer? I guess it really is like Teenie always says—the ones you least expect sometimes just snap. I'm lucky she didn't decide to stab me in my sleep." With a hand on her cocked hip, she turned to me. "What'd you do, Zo?"