Beach Reads Box Set

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  Frankie covered the phone with her hand. “That’s Pru’s drunk clock. She couldn’t tell time right now if there was a Birkin bag on the line,” she explained to Aiden.

  “We need them back at the resort with security,” Aiden told her.

  Frankie nodded, not wanting to consider the possibility that Chip’s disappearance was just the beginning. “Is anyone there sober?” she asked.

  “Oh sure. Lotsa people. There’s this guy over here. He’s got poodles on his shirt. I think he’s sober.”

  “No, I mean a person you know.”

  “Huh?”

  Oh, for the love of god. Why was talking to a drunk adult harder than prying information out of a kindergartener? “Is Cressida there?” Cressida had the tolerance of an Eastern European man, a big one.

  “Sure! Watercress! Phone’s for you!” Pru crooned.

  “Yes? What is it you want?” Cressida answered.

  “Cressida, it’s Frankie. I need you to keep a close eye on Pru.”

  “Why? Will she attempt a crime?”

  “No, nothing like that. Just… don’t let anything happen to her.”

  “That is annoyingly vague,” Cressida said.

  “Yeah, I know. But I can’t help it. Can you get them all back to the resort? Just tell them that’s where the after party is.”

  “I will do this. Mainly because my feet hurt, and I would like to swim naked in the lap pool.”

  “Uh, okay. Great?”

  “Goodbye now.”

  Aiden snatched the phone out of Frankie’s hand. “Just a minute, Cressida. Put Pruitt on the phone again.”

  They heard wild laughter and some yelling.

  “Hellooooooo!” Pruitt sang into the phone.

  “Pruitt, it’s Aiden,” he said.

  “Aiden! I knew you and Frankie would fall madly in love! I totally knew it! I even told Chip so. Chip? Chip!”

  Frankie covered her face with her hands. “She thinks her fiancé is going to come running.”

  “Pruitt, do you need Frankie or me for the rest of the night?” Aiden asked.

  “Ooooh la la! No!”

  Aiden glanced at Frankie. “Good, then I’ll keep her to myself a little longer. Get some sleep tonight,” he ordered.

  “Yes, sir! I hope you two don’t get any sleep if you know what I mean,” Pruitt yelled.

  The entire bus knew what Pru meant even without the help of speakerphone. “Great. Thanks a lot, Aide. Now she thinks we’re banging on a beach somewhere.” Frankie shoved the phone back in her impractical clutch.

  “It’s better than knowing the truth at this point.”

  “At this point?” Frankie screeched. “At what point do we call the cops? At what point do we have to sit Pru down and tell her the wedding isn’t happening.”

  “Calm down.”

  “Oh yeah, because saying that to a person who’s freaking out always helps.”

  “Franchesca.” He gripped her chin and made her look at him. “I will fix this. I will find Chip, but I need your help. We’re in a foreign country. Yes, quite possibly the friendliest foreign country in the hemisphere, but it’s still different from the United States. How many drunken tourists do you think stumble off and disappear for a few hours? How many men fight with their wives and jump in a cab to go someplace else?”

  “But that’s not what happened,” Frankie argued.

  “You and I both know that. But a local cop is going to tell you to sit and wait for him to show up.”

  The hell she’d do that.

  Half an hour and what felt like sixty-four bus stops later, they were back at Oistins. The crowds were thinner now nearing midnight and even more inebriated than when they’d left before. But the cab line was busy. Frankie suggested they split up to cover more ground, but Aiden wasn’t having it. He stuck by her side like a shadow as she quizzed the first two cab drivers. Had they seen this man? She showed them a picture of Chip taken earlier that day. No, they hadn’t. How about a van driver with a gold tooth? No.

  It went like that for an hour. No, no, no. No one had seen anything or anyone. There was, of course, the helpful cab driver who announced that all drunk tourists look the same to him, which drew laughter from his friends. But it didn’t help.

  Frankie was losing hope fast. Every minute felt like Chip was getting farther and farther away from them. He could be anywhere on the island by this point.

  She saw the cop whistling on the corner and remembered Aiden’s warning. “Fuck it,” she whispered, ducking away from Aiden as he quizzed a couple of local fish fryers near the sidewalk.

  “Excuse me, officer?”

  He tore his eyes away from the in-progress argument that was happening over a parking space. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “My friend is missing.”

  “Um-hm.” His gaze was back on the two women and the parking space. He clearly wasn’t impressed by her story.

  “I saw him get taken by someone in a van. He was kidnapped right here about an hour ago.”

  The cop sighed. He lifted the brim of his hat and wiped his brow. “Miss, just because someone gets into a van doesn’t mean they’ve been kidnapped. They’re called ZRs, and they’re public transportation. Maybe your friend went back to the hotel early.”

  “No, you don’t understand. He’s getting married tomorrow, and he wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t leave his fiancée and not tell her where he was going.”

  The shouting at the parking space got louder. Horns were honking in the street as the argument spilled into traffic. The yelling turned to shrieking as one woman grabbed a fistful of braids and yanked.

  The cop sighed, swearing under his breath. He yanked a whistle out of his pocket and blew it furiously as he ran into the fray.

  Frustrated, she turned and found Aiden standing much too close to her. He didn’t say a word, but his face did the talking for him.

  “Yeah, yeah. You told me so. I get it.”

  “They’re not going to take a disappearance seriously for at least twenty-four hours.”

  “Fine, smarty pants. What do we do now? We lost the van. We have no idea where he could be or what they want with him or even who they are.”

  Aiden’s phone rang and he fished it out of his pocket. “Unknown number,” he read from the screen.

  “Maybe it has something to do with Chip,” Frankie said, eyes full of hope and dread.

  “Kilbourn,” he answered. Frankie snatched the phone away from him and hit the speaker button.

  A garbled voice on the other end of the call chuckled. “Well, well, Aiden. It looks like we have some business to do after all.”

  “Who is this?” he demanded.

  “That’s not important. What is important is the fact that we have a mutual acquaintance.”

  “Where’s Chip? Why did you take him?”

  The voice laughed. “I’m going to fuck him up when I meet him,” Frankie hissed.

  “Patience. All will be revealed.”

  “Who does he think he is? A Bond villain?” Frankie hissed.

  Aiden rolled his eyes and mouthed the words “Shut up.”

  “If you hurt him or so much as mess up his hair, I will hunt you down,” Aiden promised.

  “Then let’s not let it come to that,” the robotic voice on the other end said amicably. “What I want is easily within your grasp of giving. You give me what I want, I give you your friend back, and we all go home happy.”

  “What is it you want?” Aiden asked.

  “I want you to be ready for a meeting tomorrow. I’ll contact you with the time and place.”

  “A meeting?” Aiden repeated.

  “It’s just business. Nothing personal. Oh, and don’t tell anyone. No cops, no security. Just you, me, and Chip.”

  The call disconnected and Aiden swore.

  “Christ. Now what the hell do we do?” Frankie asked. “They make contact and give us nothing? Why didn’t they ask for money?”

  “Because they don’t
want money,” Aiden said quietly.

  Frankie stopped in her tracks. “It’s you isn’t it? This isn’t about Chip at all. They called you because you have what they want.”

  Aiden wouldn’t meet her gaze.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Great. Just fucking great. You do something stupid or illegal or whatever, and innocent people have to pay the price. My best friend’s wedding is ruined, her fiancé is missing, and now we have to wait until tomorrow to find out who has him and what they want?”

  Frankie ticked off the infractions on her fingers. And Aiden rubbed a hand over his forehead. He’d feel guilty if necessary later. Right now, he needed answers.

  “Jesus, Franchesca. Will you shut up for two seconds so I can think?”

  “Think? How about we do something? How about we find the driver with the stupid gold tooth and dirty red ball cap and beat the ever-living shit out of him until he talks?”

  “By all means. Go ahead and find him. Call me when you do,” Aiden snapped back.

  “Do you mean Papi, miss?”

  Frankie and Aiden both whirled around. And then looked down. The boy couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen. Skinny with a big grin. He wore a white short-sleeved Oxford and neatly pressed khaki shorts. The ball cap he wore on his head was clean but rakishly askew.

  “Papi?”

  “Yeah, gold tooth.” The kid pointed to his own pristine front tooth. Gray hair. Greasy hat that looks like it was used to soak up motor oil? Calls all the ladies Mami?”

  Frankie dug her fingers into Aiden’s arm. “That’s him.”

  “Does he drive a white van with a red square sticker by the taillight?” Aiden asked.

  The kid’s head bobbed. “Oh sure. He borrows it from his brother-in-law sometimes when he has a driving job.”

  “Where can we find Papi?” Aiden asked.

  “You want a taxi? Glass bottom boat ride?” the kid asked.

  “No—”

  He snapped his fingers. “I know. Swim with the turtles. Snorkeling, lunch, lots of rum punch.”

  “No—”

  “Ah, drugs then? I can get you better than Papi,” the kid promised.

  “Excuse me?” Frankie blinked at him.

  “Ganja, coke, X—”

  A natural born salesman, Aiden decided.

  “Christ kid,” Frankie groaned. “Look, we need to find Papi he knows where a friend of ours is.”

  The kid clammed up.

  Frankie looked like she was going to shake him like a ragdoll until he coughed up some answers. Aiden put his hand on her arm. “Let me handle this businessman to businessman.” He opened his wallet. “You look like an entrepreneur who recognizes a good opportunity.”

  * * *

  “Are you even old enough to drive?” Frankie asked clutching the back of the passenger seat as the little van climbed a steep hill.

  The boy—Antonio, their new personal tour guide—shrugged and laid on the horn as a car swerved into their path to avoid a pothole the size of a city block in Manhattan. “What’s really in an age?” he waxed philosophically. “Over there is where my grandfather grew up.” He said pointing into the dark. “And Rhianna, too.”

  Aiden’s wallet was significantly lighter thanks to Antonio’s entrepreneurial nature.

  “We don’t need the full island tour,” Aiden reminded him mildly. “We’re looking for Papi.”

  “Papi’s got five, six rum shops he hits after a good night’s work.”

  “Does Papi kidnap people often?” Frankie wanted to know.

  Aiden laid his hand over her thigh and squeezed, telegraphing a message to shut the hell up.

  “Papi’s like… what do you call them? A jack of all trades? He does whatever needs doing. Then he goes and celebrates.”

  “At a rum shop,” Aiden filled in.

  “Exactly. First one coming up.” He pointed at the shack on their left. It sat smack against the road with six generous inches of sidewalk between its occupants and the stampede of traffic. He yanked the parking brake and opened the door.

  “You can’t just park in the middle of the road,” Frankie protested.

  “Lady, this is Barbados. We park wherever.”

  They piled out after him, and Aiden put a possessive arm around Frankie’s shoulders. Who knew what they were walking into or how friendly the welcome would be when word got out why they were looking for Papi. Antonio pushed open the door. Its hinges creaked in protest.

  “Come on.”

  It was surprisingly clean inside. The wood floor was neatly swept. The miniscule bar jutted out from the corner eating up most of the space in the twelve by twelve room. All five of the patrons stopped what they were doing to stare.

  “Anyone seen Papi tonight?” Antonio asked.

  They stared some more. The bartender spoke first. Aiden thought it was English, but the jumble of words and phrasing was beyond him. The kid answered in kind, and Frankie met Aiden’s gaze over Antonio’s head.

  “Not here. Come on, let’s go,” Antonio said, grabbing Frankie’s hand and pulling her toward the door.

  “What was that?” Frankie asked as Antonio towed her back to the van, Aiden behind her.

  “What was what?”

  “That language you were speaking.”

  Antonio laughed and they climbed back in the van. “That’s Bajan slang. Everyone speaks it. Come on, let’s go. Birdspeed.”

  “Birdspeed?” Frankie asked.

  “Yeah, quick fast.” He nodded.

  They barreled down the road at “birdspeed” before Aiden could ask the question. “Had anyone there seen Papi?”

  Antonio shook his head, bouncing in his seat over a bump. “No. No Papi there tonight. We’re trying the next rum shop.”

  “How many rum shops are there?” Frankie asked.

  “About fifteen hundred,” Antonio answered without batting an eye.

  They hit four of the fifteen hundred in half an hour. It was midnight now, and Aiden was beginning to wonder if the kid was taking them on a wild goose chase. Frankie was dejected beside him. She didn’t even fight it when he pulled her into his side.

  At least not until the zombie-like moan erupted from behind them. Frankie shrieked and put up her hands like she was going to karate chop the zombie while Aiden tried to push her away from the danger.

  It was a man, not a zombie, that slowly rose from the rear bench seat.

  “You okay back there, Uncle?” Antonio called.

  The man grumbled something incoherent. He raised a small bottle of rum to his mouth, gulped some down, and then collapsed back on the seat.

  “That’s my Uncle Renshaw,” Antonio announced.

  “What the hell’s wrong with Uncle Renshaw?” Frankie demanded, reluctant to lower her hands.

  “He got a big fare. Six tourists. Americans. They needed a ride up north. Big money.”

  “Looks like he celebrated a little hard,” Aiden commented.

  Frankie slapped a hand on his leg. “That’s it!”

  “What’s it?”

  “He’d make more cash kidnapping someone than just driving a tourist around, right?”

  “Presumably.”

  Frankie leaned between the front seats. “Antonio, where would Papi go if he had some real cash? Where would he celebrate?”

  Chapter Twelve

  Big Chuck’s Groceries, Fish, Lotto, and Rum Shop was a ramshackle abode perched atop a steep hill with what was probably a breathtaking view of the Caribbean. However, seeing as how it was pitch dark and there were no street lights, Frankie could only assume the view was beautiful.

  “I have to pee,” she announced. “You two look for Papi, and I’ll meet you in the bar.”

  Frankie found the tiny bathroom crammed in between shelves of canned goods and bags of cookies and chips. The whole place smelled like fried fish sandwiches. And when her stomach growled, she remembered how much of her dinner she’d left on her plate back at Uncle George’s. A lifetim
e ago, when all she had to worry about was Aiden’s hand on her leg. She wondered if Cressida had devoured Hot Surfer Guy.

  Leaving the bathroom, she stopped and ordered four fish sandwiches and a round of Cokes to go. Holding the greasy paper bag, she went in search of Aiden and Antonio. She found them in a conference with Aiden staring at his phone in a dark corner of the nearly lightless bar. It was a ramshackle shed held together with sheet metal, wood, and prayers. The floor was dirt. The bar was greasy. And there were only a handful of wooden stools for seating.

  “What’s going on? Is he here?” Frankie asked.

  Antonio pointed to a man holding court at the center of the bar. Dirty red hat? Check. Glinting gold tooth? Oh, hell yeah.

  “What are we doing over here when he’s right there?” she hissed, pointing wildly.

  “He’s not interested in talking,” Aiden said succinctly. Clearly he was pissed. The tic in his stupid perfect jaw was working overtime.

  “Yeah, he told Mr. Money Bags here to leff he.”

  “Translation?”

  “Leave him alone,” Antonio supplied.

  “We’re going to have to do this the hard way,” Aiden said, dialing the phone.

  “What’s the hard way?”

  “I’m hiring some private security who won’t ask too many questions about why we need this asshole to talk.”

  “Private security? Are you going all Blackwater right now?” Frankie hissed.

  “Let me handle this,” Aiden insisted. “We’re not leaving without answers.” He turned and walked out of the bar.

  Fuckity fuck fuck fuck. Frankie watched Papi, the big man with his circle of friends, buying rounds, telling stories.

  She shoved the bag of fish sandwiches at Antonio. “Hold these, don’t eat mine, and go find Aiden. I’ll meet you outside in a minute,” she ordered. She sidled up to Papi and his gang. They made way for her, eagerly parting like the sea for Moses.

  “Papi, Papi, Papi, you’re a hard man to find.” He was in his late sixties, she guessed, by the fuzzy gray hair under the hat and the softly wrinkled skin around his eyes. He had dark dots on both cheekbones, grizzly stubble on his weak jaw.