A Hot Flash of Homicide: Flamingo Cove Book One

by Dawn Dugle

  A Hot Flash of Homicide

  Flamingo Cove Book One

  Dawn Dugle

  Dawn Dugle LLC

  Copyright © 2021 Dawn Dugle

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Cover design by: Emily Dugle

  Printed in the United States of America

  To all the women who learned about perimenopause the hard way.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  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

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  A Counterfeit Midlife Crisis

  Thank you!

  Acknowledgements

  About The Author

  Chapter One

  THURSDAY

  If a woman turns 40 and no one remembers it's her birthday, does that mean she's still 39? And if you spend the first day of your 40s standing in a dumpster, does that mean this is how you'll spend the next decade?

  Asking for a friend.

  I was knee deep in the foulest smelling garbage inside the dumpster behind a barbecue restaurant. "Restaurant" was a loose term. The Angry Pig was really a food truck that was permanently parked next to a gas station. Don't judge. Some of the best food comes out of the back of a gas station in the South. Just don't try this north of the Mason-Dixon line.

  "Find anything yet?" My partner Bodie Davis yelled from a good ten feet away. Mr. Fancy Pants didn't want to get his shoes dirty. His thousand dollar shoes with the red soles. Why he was wearing thousand dollar shoes with a police uniform, I have no idea.

  As the senior partner, and his sergeant, I could have made him dig in the dumpster and get filthy dirty. But it was my fault we were in this predicament, so I bit the putrid bullet.

  I opened a bag of liquefied barbecue remnants and gagged. "Ugh. Nope. Nothing yet."

  I worked my way through the dumpster, opening bags of what was once food, kicking open boxes of wilted produce and even finding a jar of what seemed to be fecal matter. I was wearing gloves and a mask, but nothing could keep the stench from crawling up my nose and getting stuck there.

  This is Florida, also known as The Sunshine State. That normally glorious sunshine was beating down and cooking everything inside the metal dumpster: rubbish and me included. After two hours of searching, I didn't find the gun someone had used in the robbery of the gas station the night before. And it was getting harder and harder to tell the difference between me and the garbage. I had the sneaking suspicion I would have to burn my clothes and take a shower with bleach to get rid of this horrendous smell.

  It was hell, but I was serving my penance for fucking up. My partner and I had been working the overnight shift for a year because of my mistake. Bodie hadn't complained once.

  I climbed out of the dumpster. "Nothing in there."

  "I'll call it in," Bodie walked away to contact our Lieutenant who had sent us into the dumpster in the first place.

  I was picking pieces of lettuce and hamburger buns off of my pants when Bodie returned.

  He gave me his movie star smile. "That's it for us then."

  Bodie is tall, dark and handsome. He looked like a younger version of Taye Diggs; skin the color of a latte, green eyes and muscles for days. He had been a quarterback at the University of Florida and could have gone pro, but wanted to help the Black community, so he became a cop instead.

  He believed we needed more cops who looked like the average citizen. Trouble was, no one looked like him. That meant people were always underestimating him, because of his looks. Our boss included. That turd thought it would be funny to pair me with the dumb jock, who was anything but.

  Bodie graduated Summa Cum Laude from UF with a Bachelor of Arts degree in Criminology. He managed straight A's in all of his classes, except Economics. He told me cops shouldn't have to learn about taxes and inflation. But he got an A- in that one, so it's hard to take his complaints seriously about it.

  "You want to go grab breakfast and celebrate our liberation from purgatory?" Bodie eyed me head to toe. "After you shower, that is."

  I walked toward the patrol car. "I'd love to, but I'm going to go home and soak in the tub for about two hours, then I have a doctor's appointment this afternoon."

  He took another look at me and told me to wait while he went to get paper towels from inside the gas station restroom. "Here honey, sit on these. I don't want to be cleaning that crap off the seat."

  "Thank you," I put the towels on the passenger seat and sighed as I sat down.

  My partner looked at me. "Is everything okay?"

  "What?"

  "The doctor's office."

  "Oh, it's an annual checkup for my lady parts."

  He winced. "At least you have some time before the thing tonight to get your relaxation on. I want to make sure you are nice and calm when you see the L-T."

  "I'm calm."

  Bodie narrowed his eyes. "Right. Just like you were calm when you punched him in the face."

  "Those were extenuating circumstances!" My voice got higher.

  "And those extenuating circumstances got us on the graveyard shift for an entire year!" Bodie remained calm. I could see why he was a great quarterback.

  "I'm sorry?" I shrugged. I wasn't sorry.

  "No you're not," he laughed. I really wasn't.

  We pulled up outside my cottage and I paused before getting out. "You coming tonight?"

  "Oh no. I have a hot date."

  "That's how many days in a row?" I looked at him. He said nothing but give me a lascivious grin. "And how do you know it's going to be a 'hot' date?"

  "Because I settle for nothing less! Darlin'! You should try it sometime. Grab life by the balls, or at least grab the hottest guy you can find, and make out with him until you light each other on fire! That's what I do!"

  "Yeah right. And where am I finding these hot dates? The twice-divorced fireman who was too busy smoking pot to realize we were on a date? Or how about the IT guy who couldn't look me in the eye the entire time we had dinner? Oh! Oh! I know! Yes. The dude who told me he masturbates eight times a day."

  Bodie laughed and grabbed his stomach. "I had forgotten about Ma
ster Bates!"

  "Laugh it up! This is the dating landscape for a woman of a certain age: Has-Beens and Rejects. Those who didn't make the cut."

  "Has-Beens and Rejects - I think that was the name of my college podcast," Bodie laughed.

  I narrowed my gaze at him.

  He arched an eyebrow back. "Okay what do you call the women of a certain age?"

  "Vintage." I winked at him and closed the door, waving good-bye as I walked to the front door.

  ∞∞∞

  I'm not one of those women who was constantly telling people she was younger than she really was. I was okay, in theory, about getting older. But there was something about this birthday that was really bugging the shit out of me.

  Maybe it was the perimenopausal hot flashes that had just started this month. Maybe it was the "irritability" that had started a few months before that. Maybe it was the smug look on my doctor's face when he shared the news.

  "Perimenopause is not actually menopause, per se. It's the before period," he smiled at me.

  "What do you mean 'before' period?" I narrowed my eyes.

  "Perimenopause literally means 'before menopause'. It's a transitional time when your body prepares for menopause itself. But there are some benefits to this time period?"

  "Like?"

  The doc smiled. "Well, with the hormonal influx, your sex drive will be stronger than ever."

  "That doesn't help me if I don't have an outlet for that... benefit."

  "Ah, well. That I can't help you with," he said, wiggling his ring finger. I rolled my eyes at the white-haired old fart who should've probably retired five years ago.

  "Just how long does this transitional time usually last?"

  "In some women, up to ten years."

  "TEN YEARS?!" I slumped down in the exam room chair. "Ten years of hot flashes and night sweats? But then it's over, right?"

  "Oh goodness no, then that's just the beginning of menopause," he looked like he was going to laugh. And if he laughed, I swear to Oprah. I would be forced to take drastic measures, like punch him in the throat.

  Did I mention the irritability?

  "How long does menopause last?" I asked, bracing for the answer.

  He looked towards the door. "Oh.. um...that also depends on the woman..."

  "Worst case scenario, Doc. How long?"

  "In some women... another ten years."

  "Twenty years of this shit?" I stood up, seeing red. My current hot flash was fueling my anger. "Why is it that no one tells you about this crap until after you start wearing shorts in the middle of winter, and have to sleep on a towel to sop up the night sweats?!"

  It's like a big 'ole secret our older sisters and mothers are keeping from the rest of us. Those bitches.

  "Yes well..." Dr. Old Douche was really entertained by my outburst. "Perhaps if you calm down, we can discuss options."

  Did he really just tell an armed woman to calm down?

  I turned a cold eye to him. "Calm down?!? When, in the history of the world, has a woman ever calmed down when she was told to 'calm down'?"

  "I'm not an historian, but..."

  "Just tell me what the options are for this nonsense."

  He looked down at his chart. "There is hormone therapy, which won't work for you since you get sick from taking the pill. Since you already have an IUD, we'll have to go to the second option."

  "Which is?"

  "Anti-depressants."

  I doubled over laughing. "Anti-depressants? What do they do? Make you not care about the hot flashes so much that you don't feel like throat punching every person with a penis?"

  Dr. Old Douche flinched, and quickly tapped on his tablet.

  "How about I send a year-long supply to your pharmacy, so you won't have to come back anytime soon?" He suggested, not looking me in the eye.

  I grunted at him as I left the office. I was late to a party.

  ∞∞∞

  Chapter Two

  I pulled up to The Squad Room a little after five o'clock. I could have gotten there a half hour earlier, but I didn't want to come.

  This party was not for my 40th birthday, it was for my youngest brother Wynn. At the tender age of 28, he just became the youngest detective in the Flamingo Cove Police Department. The pride of the Ward family. Fourth generation police officer, now a detective, like all the men before him.

  "Wysdom! You finally made it!" Police Chief Wyatt "Deuce" Ward, the second rushed up to give me a hug.

  "Chief Dad," I hugged him back.

  "Why were you so late? You missed the chance to toast your brother."

  "Then I'm not late, I'm right on time."

  "Wysdom. Don't be bitter, this is a big day for your brother."

  "Dad, if Tripp was late to the party, you wouldn't call him bitter."

  "Well, he's already made detective, so he probably isn't bitter about his younger brother getting there now."

  Ouch.

  "Oh, excuse me, the mayor is here. I must go say hi," Chief Dad pecked my cheek and took off before I could say anything else.

  I looked around at The Squad Room. My uncle bought it 10 years ago when he retired from the force. It was a dump then, and on the surface it didn't look much better now. It's the kind of bar where the professional drinkers went. At noon. On a weekday.

  A long, mahogany bar along the back wall was rumored to have been brought over from Ireland. The wood was worn down in some places from so many elbows leaning over the edge. Behind the bar stood a mirrored wall that Uncle Dixon said made the place seem bigger. It might, if the glass was actually clean. But the mirror was cloudy, like cigarette smoke hazed in front of it. I don't think Dix ever cleaned it. He claimed it was too hard to get to, since all the booze bottles were stacked in front of it.

  The bar stools were wood, covered with cracked red vinyl. And not one of them sat level on the floor. They rocked. They rolled. And Dix didn't want to replace them, because he used the ricketiness of the stools to determine how drunk someone was. If you fell off the bar stool, he took your car keys and cut you off. No ifs, ands or buts. Tonight, all but one of the stools was occupied by people balancing back and forth on precarious legs.

  Black and white checkered tiles snaked through the rest of the bar, giving it the look of a huge chess board. And all the pawns and kings from the police department were here.

  Normally, the tables would be filled with cops on their dinner breaks, taking advantage of the five-minute special. But tonight, it was packed with people, celebrating the most likable of the Ward children.

  "Sis!" Speak of the devil.

  "Hey little bro, congratulations on the promotion," I hugged Wynn.

  "Thank you. Your time is coming soon, I just know it," he said solemnly. He truly believed that and I didn't have the heart to tell him it probably would never happen.

  "Do you need a drink? Can I get you something?" I asked. As I was about to turn toward the bar, a leggy brunette with hair down to her ass and boobs up to her chin slid her arm around my little brother's waist.

  "Wynn, you said you would dance with me," she pouted.

  She was a "badge bunny". If you had a badge, she would screw you like a rabbit, then move on to the next cop who caught her eye.

  "Baby, I did and I will," my brother cooed, leaning down to kiss her cheek as his hand came in for a landing on her ass. He always called them "Baby" because he couldn't remember their names. She regarded me with those big eyes surrounded by fake eyelashes and flicked her hair over her shoulder, hitting a veteran detective in the face who had the unfortunate luck to stand behind her.

  "This is my sister, Wysdom."

  "That's a weird name."

  "Thanks," I smiled and turned toward the bar. My brother was on his own with that one.

  I shouldered through the crowd and had almost made it to the bar when I felt someone staring at me. There were only two people in the crowd who wanted to make my life a living hell, and my money was on my boss. He ran into me as
I turned around to see where he was lurking.

  "Hey, Firecracker."

  "I told you not to call me that."

  "You told me not to call you that at work, we're not at work," Kirk Chamberlain shrugged as if that explained everything.

  "We're surrounded by our colleagues, most of whom I respect," I sighed.

  He frowned. "Don't you respect me?"

  "What is that, number three or four?" I looked into his glass.

  "Four, how did you know?"

  "Because you always get like this around glass three or four - flirty and pouty. God, you're just like a woman," I sighed again.

  "You're still my firecracker. Even if you have a little more squishy parts these days. But that's okay, I can make that work," he stepped closer to me. The smell of scotch on his breath made my nose hairs burn.

  "Jesus Kirk. If you acted like this with your other employees, you'd be brought up on sexual harassment charges," I slapped his octopus hands away from my ass and resumed my trip to the bar.

  My uncle hadn't missed a thing. He was glaring at Kirk with an icy blue stare that no matter what I did, I had yet to perfect. When I tried to give someone the stink eye, it looked like a cross between rolling my eyes and trying to get an eyelash unstuck.

  "Why in the world did you ever marry that son of a bitch," Uncle Dixon asked me.

  "Great question," I said as I slid onto the empty bar stool and nearly slid right off.

  Dix had his arms crossed over a t-shirt that said: Zero DUCKS given. Damn Autocorrect.

  "Nice shirt," I smiled.

  "Thank you, it was a gift," he passed me a beer.

  Dix reached under the bar to grab a plate containing a chocolate cupcake covered in chocolate fudge icing. My favorite.

  "I guess I'm 40 after all," I sighed as he stuck a candle into the icing and lit it.

  "What?" There's that icy blue stare again.

  I blew out the candle "I was just beginning to wonder if no one acknowledged her 40th birthday, if a woman remained 39."

  Dix laughed and slapped the bar before removing the candle from the cupcake. He was pushing it back towards me when a big hand reached over my shoulder and made the sweet treat disappear. This had to be the other person who lived to make my life miserable.