Coastal Corpse

by Marty Ambrose

  “That ended early this year from what I heard on the island grapevine.” She gave a knowing nod. “There was also some scuttlebutt that he might’ve been seeing a new girl, but . . . I don’t know. It’s probably just more gossip.”

  Maybe Coop had a line on that one since he worked so closely with Bucky.

  “When is the grapevine ever wrong, except about Pop Pop and me?” I queried. “Dish.”

  Wanda Sue leaned forward, cupped one hand around her mouth, and whispered, “Destiny Ransford.”

  “What? Miss Buttoned-up, butter-won’t-melt-in-her-mouth banker? That’s an unlikely duo, if I’ve ever heard of one.”

  “I told you; Bucky is . . . uh . . . was a chick magnet.”

  I digested this info for a few seconds. “Now that you mention it, I did notice that he was protective of her during that fish fight at the town-hall meeting.”

  “Maybe it’s true then.” She tucked the coveralls in her large bag.

  Kong trotted up and nuzzled against my leg and I reached down to stroke his soft fur between his ears. “I’ll head over to Shoreline Bank tomorrow morning and question Destiny—”

  Just then, a knock on my door interrupted our conversation. “Cole. It’s our date night,” I explained to Wanda Sue. Why didn’t I sound more enthusiastic?

  “Where’s your engagement ring?”

  “Um . . . I put it away for safekeeping.” More lies. Setting Kong down, I fluffed my curls and swung open the door.

  Uh-oh.

  Cole stood there, and next to him was Nick Billie, and they were both dressed to the nines.

  Dating double trouble.

  CHAPTER SIX

  For a long, long moment I could only stare; my motor mouth was in neutral with the parking brake on. Two hunky men stood at my door, one of them my fiancé: Cole, looking like a surfer dude ready for a hottie at the beach competition with his long hair combed back, a dark Hawaiian shirt, and chinos. The other one: Nick Billie, looking just as sexy with the black hair, black suit, and the edgy elegance of Fitzgerald’s Gatsby.

  How many women have this kind of delicious dilemma? Certainly not a girl like me.

  Breathless, I stammered, “What are you b-both doing here?” Lame.

  “We had a dinner date at the Starfish Lodge, babe.” Cole produced a bouquet of wildflowers with delicate daisies and sprigs of greenery.

  “And I came by to show you my preliminary report on Bucky McGuire’s cause of death,” Nick held up a sheet of legal-sized paper.

  Sad to say, the latter sparked my interest the most as I took the flowers from Cole. “The medical examiner worked pretty fast on that one,” I commented.

  One side of Nick’s mouth quirked upwards. “With the right kind of . . . persuasion, you get results fast.”

  “Is this about that guy who keeled over in a tilapia tank?” Cole asked. “When did it happen?”

  “Right after the town-council candidate debate earlier today.” I plucked a few petals from the blossoms, trying to restrain myself from snatching the report out of Nick’s hands. “Oh, and Wanda Sue found the body.”

  “Lordy!” she moaned from inside. “I’ll be in those orange coveralls by lunchtime tomorrow!”

  Nick’s brow knitted in a frown. “Orange coveralls?”

  “It’s a long story. Just take my word for it that she’s been watching one too many prison shows on TV.” Checking over my shoulder, I noticed that her face had a pale cast (in spite of the canary-yellow hair). Then I turned back to Cole. “I can’t just leave here while she’s still so upset. Would you mind—”

  “Let’s make it a foursome tonight for dinner,” he proposed, smiling into my eyes. “There’s no reason why we can’t share our evening at the Starfish Lodge with Wanda Sue and Nick just because we’re engaged. Share the joy. Then Wanda Sue won’t be alone, and Nick can give you his information. Just don’t talk death and autopsies the whole evening, okay?” He kissed my cheek, a sweet brush of his mouth.

  “You’re on, if Wanda Sue is up to it.” I hugged him, but my glance met Nick’s over his shoulder. Something flared in the depths of his obsidian eyes. Jealousy? I couldn’t tell, but it thrilled and disturbed me at the same time.

  I set the flowers inside my Airstream, and Wanda Sue appeared at my side, purse in hand.

  “Why, you sweet ole thing, Cole. I didn’t want to be all on my lonesome tonight, what with all the fuss over Bucky’s . . . uh . . . deceasedness.” Sniffling, she reached into her purse, and I thought she was going to produce a Kleenex. Instead, she pulled out another “Elect Wanda Sue for You!” button and pinned it to his shirt. Then she fastened one on my dress. “All that ruckus aside, I can’t waste any campaign opportunities. People might see us at the restaurant.”

  “I assume you don’t have another flare gun in that purse,” Nick warned, but kept his tone light.

  “Nope.” Wanda Sue opened her bag wide and held it out for Nick to inspect. “Just the usual girl stuff: compact, mascara, lipstick, eye shadow, and blush, and a stun gun.”

  He groaned as she listed the last item. “You don’t need a license to carry one of those, so I’m going to pretend that I didn’t hear or see that.”

  Cole eyed her purse cautiously and gave it a wide berth as he helped me lock up my Airstream.

  “I’ll drive,” Nick suggested, pulling his keys out of his pants pocket. “My truck should fit everyone comfortably.”

  “Sounds good.” I’d been a passenger in Nick’s sleek and sexy Ford F-150 only once, but I could still remember the soft leather seats and subtle hint of his aftershave lingering in the interior. Invoking my car psychoanalysis skills, I noted that Nick’s truck said it was all-powerful and too hot to handle.

  “I’ll sit up front with our island cop, to ride shotgun,” Wanda Sue pronounced as she hopped into the passenger seat.

  No one responded.

  “Hey, it was a joke,” she protested. When Wanda Sue still didn’t get a response, she sniffed and started fiddling with Nick’s radio.

  Cole opened the door behind the driver’s seat and helped me in, as Nick eased himself behind the wheel. I peeped around the headrest to see if he had set Bucky’s “cause of death” sheet on the console. Damn. He must have folded it in his pocket. Now I’d have to wait until we reached the restaurant before I could get my hands on it.

  Cole seated himself next to me and slipped an arm around my shoulders.

  “Hah. I found the Jammin’ Country station.” Wanda Sue snapped her fingers, then began tapping time on her thighs to some male singer with a baritone whiskey twang. “That Josh Turner has got himself some pipes, and he knows how to use ’em.” She sang along with some lyrics about a black train, but I didn’t know the song. I preferred my music on the indie rock end of the spectrum.

  Nick switched on the interior light and held up the paper. “Is this what you want?” Our eyes locked in the rearview mirror.

  I nodded and grabbed the sheet before he could change his mind. “How did you get it so fast?”

  “The medical examiner was going on a vacation cruise and wanted to clear up any open cases.” Nick started up the engine and checked over his shoulder before he backed out of my RV site. He flashed a quick smile in my direction.

  I couldn’t help my matching response.

  As I rested in the crook of Cole’s arm, I could hear his heartbeat as I scanned Bucky McGuire’s probable cause of death.

  Okay, it should’ve felt weird to be snuggling with my fiancé while I read an ME’s report, but, for some reason, it didn’t.

  Nick drove the short distance from the Twin Palms RV Resort to the Starfish Lodge on Coral Island Sound, but I hardly noticed. I was engrossed in the description of the size and shape of the wound that Bucky had received to the back of his head. It seemed like a blunt object had struck him a few inches below the left ear and left a six-inch gash.

  Whoa.

  I tried to think of every object in the town-hall building that could’ve
created that type of wound.

  “A big rock?” I pondered aloud.

  “Huh?” Cole responded.

  Nick glanced in the rearview mirror again. “No, a rock probably would’ve sliced the skin with a jagged line.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yep.” Nick pulled into the restaurant’s parking lot. “The weapon had to have a clean edge.”

  “Oh, for goodness sake, isn’t it enough that I had to find his body?” Wanda Sue threw her hands up in exasperation. “I need a few hours to forget about that horrible scene. I’m already flashing back with PSST.” She climbed out of Nick’s truck, and we all followed suit.

  “She meant PTSD,” I whispered to Cole as we made for the restaurant’s entrance. I shoved the paper in my hobo bag, but my thoughts still swirled around what I had just read. “I won’t bring it up again for the rest of the night. I promise.”

  “Good. Stone crab-claw season just started, and I want to enjoy my meal,” Wanda Sue said as we entered the Starfish Lodge. A long, low building, the lodge was originally part of a turn-of-the-century utopian commune complex that had gone bust. It boasted heart of pine floors and a coral rock fireplace, but no communers, just diners.

  My vow of silence on Bucky’s cause of death lasted through our nachos appetizer platter and seafood entrées. But, by the time my Key lime pie dessert arrived, I couldn’t contain myself any longer, and I mentioned possible suspects in Bucky’s murder (which it appeared to be now).

  At that point, Wanda Sue perked up over the sight of her cheesecake. “I guess there’s no avoiding the subject of Bucky’s death but, if you ask me, I think Destiny Ransford is a prime suspect. I’d arrest her for those boring suits she wears. There oughta be a law against a woman who dresses dowdy.”

  “Unfortunately, there’s no Dull Dress Law,” Nick commented over his coffee—no dessert for him, thank you very much, which was probably how he maintained the trim and muscular physique. I was digging into a large piece of my pie with its graham-cracker crust and whipped-cream topping.

  “Destiny and Bucky were arguing right before the town-hall meeting, and it wasn’t over ‘bike path clean-ups,’ if you get my drift,” Wanda Sue admitted after downing a forkful of her cheesecake.

  I paused, my fork halfway to my mouth. “What? You didn’t tell me that.”

  Nick sipped his coffee. “Or me.”

  “Sorry. It slipped my mind till now, on account of the prospect of going to jail and having to wear orange coveralls.” She gave a helpless shrug. “Anyways, I saw them behind the building near the big mango tree. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but their voices were raised and she looked ready to slap him silly.”

  “Lovers’ quarrel?” I aimed a pointed look at Nick. “That might be a motive for murder.”

  “Let’s back up,” Nick began. “We’re still talking probable cause of death.”

  “Bucky couldn’t bash himself on the skull,” I cut in.

  “Hey, babe, I’m still eating.” Cole pointed at his fresh fruit and low-fat yogurt bowl. He looked down at his forkful of healthy, low-calorie dessert and grimaced. “Kinda lost my appetite.”

  “Was it the ‘bashed-in skull’ comment?” I asked.

  “Yep.” He pushed the plate away.

  I reached over and squeezed his hand. “I guess I’m still big-time dazed over Bucky’s death. And a little time obsessed about making deadline on this story since Anita eloped with Mr. Benton and left me in charge of the newsroom.”

  “Anita and Benton? Married?” Nick blinked a couple of times.

  “Hard to believe, but true.” I finished the last crumb of my pie.

  “Don’t worry, babe.” Cole covered my hand with his. “It’ll all work out. You just need to keep your Zen balance and meditate. Maintain your center and limit all this talk about death and murder. That kind of stuff creates a weird energy.”

  A little twinge of annoyance tugged at me. “I like talking about death and murder. It’s part of my life at the newspaper.”

  “Um . . . sure.” Cole cleared his throat and sat back.

  “Mallie, you’re like the Sally Fields character in that old movie, ‘Absence of Mullet.’ She tracks down a killer who’s done in a sleazy union bigwig.” Wanda Sue’s voice was lit with admiration.

  “I think it’s ‘Absence of Malice,’ ” Nick corrected.

  “Don’t I wish?” I set down my fork. “I say more mullet and malice all around if I could be a younger version of Sally Fields.”

  Everyone laughed and the awkward moment passed, but Cole kept his gaze on me while we paid the bill. I mentally kicked myself as we headed out of the restaurant and made the short drive back to the Twin Palms RV Resort. I shouldn’t have been so short with him. Murder and mayhem weren’t exactly his thing.

  Once we were back at the Airstream, Wanda Sue retrieved her dreaded orange convict coveralls and left, leaving me standing outside in the cold with Nick and Cole. After a few minutes of mindless small talk, I returned Nick’s report and he drove off.

  Cole stood next to me as we watched Nick’s truck disappear into the darkness like a wisp of smoke.

  “He loves you,” Cole said, his words quiet and still.

  “Oh, no.”

  “Please.” He grasped my ringless hand, feeling the empty spot where the engagement ring should have been placed. “The question is, do you love him? I know I let you down when I left you in Orlando, but I thought we’d moved past that when we got engaged. But maybe not. It’s your call. But your not wearing the ring is a sign, isn’t it?” He dropped my hand.

  “I . . . uh, just don’t have it on tonight,” I stammered. So I didn’t lie—just didn’t tell the whole truth.

  The silence stretched between us like an elastic band.

  Cole turned away and then continued with his back to me. “Let’s be honest, because we’ve known each other too long to lie. If you have feelings for Nick, you shouldn’t marry me. That’s the road to heartbreak.” His voice broke on the last word, and he moved off in the direction of his van.

  I felt like a total, complete heel.

  Did I love Nick? Did I love Cole? Did I love them both?

  A gust of wind whipped up the sand, stinging against my bare legs, and I retreated inside my Airstream. I locked the door and leaned against it with my eyes closed tightly, hoping to block out the mess I’d made of my love life. Tears stung against my eyelids, but I refused to give into the desire to have a good old-fashioned sob fest.

  Something nuzzled against my ankle, causing me to open my eyes and look down at my teacup poodle gazing up at me with a puzzled expression in his eyes.

  Scooping him up, I hugged him tightly to my chest.

  “What do you think, Kong? Should I bite the bullet and jump into matrimony? Sandy and Anita seem happy.” Scratching the back of his head, I moved into the bedroom area of my Airstream. “No answer, huh?”

  I set him on the bed, shrugged out of my clothes and into my pajamas. Flipping on the TV, I found some mind-numbing old reruns of “Friends” as I nodded off to sleep with my pooch curled up next to me.

  Tomorrow was another day, and maybe I’d find the answers I was looking for in the clear light of sunup.

  The next morning, I awoke to the usual lavish attention of my pooch as he gave my face a few licks. Reluctantly, I peeped open one eye to check the clock and flopped back down when I saw the ridiculously early hour. “It’s barely dawn. Go back to sleep.”

  Kong trotted over to the door and began scratching it with his paws.

  So much for sleeping in after my hair-raising experiences yesterday.

  I threw back the covers, felt the chill in my Airstream, and covered up again with my tattered quilt. Kong barked—short and piercing—his I-want-my-food-now signal.

  Still I didn’t move.

  It was too cold, and I wasn’t ready to face a new day yet.

  Kong amped up his bark to a howl.

  “All right.” Wrapping up in
my covers, I stumbled over to the thermostat, jiggled it a few times, and waited for the blast of heat to flood through my Airstream.

  It didn’t take long.

  I threw on my sweats, an old wool scarf, and running shoes (time to store temporarily the Birkenstocks). I guess Wanda Sue’s warning about my blood thinning after a year or two in Florida was true. Once the temperature dropped below seventy degrees, I started fantasizing about ski jackets and fur boots.

  Bracing myself, I dashed outside and faced the biting wind coming off the Gulf while Kong happily sauntered around the sea oats, taking his time, as always, to find just the right spot.

  Looking off to the east, I noted the sky had a bleary, gray cast, with darkish clouds and no visible sun rising. A dawn with no light.

  That didn’t bode well.

  Shivering, I hurried Kong along and took refuge in my Airstream once again. From the warmth of my snug trailer, I completed my morning ritual: Kong’s breakfast, a big pot of coffee and a bowl of Cheerios for me, followed by a hot shower.

  After a brief curl fluff, I donned the Florida Roller-Coaster Weather uniform of jeans, t-shirt, and sweater, so I could peel back the layers if the sun came out later. My morning routine for this time of year kept things simple (and cheap), but ready for the twenty-degree temperature spikes.

  After my second cup of coffee, I headed out to my truck and completed the second part of my morning ritual: a quick stop at the Circle K for a fresh Krispy Kreme donut. After that, I was ready to face the world—and my job as Senior Reporter and Temporary Editor.

  As I pulled into the parking lot of the newspaper, it occurred to me that, as per Wanda Sue’s warning, my ritual would have to change if I married Cole. I’d have to share my pot of coffee, have a healthy breakfast of granola and fresh fruit, and skip the Krispy Kreme fix.

  A little tug of panic rose up inside of me.

  Cole and I had worked different shifts when we lived together in Orlando years ago, but now we’d share the mornings.

  Every morning.

  The panic increased to cold-sweat level, in spite of Rusty’s frigid interior.