“By the way, where’s Pop Pop?”
“Can’t say. It’s undercover work for the newspaper.”
“And Wanda Sue?”
“She left suddenly because she was afraid of being arrested for Bucky McGuire’s murder. She intends to stay on the run till the real killer is arrested.”
“You realize how crazy your life is?” he pointed out quite unnecessarily.
“Yeah.”
“You know, having someone to ground you wouldn’t be a bad thing.” He pressed his lips to mine, but it felt like a goodbye kiss—bittersweet. “Too bad you don’t want it to be me. We had a good thing going.”
Cole drew back, keeping a light hold on my shoulders for a few moments. Then he left without another word.
I stood there for a few moments, the cold forgotten as I watched him disappear into the growing darkness.
All of a sudden, I felt very alone.
“Did I just do the right thing?” I asked Kong with a sigh of frustration. “What do you think? Tap your tail once for yes, and twice for no.”
He thumped his tail three times.
“You’re no help.”
I led my teacup poodle into the Airstream and shut the door tightly against the rest of the world. I couldn’t take any more today. It was time to make dinner (frozen entrée) and have some quiet time (more Friends reruns).
As I hung up Kong’s leash next to the door, I turned around and started. Bernice was seated on my sofa, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, her arm in a cast, and reading one of my graphic novels: Batgirl: Fists of Fury.
“What are you doing here and, even more importantly, how did you get into my Airstream?”
“Get real, Miss Priss. Everybody knows you hide the key in the geranium pot outside.”
“Obviously. But that doesn’t mean you can use it and just let yourself in.”
“The doctor said I shouldn’t be alone ’cause he gave me a butt load of painkillers. With my dumb-ass sister still out of town, I had to commandeer Madame Geri to pick me up and bring me here. I couldn’t stay with her because of that beady-eyed bird of hers. I’d be afraid he’d peck out my eyes in my sleep. So, it looks like it’s you and me, kiddo. And this stack of comic books.” She pointed at my entire Batgirl series on the floor next to the sofa.
“Graphic novels. And they are a legit literary genre today. And for your information, my set of Shakespeare plays and Jane Austen novels are in storage since the Airstream doesn’t exactly have library-sized storage.” My English-major ire stirred, I wondered if there were enough leftover pills in the “butt load” to knock her out for the night.
“Yeah, yeah.” She waved off my protestations. “I’m starving. What do you have to eat?”
Kong whimpered, and I wanted to do the same.
What could I do, though?
Two hours later, I’d made Bernice dinner (another frozen entrée in the microwave), poured (and drank) a glass of cheap Flip Flop Chardonnay, watched a CSI-Miami rerun with her (she liked her TV grisly and gritty, not light and witty like my Friends addiction), and settled her on my fold-out sofa. Exhausted, I slumped into a chair with a second glass of wine.
Bernice propped herself up with a pile of pillows and sat back with her cast-encased arm cradled in front of her. “Too bad I’m taking the painkillers, or I could have a glass of wine, even if it is that cheap stuff.”
I glared at her as I held up my glass that had been refilled to the brim. “And if your sister weren’t such a stingy boss, I might be able to afford something better. As it stands, the Flip Flop will have to suffice.” I eyed the light-gold color of the el cheapo vino. “It’s not half bad.”
“It’s crap.”
True.
“You know, Bernice, I can turn you out in the cold without a blink.”
“Pffft,” she scoffed. “Like you’d do that.”
She knew me too well. “At the very least, you could try to be a little nicer since you are in my home, and I’ve been waiting on you hand and foot all night.”
Bernice leaned her head back with a sigh, and her face seemed to sag with fatigue. Without the aging hipster outfit, overdone makeup, and fake hair, she looked like a tired and not-so-young woman who’d had a rough day. “It’s not easy being me.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“No, I mean it.” Her voice took on a serious tone. “It’s no fun being middle-aged without a partner. You’re either a chick or an old hen in our society, and my chick years are long over.” She sighed again. “It was fun dating around when I was young, but now I’d like something a little more permanent. Facing old age alone is . . . scary.”
My heart tugged in sympathy. “I’m sure you’ll meet someone. Look at Anita and her late-life marriage to Mr. Benton.” Who would’ve thought Bernice had a soft and vulnerable side?
She grimaced. “I’m aiming a little higher than that skinflint Benton, or that surfer-wastrel Cole you’re engaged to. I’m looking for a sugar-daddy, and I intend to find one if I have to scout out every assisted-living center in Southwest Florida.”
So much for the touchy-feely moment. “We’re not engaged any longer.”
Sinking back into her pillows, she flashed a knowing glance in my direction. “You’d better get cracking to find a replacement, kiddo, before the hen stage takes hold. Trust me.” She pulled up the covers. “Now I’d like a cup of tea before I go to sleep. Chamomile with a little honey and fresh-squeezed lemon.”
I rose to my feet, finishing off my wine. “You’ll get a Lipton bag in tap water.”
“That’s something, I guess.”
After making my unwanted guest a cup of tea, I retreated to my room at the back of the Airstream and collapsed on the bed, still dressed, embracing the comfort of my classic-cars sheets and pillowcase.
Kong hopped up next to me and hunkered down in the crook of my arm. I stroked his soft, curly coat and savored the blessed solitude, ready to doze off—until the loud wheeze of Bernice’s snoring penetrated the stillness. A grating noise that sounded like a buzz saw cutting through wood. Groaning, I snatched up the pillow and rammed it over my face, but it didn’t make a dent in muffling the snorting, lip-smacking sounds emanating from my guest.
Sitting up again, I drummed my fingers, smoothed out the sheets, and tried to meditate with my “muggatoni mantra.” But nothing helped to distract me from Bernice the Buzz Saw. Fat chance that I’d get forty winks tonight—or even ten.
I changed into my PJs and hopped back into bed, hoping she’d quiet down. No such luck. If anything, the snoring grew louder. And louder.
Might as well get to work on my suspect list.
Propping up my pillow (and pounding it a few times for good measure), I leaned back and stared at the ceiling, letting my mind wander over the events of the last two days. I had three main suspects for Bucky’s death: Travis, Destiny, and Liz. They were the people most closely connected with Bucky right before he was killed, with Liz as the one most likely to do bodily harm to someone suspect.
Time to tier the mental list.
Tier One: Liz Ellis—the landscaping client from hell with a hair-trigger temper. Her razor-sharp vitriol on Bucky’s blog seemed one step away from a physical shiv. Not to mention, she seemed to toss around lawsuit threats with the casual flick of a legal flyswatter.
Tier Two: Travis—the ex-partner who held a major grudge against Bucky for supposedly embezzling money from their company, and who may or may not be guilty of fish murder. He, too, possessed a hair-trigger temper.
Tier Three: Destiny—the woman who loved him and seemed destroyed by Bucky’s death. Or was she? Her over-the-top emotional display seemed real enough, but she appeared to be jealous and possessive. And (what a surprise!) she showed every sign of (guess what?) a hair-trigger temper.
One thing I knew for certain: All three needed anger management, and I didn’t want to be on the receiving end of any of their rageaholic displays.
What about Wanda S
ue? For certain, she didn’t murder Bucky.
She might’ve threatened him with a frying pan when their relationship was heading for the skids, but she never would have actually struck him with it. She did not have a hair-trigger temper—not that I’d ever seen. Granted, she had engaged in a verbal fracas with Destiny and threatened to “take it outside,” and, yes, she did fire a flare gun at the town-hall meeting. All true. But she said she’d aimed that gun away from Bucky toward the ceiling, and I believed her—sort of. I swallowed hard.
Better stop right there. The facts weren’t exactly tallying up on Wanda Sue’s side, and I was running out of time and tiers on my list.
Tomorrow I had to get it in gear, and not just for the murder case. I had to finish the Observer final copy edits for the printer, get the Twin Palms RV Park problem solved, and, most importantly, make certain Pop Pop didn’t turn into a card-carrying, union-loving socialist or get himself killed.
Bernice’s snoring amped up into a deep-throated, window-shaking cacophony.
This day would never end.
I rummaged around in my built-in dresser drawers and found a pair of swimmers’ earplugs that I’d bought when I thought I was going to hit the waves for exercise. (I’d never opened the packet.)
Ripping open the plastic cover, I then jammed them in, and threw the covers over my face.
Kong ducked under with me, tucking his paws around his head.
Bleary-eyed and groggy the next morning, I rolled out of bed and glared at Bernice on my way to the coffee pot. How is it one human being could make so many grotesque (and earplug piercing) noises when sleeping? Between her snoring, wheezing, and coughing, I barely managed to get four hours of sleep.
“Get up on the wrong side of the bed, Miss Priss?” she asked in a chipper voice, stretched out on my sofa, fully dressed with the wig in place. “Not me. I slept like a log. Must’ve been the painkillers they gave me at the hospital. Whew. That stuff really knocks you out. But I’m up and ready for action now. Just to show you how much I appreciate your dingy trailer hospitality, I’m gonna help Madame Geri with that stupid violin story once we get to the office.”
“Should you be working with your injury and that cast?” I pulled my Jumped-up Java full-bodied roast out of the cabinet and shoveled three heaping scoops into the filter of my Mr. Coffee.
Bernice thumped her cast. “Get real. I’m indestructible.”
“Yeah. You’re like a tank.”
“You betcha, Miss Priss.” She adjusted the wig. “I just need you to make my lunch, drive me to work, and set me up at your computer. Otherwise, I can handle the rest. Just call me Superwoman.”
Rolling my eyes, I figured there was no point in asking her to tail Destiny with her invalid needs right now.
“But first. I can’t get this cast wet, so I’ll need some help with washing my face and putting on my makeup. I could manage the wig, but that’s a one-arm task.”
I froze, coffee pot in hand.
Was I to be spared nothing?
An hour later, after fortifying myself with high-test caffeine, I oversaw some awkward face-washing procedures and makeup applications. It wasn’t pretty. But, eventually, I finished up with minimal trauma, and we were both seated in my truck, wearing our jeans and sweatshirts and heading to the Twin Palms main office. Aunt Lily was already pacing outside, wearing a green sweater, tailored pants, and a stern-faced expression. She held up her arm and tapped her silver Brighton watch.
I grimaced. This was going to take some finessing. “Bernice, after all the morning exertions, why don’t you stay in the truck?”
She glanced at my great-aunt’s pinched mouth and clutched her cast in a protective clasp. “Good idea.”
As I slid out of Rusty and made my way over to Aunt Lily, I launched into a motor mouth extravaganza. “I know I’m half an hour late, but Bernice showed up last night with her broken arm in a cast. She couldn’t be alone. So she slept on my sofa and kept me up with her snoring all night. Not to mention I had to help her get ready this morning. Sorry.”
Aunt Lily glanced at Bernice, who was drawing an obscene hand gesture on her own cast with a magic marker, then back at me. “I guess you’ve been punished enough this morning.”
“It was pure torture.” I dug into my hobo bag and pulled out Wanda Sue’s set of keys. “Can you let yourself into the main office? This Bernice thing has set me behind, and I’ve only got an hour to get this week’s Observer copy to the printer. Then I’ve got to meet Pop Pop.”
“You’d better tell me that you’re picking him up and bringing him back here.” Her arched brows moved up a fraction. “I don’t need to mention that he can’t take too much more of this craziness at his age.”
“I promise.” I held out the keys and gave them a little jingle. “All you have to do is stand guard at the desk in case anyone checks in today. Wanda Sue keeps the guest ledger and welcome packets in the file cabinet. Nothing is computerized, so it’s pretty simple. I’ll be back by lunchtime with Pop Pop in tow. And, in the meantime, Cole said he’d take care of any maintenance issues that come up. Okay?”
Shaking her head, Lily stretched out her hand, and I dropped the keys into her palm. “All right but, after this, we’re going to sit down and have a long, serious talk about the way you’re living your life. Do you know that Sam practically had to drag Pop Pop and his work friends out of Le Sink last night because they were doing tequila shots? A man his age? They all spent the night at Sam’s house and then took off this morning to meet some union big shot at the tilapia farm. I shudder to think what will happen if this whole union thing goes through. Apparently, Pop Pop was boasting last night about spreading the word to every business on the island.”
I opened my mouth to defend myself, but Aunt Lily averted her head. “I don’t want to hear it.”
“But—” My cell phone jingled, and I glanced at the number. Speak of the devil.
“If that’s Pop Pop, you’d better tell him to stop this foolishness before he ends up in the hospital. Whatever happens to him is on your head, Mallie.” She turned on her heel and stomped toward the office entrance.
I flipped open the phone. “Pop Pop, maybe you need to back off.”
“What? Not when I’m on to something.”
I waited a few seconds until Aunt Lily had disappeared inside. Then I strolled toward my truck just to provide extra distance between her sharp hearing and me. “Okay, what’s the scoop? Did you catch Travis dumping the bleach in the fish tanks?”
“Nope. Even better.”
“Poison?”
“Hah!” He gave a snort of triumph. “We’ve got a union organizer from Tallahassee coming down here this morning.”
My heart sank.
“This guy is going to help us hold an election. Before the day is out, we’ll be the official United Tilapia Farm Workers. That’ll show Mr. Big Shot Travis.”
I snapped the phone shut and hopped back into my truck, slamming the door so hard, the entire vehicle shook with the force. “Don’t say a word.” I enunciated each word as I pointed a finger at Bernice, then jammed on my seat belt.
“Hey, don’t take it out on me that your old fossil of an ex-boyfriend can’t do simple surveillance work.”
“He’s not my ex-boyfriend! I’m engaged to Cole. At least, I was until last night. And I don’t know if I made the right decision or not.” I cranked Rusty into reverse. “This whole multitasking/management thing is stressing me out beyond belief.”
“Jeez, stop whining. I’m the one with a broken arm, which, by the way, is hurting like hell in spite of the cool doodles and signatures on my cast.” She gestured at the outline of a fist—middle finger extended up—and large, sloppy writing that spelled out “Arm Candy Hottie.”
“You wrote that hottie comment yourself.”
She shrugged. “The truth is the truth.”
“Oh, take a pain pill.” I shifted into forward and revved off.
“Hey, Miss Priss, I’
m sorry about your man trouble, but it’s your own fault.” Bernice pulled out her painkillers, shook the bottle, and popped one. “Just make a decision about your love life and stick with it. And don’t be a wuss about it. If you don’t want to marry Cole, then don’t. If you want my take on it, he seemed a little too veggie omelet to me anyway. You’re a fast-food kind of gal.”
I couldn’t help nodding in agreement.
“What you really need is a lifestyle coach and mentor. Like yours truly. I decided to change my look and start trolling for a man when my lame-ass sister landed herself a man. If it wasn’t too late for a hag bag like Anita, I realized the guys would be lining up for me. You’re never too old to imitate Lady Gaga. You should try it sometime. It might help you attract a better quality type of guy.”
“Thanks for the advice,” I commented drily. “But I think I’ll stick with my own judgment on my love life.”
“Suit yourself. We both see how successful that’s been.”
We drove in silence for a few minutes along Cypress Drive, with only a few other cars on the road this early.
As we passed a mango grove, I thought I heard an odd rattling sound waft through the truck. “Bernice, are you shaking that pill bottle?”
“What are you talking about? I put it back in my purse.”
The loud staccato noise continued, almost like the shaking of a baby rattle, followed by a soft, slithering sound.
My breath caught in my throat.
Snake?
A cold chill washed over me that had nothing to do with the morning air. Chewing on my lower lip, I glanced nervously in the rearview mirror and scanned the backseat . . . then bit my tongue in panic.
A rattlesnake with black-edged brown diamonds patterned on his back lay coiled on the seat, staring right at me and shaking his tail—ready to strike.
Uh-oh.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Don’t move,” I whispered to Bernice, keeping my upper body as motionless as possible, while fighting the urge to ram down the brake.
“Speak up, Miss Priss.” She cupped her ear and leaned in my direction. The movement caused Mr. Snake to twist his head toward Bernice, his forked tongue darting in and out.
Coastal Corpse Page 17
