by Maria Geraci
I’ve never been to Betty Jean’s house, but I know where she lives. Her home is in an older residential neighborhood, just a few blocks from the city park. I come up to a four-way stop sign near the soccer fields when Paco starts barking violently. He lifts himself up by his front paws bringing half his body out the window.
“Paco! What are you doing?”
He turns to look at me and…oh no. There’s a familiar wild glint in his eyes. Before I can stop him, he jumps out the window.
Rats!
I swing my VW beetle to the side of the road, turn off the engine and run after my crazy dog.
“Paco! Come back here this instant!”
It’s dark, but the soccer field lights are on so I can see where he’s running. He turns his head to check and see if I’m following him, which of course, I am. Then he halts near the edge of a large palm tree.
I stop to catch my breath. “Bad dog! You could have gotten hurt jumping from the car! What were you—”
I stop mid-sentence.
Paco sits there calmly staring down at something.
My skin turns icy cold like I’m in some sort of déjà vu dream. Because that something is a man. And he’s not moving.
I kneel down beside him and nudge his shoulder. “Sir, are you all right?”
No response.
I gingerly place my fingers on the side of his neck to check for a pulse, but there isn’t one. I roll him over to see if he’s breathing and to start CPR.
Holy wow. It’s the guy in the blue hoodie.
But no amount of CPR is going to help, because he’s got a bullet hole right between his eyes.
Luckily, it takes the cops about three minutes to get here.
Unluckily, it’s Travis who responds. I wish it had been Rusty. He’s so much easier to manipulate… I mean, work with.
Travis takes one look at the dead guy and his expression goes grim. “Are you the one who made the call?”
I tell him exactly how things went down, including how Paco led me to the body. This makes two dead bodies that Paco has discovered. I can’t snicker anymore at the idea that he might really be a ghost whisperer.
Neither can Travis. “He actually jumped out of the car? And he led you right here. To this exact same spot?” The first time I told Travis that Paco led me to a dead body he practically laughed in my face. Now his disbelief is laced with confusion. Logic tells him that there’s no such thing as a ghost whispering dog, but the more intuitive side of him is beginning to wonder.
He glances around the empty soccer field. “Have you seen anyone else?”
“Nope. Just this guy and now you.”
He pulls a cell phone from his shirt pocket and spears me with one of his I’m-a-cop-and-you’re-a-civilian gazes that he’s so good at. “I have to insist that you keep this to yourself.”
“This is the guy you and Rusty got the order for this morning.”
He stills. “How did you know that?”
Oops. Me and my big mouth. No use in pretending anymore. “Because I followed you.”
“You followed me?”
“Not you-you. You and Rusty. That order he put in this morning was ridiculous. Five lattes? C’mon! No self-respecting cop orders a latte when they can get the black swill that passes for coffee down at the station house for free.”
“You followed a police car?”
“Pay attention. Yes, I followed a police car. So what? It’s not illegal, is it?”
“It ought to be. You have no idea what you’re doing here.”
“Okay, so tell me.”
“All I can tell you is that you absolutely cannot tell anyone else what you found here tonight.”
“Why? Is this guy some kind of police informant? Kitty says he was on his honeymoon, but—”
“Kitty? You called Kitty Pappas?”
“Only because she’s the real estate contact for the house.”
“My God, you really are dangerous. Haven’t we been through this before? Lucy, you need to leave these things—”
“To the professionals? Been there. Done that. Almost got killed.”
Travis takes a deep breath like he’s trying to keep from saying something he shouldn’t. “I admit, I handled Abby Delgado’s case poorly. But this is different.”
“You didn’t handle Abby’s case poorly. You just didn’t have all the information I did.”
He frowns. “What do you mean?”
Double oops.
The reason I was able to solve Abby’s murder was because I used my gift.
“Nothing,” I say. “What do you mean this case is different? This is a homicide investigation, right? Who would shoot this poor guy in the head? Do you think he was robbed?”
Whispering Bay is America’s safest city? Ha! I wonder how Brittany and the rest of the chamber of commerce are going to spin this. I don’t think pruning the trees on Main Street and hanging up a bunch of flowery wreaths are going to cut it.
Before Travis can answer, another police car rolls up. It’s Zeke Grant. He’s dressed in civilian clothes and the expression on his face is bone weary. Understandable considering that his wife, Mimi, our city’s mayor, gave birth to twins a couple of weeks ago.
“Lucy,” he greets me tersely.
“Hi, Zeke.” Paco nudges me with his nose as if to remind me that he’s still here.
Zeke gazes between Paco and the dead body. “This scenario looks oddly familiar.”
I’ll say.
“Don’t leave just yet.”
Not a problem, because I have no intention of going anywhere.
Zeke and Travis walk a few feet away and begin to talk. Even though they keep their voices low, I can pick up a few words here and there.
“Anyone called Billings yet?” asks Zeke.
“Right after I called you,” says Travis.
I can’t make anything else out, but they’re acting strangely. Very hush-hush. A dark blue sedan pulls up along the street. Two men get out. They’re wearing suits and ties. This isn’t the same crime scene investigation group I’ve seen before. For one thing, they aren’t wearing uniforms, and they don’t seem to have any equipment on them.
The two men glance my way. They walk up to Zeke and Travis. The four of them talk for a few minutes. Then they all turn to look at me. One of the suit guys says something and Travis nods grimly.
Goosebumps erupt over my arms.
Nothing about this scenario makes sense.
Travis breaks away from the group. “Let me take you home.”
“No need. I have my car.”
“Then let me follow you home and make sure you’re okay.” He takes me by the elbow and leads me toward my car. It feels more like an order than out of concern for my safety.
We get to the curb and out of earshot from Zeke and the suits before I spin around to face him. “Not so fast, buddy. What’s going on? Who are those two guys? Have you called the wife yet to let her know what happened? You need to check out her alibi. They did this entire episode on America’s Most Vicious Criminals about how most of the time it’s the husband or the wife who—”
“Lucy, the guy in the blue hoodie isn’t on his honeymoon.”
“He’s not?”
“His name is Ken Cameron. He was an FBI agent.”
Chapter Four
Travis follows me to The Bistro where we go upstairs to my apartment. We settle down on the living room couch with a cup of coffee in our hands.
“Okay, I’ve been a patient girl, but its time you told me what’s going on.”
“The order Rusty and I got this morning was for a group of FBI agents who are here in town.”
The hairs on my neck stand on alert. This isn’t exactly a lie. But it’s not the complete truth either. Travis is hiding something. Too bad for him he doesn’t stand a chance against me.
“I see. Like…an FBI convention?”
“Sure. Yeah. But you know, they don’t want to go around announcing they’re here, so we ne
ed to keep this quiet.”
“No problem. You can count on me to keep it on the low down.”
He blinks like he’s not sure if I’m messing with him or not. “You mean the down-low?”
“Isn’t that what I said? So you and Rusty were delivering food to a bunch of agents here on a retreat? That’s so sweet of you.”
A muscle on the side of his jaw twitches. Travis hates that I’ve relegated the Whispering Bay police force to a bunch of muffin delivery guys.
“Who do you think killed the guy in the park?”
“I have no idea. But you can see how important it is to keep this confidential. Since it was an agent, the FBI will be handling this internally.”
“Do you think it was a professional hit?”
He looks at me over the rim of his coffee cup. “Possibly.”
“I mean, you’d have to be a pretty good shot or just really lucky to get a bullet right between someone’s eyes. And the woman who Kitty thinks is the wife? Is she an agent too? How many of them are there?”
“That’s a lot of questions, Lucy.”
I snort. “You expect me to believe that the FBI is having some kind of agent convention in a house in Dolphin Isles in Whispering Bay, Florida?”
Travis sets his cup down on the coffee table. “Why do you have to make everything so hard?”
“You mean why don’t I just believe everything you say?”
“Most women do.”
Of all the arrogant… “Good thing I’m not most women.”
We lock gazes. Rats. I’m not purposely flirting. He isn’t either. But it just happens.
He closes his eyes for a second like he’s recharging. When he opens them again, he’s all cop. “Against my better judgment, I’m going to tell you the truth. But only because I know from recent experience that you’ll never leave this alone until I do. And you need to leave this alone, or you’re going to create a whole lot of trouble for everyone.”
I place my coffee mug on the table next to his. “I’m all ears.”
He shakes his head like he can’t believe what he’s about to say. “The FBI is hiding a federal witness here in town.”
“Hiding him from what?”
“From certain people who might not want him to testify.”
“Certain people? You mean, like…organized crime people?”
He nods.
“So the guy in the park was like…a mob hit?”
“Possibly. It’s not up to me to say. Or you. Like I said, the FBI will be handling this.”
“Who’s this guy the FBI is protecting? Some top mob boss who’s decided to turn his life around? Is he going into the witness protection program? Is he going to live here in Whispering Bay? Oh my God, what if—”
“It’s none of those. And that’s all the information you’re getting.”
“You can’t just leave me dangling.”
“Sure I can.”
I narrow my eyes at him.
“Zeke said I was only to tell you what was absolutely necessary to get your cooperation.”
“Well, of course you have my cooperation. But I could do so much more! I could help the FBI—”
“No.”
“You didn’t let me finish. I could…deliver muffins. Like you did.”
“You’re not going to be delivering muffins. To anyone,” he adds stubbornly.
I fold my hands demurely on my lap. “Okay. You win. I’ll just be a good girl and leave everything to the professionals.”
Travis moans. I’m sure he’s ruing the day he first used that expression on me. “The last time you said that you ended up with a psycho trying to kill you in your own kitchen. Okay. You win. But you have to promise me you’ll keep what I tell you confidential. You can’t tell anyone. Not your brother. Not Sarah. Not even Will.”
I make an X over my chest with my finger. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come down to that,” he mutters.
I lean forward eagerly.
“Five years ago, the feds planted a mole by the name of Joey Frizzone in the Scarlotti family organization. They run one of the oldest and largest crime syndicates in Chicago.”
“A mole? That’s what, like a spy?”
Travis nods. “A few weeks ago the feds received an anonymous tip that Joey had been compromised, so they had to get him out. He’s in hiding until he can testify. The trial is in Chicago in two weeks. After that, they’ll put Joey in witness protection. Right now, our goal is to keep him alive so he can put Vito Scarlotti away for good.”
“Holy wow.”
“That’s one way to put it. The Weasel is going to be pretty spooked when he hears what happened to Ken Cameron.”
“The weasel?”
“It’s the nickname the feds gave Joey.”
“Who else knows all this?”
“Here in town? Just Zeke, Rusty and me. And now you.”
“No other cops?”
“Billings, she’s the FBI agent in charge, only wanted a few cops aware of the situation. In case the feds need police back up.”
“What do you think happened to Ken Cameron?”
“I think he got a bullet between the eyes.”
“Seriously.”
“I think someone has a big mouth,” Travis says quietly. The implication being that someone ratted Joey out.
“So someone in the FBI sold The Weasel out to the mob? Do you think they’ll move him to another location?”
“Not my call. But moving him might be exactly what someone wants. Until the feds figure out who killed Cameron, they’re probably better leaving Joey where he is.”
I shudder. “The whole thing sounds dangerous.”
“Exactly. Which is why you’re going to pretend you don’t know anything, didn’t see anything and most importantly, you aren’t going to do anything.”
“Sure, sure, I got it.”
“Repeat it, so I know it’s sunk in.”
I roll my eyes. “I know nothing. I see nothing. And I’ll do nothing.”
“You have to act completely normal.”
“Normal for me? Or normal for someone else?”
He gives me a look.
“Hey! I’m serious.”
“Normal for you. Which is still kind of scary but it’s the best we can do.” He gets up to leave. Paco and I follow him down the stairs.
Travis reaches the kitchen door, then turns around. “I hate to break our date for Saturday, but with this new development I’m going to be on call twenty-four seven.”
“I never said I’d go out with you.”
“You would have said yes. Eventually.”
“Good to know there’s nothing wrong with your ego.”
He grins like he thinks I’ve just made a joke. “Don’t forget to lock the door behind me.”
“No worries there.”
I not only lock it. I check it twice. What a night. This isn’t my first dead body, but I’m still pretty shaken up. I hate to admit it, but in this instance, Travis is right. Mobsters in Whispering Bay? I definitely need to leave this to the professionals.
I glance at the kitchen clock. It’s nine-thirty. I should probably go to bed since I have an early morning. Or I could blow off some nervous energy perfecting my mango coconut muffin recipe. Or—
Oh. My. God.
Book club!
I dash up the stairs with Paco on my heels and dial Betty Jean’s number. She picks up on the seventh ring.
“Betty Jean! I’m so sorry I missed the meeting—”
“Lucy, dear, are you in the hospital?”
“Uh, no.”
“Is there a psychotic killer holding you hostage in your kitchen again?”
“I can explain.”
“I’m listening.”
“Well, yeah, there was this emergency you see. The Bistro is all out of flour, and I had to wait here until the delivery truck came by. Can’t make muffins without flour.” I wince. This is the worst lie ev
er. And so lame that anyone with half a brain could see right through it. Only I can’t very well tell Betty Jean the truth.
“And your cell phone died? And your car ran out of gas? Oh, and let me guess. The dog ate your copy of the book.”
“Actually, I have the book on my Kindle, so that would be impossible. I’m so sorry, Betty Jean. I promise this will never happen again.”
“Oh, I know it won’t because we won’t be inviting you back.”
“But—”
“Book club begins promptly at seven p.m. We waited till eight for you and your muffins to show up. I have to tell you, Lucy, we were mightily disappointed. You promised you’d bring some of those new mango coconut muffins you’ve been bragging about.”
“It sounds like it’s my muffins you want at book club. Not me.”
“Oh, so I’m the bad guy now?”
“No, no, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. But don’t I get a second chance or anything? Please?”
“Sorry, but like I told you, there’s a waiting list. You had your chance, Lucy, and you blew it.”
Chapter Five
I can’t believe I got kicked out of book club on my first night.
It’s embarrassing. Not to mention unfair. If Betty Jean knew the real reason I had to miss last night, she’d be bending over backward kissing my gluteus maximus with her apologies.
The idea that the feds are hiding a Chicago mobster in little old Whispering Bay is unbelievable. It’s the second most exciting thing that’s ever happened in this town, and I can’t tell anyone. Talk about frustrating.
I crawl out of my warm bed, pull on some clothes, then take Paco for his morning walk. It’s four-thirty and time to start making the muffins.
Sarah gets to The Bistro around five, and Jill, who works for us, shows up at six to help set up. By seven, we’re ready to go and the line to get in this morning is extra-long.
Viola Pantini and her boyfriend, Gus Pappas, are the first to arrive. Viola is President of the Gray Flamingos as well as a part-time yoga instructor. I took one of her classes for active and mature adults (she doesn’t like to use the word seniors) last week, and I’m embarrassed to say I could hardly keep up. I need to find a class more my speed—like yoga for out-of-shape millennials.
