LIVE Ammo (Sunshine State Mystery Series Book 2)

by Lynda Fitzgerald

She stretched out on a lounge chair and put Spook on the deck beside her. The breeze began to pick up a bit, blowing cool against Allie’s hot face. She rubbed the soda can against her forehead to speed up the process. Evening was settling in now. Seagulls and broad-winged pelicans glided soundlessly over the purple-gray water, searching for dinner, barely visible in the afternoon sun’s last glowing rays. The breeze coming off the water rippled over Allie’s skin, cooling her. She could hear the ocean below, the subtle roar as the waves broke on the beach, the whisper as they spread out across the sand. God’s white noise; Allie’s favorite music.

  Out on the horizon, a tiny white speck made its steady way toward Port Canaveral—a cruise ship returning from its latest adventure. In the morning, it would spill its travelers onto the dock, and they would go their separate ways, new best friends promising to e-mail or call, never to be heard from again.

  The day wound down; the light softened. Soon, it would be night. Allie would go downstairs, crawl into bed, and spend most of the night thinking about love and loss, while the sheriff’s wife lay on a table in the morgue, thinking nothing at all.

  The thought made Allie shiver. She picked up the sunglasses her aunt had left sitting on the table by her usual chair almost a year before and put them on. They were warped now and useless. She should have thrown them away long ago, but she couldn’t bear to do it.

  “Throw the old things away.”

  Allie ignored the voice in her head. Imagination, she had believed at the beginning.

  “They’re just sunglasses, Allie.”

  “No, they’re not. They’re your sunglasses.”

  “Oh, honey.”

  The hollow ache inside her grew. Louise Smith had been more than an aunt. She’d been Allie’s best friend, her hero, her mother of choice, taking what life tossed at her with a philosophical shrug and a laugh. She respected and even celebrated the differences in others and would fight fiercely to protect her right to her own. She was fun, making even a simple excursion to the mall an adventure. During her life, she was endlessly kind and loving.

  And she was Sheriff Cord Arbutten’s lover.

  Chapter 2

  Friday night, Allie’s front door burst open as she came out of the bedroom from changing clothes. “Damn, Sheryl,” she said, clutching her throat. “I wish you’d knock.”

  Sheryl smirked. “I’d have to if your door was locked.”

  Allie glared at her. “My hands were full when I got home. I was just coming to lock it.”

  “Tell that to the killer who walks in.”

  Allie ignored her, heading into the kitchen. She reached into the refrigerator and pulled out a tea pitcher. “You want some?” she asked, turning around. Sheryl stood in the doorway, looking her up and down. “What?”

  “Why aren’t you dressed?”

  Allie looked down at her shorts and shirt. “I am dressed.”

  “You’re not going to the viewing wearing that, are you?”

  Allie pulled down two glasses from the cabinet beside the sink. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. What viewing?”

  “Jean Arbutten. They released her body today.”

  “I don’t know anything about it.”

  “It was in the paper,” Sheryl said, taking the glass of tea Allie handed her. “You work for the paper. I figured you’d know all about it.”

  Allie shook her head. “I work for the paper, Sheryl. That doesn’t mean I know everything in it.”

  “Well, you should. The viewing’s tonight. You’d better go get changed, or we’ll be late.” She glanced in the kitchen at a grocery bag on the counter where the corner of a meat package stuck out. “Steaks?”

  It took Allie a minute to follow her train of thought. “Yes.”

  “For us?”

  Allie nodded. “I figured since you were off tonight…”

  “Shit.”

  Allie put her glass on the counter. “I’m not going. I don’t like those things. Besides, I didn’t even know the sheriff’s wife.”

  Sheryl took her by the shoulders and spun her around, heading her toward the bedroom. “Well, you sure as hell know the sheriff. Your aunt worked for him for a kazillion years. Least you can do is show your respect. Besides, it’s a closed casket. I mean, the woman shot herself in the head, for Christ sake. You won’t have to look at the body or anything.”

  “Then, why do they call it a viewing?”

  “How the hell do I know? It’s tradition; that’s all.”

  “It’s barbaric.”

  “So what? There will be refreshments. Think of it as a tea party with a corpse.” At Allie’s horrified look, Sheryl burst out laughing. “You are such a putz. Hurry up. It’s about to pour, and the funeral home is over in Cocoa. It’ll take us forever to get there.”

  “I don’t know, Sheryl.”

  “Allie, please. I don’t want to go alone.”

  That’s all it took. Sheryl ordered her around and demanded much, but she rarely asked for anything.

  Allie allowed Sheryl to manhandle her into the bedroom, but she pushed Sheryl back out in the hall with a “Go put away the groceries.” Her fashion-savvy friend might pick out most of her clothes, but Allie drew the line at letting Sheryl physically dress her.

  Still unconvinced this was a good idea, she rummaged around in the closet for something appropriate to wear. She and Cord Arbutten shared an uneasy truce at best. He once feared Allie might blackmail him about his love affair with her aunt. The last time they saw each other was at her aunt’s grave when Allie returned his gun to him. Cord paid her the highest compliment Allie could imagine by telling her she was a lot like her aunt. That didn’t mean he would welcome her at his dead wife’s viewing.

  “Hurry up,” Sheryl called from the hallway. “It’s starting to rain.”

  Sheryl’s words finally registered. Rain? After almost two months without a drop? Allie grabbed the first garment she saw—a dress—and threw it over her head as she ran out of the bedroom.

  Sheryl lounged against the wall. She straightened when she saw Allie, but Allie ran right past her to the back door and flung it wide open. Raindrops. Big, fat raindrops fell out of the sky. “Hot damn!” she yelled, holding out her hand.

  Sheryl came up behind her. “Aren’t you going to wear any shoes?”

  Allie looked down at her bare feet, then back at Sheryl. “I’ll be right back.”

  They let themselves out of the house, and Allie stood on the porch for a moment looking out at the deluge, a broad grin on her face. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

  “It’s rain, for God’s sake,” Sheryl said. “Want me to drive?”

  Fat chance. Sheryl handled a car like an Indy driver on amphetamines. “I’ll drive. You give directions,” Allie said as they raced toward her Jeep.

  The neighborhood came alive. Heads poked outside as Allie navigated the steaming streets. Rain. Precious rain. People backed their cars out of their carports for a quick rinse. Barefoot kids in baggy shorts ran out to splash in shallow puddles. By tomorrow, scraggly beach vegetation, finally washed of its salty coating, would burst into bloom. It would never resemble a botanical garden, but it was enough for Allie.

  “I found out more stuff,” Sheryl said as Allie pulled out on A1A. “They’ve ruled it a suicide. No surprise there.”

  “You said the sheriff and his son had a fight. Did you get the story on that?”

  “I don’t know exactly what happened, but Sidney said the prick of a son is claiming the sheriff killed her.”

  Allie almost went off the road. “Oh, my God.” She frowned. “Maybe he meant the sheriff drove her to it.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t think so. I think he meant he killed her killed her.”

  “Was he there when it happened?”

  “Sidney?”

  “The son, Sheryl. Concentrate.”

  Sheryl shot her a look. “Got there just after, I think.”

  “What was he doing there? Does he live here in town?
”

  “Who knows? You know how the sheriff is about his personal life. I’ve heard the kid hates the sheriff.”

  Allie glanced over at her. “Kid? Isn’t the sheriff a bit old to have a kid? Just how old is this son?”

  “I’m not sure. Grown.”

  “Then, he isn’t a kid.”

  “Nitpick, nitpick. Who gives a shit how old he is? And it doesn’t matter what he says. No one’s listening to him. Sheriff volunteered for a residue test, but he’d just come from the firing range. Of course, he’d have residue. She did too. Not volunteer,” she said with a smirk, “but she had residue. Kind of sums it up for me. Tells us she was holding the gun. It looks like she did herself with the sheriff’s old service revolver. It’s a Colt Python. Four-inch barrel. A little beauty. They cost a bundle if you can even find them.”

  Allie only half-listened to her. She had no interest in guns. Guns killed. Okay, she amended, people killed, but a whole lot of them did it with guns. Her knowledge of firearms was sufficient to convince her she wanted nothing to do with them. It amazed her how people could watch violence on television daily. It rolled right over them like water over pebbles in a streambed, but it was different in real life. The noise. The confusion. The blood.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” said her aunt’s voice in her head.

  Allie ignored her. She was still furious at Lou for not telling her what would happen to Joe. Maybe she could have prevented it.

  “Stop that this minute, Allison Grainger. Joe was a grown man. He made his choices, just as you made yours. His were the wrong ones.”

  “That’s cold.”

  “It’s not cold. It’s realistic. You can’t save the whole world, Allie. You have enough to do just saving yourself.”

  Wasn’t that the truth?

  As she veered onto Highway 528, she shook off the memories never far from the surface. It was barely dusk, but the storm had turned the skies black as midnight, and she was trying to navigate her way through a bona fide Florida cloudburst. The wind howled like an evil banshee as sheets of rain swept across the flat landscape and buffeted the car from three directions. There was no way her windshield wipers could keep up with it. It was like being in a carwash gone mad.

  Sheryl’s voice faded in and out. “Police pretty much use semiautomatics now.” Allie knew why her normally taciturn friend was chattering. They were on the stretch of road and tall bridges that linked the beach with Merritt Island and Cocoa beyond. The bridges soared skyward to allow the passage of boats on the Banana and Indian Rivers, and every mile they traveled brought them closer to the spot on the bridge where their friend Joe had gone through the guardrail at 100 miles an hour.

  Allie was glad visibility was poor. She could see Sheryl’s body go rigid as they neared the exact spot. Allie wished she could reach over and touch her, but nothing was up here to break the wind, and she needed both hands on the wheel to hold the Jeep on the road.

  Sheryl quit talking. The only sounds in the car were the incessant drumming of rain on the roof and the frantic swish of Allie’s wipers. Lightning shot across the sky, illuminating the bridge, followed almost instantly by a deafening crack of thunder that sounded like a gunshot―or a truck smashing through a guardrail. Allie’s trembling hands gripped the steering wheel. She could almost see the metal twisting and bending, crushing the truck’s sole inhabitant before plunging into the river below. For just a moment, she felt as if it were her lungs filling with water as the truck sank lower and lower, and she fought to catch her breath.

  Then, they were descending, and she fought to bring herself back to now. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sheryl gripping the edge of the car seat with white knuckles, her face devoid of color. As they left the bridge behind them, Sheryl’s stiff posture began to relax, and she seemed to emerge from her fugue. After a minute, she said, “You need to take that exit.”

  “Which exit?”

  Sheryl looked behind them. “That one you just passed—US 1.”

  “Damn, Sheryl. You could have given me some warning,” Allie said through gritted teeth, peering through the rain for a turnaround. “You’re supposed to be the copilot.”

  “You can take the next exit. I know a back way. And quit bitching. I offered to drive.” Allie couldn’t say much to that.

  Sheryl was back to chattering as soon as they left the bridge behind them. “I can even understand her reasons,” she said, as Allie took the next exit. “You know ‘The woman scorned’ thing.”

  Allie’s head whipped around. There was no way Sheryl knew anything about the sheriff and her aunt. No one did. “What are you talking about?”

  “Scuttlebutt has it the sheriff asked his wife for a divorce. I mean, geez, after more than thirty years of marriage. It had to rip her up. Someone said she wouldn’t give it to him, but I mean, how could anyone know that? Sounds like bullshit to me.”

  Allie sucked in a breath. A divorce? Why now, so soon after her aunt’s death? Had he already met someone else? That didn’t say much for his undying love for her aunt. Not that they were lovers in the fullest sense of the word, but they had loved. Allie found that incredibly romantic—and incredibly sad. Her aunt said she would have agreed to an affair, but Cord was a man of honor and would never cheat on his wife.

  Had he really asked for a divorce? If Jean Arbutten refused to divorce him, it didn’t sound like bullshit to Allie. It sounded like a good motive for murder.

  Chapter 3

  Gorton’s Funeral Home was just off US 1, a major highway running from Maine at the Canadian border to the Florida Keys. The main drag in Brevard County, it linked the mainland cities making up the western border of the county, from Titusville at the north to Melbourne and Palm Bay in the south.

  Set back off the road, the funeral home was a typical low-slung Florida structure, faux colonial, complete with white columns—faux, no doubt—lining a narrow porch that stretched across the front of the building. It was the biggest funeral home in the area according to Sheryl, who seemed to know these things. They had to park two blocks away. Were the sheriff and his wife that popular?

  The rain let up as they opened their car doors. Steam billowed from the scorched pavement to form a lowlying fog. Allie looked up to see clouds scuttling quickly off to the east. That was also typical Florida—the sudden torrential rain followed moments later by clear sky—although they usually didn’t have to wait weeks between one shower and the next.

  As evening settled in, the sky showed that dusky shade of blue preceding night. Day’s last brilliant rays pierced the sky from the west. The air smelled like fresh-washed laundry as Allie and Sheryl navigated the car-lined streets on foot and picked their way around pond-sized puddles.

  Outside the funeral home, people stood in little clusters, smoking and talking. Landscape lighting pointed to the door like landing lights on an airport runway. As they stepped inside, Allie realized her fears had been unfounded. She had expected a quiet group of family and friends clustered around a coffin. The reality was more like Disney World on free-admission day. It was clear that Cord Arbutten was a well-known man in the county. Allie doubted he would even know she was here in this horde of people. She blinked as she recognized the governor of Florida standing off to one side, talking to a group of men.

  She couldn’t make out much of the décor as she followed Sheryl through the jam-packed lobby, but what little she saw was tasteful in a depressingly traditional way, with lots of upholstered furniture and silk orchids—or maybe they were real. The cloying smell of flowers in the early stages of decay almost overcame her as they moved with the crowd into a long hallway. Cut flowers didn’t have a long life span in Florida.

  She glanced off to her left and saw an auditorium-sized room had been given over to floral arrangements—standing bouquets and sprays draped across tables, more arrangements on the floor. The effect was overwhelming and claustrophobic, and the press of people surrounding her didn’t help. Another room they passed was set a
side for refreshments. Wall-length tables groaned under platters heaped with all sorts of food. Allie half-expected to see a carving station set up in one corner. Tea party, indeed.

  The air was stifling. There was no way any air-conditioning system could keep up with the body heat generated by this mob. Allie felt sweat trickle down behind her ear. Thank heavens the dress she had blindly chosen was sleeveless.

  They were less walking than being carried with the crush of bodies making their slow way down the wide hallway. The faux colonial tradition carried on here, with waist-high wainscoting painted a subtle cream, the wall above dotted with paintings of rural landscapes and portraits of somebody’s ancient relatives. Folks who had passed through as customers? Then, the hall opened into a huge room filled with what looked like half the residents of the state. Roughly one third of them were in uniform, forming an honor guard around the sheriff, who stood at the end of the room near the—thankfully—closed casket. Allie realized that she and Sheryl were in what appeared to be a receiving line. So much for the sheriff not noticing her.

  She gave in to the inevitable, and they continued to shuffle with the crowd. At least it was a bit cooler in here. Maybe she wouldn’t pass out before she could pay her respects.

  Sheryl pointed out people along the way—the mayor of Cocoa Beach, the owner of The Surf Restaurant. She spotted Myrna from the paper. She almost didn’t recognize the receptionist without her banner cigarette dangling from her lips.

  Most of the others were unfamiliar to her. Near the casket, an elderly woman, with hideously dyed hair—or a wig?—and wearing a bulge-hugging dress of some kind of stretchy material, sat parked in a wheelchair. Family? Why else would she be up in stage center, unless she was positioned there to prevent her from being trampled. Standing at the casket’s other end was a lone man who seemed to be in his thirties, nicely built, with a well-formed, expressionless face. Allie remembered him as the civilian at the sheriff’s house, the one in the standoff with the officer. One of the funeral home employees? If so, hadn’t he been a bit premature?