SHAKE DOWN

by Kendel Lynn

  “You know I can’t do that.”

  “I know nothing of the sort. He’s a prime suspect.”

  “In a drug case, yes, I agree with that statement.”

  “But not the disappearance?”

  The wind off the Atlantic blew in swirls around us. It was refreshingly crisp as the silence grew.

  “Not Daphne’s disappearance?” I repeated. “Fine, I’ll call the Sheriff. Again. Who does not live to return my calls. You want to help? Pull a string and make that man call me.”

  “How about here?” Ransom asked. “Can I help with the beach?”

  “First no cakes, now no beach.”

  “No cakes?”

  “Juliette was run off the road yesterday,” I said. “She’s in the hospital. She hadn’t finished the cakes, and she was panicked last night about us cancelling her wedding.”

  “I heard about the accident. I’m sorry about your friends. This one hits close to home.”

  “Weirdly, it’s also happening outside of home. Summerton is close, but it’s not here. I feel disconnected, like everything is happening right out of reach. There’s this big hole. An emptiness in not knowing where Daphne is. And that’s just me. Her family is in unthinkable pain and confusion. This blanket of torment. The growing uncertainty, wondering if they’ll ever be able to bring her home. Thousands of acres to search. She could be anywhere. In alligator country, she could be nowhere.”

  We stood on the hard-packed sand, the commotion behind us. I wrapped my arms around him, tucking into his shoulder, and he held me tight. It was warm and comforting and protected.

  A high-pitched beeping sounded at the top of the plank walkway near the park entrance. The familiar sound of a truck in reverse.

  “Oh crap,” I said, quickly pulling back. “That’s Sandpiper Rentals. They’re here to setup the party. And the Ballantynes land soon. I need a solution before those wheels touch down.”

  He kissed me, his hands on each side of my face. “You’ll figure it out. You’re the smartest person I know.”

  I ran up the broken path to the park, nearly tripping over a split plank. “Rusty,” I called, waving. “Wait!”

  He climbed out of the driver’s side of a plain white Freightliner box truck and met me at the curb overlooking the beach.

  “Dang,” he said. “What’s going on down there? We in the right place?”

  “Yes, but no,” I said. “Vandals annihilated the beachfront last night. We need to relocate.”

  “The entire BBQ?”

  The Ballantyne golf cart, a tricked-out Garia six-seater, zipped into the lot with Carla behind the wheel. A half dozen stuffed grocery totes jostled as she parked.

  I was fully aware that I probably jinxed myself earlier when I had said “centerpieces and setups, a snap” with nary a knock on wood.

  “Hey, Elli,” Carla said, reaching for a tote. “I should’ve known you’d show up early to help.”

  “Change in plans,” I said, and nodded toward the sand.

  “Bless the heavens,” Carla said. “What in the world?”

  Rusty, Carla, and I watched transfixed as officers stretched crime scene tape along the shoreline, winding it around wooden spikes every few feet. Tate Keating spoke to the crowd. He jotted notes and took pictures with a peppy step I didn’t appreciate.

  “I’m calling the Tidewater Inn,” I said. “We can use their BBQ facilities.”

  “What about the beachfront at South Pebble Beach?” Rusty said.

  “Can’t use any public beaches,” I said. “The city revoked our permit.”

  “But they’re all public beaches,” Rusty said.

  “Revoked our permit?” Carla said at almost the same time.

  “Bad press,” I said. “Tate’s presence only underlines it. Especially with Captain Finnegan himself organizing the officers. And it’s still turtle season, even though there weren’t any nests this close to the sound.”

  I dialed the Tidewater Inn, a quaint boutique hotel located mid-island on over six acres of prime oceanfront real estate. After two transfers, two voicemails, and three re-dials, I spoke with the on-duty manager. They didn’t have one wedding scheduled later today, they had two.

  “Sweetie,” Carla said. “I have to get this brisket in the smoker if we’re to serve it this afternoon.”

  “Let’s regroup at the Big House,” I said. “Rusty, just hang with us. We’ll find a new location. I have an idea. I’ll meet you both there in fifteen.”

  After the quickest shower my OCD-driven brain could manage, I dressed and drove the two miles from my cottage to the Big House. Golf carts putted along the path bordering Spy Hop Lane. Twosomes and foursomes hitting the links, enjoying the early autumn temperatures and dewy grass and clear skies. The easy life.

  Easy stopped at the driveway of the Big House. The volunteer line stretched down the front steps and into the circular drive, winding around one of the fire trucks. It wasn’t even eight o’clock. We still had a missing girl, and now we had a missing BBQ. While completely different emergent situations, one a human tragedy, the other first-world, they both needed attention.

  I greeted and hello’d my way through the foyer, stopping in the kitchen. Carla and her grocery totes crowded the counter where I entered. Orderly rows of cake spinners lined the center island where Chef Carmichael stacked pans and utensils. He had indeed brought reinforcements. Only instead of a pastry team, like Carla predicted, it was Jane Walcott-Hatting.

  Carla and Chef wore white chef coats, their respective names embroidered on the front, while Jane resembled a cafeteria lunch lady with a plastic hairnet shower cap and ill-fitting serving gloves. She leaned over a swatch of wax paper holding a piping bag. She squeezed out dots as Chef gently encouraged and complimented her terrible work.

  “Did you—” I started to ask, but Carla’s single swift headshake stopped me. “Did you find everything okay?”

  “Yes, indeed,” she said. “Don’t you worry. Chef and Jane will have the cakes decorated by afternoon. The pastry team was delayed.” She handed me a water bottle with a straw.

  “I need something stronger than water.”

  “Have we met?” Carla said. “You go on now. We all have a job to do.”

  One long sip of fizzy Pepsi later, I saw Tod crossing the foyer to meet me near the line up to the ballroom.

  “Tell me it’s a prank,” he said, his face pale.

  “Definitely not a prank,” I said. “At least not a funny one.”

  Zibby waddled over with her arms wrapped around a dozen clipboards. “What’s happened, dear?”

  “Someone tore up Oyster Cove Beach,” I said. “Right where we’re hosting the Beach BBQ.”

  “Are the baby turtles okay?”

  “It’s late in the season, and thankfully, we’re too close to the sound. No nests near the damage. But they cut it close, that’s for sure. Didn’t look like they cared.”

  “Where are we going to have the BBQ?” Tod asked.

  “How about the back lawn?” Zibby suggested.

  “Hard to have a Beach BBQ without a beach,” I said. “And what do we do with all the people here now? Host a party while they are searching for Daphne? It’s a delicate—”

  “What the bloody hell?” Jane’s screech bounced from the kitchen to the foyer and probably down to Parker at the beach. She marched into the hall with her piping bag pointed at me.

  Tod and I rushed over before she exploded icing onto the volunteers waiting to check-in.

  “There’s no beach?” she said. “Literally, no beach? Why didn’t you tell me? What are you doing?”

  “We’re finding an alternative,” I said. “You worry about the cakes. I’ll find a new place.”

  “Worry about cakes? Have you lost your mind? This entire party is my responsibility. I should’ve been
notified immediately.” Jane ripped off her plastic cap and shoved her piping bag into Tod’s hands. “Start piping.”

  “Have you lost your mind?” he said.

  “Fine,” Jane said. “Call the Cake & Shake and ask anyone to get over here and start piping. I’m calling the Tidewater.”

  “I already did and it’s no good,” I said. “They have two weddings today. It’s a longshot, but I have an idea—”

  “Edward will be here, in his Big House,” Jane paused to check her watch, “in twenty minutes.”

  “I’m aware, Jane,” I said. “We’re all aware. Tod, we need refrigerated trucks with freezer capability.”

  “And exactly where will these trucks be going?” Jane said.

  “I don’t know yet, but we need to get them here,” I said. “Golf carts are out.”

  “Thank you for your service, Captain Obvious,” Jane said.

  “I can’t call anyone,” Tod said. “I need to pick up the Ballantynes. They’ll be here in twenty minutes because I’m picking them up in five.”

  He was right. Their jet was due to land in moments. I looked around for Tess, figuring she’d help with the cakes. I didn’t see her, but I spotted Jona in line. “Call Bay Harbor Yacht Club,” I said to Tod. “It’s not a beach, but it’s water and boats. Call in every favor. I’m sure they’ll accommodate us. They’ve been trying to get the Ballantyne to sponsor more events. Here’s their chance. Be adamant, Tod. I’ll be right back.”

  “Where are you going?” Tod and Jane asked simultaneously.

  “Three minutes tops, I swear. And I’ll text Tess, she’s probably here someplace.”

  “Elliott, I swear, if you walk—” Jane said.

  With a quick wave and head tilt, I motioned Jona to go into the library. “Can I talk to you about Daphne?” I texted Tess asking her to call Jane immediately before tucking my phone away. I understood Jane was rightfully stressed over the BBQ, as it was her responsibility, but I was rightfully stressed over the search for Daphne, as it was mine.

  “I have to pick up the Ballantynes in five minutes,” Tod hollered.

  “Call Bay Harbor first,” I hollered back.

  I waited for Jona by the library’s brick fireplace. It was surrounded by floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookshelves lined with nineteenth-century classics, first editions, and decades of bestsellers.

  “What’s up?” she asked when she joined me.

  “What’s up with Farrah and Daphne and the next Eligible and a new Isle season?” I said. “You didn’t mention any of this when we talked three days ago.”

  “It’s all confidential,” she said. “I can neither confirm nor deny there’ll be a new season of Down the Isle.”

  “What about the last season?” I said. “You left out the part about Farrah getting kicked off the show because Daphne caught her stealing.”

  She shrugged. “Water under the bridge. That wasn’t even one of the top ten meltdowns. Worse happened.”

  “Oh? Is another contestant missing?”

  She had the good grace to pause. “There’s that,” she said. “But it would take three months to tell you every sordid story. Besides, that’s the point of the show. Drama. Meltdowns. It makes amazing tv.”

  “You didn’t tell anyone about the Farrah situation, though? Wouldn’t theft have made amazing tv?”

  “It also makes for defamation lawsuits,” she said. “We had accusations, not facts. Had we filmed it, you bet your ass we would’ve shown it. Neither Daphne nor Farrah said a peep about it on camera. No other contestants witnessed it either.”

  “Were any of those other contestants tarot card readers? Last season, or even the one before? Maybe the one coming up?”

  “You mean fortune tellers with a crystal ball?”

  “Not exactly,” I said. “Tarot cards, like an oversized deck of playing cards. It requires an intuitive connection, not necessarily a psychic one. Any contestants use them or bring them or have large tattoos of cards on their calves?”

  “No, but we did have a girl from New Orleans who had a fleur de lis inked on her wrist. Anything else? Wondering if we had a jester or perhaps a pirate on the show?”

  “One more question about Farrah,” I said. “How’d she take the news that you chose Daphne to be the next Eligible?”

  “Truly, I wish I could help you,” she said. “But I can’t talk about the upcoming season.”

  “So there is an upcoming season?”

  Tod leaned on the French door entrance. “Bay Harbor is out. A founding member’s daughter’s wedding. No amount of being adamant changes that.”

  “Seriously?” My stomach flipped and sank. I’d thought for sure the Yacht Club would be available.

  “Edward’s about to land,” Tod said. “Tess is on her way, but Jane’s spiraling. Think fast.”

  He snapped the door shut and my mind went blank.

  “Seems like you have your hands full. Is there a problem with your party?”

  “Where were we?” I asked. “Oh, right, you were saying there’s a season three in the works.”

  “Nice try. What I can say is that we started renovating Isle House. Take what you will from that statement.”

  “I was there a couple days ago, and it didn’t look renovated. It looked the opposite of renovated.”

  “It’ll be move-in ready next week. From the master suite to the ocean’s edge. It’ll be as if we never left.”

  I paused to consider my options. Feasibility and liability. It was also farther than I’d like. Than Jane would like. They’d have to work round the clock, literally, from now until finished without stopping.

  “My lips are sealed,” Jona said. “I’d help if I could.”

  “Can it be move-in ready by lunch?”

  “Lunch? You mean today? I don’t think so. Why?”

  “I need a beach,” I said. “Right now. Our BBQ this afternoon seems to have met a hiccup.”

  “I can’t authorize that,” she said. “Too much liability, and we’re filming Juliette and Tucker’s wedding tomorrow. My crew’s tied up.” Her expression faltered slightly. “Wait, are you saying we don’t have a location for the wedding? The one I’m filming tomorrow?”

  “We do if you let me use Isle House today.”

  “It can’t happen. There’s no way I’m going on camera with Isle House less than camera ready.”

  “It can be camera ready,” I said. “It wasn’t in terrible shape.”

  “We’d need to double the maintenance crew,” she said. “Maybe triple to complete it in eight hours. I don’t have that kind of budget. We’re a cable show.”

  “I’ll pay for the renovation.”

  “The entire renovation?”

  “If that’s what it will take.”

  Jona studied my face, then seemed to believe me. She held up a finger, then stepped over to the broad desk near the window. She rapidly thumb-typed on her phone. Waited a beat. Typed again.

  “And we need it in six hours, not eight,” I said. “Five to be safe.”

  She typed, waited. Read, typed, waited. Then smiled. “Done,” she said. “It’s actually perfect. Everyone will think we renovated the house for the BBQ and not for the upcoming season.”

  “You really should stop saying that. People will start to think there’s an upcoming season.”

  With a location secured for the party, I needed to move everything from our plantation beach to the Isle House beach. Though calling it a beach was a misnomer. The party would have to take place on the front lawn overlooking the ocean, as the beach below was a rocky edge with a slim strip of sand.

  I texted Tod on my way to the kitchen: All set. Isle House on Thatch Island.

  “Where’s Jane?” I asked.

  Carla pointed out the window where Jane was furiously waving her arm, pacing, anima
tedly talking into her cell.

  “We’re booked at Isle House,” I said, tapping on the glass. When Jane glanced at me, I smiled big with an exaggerated thumbs up. She glared and marched toward me, so I smiled bigger.

  “What?” she demanded from the doorway. “You seriously found a beachfront to hold three hundred party guests?”

  “Isle House on Thatch Island,” I said.

  “The abandoned bachelor house?” Chef said.

  “The same,” I said. “It’s undergoing renovations. Jona Jerome, the producer, is doubling the crew right now. We’ll need to set up and start cooking in the midst of the mess, but we have plenty of time for it to come together.”

  “Are you insane?” Jane said. “That’s seven hours.”

  “Five, actually,” I said. “Keep piping, cooking, baking, whatever you people do in here. Carla and I will get the brisket on.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Jane said.

  “Did you find a better place?” I asked. “Any available location?”

  She took her sweet time thinking that one over. Finally, begrudgingly, she said, “I did not. We’ll just make this work. Carla, you get the brisket on. We’ll finish the cakes and arrange the trucks.”

  “A brilliant plan,” I said, lifting a grocery tote. I almost dropped it, but played it off even though my arm nearly popped out of the socket.

  Carla lifted two other totes. We hustled to the porte-cochere.

  “What’s in this thing?” I said. “A hundred pounds of brisket?”

  “Sweetie, those are only the spices,” Carla said.

  “Let’s grab Rusty,” I said. “You okay to ride in the truck with him? He can drive you over.”

  “I’ll take my car,” she said. “I’m sure we’ll need the flexibility.” She hesitated after we loaded the bags into her SUV. “You go on. I know you have plenty to do. Let me load more. I’ll get help inside. No sense wasting this trip with just a couple totes.”

  I jogged to Rusty’s Freightliner parked curbside at the base of the drive.

  “You know where Isle House is on Thatch Island?” I said.

  “Sure,” he said. “But for your party? It’s, well, rundown, you don’t mind me saying. Not exactly Ballantyne standard.”