by Abigail Keam
Eva wrapped her arms around the cop as he started the motorcycle. She locked eyes with Mike as she murmured, “It gave me my last chance to find love.”
54
One month later, the Last Chance Motel aka Pink Flamingo Motel opened for business again with all the fanfare of the first grand opening.
Tourists came back to the Keys and Eva had a roster full of guests. In fact, she hired a part-time manager, so she could take a break now and then.
Dennis contacted her but she never returned his calls. As far as she was concerned, that part of her life was over and done with . . . forever.
Eva was planning for the future. And that future included Mike, Jenny, and Mary. No one else mattered.
But Eva hardly saw Mike.
He was working around the clock putting the island back together and making good money. Every Friday Mike arrived at the Pink Flamingo to take Eva out to dinner after handing her his signed paycheck.
On Monday, she banked the money in an account Mike and Eva called their “future” account. It already had five thousand dollars in it.
Eva could be patient. She knew the work on the island would slow down sooner or later and then she and Mike would have more time together. She and Mike agreed that hay should be cut while the sun was shining.
She also knew that Mike had been looking at wedding rings. Aussie Jack told her that Mike had asked his opinion on some bands.
Everything was heading in the right direction.
Eva went for her afternoon swim in the lagoon. Something butted her. She looked down and saw a familiar sight in the turquoise water. “Hello, girlfriend. Glad to see that you are okay.” She scratched the manatee’s back.
The sea mermaid raised its snout and sneezed.
Eva laughed and watched the mermaid lazily swim into the bay, occasionally flipping over to look back at her.
Eva turned and stared at the gem that was her motel. “Thank you, Last Chance Motel,” she whispered. “Thank you for giving me my life back.”
And with that utterance, Eva gleefully swam after the manatee.
Songs That Inspire Last Chance Series
Jan Hammer – Miami Vice Theme Song
Jimmy Buffett – Margaritaville
The Beach Boys – Kokomo
Billy Ocean – Caribbean Queen
“IZ” Kamakawiwo’ole – Somewhere Over The Rainbow
EXCITING
BONUS CHAPTERS
Gasping For Air
Last Chance Romance Series 2
&
Death By A HoneyBee
A Josiah Reynolds Mystery 1
1
Lil had just covered the bruises with makeup when she heard her husband park his car. She hurried into the kitchen and busied herself at the sink.
Bob entered the kitchen through the back door. “Hey,” he muttered, taking off his jacket.
“Hey,” replied Lil, washing celery.
Bob looked over her shoulder. “What’s for dinner?”
“I’m going to make some tuna salad for your lunch tomorrow, but I thought we could go out to dinner tonight. I’m tired.” She didn’t want to add that she was stiff and sore.
Bob made a face. “I’m tired too. I don’t want to go out. Let’s take a rain check for this weekend.”
“I really need a break. I’ve watched our grandson all weekend while you played golf. I want to go out.”
Bob shrugged. “I’m staying in and so are you. I want to eat soon.”
“Bob!”
Lil’s husband frowned, and, taking the paper, went into the den. He turned on the TV. “Get me a beer,” he called from the den.
Lil grabbed a bottle from the fridge, opened it, and took it into the den. “Bob, I want to talk to you,” she said, handing over the beer.
He took a swig. “I wish you had poured this into one of my special mugs in the freezer. You know I like my beer in a cold mug.”
“Bob, I want to talk to you,” she repeated.
“So go ahead and talk. What’s stopping you?”
“Can you at least look at me?”
“What for? I can hear you fine.”
Lil was silent for a moment, looking at her hands. When did they start looking so old? She tried to rub off some age spots before speaking. “When did you stop being Robert and turn into Bob?”
“Huh.” Bob glanced at Lil and then turned back to a basketball game on TV.
“When did you stop being Robert? I married Robert and then ended up with Bob. When did you become Bob?”
“That’s a stupid question,” responded Bob, taking another swig of his beer.
“Is it?”
Bob picked up the remote and flipped the TV channels. “I don’t know what you’re yammering about.”
“Yes, I know. You see, I don’t think we are the same people as when we got married. You’ve turned into another person. You are no longer Robert, the man I married. Robert would never hit me.”
Bob winced. “I said I was sorry. I didn’t mean to do that. I just got mad. You were talking too much.”
“I seem to be talking too much lately.”
“Maybe if you shut up, then you wouldn’t aggravate me.”
“I see. It’s my fault.”
“This is silly talk. Take a pill and calm down,” he advised. “While you’re up, get me another beer.”
“I used to be someone. I was Lillian then. I used to march for women’s rights. I protested. I wrote letters to my congressmen. I had opinions. I used to stand up for myself. I used to be Lillian.” She glanced at her faded housedress. “I used to wear high heels and short skirts. Now I wear garbage like this.”
Bob shot Lil an irritated glance. “All this over not going out to dinner. Jeez. I cry uncle. We’ll go out.” He shook his head before returning to the TV.
“You used to love me.”
“Jeez. I still do,” Bob replied, still watching TV. “I’m trying to watch the game.” He yawned.
Lil sat for a long time staring at Bob.
“This is getting creepy,” stated Bob. “Are you going to get me another beer?”
“I think I need a vacation. Let’s go somewhere.”
“I hate traveling.”
“I’ll go alone then.”
“Yeah. Anything,” yawned Bob. “Get the beer now.”
“So it’s okay if I go on that vacation?”
Bob nodded. “Yes, please. Go somewhere. Rest up. You need it. In fact, I think I’ll take a nap myself now, speaking of rest.”
“I’ll get you that beer.”
“Finally.”
Lil rose and went into the kitchen. She took a cold beer out of the fridge and opened it. From her pocket she took two Benadryls, crushed them, and then dropped them into the bottle. She gave the bottle a swirl before returning to the den. “Here’s your beer,” she said as she handed Bob the bottle.
“Thanks.” He looked disappointed at the bottle. “It’s not in a mug. You know, the ones in the freezer.” He took a swig.
Lil stood watching him. She hoped she had not put too many pills into his beer, but she needed Bob to fall asleep quickly.
“I feel so sluggish,” murmured Bob, struggling to stay awake to watch TV.
“I’m going on vacation now.”
“Okay,” chuckled Bob. “Whatever floats your boat.”
Lil left the den quietly as Bob shook his head.
“Wo . . . men,” mumbled Bob as he nodded off.
Forty-five minutes later, Lil left the house with a battered suitcase, a huge roll of hundreds, twenties, tens, and fives hidden in her bra and a secret credit card in her purse.
Bob didn’t hear Lil leave, as he was fast asleep in the den with the TV blaring.
2
Lillian checked into the Pink Flamingo Motel located on Key Largo, the first of the big islands of the Keys.
“Your name, please.”
“Lil, Lillian. No. Jill St. John, I mean.”
The cler
k raised an eyebrow, as Jill St. John was the name of the actress in the Bond movie, Diamonds Are Forever.
“How long will you be staying with us?” asked Eva Hanover, the owner of the Pink Flamingo Motel, aka The Last Chance Motel.
Lillian thought for a moment. “I really don’t know.”
Eva Hanover glanced over her computer and was startled when she noticed bruises on Lillian’s arms and cheek. She glanced back at the computer. “I see,” replied Eva. “Will someone be joining you?”
Lillian shook her head. “I don’t think so. I’m running away, you see.”
“I hope it’s not from the law,” Eva half-teased.
Giving a faint smile, Lillian replied, “No. Nothing like that. I’m running away from my life.”
Eva nodded. “I completely understand. Been there myself.” Eva bit her lip. “Ms. St. John, if someone should inquire about a Lillian?”
“You’ve never heard of her.”
Eva glanced at the bruises on Lillian’s arm. “I understand. Since you are running away, I’ll put you in Bungalow Seven. It has a very nice view of the lagoon and the pool. You’ll enjoy the nice sunsets from your deck.”
“That’s very nice.” Lillian pulled five hundred dollars from her wallet. “I’d like to pay in cash please.”
Eva smiled. “Don’t mind at all. Here is your receipt. If you wish to stay longer, just let me know. And to make things simple, you keep the name Lillian. You are a friend of Jill St. John, who is renting Bungalow Seven and you are handling all transactions for her.”
Lillian gave Eva a huge smile. “That would make things easier for everyone, I’m sure.”
“It helps to keep as close to the truth as possible.”
Lillian nodded.
“Just one more thing. Since you didn’t have a reservation, can you tell me why you chose the Pink Flamingo Motel?”
“The sign. I liked the pink sign with the bird flying.”
Eva gave a brilliant smile. “I love that sign too. It’s from an old hotel built in the forties. I rescued it from a junk pile.”
“Well, it’s very cheerful and I need that at the moment.”
“I hear you. Hope you have a good stay with us.”
“Thank you. I plan to enjoy myself.” Lillian walked out of the office and headed toward her assigned bungalow.
Eva watched Lillian from the window. “I know that hangdog look,” Eva murmured to herself. “I hope she finds this place healing.”
Eva didn’t have to worry.
Already Lillian felt that a heavy load had been lifted off her chest. She breathed easier and though she was frightened, she was determined to rediscover the woman she had once been.
1
I knew something was wrong as I turned the corner around the copse of black walnut trees where mourning doves roosted. The stillness of the gray-breasted birds perched in a dull slash on a tree limb contrasted with the clamorous buzzing of thousands of bees. As though readying for battle, their thundering racket was an alarm that meant danger to anyone or anything that chanced upon them in their harried state.
As a mother knows the meaning of her baby’s whimpering, so a beekeeper understands the droning of her bees. I thought an animal might have disturbed them . . . a raccoon, or maybe a deer, had kicked over a hive. That alone would cause them to be anxious and make it difficult for me to work with them. I hurried past the vigilant doves, their heads swiveling in my direction. Coming around a hedge of honeysuckle, I encountered a six-foot-high wall of enraged bees hovering between their white hives and me, a glittering wave of golden insects ready to inflict painful stings on anything deemed hostile.
Thank goodness I had worn my thick white cotton bee suit as honeybees hurled themselves at my veil in a panic. To be accosted this aggressively is unnerving, even for the most experienced beekeeper. I felt my stomach muscles tighten. Talk about a gut feeling.
“Babies, babies,” I cooed. “Settle down. Settle down.” Then I saw the source of their fear and revulsion. The metal cover from the most populous beehive had been heedlessly thrown on the ground, and wooden rectangle frames full of baby brood lay abandoned next to it. Thousands of young nurse bees frantically tried to protect this nursery full of eggs and wax-capped unborn bees by covering the frames with their bodies. This violation alone would make honeybees angry, but I saw that someone was bent over and plunged face down into the open hive, which made them even wilder. The person’s arms hung down outside the hive. I noticed the fists were clenched.
“What are you doing?” I yelled, startled at the sight of a strange person with his head and shoulders inside one of my hives. “Who are you? Get away from there!” I stepped back, waiting for a response.
My chest tightened. Hoping to stave off an asthma attack, I reached in my pocket for my abuterol spray, but realized my veil would stop me from getting the medicine to my mouth. I breathed more slowly. I inhaled the musky odor of the bees along with the heavy, cloying scent of honeysuckle hedges behind their hives. Somewhere in the distance I heard the growl of a tractor cutting sweet hay. I flinched at the sudden piercing call of a redwing blackbird.
I scanned the field for further danger. Other than a person sticking his naked head into one of my hives with eighty thousand bees dive-bombing him and me, nothing appeared different. The rest of the hives waited in line like sailors standing at attention in their white uniforms. Bullets of reflected light darted back and forth from openings in the bottom hive boxes so quickly the human eye could barely register the tiny insects. Freshly mowed grass manicured the ground around the hives. Their water tank, full of hyacinths and duckweed, stood unmolested.
The intruder did not stir. Grasping a fallen branch from the ground along with my belching hive smoker thrust before me, I moved closer. “Mister.” I cried, “MISTER!” I assumed it was a he . . . a heavy-set man with pale skin wearing tan corduroy pants and laced-up boots. I called again. Still, he did not budge.
My initial shock overcome, I realized he didn’t seem to be breathing. Not a good sign. The bees covered him, pulling and biting at his neck, stinging his scalp and his back, furiously trying to evict him from their home. I inched closer. He looked stiff. I poked him with my branch. He didn’t shift. I jabbed him again with the tree branch. Nothing.
Leaning over the body, I carefully swatted away the bees. “Girls, girls, don’t sting him. It’s over. Don’t waste yourselves,” I whispered. Still the bees stung him and, by doing so, condemned themselves to death too. The man’s neck swelled against his checkered shirt. I took off my glove to feel for a pulse, but the bees swamped my hand, stinging furiously. I pulled away quickly. “Merde!” I exclaimed. I cradled my badly stung hand.
I walked away from the hives, yanking off my beekeeper’s hat and veil. I fumbled in my suit for my cell phone. My hands were shaking as I dialed 911. “Police? You better come. I have a dead man in my beehive. Yes, that is correct. He is lying face down in a beehive.” I gave the police my name and address, clicked the phone shut and sat on the meadow grass waiting for the wail of the police siren. It seemed like a long time before they came.
About The Author
Hi. I’m Abigail Keam. I write the best-selling Josiah Reynolds Mystery series. I also write the Princess Maura Tales (Epic Fantasy). Last Chance Motel is my first romantic novel.
Born and bred in Kentucky, I began writing at an early age. My first short story written while still in grade school was Bobby Bobo Got Baptized At The Big Bone Baptist Church. Say that fast five times. I am also a professional beekeeper and have won sixteen awards from the Kentucky State Fair. That’s a big deal in the beekeeping world.
I live in a metal house with my husband and various critters on a cliff overlooking the Kentucky River.
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Other Books By Abigail Keam
Josiah Reynolds Mysteries
Romance Series
