Desire on Deadline

by Lucy Lakestone

  Ah. Jimbo still remembered her weakness for ice cream, their inevitable dessert during a series of pleasant but platonic high school dates. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Alden glower. She just smiled. The only relationship she wanted with Jimbo, er, Deputy Rogers, was professional.

  “Great to see you. And to meet you,” Roz said to Deputy Cinder. She nodded at the officers, completely ignored Alden and walked back to her car. She spared one glance over her shoulder to see the deputies retreating to the harbor office, abandoning Alden on the docks.

  He had balls, walking right into the middle of her interview. And why the hell was he calling her Ms. Melander? Of course, Jimbo had picked it up, teasing her, making her feel about twice her twenty-eight years.

  Roz shook it off, got in her car and headed back to the office to make a phone call. They’d given her some good color, practically confirmed at least two belateds and dropped the name of the fishing charter. That was a hell of a start.

  ≈≈≈

  Alden stood there for a moment, wondering if he should follow the cops into the one-story white building that held the harbor office, a bait and tackle shop and a modest snack concession. He thought not. If that hadn’t been a dismissal, he didn’t know what was. He wasn’t ready to irritate them beyond all cooperation. That could come later, when his need was greater. He knew how to pick his battles.

  And apparently, he was in a battle with Ms. Melander — Roz, as her chummy deputy had called her. Of course they’d be chummy. She grew up here, his editor had told him, and her family had founded the Gazette.

  They still looked pretty chummy, her and the cop. Or did she blow him off there at the end? Deputy Rogers had covertly eyed her, head to toe, as she’d left. Who could blame him, with those khakis caressing her ass and that soft coral sweater hugging her breasts like the fuzz on a pair of peaches?

  Oh, hell, this was not productive. So the locals wouldn’t give him the time of day. Yet he had something to go on. He’d overheard them mention a fishing charter. He hadn’t gotten the name. Still, a charter apparently went out with at least one guest from the Casa Blanca Resort on board. So there could be two or more victims.

  He honestly wasn’t thrilled about writing about dead people. Death never made him happy. He genuinely hoped it was no more than two stiffs. For now, he needed to figure out if any of them was Somebody, someone the world would give a damn about.

  Alden wandered back to the harbor lot and started walking the rows of cars, packed with mostly upscale vehicles, along with a few beaters that probably belonged to professionals, fishermen and the like. He looked for anything out of the ordinary. The guest might have gotten a ride. He might be driving a rental. Then again —

  Holy shit.

  There wasn’t another car like this one in the lot. There might not be another one like it in Florida. It was a convertible with the curvy lines of a classic British roadster, its caramel-brown leather seats and vintage-inspired details contrasting beautifully with its gleaming, deep blue finish. He leaned over the back to look at the winged logo. Morgan. An Aero 8.

  It had California plates. Of course, the owner had probably sent it via transport, rather than driving it across the country. Rich people had better things to do than actually drive their insanely posh cars. Alden, on the other hand, would love to drive a car like this across the country. Get away. Find America. Maybe next to a beautiful woman with chestnut hair.

  Think, Alden told himself. Who would have a car like this?

  Then it clicked. He’d heard rumors, but it was hard to believe an actor that big would come to this admittedly beautiful backwater for a vacation. Then again, the actor in question — a noted car collector — had endured a highly publicized breakup with his equally famous girlfriend, who now had a girlfriend of her own. If a famous guy wanted to get away from the hype machine, this was the place to do it. Especially if he wanted to rest up before filming his next blockbuster espionage thriller.

  Still, it was hard to be sure.

  He looked at the license plate again.

  “Idiot,” Alden murmured to himself. Upon first glance, he hadn’t even read the vanity moniker there: SPYBOY.

  Now he had no doubt. Or, at least, not enough to stop him from posting a speculative scoop. The religion of the Times was this: It was better to be first than to be right. Still, he leaned over the Aero 8’s windshield, found the VIN on the dash and recited the number into his recorder so he could look it up.

  Alden felt a little chill when he realized just how big the story was going to be, probably bigger than anything he’d ever penned for the National Eye.

  At least he couldn’t ruin the life of his subject this time. The man was already dead.

  ≈≈≈

  “Hi. This is Roz Melander from the Mimosa Gazette. Could I please speak to Mr. Verret?”

  Roz scrolled through Consummate Catch’s website while she waited to be connected to the president. His name was online, along with a lot more information. Apparently the company wasn’t just into fishing charters. It did commercial fishing, too, priding itself on environmentally friendly methods as it provided some of the area’s top restaurants with fresh gulf seafood. Her stomach growled. It was getting close to lunchtime, and she suddenly had a craving for scampi.

  She’d already written up a short story but didn’t want to post it online until she got a confirmation from the fishing company. And so she waited, taking an unpleasant sip of her mocha, watered down with melted ice after it’d sat on her desk all morning. She tapped idly in her notes file on the laptop. Alden Knox eaten by shark. Reporter’s tragic end in Mimosa Harbor . . .

  “This is Peter Verret.”

  Startled after the long hold, Roz almost dropped the phone at the sound of his clipped voice. She tapped the erase key, deleting Alden’s demise, as she spoke.

  “Mr. Verret, I work for the Mimosa Gazette, over here on Mimosa Key. I’m writing a story about a boat explosion that happened offshore here this morning. I’m told that one of your boats may be involved, and I wondered if you could confirm that information?”

  There was silence for a moment. Roz kept her mouth shut, knowing silence often compelled the other party to speak.

  “Yes, sadly, one of our boats was lost this morning,” he said.

  “How many people were on board?”

  “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

  Ouch. So that’s how this was going to go.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss, sir, but we want to be as accurate as possible in the newspaper story. Were there any survivors?”

  “Listen,” Verret said. “This was a tragic event for our company. We’re like a family here. We are hoping that there are survivors. The search isn’t over yet. I’ve deployed two more of my boats to help, but the devastation was terrible. One of our most promising young guides was on board. That’s all I’m going to say.”

  “But you had at least one guest on board — ”

  Click.

  “Damn it,” Roz muttered. She’d just have to polish what she had and get it online.

  “Uh, Roz?” It was Bruce, the cute, skinny, fresh-out-of-college Mimosa Key native with electrified black hair who handled sports and features. Kendra, who handled community news, was covering a robotics competition at the high school.

  “Yeah, Bruce?”

  “Have you seen the Times website?”

  The look on Bruce’s face wasn’t encouraging.

  “Shit,” she muttered, clicking the Times bookmark, loading her rival’s much more colorful site. The headline screamed at the top of the page, along with a publicity photo from the movie “Spy Match 3.”

  SUPERSTAR BOYD BELLAMY POSSIBLE VICTIM IN BOAT EXPLOSION

  “Where the hell did he get that?” Roz exclaimed.

  Bruce cowered. She lowered her voice.

  “Nothing was said about Hollywood’s golden boy being on that boat!” she ranted. “Are they just making stuff up over there?�
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  “It doesn’t say much else,” Bruce said.

  “Because he doesn’t have anything. He’ll get a zillion hits, and then he’ll take it all down and write what really happened.” But Roz had a sick feeling. She didn’t think Alden Knox would publish a headline that inflammatory without some idea that it was true, even if he was Mr. Tabloid. Oh, yeah, she’d Googled him. She’d seen his “work” in the National Eye.

  At least it said “possible victim.” Alden didn’t know for sure, either.

  She dialed Consummate Catch again, waiting even longer this time to be connected with Peter Verret. She was just about to give up hope when he picked up the phone.

  “Mr. Verret, Roz Melander. I’m sorry to disturb you again, but I absolutely have to ask you a question to make sure our story is accurate and responsible.”

  “That seems unlikely,” he said, but he didn’t hang up.

  “There’s a report that Boyd Bellamy was on your boat. Can you confirm?”

  “This is something you’ll have to ask the Coast Guard.”

  “You know who was on your boat, I presume?”

  “Yes,” he said, more snippy. “But the victims — I mean, families have to be notified. The search is still going on.”

  “I’m not asking if he was killed, sir. Just if he was on board. Can you confirm?”

  “No.”

  “Can you deny it?”

  Another pause. “No.”

  “If I publish a story that said he was on board your boat, would I be wrong?”

  Roz heard a mumble, as if he’d covered up the receiver on the other end and was talking to someone else.

  After a moment, Verret came back on. “Mr. Bellamy was scheduled to be on a boat of ours out of Mimosa Harbor this morning. That’s all I can confirm.”

  “Thank you!” Roz said, a little too enthusiastically, given the circumstances. “Why do you think your boat exploded?”

  Click.

  “Oh, hell.” It didn’t matter. Not yet. At least she had some kind of confirmation. She’d get it online in two minutes, with better information and better sourcing than the Times.

  Even if he had beaten her to the story.

  ≈≈≈

  Alden had to hand it to Roz (demoted from Ms. Melander now that he knew her nickname). He’d beaten her to the biggest scoop, but she’d been hot on his tail with a confirmation and multiple sources. Now he needed something to push the story forward.

  This afternoon’s police statement hadn’t added much to what he’d already learned, except that it confirmed only two people were on board the obliterated boat: the fishing guide and Boyd Bellamy. The Coast Guard was investigating the accident — that’s what they were calling it — but there were no reasons put forward yet for what might have happened.

  Alden’s cynical journalistic mind suspected that more was going on, or maybe he just hoped it was. A boring fishing trip and a cantankerous engine didn’t sound like much of a story. He wanted to re-create the star’s last day or so on Earth, and if there was something dark and dangerous about his little fishing trip, he wanted to know that, too.

  The place to start was Bellamy’s last known location, Casa Blanca Resort & Spa.

  Alden drove up the western side of the island, on the vegetation-lined beach road, admiring the turquoise Gulf of Mexico. Mimosa Key was beautiful, but Barefoot Bay, the inlet that was home to the resort, had a special quality. Driving onto the grounds, he immediately felt sheltered from the world, in touch with nature, and safely in the hands of professionals who knew how to cosset their well-heeled guests.

  Once a guest got out into the cruel world, though — well, there was no telling what would happen. And it seemed that poor Boyd Bellamy’s fishing line had run out.

  Alden parked and wandered to the main building, a three-story, white stucco pile that gleamed in the mellow light of late afternoon. He didn’t go in. He didn’t want an official interview. Not yet. He wanted to explore behind the scenes.

  Alden walked deeper into the gulfside resort, on a secluded stone path surrounded by palm trees, hibiscus, sea grapes and exotic flowers that fit the Moroccan ambience of the place. He saw little activity between the guest villas, only a cluster of laughing young women who were headed toward the main building and the restaurant. They had that bridesmaid aura about them, fresh and young and unspoiled by life. He almost remembered what that was like. He nodded at them appreciatively, and they smiled back at him. Women usually did.

  He caught a maid coming out of one of the villas and asked her which way the restaurant was. He already knew, but it was an easy question for her to answer. And then he asked her where Boyd Bellamy was staying.

  “I can’t talk about any of our guests,” the young redhead said, caution creeping into her voice.

  “It’s a shame what happened to him. I thought I might leave some flowers,” Alden said.

  “You don’t have any flowers.”

  “I thought I’d pick a few hibiscus, something in the spirit of the place.”

  She shook her head, looking around nervously. “The landscapers aren’t going to like it if you start snipping the plants, sir.”

  “How long had Mr. Bellamy been staying at the resort?” Alden turned his most bewitching smile on the young woman. “He’s gone now. You telling me can’t possibly harm him.”

  “He got here Sunday,” she murmured after another pause. “I wasn’t in charge of cleaning his villa, though. I don’t know anything else.”

  Sunday. It was Wednesday. So the actor had only been here a few days. “What did he like to do?”

  “Well, the other girls said he liked to fish on the beach. He would go for a run in the morning. Some of us would watch for him — oh, this is so embarrassing. Why do you want to know?”

  “I — ”

  “Mabel!” came a loud voice from behind him, interrupting his explanation. Which he hadn’t invented quite yet. “You get along now.”

  Alden turned to see a distinguished, stocky woman in a similar uniform with glowing dark skin and a ferocious scowl.

  “Sorry, Poppy, just telling this gentleman where the restaurant was,” Mabel said, sneaking him a brief smile before heading off with her cart.

  “Mm-hmm,” the older woman said. “May I help you, sir?”

  Alden perceived that this woman, with her frosty Jamaican accent, would not be so easily charmed. Nonetheless, she might tell him something if he were straightforward with her.

  “I’m Alden Knox from the Mimosa Times,” he said, approaching her, looking for the right words to keep Mabel the maid out of trouble. “Your colleague didn’t tell me anything, but perhaps you might?”

  “You still don’t know where the restaurant is?” Poppy asked sharply, looking him up and down.

  “I think I’ve figured it out,” he said with an arch smile. “I wanted to know a little more about Boyd Bellamy. Did he have any guests here at Casa Blanca? How did he spend his days?”

  “Lord keep his soul,” Poppy said. “And you get on with yourself. You have any questions, you direct them to the police or Mr. and Mrs. Walker. Go on, now, and don’t bother the guests, either.”

  “But I just —“

  “The restaurant is that way.” She pointed over his shoulder, brooking no protest.

  “Thank you,” Alden said with an irreproachably polite nod before turning on his heel and heading back toward the main building. He gritted his teeth. The staff might be a little too good here.

  Mr. and Mrs. Walker — that would be Clay and Lacey, the owners of the place. He’d met them at a charity luncheon he’d covered here. Maybe he’d see if they were available to answer a few questions.

  The lobby’s gleaming marble floor echoed with his footsteps and the buzz of voices from the adjacent restaurant. Headed for the reception desk, he saw just the woman he wanted to talk to, Lacey Walker, her strawberry-blond hair pinned up, her freckles glowing as she spoke with a guest. Pretty woman. And so was her guest.r />
  Oh, shit.

  The “guest” was Roz Melander.

  To his gratification, Lacey shook her head, her smile faded to a frown, as she spoke to Roz. “I’m afraid that’s all we can say. It’s a tragic thing,” Alden heard as he approached the counter. “I will tell you I’ve pulled all the brochures for Consummate Catch until we find out just what caused the accident.”

  “Wise move,” Roz said, and then she froze, her graceful shoulders arrested in a straight line. She turned slowly.

  “Ms. Melander,” Alden said with almost abject civility and a slight bow.

  “Would you stop calling me that, Mr. Knox?”

  “It’s your name, isn’t it?”

  “Well, I’ll just let you two talk,” Lacey said, a smile quirking at the corner of her mouth. She turned and disappeared through a door behind the counter.

  “I wanted to talk to her,” Alden said, this time letting his annoyance shine through.

  “As if she would tell you more than she told me.”

  “Women often do.”

  “Cad,” Roz said, stuffing her notebook into her purse. Something was written on it. He was dying to know what.

  “You don’t know enough about me to call me a cad.”

  “Oh, I’m sure knowing more would only underscore the point.”

  “Undeniably,” Alden said, flashing briefly on the gut-wrenching events that had pushed him to give up the kind of Girl Scout journalism she seemed to espouse.

  Roz paused and cocked her head, considering him.

  Alden tried not to squirm under her scrutiny; instead he let himself be distracted by her shifting chestnut hair. Red highlights in the long strands caught the golden light now streaming in through the lobby windows.

  “Looks like a beautiful sunset. Why don’t you join me for dinner?” The words came out of his mouth before he could stop them. What the hell was he doing?

  She harrumphed. “I’ve been craving Chef Ian’s scampi all day, but it won’t taste as good if I’m having dinner with you.”