Grounds for Murder

by Tara Lush

  I figured there was a story there, and I’d eventually hear it.

  “That explains your expertise.” I sipped the mocha. “Listen, your drinks are exactly what I need. You’re hired. But, are you sure you want to work here? Is it your style, your speed? We’re busy, but probably not like Boston or Seattle.” Holding the glass of iced mocha in both hands, I wandered around the counter and past the wooden tables. I stopped near a small, distressed wood bookcase that held various hardcover photo books about—what else—Florida living. Absentmindedly, I straightened one stack.

  Erica grinned. “Why, because I’m dressed like this?” She motioned with her hand down her body.

  “Yeah. I’d figure you’d want to work someplace more modern, I guess. Like Island Brewnette.”

  She shrugged. “I’d rather work with cool people.”

  “You don’t mind a little Yacht Rock, do you? Between me and Dad, we play a lot of tunes from the ’70s and ’80s. I guess I’m kind of uncool.” The strains of Daryl Hall and John Oats’ “You Make My Dreams Come True” wafted through the air.

  She took a sip of one of the plain, black espressos she’d just made. “You kidding? I love retro music. I get a good vibe here. Came in again yesterday afternoon to check it out again. Was going to drop off my resume. You weren’t here. Older lady was. She was sweet. I need more of that in my life.”

  “Yeah, I was in Miami, getting drunk while trying to shoot fire with my eyes at my ex-husband. You must have met Barbara; she’s the afternoon barista a few days a week. She’s also an artist.”

  “Right, she told me all about her work. And yeah, I feel you on the drinking part. I ended up going to a place called the Dirty Dolphin last night.” Erica let out a little snort-laugh. “That might have been a mistake. Turned out to be one of those nights that lasted well into the wee morning hours.”

  “Oh, the Dolphin?” I chortled. “That place can get wild.”

  “No kidding,” she muttered. “Anyway. I also stopped by Island Brewnette. Wanted to check out the competition. The guy behind the counter was unpleasant.”

  I scowled. “Fab? You saw him? When?”

  “No, this guy wasn’t young. I was there earlier today. Big man, gruff. Blonde-gray hair?”

  “Oh, you met Mickey Dotson, the owner. Figures.”

  “Why, is he a jerk?”

  I reached back in my memories to a school board meeting in my junior year when Mickey threatened to punch the cheerleading coach for proposing to cut his little girl from the team due to budget constraints. “He’s a bit of a hot head, yeah. He also thinks he’s a bigshot around the island.”

  I couldn’t resist taking another gulp of the iced mocha Erica had made. “Anyway, you’re hired. So glad you came in the other day.”

  She beamed. “Thanks.”

  “How long have you been here on island?” Somehow in our hours of conversation I hadn’t gotten many personal details, only grand tales of foreign travel and adventures with men.

  “Ah, only a few weeks. I’d been in the Keys and heard that this place was booming, so I thought I’d come check it out. Sailed on up by myself.”

  “It’s fascinating the way you live life, going wherever the wind takes you.”

  She shrugged and sank into a seat at a table. “Sometimes it gets lonely. Have you traveled much since you left the paper?”

  I laughed, and sat across from her. “No. I spent a month on the sofa, depressed. Other than my trips with Mom, I’ve never left Florida for any significant amount of time. Was born and raised here on Devil’s Beach, then went to UF for school. Moved to Miami after that.”

  She tilted her head. “You never wanted to see what was outside of the Sunshine State?”

  I shrugged, my stomach quivering from either all the coffee or the reminder that my life wasn’t going as planned. I glanced out the window. It was raining now, coming down hard. A summer monsoon. Suddenly the day seemed about twenty years long.

  “Thought about it, after I was laid off from the paper. A couple of online news sites in New York and D.C. wanted to hire me. But in the end, I couldn’t pull the trigger.”

  “Why not?” She seemed like she was genuinely interested, as if I was a rare creature.

  “Oh, I told myself it was because of my dad. I didn’t want him to be alone here after Mom died. You’ll meet him. He’s a piece of work. But …”

  “But what?”

  “Even though life seems messy here, right now, starting over someplace new seems scarier. Florida’s all I’ve ever known. It’s the only place that’s ever felt like home. And it will always accept me, you know? I can do anything, be anything, act any way I please. There’s always going to be someone crazier or stranger. But everyone’s welcome here.”

  “Everyone and no one, all at once,” she murmured.

  I blinked, wondering how things had gotten so philosophical so quickly. “Anyway, I’m glad to bring you on board. You make tasty drinks, and I’m sure you’ll fit in here. We can talk about expanding the menu to include the rosemary latte, maybe next week even. The customers are laid back, as you’d expect of an island café.”

  “Nice. You need references? I brought a resume and list of people you can call.” She walked over to her messenger bag, which was atop a table, then extracted two sheets of paper. “Call any one of those numbers on page two. They’ll vouch for me.”

  I accepted the paper from her and studied it for a few seconds. I’d email folks later tonight, but since I was short-handed, I needed to rely on my gut and bring her on right away.

  “Can you come in tomorrow? I’ll be here, too, so you’re not thrown to the hoards of tourists by yourself. Usually I’m here most of the time anyway, helping out. I try to work the rush hours, and then do paperwork and other stuff in between. I’m getting used to managing the place, really. Oh, and at night, I make a giant batch of cold brew.”

  “Sweet. Thanks. Can’t wait,” she grinned, and stood. Stanley reared on his back paws as if he wanted to climb her leg. She gave him a pat, then we said our goodbyes.

  “Here, let me get you an umbrella.” I moved toward the door, where I kept a basket of cheap umbrellas for customers.

  “No need. I’m not gonna melt.” She sauntered out, seemingly not caring about the pouring rain or thunder booming overhead. Erica was an odd one, quirky and tomboyish in a lithe, supermodel kind of way. I sent a silent plea to the universe, hoping she’d be happy here and would jive with the customers, because I didn’t need more problems.

  As I twisted the lock on the door, a crack of lightning made everything go white. I inhaled sharply, and Stanley whimpered. It was six at night, and a glance out the window revealed that the tourists who should have been packing the restaurants and bars downtown were painfully absent because of the storm that darkened the sky.

  The streets were empty. Eerily so. The idea of staying in my apartment alone tonight made my stomach fold in on itself. Was Fab alone when he died? I shivered while dialing Dad, and stopped dead in my tracks when I got his voicemail. Again?

  “Hey, I’m closing up and heading over with Stanley.” I paused. Dad would probably assume Stanley was a new boyfriend. “That’s Fab’s dog. I think we’re going to stay at your place tonight because of everything that has happened.”

  I hung up and frowned. It wasn’t like Dad to not answer his phone this long. I hoisted Stanley into my arms, hoping we wouldn’t get too drenched while dashing to my Honda out front.

  “We’ll buy you a raincoat tomorrow, little dude,” I said, stepping into the rain. Thunder and lightning made the air crackle with electricity, and I yelled as I stepped in a puddle on the way to the car. My sneakers were soaked.

  Chapter Seven

  By the time I got to Dad’s beach house on the other end of the island, the rain had vanished. That was Florida: stormy in the rearview mirror and sunny out the windshield.

  My concern wasn’t the weather, though. Maybe I was exhausted, or still spooked by the s
ight of Fab’s dead body, or perhaps it was my usual, overprotective feelings about my father. But the fact that he hadn’t called back was unsettling. We pulled into the driveway of the beach bungalow and my stomach clenched at the sight of his car (a Prius, of course). So, he was home after all. Which meant he’d been ignoring my calls. Or worse.

  Grabbing Stanley and my purse, I stepped over puddles as I made my way up the walk. Dad lived in the same place he and Mom had built in the years before her death—a two-bedroom beach cottage with vast views of white sugar sand and Gulf waters. Unlike the McMansions that surrounded it, the low-slung bungalow with bright yellow shutters was a tropical wonderland, with giant foliage and flowers that attracted wild parakeets.

  Tonight, probably because of the rain, it was silent. Steamy. A tad eerie. As usual, I didn’t knock. Even though I was born and raised in my own house closer to downtown and had never lived in this place, I still thought of it as home, because my parents lived here. Funny how that worked, even at the age of thirty.

  “Dad?” I called out. Strange. All the lights were on.

  “Dad?”

  Stanley let out a muffled woof in response. I called for my father again, and got no answer. Stanley wriggled. I gripped him tighter and froze. Why was it so silent? Usually Dad had some chant music or something going. Even the usual Nag Champa incense odor wasn’t thick in the air.

  I did a quick survey of the kitchen. Nothing amiss there, unless you count his fermented tea experiments that looked like science projects gone bad. Dad’s cell phone sat on the counter. Odd. He usually kept it in a little holster on his waistband.

  While holding an increasingly slippery Stanley, I poked my head in the sunroom off the kitchen. Nothing.

  The rasp of an inhale filled the air. Then a slow, rattling exhale. Oh God, what if Dad had a heart attack and hadn’t been able to call for help? I gulped a breath through my mouth.

  It sounded like a cross between a wheeze and an ocean wave. Was there an asthmatic serial killer in the house? What the heck? I whirled around, ready to barrel into the living room.

  I yelped when I spotted my father, dressed in white.

  “Goodness, you scared me,” I cried.

  Stanley fought my embrace, so I released him. The dog launched himself at my father, who knelt, grinning.

  “What the heck, Dad? First you don’t answer your phone, then you creep up on me while breathing like a monster and dressed like a ghost.” I eyed him, noting that Stanley had left small black paw prints on Dad’s flowy linen pants. “And why are you wearing all white?”

  Dad stood, reached in his pocket, and took out a small notebook and pen. He scribbled madly, tore off a page, and handed it to me.

  I’m sorry, dear. I’ve been on a silent retreat today. Don’t you remember? I told you yesterday. Purification. I was doing deep Ujjayi breathing.

  Oh, crap. He had mentioned the silent retreat. I rolled my eyes and snorted. “Dad. You didn’t get any of my messages? I didn’t think that extended to the phone and emergencies!”

  He shook his head.

  “What? None of them? I was worried about you. Come on. How long is this going on for?”

  Dad scribbled another page, and ripped it off. I snatched it out of his hand.

  Until midnight, he’d scrawled.

  “Are you serious? I need to talk. Don’t you know what happened today?”

  A shake of his head sent my anger spiking.

  “Big, terrible things happened today. I can’t believe you. I came here so I could work through my emotions and all that jazz you claim is good for me.” I moved into the kitchen, where I grabbed a bowl out of the cupboard. I filled it with water for Stanley, then placed it on the floor. He lapped it up gratefully, leaving his golden moustache soaking wet.

  Dad cleared his throat and I shot him a glare. “Okay, I’m going to tell you the entire story, start to finish. You can listen during silent retreat, right?”

  Dad nodded.

  “Great. So, you don’t know what happened?”

  Dad slid into a chair pulled up to the kitchen island and shook his head, then started playing with Stanley. You’d think he’d ask why I brought a strange dog home, but no. Not during silent retreat. I opened the fridge, searching for chilled white wine. Finding only green juice, I shut the door.

  “Don’t you have any booze?”

  Dad pointed to a rack above the fridge.

  I pulled out a bottle of red. “Not my usual, but whatever. Desperate times seek desperate measures.”

  I fished around for a corkscrew. “I don’t know how to tell you this, because I know you liked him. You rented him an apartment. You hired him.”

  I uncorked the wine and poured a giant glass, then took a long guzzle. The wine slid down my throat, heavy and warm. “Truthfully, I could drink from this bottle after everything that happened today.”

  Dad’s eyes went wide and he lifted his hands.

  “What happened?” I prompted, hoping he would respond.

  He nodded vigorously.

  “Fab. Fabrizio Bellucci, our former employee. He was found dead. In the back alley of Perkatory.”

  “What?” Dad yelled, gripping the counter.

  “So much for your silent retreat.”

  He pressed a big hand to his chest, his blue eyes filled with sadness. “Fab? He was so full of life. Such enthusiasm for so many things.”

  “Well, really only one. Women. But now isn’t the time to quibble. Or speak ill of the dead. Yes. I found him dead.”

  “Oh, precious. Want a hug?”

  I waved him off and took another slug of wine. “No. I’m past the hug stage and onto the binge drinking phase.”

  “Substance abuse won’t drown out reality,” he intoned.

  “Says the man who smokes weed like he’s in a Cheech and Chong movie.”

  “I’m only trying to avoid glaucoma.”

  “Right. Anyway. So, the chief—”

  “Noah?”

  “Yes. Chief Noah. He thinks Fab fell off the roof. Maybe committed suicide. But that doesn’t make sense. Why would he jump?”

  Dad stroked his beard thoughtfully. “No. It doesn’t. He never struck me as the type. Unless he fell accidentally.”

  “I guess. But who is the suicide type, really? People do strange things. I mean, he’d just gone to work for Island Brewnette, and I assume he’d gotten a raise there. He had a girlfriend. Or three. What was he depressed about? And how would he lose his balance? It doesn’t make a lick of sense.”

  Dad folded his arms. “What if it was murder?”

  “That’s what I was thinking.” I pointed at Dad excitedly. “Maybe it’s my crime reporter background, but something’s off here.”

  Dad smirked. “Well, he did have several lovers. Maybe he made some enemies along the way. I’d heard at the Chamber meeting that he’d been involved with the Clarkes. It started when he was visiting Mrs. Clarke on Tuesdays when her husband was on the mainland for dialysis.”

  “Joanie Clarke?” I pretended to clutch my pearls. “Isn’t she old?”

  “Old-er,” Dad said. “My age. But still a good-looking woman. I’d heard she bought Fab that scooter of his.”

  “Really?” I pondered this as I sipped. Mrs. Clarke was a hot and rich sixty-year-old, especially with her Maserati convertible. Maybe Fab was more than a barista. Maybe gigolo was a better title.

  Dad wagged his finger at me. “You know, Mr. Clarke’s no saint in that marriage, either. And rumor has it he liked to watch Joanie and Fab, well, you know.”

  “What?” I grimaced. “You’re kidding? So, I guess they wouldn’t want him dead. Or would they?”

  Dad shrugged. “Dunno. But I’d be careful if I were you. It’s not like you were exactly on great terms with him when he passed into the next dimension.”

  I scowled. “Me? Why? I didn’t kill him. I was in Miami.”

  “Of course you were. But that dustup you had with him at Island Brewnette yesterda
y complicates things. That was all over town. You were pretty upset, dear. I hope Noah doesn’t think you wanted Fab dead.”

  I wish you never existed. I swallowed hard. “I didn’t kill him.”

  “Of course you didn’t. You wouldn’t hurt a fly. But you know how rumors spread around the island.”

  I finished the rest of my wine in one gulp, then went to the fridge to rummage around. Did Stanley need more food? He’d eaten the dog bagel and a can of kibble earlier. Was he as stressed as I was from the day’s events? I found a tub of cottage cheese that I’d brought over a few days ago, and placed a dollop in a dish, then wolfed down a spoonful myself.

  Stanley lapped it up eagerly.

  “You’re a cog in that well-oiled rumor machine, Dad. Maybe you can get on the horn and find out what people are saying.” I pointed to his cell on the counter.

  Dad reached for his phone and pressed the button on the side. “Let’s see if I have any messages. Oh!”

  “What?” I leaned in.

  “Wow. Dozens of messages. It’s going to take me some time to get through these. Where are my glasses?” He glanced around, and we both searched the counter. Nothing. Dad had several pairs stashed in various places because he constantly lost his specs.

  “Maybe in the study.”

  “No.” I pointed at his face. “They’re on your head.”

  He giggled and lowered them to his nose. Stanley started running in a tight circle.

  “Oh, and who’s this?” Dad asked, reaching down to pet the dog. “He looks familiar.”

  “That’s Fab’s dog. I need to find out which woman gave him to Fab. I can’t remember, can you? Maybe she wants him back.”

  Dad screwed up his face. “Can’t remember. I think it was a tourist. She wanted him to remember her. Or something.”

  “I’m thinking of keeping him.”

  His eyes widened. “You? You can’t even keep a plant alive.”

  I snorted, but a pang of shame went through me. “Whatever.”

  He paused and we both stared at Stanley, who was still running in a circle, near the door. “That dog seems like it needs to do its business.”