by Tara Lush
* * *
The next morning, as Erica made friends with some of the customers—she even got a few shout-outs on Insta for her palm tree latte art—I called Noah around eleven, figuring he’d want to know about my conversation with Paige.
“Are you coming in this morning? Or are you avoiding us like half the island?” I half-joked. Business was still down, which had me worried. Tourists were streaming in, but the island’s regulars appeared to be staying away. I needed to let Noah know about Paige. Figured I’d get to him before she did.
Noah chuckled. “No, I had an early meeting. Was planning on coming in soon for my usual. What’s today’s snack?”
“Your favorite.”
“Three ingredient Nutella brownies?”
“Mmhmm.” I smiled, smug.
“I’ll be right there.” He hung up.
Maybe I’d been moved off the suspect list.
Ten minutes later, Noah strolled in. His dark blue polo shirt stretched across his muscular chest, and his jeans fit him nicely, too. Why wasn’t he in uniform? Oh. Duh—it was Sunday. I was losing track of time. Grinning, I slid a brownie onto a plate and went to prepare his lemon water.
“Have a seat. I’ll bring it to you,” I called out.
“Who’s that?” Erica hissed, and a frisson of jealousy went through me.
“Noah Garcia. The police chief.”
“Why is he staring at you like you’re a bigger snack than that Nutella brownie?”
I shrugged. “Either he’s planning to arrest me or he’s madly in love with me.”
She burst out laughing. “I suspect it’s probably the latter.”
I shot her a warning glare, and she clapped her fingers over her mouth. “I’ll explain later.”
I made a big production of setting his water and brownie in front of him and scurried to get a napkin. Today I’d dressed up. Well, dressed up for me. I usually wore jeans and a Perkatory T-shirt to work. Today I was in a cute olive shirtdress and white sneakers. As I walked back with the stack of napkins, I spotted Noah’s eyes flicker for a nanosecond to my bare legs.
A surge of triumph went through me and I slid into the seat opposite of him.
“So,” I said.
He bit into the brownie and the corner of his mouth lifted. He was so heckin’ adorable. Focus, Lana, focus.
He wiped his mouth. “I have news.”
My eyes widened and I leaned in. “Oh, really?”
“The eye that you found on the beach? It was a swordfish.”
My body slumped against the chair. “Oh.”
He took another bite of brownie. His eyes were smizing. Like honest-to-goodness Tyra Banks’ America’s Next Top Model smizing. It was both maddening and hot.
“Interesting thing, that eye. My theory is there’s a poacher or a wildlife smuggler—”
“I don’t care about the wildlife,” I cried. “How’s the death investigation going? Get to the good stuff.”
He chuckled. “Oh, you want that news.”
“Stop teasing me.” My nostrils twitched.
“You’re cute when—”
I held up a finger. “Don’t say it.”
He licked his lips and I nearly spontaneously combusted, so I grabbed a menu and fanned my face. “Noah, please.”
“Okay. Here’s what I can tell you. Autopsy results came back. That’s why I couldn’t come in this morning. Had an early breakfast with the medical examiner on the mainland.”
“Impressive. On a Sunday, no less.” I leaned in and stopped fanning myself.
He chewed another bite. “The ME and I went to college together. We’re old friends.” He pointed at the brownie. “These are incredible.”
I inhaled, impatient. “Aren’t you going to tell me what the autopsy report said?”
He polished off the rest of the brownie in one bite and shrugged.
“It’s public record, you know,” I said through a clenched jaw. “I’m not above filing a freedom of information request for the report.”
He took a sip of his water. This guy was entirely too cool and collected.
“I’ll bring you another brownie if you tell me.”
Lord, even his smirk was adorable. “I think that’s blackmail. I could arrest you for that.”
“And I have some info that might be of interest.”
His dark eyebrows furrowed. “Have you been snooping around?”
“No,” I yelped. “I ran into Paige Dotson, that’s all. Have you talked with her?”
“Not yet. She hasn’t returned my calls.”
My eyes widened. “Oh, really? That’s suspicious, no?”
“What did Paige say to you?”
I shrugged, trying to play it as cool as Noah. “She was trying to get into Fab’s apartment last night. Claimed she had a key.”
“What were you doing in Fab’s apartment?”
I straightened my spine indignantly. “My family and I own the building. I was cleaning the hallway and stairs.”
“Sure you were,” he muttered.
“I confronted her. We had a nice chat. She talked about how he was with other women, but claimed she didn’t care. And she was prepared to take her things from the apartment. I suggested she speak with you first. See? I’m on your side.”
I paused and we stared at each other. The temperature in Perkatory rose about ten degrees. “I’ll get you that other brownie and you can tell me about the autopsy report.”
He fiddled with the collar of his polo shirt, as if he could feel the warmth, too.
I fetched the brownie, my skin on fire because I knew he was staring at me. I set the brownie in front of him and folded my hands primly on the table. “Spill.”
“I can’t make a final determination on the case based on the autopsy alone, but signs are pointing to suicide, or an accidental fall. We know that he wasn’t killed prior to making contact with the pavement.”
I winced. “So why can’t you call it a suicide or an accident?”
“Mostly because the toxicology report’s going to take another week. Maybe two. I put a rush order on it.”
“Doesn’t it usually take longer?”
“It’s a slow month at the medical examiner’s. Unlike Tampa and Miami, there’s not a lot of death in this county. I could almost make a determination now, but I want to be sure I’m not missing anything. Don’t want to overlook important clues.” He studied me.
“You don’t think I killed him, do you? Paige all but accused me, and I thought that was completely inappropriate,” I hissed.
“My gut tells me you didn’t, but I don’t base my police work on my gut. That’s why I’ve gotten a warrant for the surveillance camera from the motel where you stayed that night.”
I rolled my eyes. He thought I was a suspect! “You really think I’m a killer?”
“It’s called thorough police work, Lana.”
I snorted. “Glad you’re being so diligent with my details. What about everyone else on this island? He had plenty of complicated relationships. Paige, because he screwed around on her? Mr. Clarke, because Fab screwed his wife? And God knows who else.”
“Patience, Lana. Police work is about patience, not emotion.”
I glared at him.
“Here’s a detail you’ll like: Fab had something interesting in his pocket when he died.”
“What?”
“A key ring with a dried alligator foot attached.”
I wrinkled my nose. “Ew. Any significance?” Hadn’t there been an alligator farm business card in Fab’s house?
He shrugged. “I know what you’re thinking. The business card. I’m not sure it means anything. It looks like one of those trinkets you buy at that gas station in the Everglades. Or a roadside tourist trap off the interstate. Tons of people have them.”
We stared at each other for a couple of beats in silence.
“Okay, gotta run, Lana. Thanks for the brownies. They were delicious.”
We both stood, and
I wondered why he was in such a hurry. My heart sank when I realized that it was entirely possible that he had a date.
“I’ll keep you posted if I find anything else out,” I said.
Noah took me by the elbow, which sent little sparks through my body. He was close enough that I could smell his Irish Spring soap. Swoon city.
“Lana, I know your reporter’s antennae are quivering over this. But I’d like to caution you. Do not do your own investigation. Please.”
I smiled prettily, but didn’t say anything. He smirked and shook his head, probably because we both knew I wasn’t going to follow his orders.
Chapter Eleven
“What’s the story with the wild monkeys on the island?” Erica asked, rinsing off a glass. “I read that article in the paper today.”
I glanced up from the Devil’s Beach Beacon. The headlines about Fab had been replaced with one about the primates here on the island. They were a never-ending source of fascination to newcomers and tourists.
“The monkeys? Well, they’re mostly harmless. I say mostly because they do apparently carry a strain of herpes. And apparently they got dangerously close to a tourist last week.”
Erica’s eyebrows shot up. “Whoa, that’s crazy.”
It was Monday morning, just after the morning rush. Although it was more like a soft ebb and flow of customers, kind of like the waves of the Gulf of Mexico a few blocks away, which was concerning. Usually it was more like an open firehose: relentless for hours.
I was trying not to worry about it. Instead, I was bringing Erica up to speed on the island’s monkey saga, telling her how my grandfather had opened a roadside zoo on Devil’s Beach in the sixties. That’s how the monkeys got their start.
In the seventies, animal rights activists had snuck onto my grandfather’s property and opened the monkeys’ cages. The primates fled to a nearby wildlife preserve here on the island. My grandfather then turned his attention to a kumquat farm.
The monkeys commenced their monkey business, and now here we were with a feral, herpes-infected monkey colony.
“You have a really interesting family,” she said drily. “C’mon over and we’ll practice some latte art.”
I walked around the counter and ground some beans.
Erica asked, “So the monkeys have lived their best lives in that wildlife preserve for decades?”
First, I frothed the milk, then pulled the espresso shot. “A researcher from the University of Florida came to do a study last year. She’s studying all the monkey colonies in Florida. Turns out they all have that strain of herpes, and the island’s mayor went ape, saying they were going to infect tourists.”
Erica drew in a breath. “I’m not sure I want to know the transmission methods of that.”
I was silent as I focused on creating a fern pattern with the milk. Erica spoke as I drizzled the milk into the cup.
“Easy. Easy. Now run a line of milk up as the stem. Like that. Yeah. Oh, yeah!” She clapped her hands.
I stood back and appraised my work. “It looks like a fern!”
“Heck yeah, it does,” she said. “You’re doing so well that maybe we need to figure out how we can make a foam monkey. Uphold your family’s legacy and all.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” I giggled. “Maybe a kumquat.”
She frowned. “A latte art kumquat? But why?”
I was about to tell her about my grandfather’s kumquat farm—he’d spent the last ten years of his life trying to brand the kumquat as the world’s tiniest and tastiest fruit, a crusade that had failed miserably because the word kumquat is the silliest word in the English language—the bells attached to the door jingled. Erica and I both lifted our heads.
A tall guy with curly, golden hair came toward us. Lord, he looked familiar. He had the tanned skin of a longtime surfer, or perhaps someone who spent a lot of leisure time on yachts. He was broad-shouldered, sinewy, and casually gorgeous. Like most men on the island, he wore flip-flops. I guessed he said the word dude a lot.
He sauntered up the counter and grinned. “Hey,” he said in a gravelly voice.
“Hey,” Erica and I said in tandem.
There was an awkward pause as we sized him up. Okay, Erica sized him up. She had a skeptical expression in her eyes and yet, she greeted him with a chipper tone.
“Welcome to Perkatory,” she said.
I admired his high cheekbones and full mouth. Then started to wonder if I was somehow going crazy from lack of touch or sex. It had been a year-long dry spell. Then a light bulb went off in my head. I knew this guy. He was Fab’s friend.
The guy rested his big hands on the counter. “This was Fab’s place,” he said softly.
I sprang to awareness and leaned on the counter in his direction. “Yes. Well, technically, it’s my shop. But sure, he worked here.”
He nodded. “We were pretty close friends.”
“I think you were here last week, right?” I asked.
“I was. Came in with my mother to see Fab. I don’t recall seeing you, though.”
“Oh, I was here. We both were.” I motioned to Erica.
He grinned, revealing straight, white teeth. A dazzling smile. “Naw, really? I would’ve remembered.”
I twisted a lock of my hair around my finger. Erica cleared her throat. “Would you like something to drink?” she asked, pointedly.
The guy glanced around, his curly hair flopping against his forehead. “Sure, dude.”
There we go.
“Ahh, what do you recommend? Maybe a tea? Iced tea?”
“I can do that.” Erica moved away, and I slid into her place. I was now eye to eye with the guy. Well, eye-to-chest. He was at least a foot taller than me.
“I’m sorry for your loss. I’m Lana. The owner of Perkatory.”
He nodded and extended his hand. “I’m Lex Bradstreet. Fab told me all about you.”
His giant hand swallowed my big one, then I let go. Goodness, his eyes were an electric blue, like the Gulf of Mexico on a particularly clear spring day. “He did?”
“Yeah. He liked working here. A lot.”
“Odd, since he didn’t give any notice when he left to work at Island Brewnette.”
“Well, that move was a little beyond his control.” Lex’s expression turned uneasy.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Here’s your tea,” Erica said. “That’ll be three-fifty.”
“It’s on the house,” I said quickly. “Lex, would you like to sit and chat with me a bit?”
“I’d love to, but I really need to run.” He grabbed the plastic cup of iced tea and took a long sip. “I’m on my way somewhere and passed by here. Just wanted to poke my head in because I was thinking about Fab. I miss the dude, y’know.”
I murmured an mmm-hmm. Erica blinked.
“See you around, Lana. Thanks for the tea.” He held it up as if he was toasting Erica. We studied him as he walked out. Well, Erica scowled. I noticed the way he strolled, casual and loose. I thought that one could learn a lot about a person by the way they walk.
“Interesting,” I said.
“Sketchy,” Erica countered.
“What do you mean?”
“That whole statement—it was beyond his control. What did he mean by that?”
“That was odd, wasn’t it?” I chewed on my cheek. “I wish he would’ve stayed to chat. I wonder if he lives here on-island, or what.”
Erica was silent as she wiped down the counter. I glanced at my laptop, which was open on a nearby table. I often did paperwork down here, instead of in the office upstairs because I liked the bustle of the café. I needed noise to work, probably a holdover habit from the newsroom.
“I’ve got an idea,” I said, moving to my laptop and sitting.
Within a few keystrokes, I was on a public records search site. Erica stood behind me. “You’re really going to spend fifteen bucks to find out where he lives?”
“No,” I said, my fingers flying a
cross the keyboard. “I still have the login from my old newspaper. Let’s see if they’ve changed it.”
Sure enough, they hadn’t, and within a minute we had Lex’s address. He lived on the other side of the island, not far from Erica’s marina.
“I think that’s the little cluster of bungalows that were once vacation cottages,” I said.
“Oh, the ones that are painted the crazy colors?”
“Yep. That one.” It was known as Devil’s Village, and each cottage was a tiny shack, painted in either blue, green, or pink neon.
“And let’s see if Mr. Bradstreet’s been in the news lately.” I was emboldened, the same way I’d felt when I reported a story. With a flourish of fingers on the keys, a few more clicks brought his name up in a single article.
“Whoa,” Erica whispered, as I took in the headline. It was a long piece about the Tampa mafia, and it had been published five years prior in an alt-weekly.
“I dunno, this paper’s known for being a little sensational,” I said. I clicked and scanned the first few paragraphs. “This is all about some unsolved murder and how the victim owed some mobsters money. I wonder where Lex is mentioned. He’s not in the first half. See?”
“Yeah, but his name must be in there somewhere. Right?” Erica asked.
My eyes skimmed the article, which was long-winded. Didn’t this reporter have an editor? Jeez. I get it. Some gangster named Damon Carpenter sold drugs and then killed a guy. I could have written a better article in half the space. I sighed aloud. Sometimes I missed journalism so much it was palpable.
Then my gaze landed on the first meaty paragraph with Bradstreet’s name. It described how Carpenter set up the murder.
Carpenter also asked his buddy Lex Bradstreet to come to the warehouse. Bradstreet was reportedly a foot soldier in the drug trade, a big, handsome lug who liked to brag about his bar-fighting and Miami Mafia connections.
The paper didn’t implicate Lex in the murder, just insinuated that he was one of the many shady fellow travelers of the Tampa mafia. As a journalist, I thought it irresponsible to mention a man like that without backing up the claims or attributing the info to a source.
