by Tara Lush
And if I were going to write an article about a suspicious death, I would find the information about Lex extremely interesting. I tapped my fingers on the weathered wood of the table and formed a plan.
* * *
I was still thinking about Lex Bradstreet’s blue eyes and Mafia ties when I marched through town to the offices of the Devil’s Beach Beacon. I held a fresh cup of coffee in one hand and a bag containing two Nutella brownies in the other.
The newspaper office was on the far end of Main Street, about six blocks from Perkatory. For as long as I could remember, the paper occupied the second and third floors of the sprawling, historic building that had once been a cigar factory at the turn of the last century.
The bottom floor was taken up partially by the paper’s printing press, and also by a bar—the Blue Bottle Emporium, which was handy for the journalists upstairs. As I walked past to the Devil’s Beach Beacon’s entrance, I waved to a few regulars sitting at the open-air counter, who were enjoying an early Monday afternoon cocktail.
“Hey, Lana,” Rusty, one of the regulars, called out. He waved me over.
I took a few steps to the giant open window. “Hey, Rust,” I said, smiling.
He leaned over and the smell of beer coming from his mouth made me take a half step back. “How’s your dad?”
“He’s great. Doing his yoga thing. How are your carved pelicans?” In retirement, Rusty had taken up two pastimes: sculpting pelicans out of sandstone and drinking. It was obvious which he was pursuing today, because his eyes were glassy and boozy. Like most beach communities in Florida, drinking wasn’t merely a pastime. It was a way of life.
“Good to hear. I gotta do some of that exercise stuff, too. Get back in shape. By the way, what the hell happened to your guy?”
“My guy?”
“Your employee. Your coffee guy. I’m hearing all sorts of things around town.”
I unclenched my molars. “Yeah? Like what?”
“That you pushed him to commit suicide. That he was in love with you. That maybe you even …” Rusty shrugged and took a long chug of his pint.
“I did not push him to do anything,” I said, my tone rising an octave. “We were not in a relationship, and I did not kill him.”
I stomped off. As much as I loved Devil’s Beach, I was now reminded why I used to chafe when I was in high school. The rumor mill was brutal.
It had all become clear to me. I needed to pitch a story about Fab and find out everything I could about him, his background and his life—and maybe his death. It would clear my name and hopefully bring back business to the café. And the only way I could do that was by doing what I did best.
Telling the truth in a news story.
I bounded up the flight of stairs, excited. Just like I did when I first walked into the building in high school, the smell of ink in the air made my pulse quicken. It meant news and possibilities. No amount of layoffs or hedge-fund takeovers of newspaper chains would ever get that feeling out of my blood.
Inside the newspaper offices, I swept a gaze around the floor. It was a typical newsroom—covered in papers, files, and empty coffee cups—but there was no one in sight. It was Monday morning, and I figured I’d find an editor, at least.
“Hello?” I called out. “Anybody here?”
A shape shifted across the room, and then a figure came into view. It was Mike Heller, the editor. Awesomesauce. Exactly who I was here to see.
“Mike,” I said warmly.
“Hey, kiddo, how are you?” He walked toward me with a smile.
By Devil’s Beach standards, Mike was new to the island, having moved here twenty years ago from Atlanta to run the paper.
“Brought you a coffee,” I said, extending a branded Perkatory cup. “And some brownies.”
He chuckled. “The brownies aren’t from your dad, are they?”
“No. Although that’s an idea. Maybe we should sell those at the shop.” I rolled my eyes. “Could bring business roaring back.”
He accepted the coffee. From my intern experience, I knew he enjoyed it with a splash of cream, no sugar. “What’s going on? What’s up with the coffee shop?”
“Sales have dropped off since Fab’s departure. The locals have been going to Island Brewnette.”
He took a sip and studied me for a second. “Gosh, that’s some excellent coffee. As always. As for the customers, I’m sure they’ll come back. You okay, Lana? This isn’t bringing back bad memories, is it?”
Mike was obviously referring to Gisela, but I wasn’t in the right emotional state to think about that. I gave a half-hearted shrug. “I guess. Yeah. I’m hanging in there.”
“Good to hear. What brings you here? You come by to tell me that you’re headed to The Washington Post or The New York Times? Or did you just want to stuff me full of brownies because I’m competing in that marathon coming up?”
“Not exactly,” I handed him the bag of baked goods. “I have a story pitch for you. A freelance idea. Juicy. Exclusive.”
He tilted his head. No journalist worth their salt could resist the E-word. “Step into my office,” he said, then turned and walked away.
His “office” was a cubicle, overflowing with papers, files, and power bar wrappers.
He cleared a yellowing stack of newspapers off a wooden chair, and I plunked down.
“This feels like every conversation I’ve ever had with an editor in a newsroom.” My eyes flitted around the empty room, searching for the staff.
He chuckled and sat in a tired gray chair that someone probably once thought was ergonomic. “They’re all out on assignment. We’ve got a reporter writing about the dustup with the town council. A feature writer working on a piece about a former bank robber who just got out of prison after a thirty-year stint—he’s retired to Devil’s Beach.”
“Great.”
“And of course, the monkeys.”
“Yeah, that’s a crazy story.”
“So, what have you got for me? I do have a small freelance budget.”
“I’d like to write about Fabrizio Bellucci. My plan is to do a deep dive into his life and death. He was a fascinating character.” My voice took on that old excitement, the one I last used months ago when I pitched my editor back in Miami. “And I think I’m the perfect person to do it, given the circumstances.”
Mike nodded slowly. “I’ve heard a lot around town about you and Fab.”
“None of the rumors are true,” I replied quickly.
“I didn’t think they were.”
I smiled. Mike knew me better than almost anyone, except Dad. “I don’t want you to think there’s a conflict of interest, which is why I’m pitching this as a feature. More of an essay, perhaps written in a first person POV. Think The New Yorker. I have details that might tie Fab to mobsters in Tampa.”
I let that juicy tidbit hang in the air. Editors loved to be teased.
He folded his arms and tapped his finger on his chin, then stared thoughtfully at a small ceramic dolphin on his desk. Mike was a widower; his wife had been gone for years. I idly wondered if he was dating anyone. He’d be great for Barbara, my barista, who seemed a bit lonely. I mentally filed this away.
When he didn’t respond, I leaned in. “Please? I really miss writing.”
Mike turned to me with a grin on his face. “This damn business. You can never get it out of your blood, can you?”
“Just when I thought I was out …”
Mike and I recited the rest of the line in tandem. “They pull me back in.”
“Okay, kiddo. Let’s make a deal. You write that story about Fab and one other feature for us, and I’ll pay you five hundred. We’ve got some new advertisers for the features page, and I need more stories to fill it out. I’d like to run local stuff, not just wire. And our features person is going on vacation soon, so I’m going to need more content.”
“Sounds perfect!” I felt like hugging him. “What’s the other story?”
“I’d love
for you to do a piece on coffee.”
“Awesome. I can do that.” I could write something interesting about the origins of certain beans, or perhaps the history of coffee in the Caribbean. Two years ago, when our marriage was on life support, my ex and I had gone on a coffee tour in Jamaica. Coffee tourism! An excellent angle. My mind started to churn with ideas for both stories, and I almost felt like my old, creative self. A side of me that had been neglected for too long.
“What have you got in mind for the other feature? Or are you going to let me choose the topic?”
“How about,” he swept his hand in the air, “Ten reasons your barista hates you.”
* * *
Four hours later, it was late afternoon on that Monday. It was a sleepy time and day here on the island. Barbara was working the closing shift at the café. Everything in downtown Devil’s Beach was closed or about to close, except the Blue Bottle bar (they had a popular happy hour), the Square Grouper, and Jack’s Grocery.
I was in the latter, buying baking ingredients. Tourists and locals were filling their carts to the brim with cases of beer, enormous bags of chips, and watermelon. They were probably headed to their condos after a day of frying their skin and swimming in the Gulf, which was currently the temperature of bathwater.
For dinner, I had plans to bring Stanley over to Dad’s, and we’d discussed having a cookout. He’d asked me to buy veggie burgers. First, I paused at the butcher’s counter, but remembered that he’d recently bought a new grill and didn’t want meat to ever touch it. Sighing, I plucked a couple of packages of Beyond Burger, thanking God that Dad still ate cheese.
Mmm. Cheese. I needed some brie to snack on while I baked. That led to a box of wafer crackers, and some grapes, and those spicy imported sausages from Spain. I was definitely not a vegetarian, no matter how much Dad lectured me about the evils of meat.
I then made a run for the cereal aisle, and bought three boxes of Rice Krispies. I snagged a few bags of mini marshmallows and enough butter to harden the arteries of every person on the island. My plan was to make tropical Rice Krispie treats because I had some dried pineapple and coconut flakes back home. I was standing in the checkout line when Paige Dotson came barreling down the main aisle with a full cart, with a sneer etched on her perfectly makeup-free face.
I immediately made eye contact, not wanting her to think I’d been cowed by her behavior the other night.
“Paige, hey there,” I said, trying to sound warm and friendly. She had deep, dark circles under her eyes and a pang of empathy struck my chest. I’d never get over how she treated me in high school, but still. I couldn’t imagine what she was going through. Even if Fab had been a cad to her pretty frequently, she didn’t deserve this kind of suffering. She loved him, that much was clear. “How are you holding up? You poor thing.”
She kept on walking, and clipped the corner of my cart with hers. Since I was at the front of my cart and was unloading the groceries onto the conveyor belt, I stopped.
“Excuse me, Paige,” I said sharply, moving around the cart and pushing hers back a few inches.
“Don’t ever say my name again.”
I narrowed my eyes. The fury on her face was evident and obviously her anger had escalated since I’d seen her last. She seemed irrational.
“Listen, I’m not the enemy here. Why don’t you come by and we can talk? Let’s put the past behind us.”
She inched closer to me, menacingly. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Just the two of us. Why? Do you want to off me like you did him?’
I gasped, and out of the corner of my eye I noticed shoppers staring. Oh crap. There was the bank manager, and the gym owner, and my third-grade teacher. All staring. Even the woman at the register had stopped scanning the items of the guy in front of me and was gaping. Awesome.
“Paige,” I said soothingly. “You’ve suffered an awful tragedy. Why don’t we step outside and discuss it over coffee? Come on over to the café.”
“Why don’t I call the police and tell them how you wanted Fab dead?” she shrieked.
Oh dear. She really was unhinged. I moved a few feet away, putting my shopping cart between the two of us for safety. She continued to glare at me. My eyes went to the door and I peeped outside. If only I had someone here like Dad as a buffer.
“Paige, stop making a scene.”
The man’s voice snapped my attention back to her. It was Paige’s father, Mickey Dotson. The owner of Island Brewnette. I opened my mouth to say something snarky but closed it when I saw him roughly clutch her elbow. He was the human equivalent of a throbbing head vein.
“Dad, ow. Stop.” She tried to wriggle out of his white-knuckle grip, but he kept his big hand clamped on her. Something was wrong there, and I dragged air into my lungs.
“Shut up,” he hissed. “Not in your condition.”
“But, Dad, Lana—”
“I said shut it.” While shooting me a dirty glare, he dragged her from the cart and a hush fell over the store. We all watched as she protested, screaming as he pulled her out of the store. It was a surreal, silent moment, and only then did I realize I was still clutching a bag of marshmallows hard enough to squash the contents.
In your condition. She seemed tired, but as fit as ever. According to what I read in the paper, she ran every 5K race held on the island. What was wrong with her?
Was she pregnant? Maybe with Fab’s baby? I stifled a gasp. And what was with Mickey’s roughness? I shook my head. With a father like that, no wonder she’d been so troubled all these years. Part of me wanted to call Noah and report Mickey for mistreating his daughter. Maybe I would, when I got home.
I set the marshmallows on the belt and mustered a smile for the cashier.
She regarded me warily and rang up my groceries.
“This summer heat really gets to people, doesn’t it?” I said.
Chapter Twelve
I decided against going to Dad’s, and called him to cancel.
Paige’s outburst put me in no mood to socialize, and I didn’t feel like talking to anyone. My inner introvert reared its head, and I stayed inside with Stanley. Because I couldn’t get Paige and her father out of my thoughts, I left a message on Noah’s cell phone—and was promptly disappointed when he didn’t immediately return the call. Did I want to talk to Noah for reasons other than the investigation?
Heck yeah, I did.
“Maybe he’s not that into me, Stanley.” The dog wagged his tail in response.
I threw myself into cooking, making dozens of batches of Rice Krispie treats and simmering a pot of chicken soup for the week’s lunches. I also cleaned like a madwoman and then bathed Stanley with the puppy shampoo that Erica had given me. Now he smelled like jasmine and oatmeal.
I toweled him off, cooing. “Such a good boy,” I said, carefully wiping his tiny face. He’d lived with me, what? Three days? And already I loved him with a fierce maternal instinct. My ex and I had talked about having children, and I assumed that someday, we would. I’d been robbed of that, along with my marriage.
I combed out Stanley’s fluffy fur and thought about blow-drying him. But that seemed a little extreme.
He shook himself off and zoomed around the house for a solid five minutes, then plopped on a rug in the living room. Within seconds, he was snoring softly. Never had I seen anyone or anything fall asleep so quickly or so deeply.
If only I could be so lucky. Since Fab’s death—well, since the night in Miami, really—I’d slept terribly. I tossed and turned, worry chasing my dreams. Or nightmares. I saw Fab in some of them, and in others, my ex-husband. Gisela also flitted in and out. Maybe it was time to admit that I had a lot of unresolved feelings about, well, everything.
I stared at the sleeping Shih Tzu and sighed. It was seven at night and my place was pristine. I’d eaten four Rice Krispie treats for dinner, and was contemplating a fifth when an idea popped into my restless mind.
Fab’s apartment.
After my little dustu
p with Paige the other night, I hadn’t returned. I’d been so shaken by her accusations that night, that I’d gone back home and drank a glass of wine, trying to forget about the altercation by bingeing something stupid on Netflix.
Tonight, though, I was determined. Plus, I had a news story to write.
Paige’s outburst in the grocery store, along with my freelance assignment, meant I needed to be more focused than ever. Was there a clue to his death in his apartment? Had the police missed anything? I had to get going on the article. Mike hadn’t given me a deadline, but I knew the sooner I could send it to him, the better.
And, I rationalized, I wanted Stanley’s dog bowls. Plus, his shot records—I needed to bring him to the veterinarian and wasn’t sure which one Fab had used. If he used one at all. If I recalled correctly, his girlfriend had given the puppy to him about a month ago. He’d posted a few photos of the dog on Instagram, then mostly kept him inside the apartment.
Poor thing. Well, now he’d have a better life. He’d have walks twice daily, proper health care, and his cute bandannas were on their way.
I grabbed my purse and walked the two blocks to the café building. This time, I was only a little out of breath as I climbed the stairs. At least I was getting a workout from all this. The hall light on the fourth floor flickered on—Dad had installed one of those motion sensors—and there was no one in sight.
Taking a huge breath and keeping my head down because it felt a little spooky to be up here all alone, I powered to Fab’s door, key in hand. Looking to my left and right, I slid it in the lock.
I pushed open the door, snapped on the light switch, and shut the door softly. It was exactly as I last saw it while Noah and his detectives went through the place the morning I found Fab: messy and chaotic. The odor of the dog poop lingered in the air.
Fab was a typical bachelor. The secondhand, brown-hued furniture didn’t match, dirty socks were everywhere, and there was a stack of empty wine bottles in the garbage. I glanced at the galley kitchen, and saw there were dishes in the sink. A fly buzzed around, and I sighed. Somehow it all seemed terribly sad—relics of a life snuffed out too soon.
