Grounds for Murder

by Tara Lush

  “Gah,” I said aloud, moving to the sink. There was no way I could sleep tonight, knowing there were moldering dishes here. I guess I could’ve thrown them out, but that didn’t seem right either. I quickly washed the two plates and cereal-encrusted bowl, then wiped my hands with a paper towel.

  All his stuff. It was so … here. I’d have to talk with Dad about hauling it out. He’d been Dad’s tenant, after all. So, he should take care of this. I’d help, of course, as long as Noah gave the all clear. I tossed the paper towel in an overflowing trash can and glanced at the bank of windows. Thank goodness the police had closed the curtains—I wasn’t forced to see the outside from the fourth-floor windows.

  I quickly located Stanley’s water and food dishes—they were powder blue and empty, which somehow saddened me even more, and I stacked them together. Now for Stanley’s veterinary records.

  I glanced around and saw something that passed for a desk. It was covered in papers, and I went over, sinking into the chair. I set the bowls down on the floor and started to rifle through the detritus on the desk. Aha! Here was Stanley’s rabies vaccine certificate. Shouldn’t there be other shots, too? I pawed around, looking for more vet records.

  Business cards, all from women, were strewn everywhere. Doctors, realtors, shop owners. Half of them had cell numbers scrawled in pen on the back. A couple had smiley faces and hearts. I rolled my eyes. Had he bedded every woman on the island?

  I shuffled through a few more papers. Most were routine bills for his cell phone, the electric company. Mundane stuff. Even sex gods had to pay the power bill. There was also a folder called “Training,” and I opened it.

  At first the words didn’t register, then I laughed. “World Wrestling Federation School Application,” I read aloud. I noticed that Fab had filled out half of the application in his blocky handwriting. Under “proposed stage name,” he’d written “The Italian Stallion.”

  I snickered. Neither originality nor humility had been his strong character traits.

  So Fab had wanted to become a wrestler. I frowned. Come to think of it, he did talk a lot about wrestling, and had asked for a weekend off so he could see WrestleMania in Tampa last month. He’d been so excited, like a little kid.

  Considering his physique, he’d have had a good shot at wrestling school. I could’ve seen him as a showman on TV, muscles bulging, all oiled up and campy. Just one more reason it seemed strange he would kill himself.

  I rifled through every drawer of the desk, searching for anything dog related. Or clue related. I was coming up empty, although in the back of one crap-packed drawer, I found two small photos. They were exactly two inches by three inches, and I knew this because I was familiar with the exact camera that had been used to take them—a Polaroid Snap Instant Digital Camera.

  I’d bought one myself in Miami, back when I was nesting with my ex and was going through a craft phase. Every weekend I snapped photos of the two of us all over the city, and ended up with hundreds of little photos. I’d planned to make a scrapbook that our eventual children could cherish. But we had no children, only divorce papers, and now those photos were probably in some landfill now, because I’d trashed everything when I left the city, wanting to forever forget about that era of my life.

  These photos in Fab’s drawer were like nothing I ever took. They were nudes, of a woman with red hair. She appeared to be tied by her wrists and ankles to an X-shaped wooden cross. I flipped one over. Crystal, it said. Hunh. I wondered if Crystal knew that Fab was dead. I peered at the tiny photo. Crystal didn’t look familiar, but part of her face was obscured with a mask and whoever had taken the photo was clearly focusing on her other assets instead. I peered into the drawer, reaching into the depths. My fingers found another photo.

  It was of the same redhead, and Fab. They were both naked, and Fab was in a black leather getup. Were those leather boy shorts? Ew. I grimaced. He was into bondage?

  Should I give these to Noah? Probably he or his detectives had seen them. I mean, if I found them after fifteen minutes of searching, surely they would have unearthed them. Perhaps they’d taken photos of the photos and written Crystal’s name down. That must have been it. Or they weren’t that interesting at all.

  How would I handle this in the article? Of course I wouldn’t identify Crystal, nor would I try to get the pictures published in the paper. Surely the curvaceous Crystal wouldn’t want those floating around the island. I studied the pictures and crafted a paragraph in my mind.

  Among the things Fab left behind: an application to a wrestling school, routine bills, and racy photos, more suited to an X-rated site than his usual fare on Instagram …

  As I was about to extract a notebook from my purse to jot my thoughts, I heard a rattling noise. I swiveled my head. In years past, I’d heard Dad talk about rats in the building, but he’d claimed he’d gotten rid of them. I wrinkled my nose. Ew. Were they on the roof? I’d have to call him.

  But it wasn’t coming from the roof. The noise was in the direction of the door, and it sounded like someone was jiggling the doorknob.

  Holy craparoni.

  My heart jumped into my throat. With shaking hands, I dropped the photos on the desk and they fluttered to rest on top of the messy papers. I twisted my head over my shoulder. Yep, the doorknob was moving. It sounded like someone was picking it. Not the sound of a key, but a rattling noise. As if someone was trying to coax the lock open.

  My eyes swept around the apartment. There was one way out to the hallway, and whoever was trying to get in was currently occupying that exact spot. I could flee to the kitchen, but there wasn’t any place to hide in there, either. The bathroom was precariously close to the front door. Which meant there was one place left: the closet.

  Moving with the stealth of a panther and the grace of an elephant, I tiptoed to the closet door, which was half open. I slipped inside, then shut the door, shrinking behind Fab’s shirts that smelled overwhelmingly like CK One cologne. My eyes began to water, which was extra awkward because I was trying not to tremble or sniffle. Or sneeze. I pinched my nose with my thumb and forefinger.

  My dive into the closet came in time to hear the lock tumblers release and the front door hinges creak open. I held my breath as I heard footsteps on the wooden floor. The steps came closer and sweat pricked the back of my neck.

  I heard a man’s gruff voice and a few choice swear words. The voice was unusual. Low and growly, with a hint of a southern twang. Possibly an old Florida accent, the kind that pronounced Miami “Miamuh.” Then again, I was in no position to test my linguistics expertise.

  “Idiot,” he ground out. Fear flowed through me. What the heck? The guy, whoever he was, sounded enraged. But why? His voice was the audio equivalent of dark alleys. Who was he? Why was he in Fab’s apartment? And most importantly, what did he know about Fab’s death? The idea that I was hiding in a closet from a possible killer made those Rice Krispies treats in my stomach feel like ground glass.

  Papers shuffled, and I knew the man was only a few steps from where I stood. I was breathing from the tops of my lungs. Do not move. Don’t even blink.

  Drawers opened and closed, and the man grunted. I pressed my hands into my thighs, trying to take up as little space as possible.

  “Aha. Here they are.” He swore again, saying something creatively filthy, then sighed. What was he looking at? And who was he referring to?

  “That little tramp. Spreading her legs for him like that. And I thought we were friends.”

  Footsteps stomped across the wooden floor, making everything vibrate. Including my bowels.

  And then the door slammed shut. Was he really gone? I couldn’t be too sure, so I wasn’t about to move. Another door slammed. Probably the one to the back stairwell, the one Fab routinely used and the one I’d taken to get here.

  Out of sheer fear, I zoned out for several minutes. Then I inhaled loudly and my hands, which were stuck to my legs, relaxed. I moved my right hand along the back of the closet,
or what I thought was the back. What was all this fringe? It felt like leather. Then I extended my other hand and came to something cold and metal. Weird.

  My heart still pounding, I pushed out of the closet. I peeked out through Fab’s shirts. The place was empty. Thank goodness. I emerged then turned back, peering into the closet now that there was light. I was curious about what my fingers had made contact with.

  I parted the clothes. There, right where I’d hid, was a pair of handcuffs on a hook attached to the back wall of the closet. And on the other side, hung by a peg on a loop, was a whip. Okay, then. Christian Grey had a red room of pain and a walk-in wardrobe full of expensive suits, and Fab had a nondescript closet of mildly kinky toys and Hawaiian shirts doused in CK One. That latter fact was sadistic enough, in my opinion.

  One thing was certain: Fab obviously shared many secrets with a multitude of women. Was there anyone on this island who knew them all? If so, how could I find that person? Because I’d bet if I did, I’d figure out how, and why, he died.

  And my article would be incredible.

  Backing away from the closet, my reporter’s mind reeling, I rushed to the desk. What had that man seen? Stanley’s vaccine certificate was still there, and I tucked it in my pocket. So were the business cards, and I grabbed as many as I could. I sorted through the papers once more.

  Crystal’s naked photos were gone.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I hauled butt down three flights of stairs and ran back to my house, shaking the entire way. Now that I was a dog owner, a fierce maternal instinct and irrational fear for Stanley’s life welled inside me. I burst through the door.

  “Stanley,” I cried, slamming the door and locking it. He was okay! He bounded toward me and I knelt, allowing him to lick my face for several minutes. This was the love I needed after those terrifying moments at Fab’s.

  Crap. I’d forgotten the dog bowls. Whatever. I’d buy new ones.

  My heart was still rattling against my ribcage. I swept my gaze around the house, and my cozy living room decorated in shades of gold and red suddenly seemed menacing. Stanley was panting from excitement, his silky gold tail wagging. I mopped the sweat from my brow. Gah.

  “Let’s go to Dad’s, little dude,” I said to the dog. The thought of staying alone gave me the creeps. Especially since whoever that was in Fab’s apartment seemed to have a key to one of the downstairs doors. Or the expertise of picking locks. Who knows what else he had? Fab’s keys to the cafe? The knowledge that I lived nearby, alone? What if that man was searching for Stanley?

  Like I said, irrational.

  I went to my purse and pulled out my phone, intending to call Dad and let him know I’d be over soon. Thankfully I’d kept it on silent during my sojourn to Fab’s, and I said a little prayer that Noah had called.

  No such luck. There was a message from Erica, however.

  Hey, I’m getting down and dirty at the Dirty Dolphin. Want to meet me for a drink? This place is on fire! I think there’s a cheesy Jimmy Buffett cover band about to come on.

  I exhaled. On fire wasn’t the phrase I’d use for the Dolphin. Dive bar with ex-felons was more like it. Still, it was one of the bigger bars on the island, always had live music, and sported an impressive waterfront deck that was a sweet spot for sunset watching.

  Even though the sun had long since dipped below the horizon, maybe I should stop by and tell Erica what had just happened at Fab’s. Dogs were welcome there, and I could use a cold one.

  Maybe I was overreacting about the guy in Fab’s apartment. After all, I’d been snooping around. Who was to say others wouldn’t, too? I needed an outside opinion, and Erica was familiar with the whole situation. I’d grab a beer, chat with Erica, then go to Dad’s.

  Sure. I’ll be there in fifteen. Bringing Stanley.

  After tossing a few things in an overnight bag, I tried to steel myself as Stanley and I walked outside on the quiet street to my car, which was parked at the curb. Would I have to start parking in the garage? Or was I being paranoid? Devil’s Beach was normally one of the safest places in Florida, and now it felt out of control. Threatening, even.

  Ten minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot of the Dirty Dolphin. During the day, it was a serviceable, if a bit threadbare, restaurant that served decent grouper sandwiches. Tourists adored the place at sunset. After dark it turned into the cantina from Star Wars.

  I walked in, and two bikers eyed me and the dog. Stanley growled, and the bikers chuckled. I did, too.

  “Watch out, he’s fierce,” I said.

  Erica was at the bar, and I slid into the seat next to her. Stanley was small enough that he sat in my lap, his tiny face peeking over the counter.

  “Good lord, woman. What happened to you?” Erica eyed me and took a sip of her drink.

  The bartender sauntered over.

  “What’ll it be?” he asked.

  “Whatever she’s having. And if you have a puppuccino for him, that would be great.”

  The guy cocked his head and grinned. “Puppuccino?”

  I smiled, for what felt like the first time in forever. “Cup of whipped cream.”

  “Puppuccino and a Sex on the Beach, coming up.”

  I rolled my eyes. Guess I’d only have one drink tonight, or I’d have to leave my car here and Uber to Dad’s.

  Swiveling my chair to face Erica, I groaned.

  “Yikes, what happened?” she blew a blue strand of hair out of her face. “You’re sweating like a hog.”

  “Thanks. That’s attractive. I’m dying over here. Somebody fan me.”

  She reached to scratch the top of Stanley’s head.

  “I went into Fab’s apartment tonight. Again.” I’d told her about the confrontation at Fab’s door with Paige the other night.

  “What?” She snatched her hand back and grabbed her drink.

  “Yeah. Thought I’d go up and get Stanley’s dog dishes. And find his shot records.”

  “Bull crap. You were there to snoop around.”

  “Oh. I didn’t tell you. The editor at the paper wants an article. So, yeah, I was doing research.”

  “That’s great news,” she squealed. “And is that what they call breaking and entering now? Research?”

  The bartender brought my drink and I scowled.

  “Kidding. Here’s to research!” She held her plastic cup in the air and I touched my drink to hers. Stanley whimpered, and I rested my drink on the bar so I could give him the treat. He lapped up the whipped cream with gusto.

  “I found something.”

  “Oh my God. What?”

  I leaned in. “Naked pictures. Of a woman named Crystal. Fab was in one. I think he was into bondage.”

  Erica blinked. “Hunh. Wouldn’t have thought he’d be into that. So? You going to put that in the paper?”

  “Crystal? No. I won’t name her. I might mention that he was into some sex games. How can I write the article without mentioning how he was the town’s bicycle?”

  She cracked up, slapping her knee. “The town’s bicycle. Everyone rode him. That’s hilarious.”

  I shrugged. “Fab probably received tons of naked pictures from women.”

  “Okayyy … so what’s the big deal? People do that these days.” She put the straw to her lips.

  “Someone came in while I was snooping around, and I had to hide in the closet.”

  Erica’s eyes bulged and she started to cough, so much that a little liquid leaked out her nose.

  “You okay?” I stopped feeding Stanley the whipped cream and handed Erica a paper napkin.

  “Someone came in?” she wheezed. “Did they see you?”

  “Nope. I hid in the closet. Where there was bondage gear. Whips and chains and stuff.”

  “Okay, this escalated quickly.”

  “You’re telling me. And I was almost drowned in his stupid Calvin Klein cologne that was on all the clothes in the closet. I can still smell it on my hair.”

  Her nose wrinkled.
“So, what happened with the person who came in?”

  “The guy stomped around for a few minutes, swore a lot, then stomped out. When I finally climbed out of the closet, I saw that he’d taken Crystal’s naked photos.”

  Erica shook her head. “Whoa. Are you thinking this has anything to do with Fab’s death?”

  I took two long swallows of my Sex on the Beach. “I guess? I have no idea. I’m going to have to run this by Noah. Although he probably won’t be pleased that I was probing around, considering he gave me explicit instructions not to snoop. But that was before I got the assignment to write the article.”

  “I don’t think the article excuse will matter much to Sheriff Hottie.”

  “Chief. Not Sheriff.”

  We grinned at each other, and I waved my free hand excitedly. “Oh, and I found this, too: Fab was applying to a wrestling school. He’d talked about how much he loved wrestling. That means he had something to look forward to. Why would he kill himself? It still doesn’t make sense, and I refuse to believe it.”

  Erica held her plastic cup up, signaling to the bartender that she wanted another. “So, let’s say he was killed. Who are the suspects so far?”

  I wriggled closer to her and unstuck Stanley’s little snout from the cup. “Okay. Let’s assess. There’s the unknown man in the apartment. He had a deep voice and southern accent.”

  “Deep Voice Burglar,” she held up her index finger.

  “There’s Paige Dotson, his girlfriend. She was upset that he was screwing around.”

  “Paige.” Erica held up her middle finger, so she looked like a Boy Scout. “Paige has accused you, so that might mean she’s trying to divert attention away from herself.”

  “Right! And there’s Mr. and Mrs. Clarke, the swinger couple who also bought Fab a scooter. Although they’re on a cruise.” When Erica blinked, confused, I quickly explained. “Rumor has it that Fab had given Mrs. Clarke some private latte lessons, if you know what I mean. The Clarkes have been on the island forever. Pillars of society. Kinda weird.”