by Tara Lush
“That’s her name.” He took a sip of his beer.
“Do you have a photo?” Erica asked.
“Why would she be jealous if you have a freaky open relationship?” I swayed on my feet. Nothing made sense. My vision was swimming, as if I was just under the water’s surface. Erica jabbed me hard in the ribs with her sharp elbow.
“She’s got a nasty streak, but I don’t give a damn. She’s got it coming, anyway. Made me jealous one too many times.” He rapped his knuckles on the table, enough to make the empty shot glasses rattle. Erica and I exchanged alarmed glances.
He looked up. “What’s good for the goose is good for the gander, right?”
Erica mustered a tight-lipped smile. Now she wasn’t flirting, thank God. “Absolutely. Well, we’ll see you probably over the weekend!”
He leaned in and gave her a peck on the cheek. “It was a pleasure, my dear,” he said gallantly.
I extended my hand, not wanting to get that close to him. I was already quaking a little, mostly from the excitement of finding out that Crystal of the nude photos was his old lady. The pieces were falling together! He’d killed Fab in a crime of passion. I could practically write the article tonight, solve the crime, and call Noah to make the arrest.
Of course, I wouldn’t, because I was so drunk I probably couldn’t turn on my own computer.
“Thanks for the free drinks, ladies! It feels nice being objectified for once.” He laughed at his own joke, stretched and scratched his chest. “I think the band’s going to start their second set. Gonna move a little closer and get my dance on.”
“You do that. Nice meeting you, Gary,” I said, scooping up Stanley.
“Bye, little fella,” he said, extending a thin hand to Stanley’s ear and scratching. Stanley squirmed with glee. No, Stanley was not a good judge of character at all.
Erica and I practically tripped over each other trying to leave the bar. We burst out the front door, and by that time, Dad was already there in his Prius.
I dove into the passenger side with Stanley, and Erica into the back.
“Good lord, you two smell like a tequila distillery,” Dad said.
“Holy crap, did you hear that?” Erica shrieked.
“Hear what?” Dad asked eagerly.
That was my dad for you. Even though his thirty-year-old daughter was drunk on a Monday night with a random woman she’d recently met, toting along a new Shih Tzu puppy acquired from a crime victim, he was willing to ignore those details to get the gossip.
No wonder I’d become a reporter.
“I think we found Fab’s killer,” I replied.
* * *
Business the next morning at Perkatory was tepid, like a cup of instant coffee left on the counter for an hour. But my hangover was a full-on roar, made worse by the pit of shame that had formed in my stomach. I wiped down the tables in the nearly empty café, my limbs heavy.
I had to turn this around, and fast. It had been Mom’s dream to open this coffee shop, and while she was alive, it thrived. Dad had let it get a little frayed around the edges, but I had turned it around—until Fab died. If Perkatory failed on my watch, my heart might not take the fracture of destroying Mom’s vision.
It would also mean that I’d failed at not one but two careers by the time I was thirty.
Sighing, I scooped up a stack of newspapers and brought them behind the counter. It was old habit to peel open the paper, while I sipped my coffee, going through the stack. Comics, sports, supermarket flyers.
I scanned the headlines while thinking of the article on Fab. It gave me a little satisfaction that with a week of reporting, I’d be able to write an article like the Devil’s Beach Beacon hadn’t seen in decades. At my old paper, I was known for writing investigative long-form journalism. I’d also penned the occasional quirky feature, and, of course, articles about Florida Man, the oft-cited reference to any guy stupid, crazy, or wacky enough to get into the news.
Today, the Devil’s Beach Beacon sported a full page spread of the wild monkeys—including one particularly eye-catching photo of a monkey diving into a pond at the wildlife preserve in the middle of the island. I skimmed a boring city council meeting story and read every word of a brief about a man who had a screwdriver lodged in a very private place.
I turned the page, thinking I’d check the “Community” section. It was where the island’s births, deaths, and weddings ran. Like the society pages for Devil’s Beach, only instead of Town and Country, most folks here were poor to middle class service workers, and named their kids Kyzer, Jax, Amor, or Stoddard.
Most of the people I’d went to high school with had moved away, but the few who hadn’t were already past the wedding stage and well into the baby stage of life. And as a fourth-generation island resident, I usually knew more than a couple of folks in the obituaries, too.
Today, the Community page’s top headline jumped right into my line of vision.
Memorial Service Scheduled For Popular Island Barista.
I sipped in a breath. Guess Paige had organized something after all.
Next to me, Erica slid a gallon of milk into the fridge.
“Did you see this?” I asked her in a quiet voice. No need to rile up the few customers we still had.
She came next to me, her hand on her hip. “Hunh. You planning on going?”
“It’s next week. A few days before the barista contest. I should go, at least for the article, I guess.” In between snooping for clues about Fab and learning to care for a puppy (which as far as I was concerned pretty similar to having a newborn dropped into one’s home, only with barking and four paws), I’d been fretting about that Sunshine State Barista Championship. I wasn’t sure if I still had the bandwidth for it.
“I think you definitely need to be there,” she said. “Show that you’re not intimidated. Let’s put it this way: if you’d met him in passing, say, as a bartender at the Dolphin, would you go?”
I considered this for a moment. “Of course. If anything, out of respect for him as a fellow service worker. I feel like hiding, for some reason. Even though I haven’t done anything. Stupid, isn’t it?”
“Well, don’t hide.”
I closed the paper and folded it into a rectangle. “I’m not sure I feel like doing the barista contest, either.”
“Shut up. We’re doing the contest. Your latte art has gotten so much better.”
I lifted my shoulders. “I guess.”
It was true. In our spare time—which was often because the café hadn’t been busy—I’d been practicing my foam hearts and palm trees under Erica’s tutelage. Just this morning, I’d made one so pretty that I’d Instagrammed it myself.
“You and I will compete in the championship and …” I followed her line of sight, to the counter. It was Mickey Dotson, owner of Island Brewnette. Why hadn’t I heard the bells? I glanced to the door. The bells were gone. Crap. Had someone stolen them?
“And what?” he asked, a smirk dancing on his face.
“And we’re going to win,” I snapped. Ugh. Probably a bad idea considering he was the father of Fab’s girlfriend. And his boss, for a few hours. Still. His snarky expression and creeping up on our conversation irked me.
“We’ll see about that. Paige and I are a pretty good team.”
They didn’t seem that great of a team at the grocery store, but I let that slide. Truth be told, I’d felt a lingering sympathy for Paige since that day.
I’d always been wary of the Dotsons, ever since Paige and I were in high school. They were such a perfect family—at least that’s how they portrayed themselves to the island in between infrequent public outbursts. She’d been consistently mean to me. That behavior of his in the grocery store was a crack in their shiny façade and explained a lot about her attitude.
“How can we help you?” I asked.
“Well, I’m certainly not interested in your coffee,” he sniffed.
I narrowed my eyes. Jerk. That’s because it’s rea
l coffee, unlike the generic sludge you serve, I wanted to say. But I couldn’t bring myself to be nasty.
“I came to invite you to Fab’s memorial service,” he said stiffly. “I figured your employees would want to attend. Tell your father, too.”
My nostrils twitched.
“I appreciate the invite. Thank you.”
We stood, staring at each other, in kind of a face-off.
“Why’d you hire him away?” I blurted. “That wasn’t very neighborly to steal him away like that. Who knows what would’ve happened had you left things alone.”
He snorted and shook his head. “I was trying to make Paige happy. She thought that she could keep an eye on him if he worked there …”
I nodded slowly, getting the impression that there was more to this story. “… but?”
“But he’d broken her heart one too many times and then the damned fool had to go and die, okay?” His dark eyes blazed with fury.
I reared back. Clearly Mickey was someone who had a flash temper. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. Just when I was about to ask more questions, Mickey’s phone buzzed. “Gotta take this. It’s the health board.”
I frowned. “The health board?”
“Yeah, didn’t you see today’s story in the paper? I was recently appointed. There was a vacancy when June Smith moved up north. I thought you’d know, since you’re a newshound and all.” There was that snarky grin again.
Blergh. I’d insulted a guy who was on the health board. Someone who had the power to shut my business down. I smiled, tight-lipped. I was an idiot. “Congratulations. And hey, thanks. I appreciate you telling us about the funeral.”
Just as he was walking out, Noah strolled in. The two men passed, and I watched as Mickey didn’t say hello to Noah. He flung open the door and didn’t allow Noah the courtesy of entering. Instead, he huffed out.
With a half-smile, Noah approached the counter. “What’s up with him?”
“He’s a meanie,” Erica said.
“Something to do with his daughter,” I muttered.
Noah scrutinized me with those whiskey colored eyes. Tell me everything, his eyes said. Okay, my man-starved heart replied.
He grabbed for an individually wrapped Rice Krispie treat, and I poured his hot water.
“How’s the case going?” I asked, sliding the hot cup to him.
“Which one?” He grinned lazily.
I rolled my eyes. “You know the one I’m talking about.”
He took a deep inhale and by the way his cheeks, nose, and eyes pinched, I guessed that he was sick of me pestering him about Fab.
“We’re leaning toward ruling it a suicide,” he said in an even tone. “I’ll make a determination in a day or two.”
“What?” I cried out. “That’s ridiculous.”
Erica stared at me with wide eyes. “I’m going to check inventory in the back room,” she said, jerking her thumb over her shoulder. “I think we’re running low on the house blend.” She scurried away.
“Well that was quite the reaction,” Noah said, unwrapping the Krispie treat. “Why are you so adamant about it not being suicide?”
“I think there’s … more. More that you don’t know. I’m writing an article about Fab in the Devil’s Beach Beacon.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really?”
“Yes. I’ve been doing some research.” I ignored his warning stare.
“Didn’t I ask you not to investigate?”
“I’m on assignment. I’m a professional journalist. You might not be used to those here on Devil’s Beach.” I folded my arms.
He sighed. “Okay. Want to share any of your research with me? Or do I have to wait to read it in the paper?”
While he demolished the sweet, I told him about my night of drinking with Gary. I explained everything except the part about me breaking into Fab’s house. Noah narrowed his eyes and folded the plastic wrap into a neat square, then rolled it into a ball.
I held out my hand. “I’ll take that,” I said.
His fingers brushed my palm as he dropped the plastic into my hand. My skin felt like it had been singed.
“Yeah, so Gary was an interesting guy, and a bit strange, too,” I said, rolling the plastic ball between my palms.
“Back up. What about Gary the shrimper is strange? That’s kind of random, you picking some guy out in a bar.”
I wrinkled my nose. “You’re a good cop, you know that?”
“No, I just know an incomplete story when I hear one.”
Aiming at the wastebasket, I tossed the balled-up plastic and made the shot. “You’re right. There is more to the story.”
Noah’s eyes widened when I told him how I’d gone into Fab’s apartment. About the naked photos of Crystal. About Gary going into Fab’s place. His mouth set in a hard line and he shoved his glasses up his nose, looking cuter than ever.
“It’s interesting, but I’m not sure what it means,” he said, running a hand through his shock of dark hair. “Other than there’s more than one person on this island willing to break into Fab’s apartment. I don’t think that’s an ethical reporting tactic, Lana.”
“I didn’t break in. I had a key. And anyway, he’s my tenant. I’ll have to clean the apartment out eventually.” Well, he was really my dad’s tenant, and he would have to clean the apartment. But those were unnecessary details. Ones that Noah was well aware of.
“And the other guy? Did he have a key?”
I shrugged. “He got in somehow. It didn’t sound like a key, though. It took him a while to get the door open.”
“And we don’t know for certain that the man who walked into Fab’s was the same man you talked with in the bar.”
I smirked. “Whoever it was took Crystal’s photo. And Gary Leon Knowles said he was involved with a woman named Crystal. Seems pretty solid to me. Plus, their voices matched.”
“Did Gary tell you where he lived?”
“Actually, he did. Well, he told Erica. Why? You thinking about going to chat with him?”
“Possibly.”
“He’s not here. He’s on a shrimp trip. Or whatever you call it. Said he was leaving today and coming back Saturday.”
Noah nodded. “I might swing by his house anyway, in case he hasn’t left.”
“To talk with Crystal?”
“Perhaps.”
“Can I come?”
Noah stared at me incredulously, a look so hilarious that I laughed. It made me want to tease him.
“I mean, why not? I used to tag along with cops all the time when I was a reporter in Miami.”
A grin slowly spread on his face. “You’re a pest, you know that?”
“I’ll go get my purse and notebook.”
Chapter Fifteen
On the drive to Gary and Crystal’s in the police cruiser, I studied Noah’s profile. His features—ears that stuck out slightly, dark brows, a nose on the big side—weren’t all that remarkable if taken individually. They were possibly even ugly, on another man. But on him, the entire package was irresistible, alluring in a dark and brooding way that made my stomach squeeze.
Yes, Chief Noah Garcia was more interesting-looking than my ex. And probably way less narcissistic, too. In the confines of his police car, he wasn’t as friendly as he normally was in the café, and we rode in silence for a couple of excruciating minutes.
“How do you like these dash cams?” I asked.
He grunted in response.
My gaze landed on a little medallion stuck to the dashboard. It was about an inch in diameter and etched with a winged figure.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“St. Michael.”
“Oh. Your patron saint?”
“Patron saint of police officers, paramedics, and the military.”
Interesting. He didn’t strike me as the superstitious or religious type, but I guess every little bit didn’t hurt when one was dealing with Floridians.
“Why’d you become a p
oliceman, anyway?” I asked casually as we drove Beach Drive, the road that rings the island and hugs the coast. On one side, giant mansions loomed. On the other, there was the impossible blue of the Gulf of Mexico.
“I was kinda born into it. Father, grandfather, great-grandfather, great-great grandfather. All cops in Tampa. I was my parents’ only son, the firstborn.”
Impressive. In my time in Florida I met few people like me whose roots were in this state.
“It must have been hard to leave Tampa and come here all alone.”
Yes, I was shamelessly fishing for personal information.
He shrugged and slowed the car, flicking his blinker and smoothly taking a right on Spruce Street. This was the less-nice part of the island, where a cluster of trailer parks and apartment buildings sat. Mostly the island’s service workers lived in this neighborhood, as it was the last affordable area left.
“I’d gone through a bad breakup and had enough of the city. Had enough of a deeply dysfunctional department that wasn’t changing with the times. I wanted change. And lots of it. I also wanted to wake up in the morning and see the water. Take out my kayak on my days off. Do some fishing. When I was in Tampa, I lived downtown in a condo a few blocks from the station. I never got away. Wasn’t healthy.”
Now we were getting somewhere. I thought of my life in Miami, and it was much the same. “Understandable. How did your family take it, coming here?”
“My mom wasn’t pleased. She loves having family around and had hoped for grandkids. Dad passed last year, and that was another impetus for me to leave.”
“I’m sorry,” I said softly. “I thought I heard something around town about you being Cuban-American? When did your family come to Florida?”
“My great-great-grandfather came to work in the cigar factories as a teen. He eventually became Tampa’s first Cuban police officer. My mom’s side is also Cuban, they came in the sixties.”
“Fascinating. I don’t meet many people who were even born here, much less have any significant family history here.”
“Yeah, I guess we’re kinda the same, you and I, with those Florida roots.” He finally cracked a grin and my heart melted a little. We had common ground. If only I could get over my hang-up about older men and convince him I wasn’t a murderer, perhaps we’d have a shot at a relationship. Yeah, right.
