by Tara Lush
“Hello!” I paused at a particularly unique creation, a tail that appeared as though it was made from sea junk. It was a deep green, with pieces of shells, fake seaweed, and small plastic bottles sewn into the material. The top appeared to be risqué and see through, made of some kind of mesh fabric.
Brittany came to my side. “I made this for an Earth Day event. It was a protest piece to stop polluting our oceans with plastic,” she said.
Ohhh. Now it made sense. “Impressive.”
She leaned in and scratched Stanley’s head. His back end started wiggling. “You’re such a doll,” she cooed. Then she straightened her spine.
“That’s Stanley.” Her voice had gone from bubbly to stone-cold in a matter of seconds. “Fab’s dog.”
“Yes.” A chill flowed through my body. It was a stupid idea to bring Stanley here. What if she’d been the woman to give Fab the puppy? What if she wanted him back and we ended up fighting over him? I tightened my grip on the dog.
“I’m Lana,” I said, extending my hand.
She shook it, warily. “I know. The café owner.”
“Yes. My dad was Fab’s landlord.”
She nodded.
“I thought I’d come by to tell you personally about Fab’s memorial service next week. Not sure if you saw the notice in the paper. And I’m also writing an article for the Devil’s Beach Beacon about him. I was hoping to get a quote or two from you. You know, as one of his customers. You spoke so highly of him the other week.”
I watched as she swallowed hard, and my heart tugged for a second. Now that I studied her face, the dark circles under her eyes jumped out at me.
“Thank you for telling me about the funeral,” she whispered. “I didn’t know. I don’t read the paper.”
I almost sighed but stopped myself. Who does read the newspaper anymore?
“It’s so sad all the way around, isn’t it? Such a shock. He was full of life, wasn’t he? I’m sorry for your loss.”
A watery smile spread on her face. “Thank you.”
“Were you two close? Oh, and do you mind if I record the interview on my phone for the article?” Normally I preferred to use pen and paper, but I couldn’t write and wrangle Stanley at the same time.
She shook her head. “Don’t mind at all.”
I put the dog down and held tight to his leash while holding my phone about a foot from her frosted-pink lips.
“We met years ago, Fab and I. In New York City.”
“Really?” I perked up.
“Yeah. We both worked at a café called Pane e Cioccolato. Bread and Chocolate. In the village. We were both baristas. We weren’t close back then. We lost touch when I moved to the Keys for a few years, then I came here. That was a month ago. I ran into him at a party.”
“What a coincidence. You were a barista? And what kind of party?”
Her eyes flitted around. “It was kind of an exclusive event. For adults only.”
Uh-huh. Probably some sort of swingers thing. Before I could ask another question, she spoke quickly. “We started to hang out a bit, just friends. I’d asked him if he wanted me to pet sit Stanley.”
“Yes, another of his girlfriends, er, friends, had given Stanley to him. I’m told she’s no longer on the island, so he’s staying with me.” It was a little white lie, but I didn’t want to open the door for her to claim him.
“If you don’t want him —”
“Oh, I do,” I interrupted, then added quickly, “I was about to get a dog anyway.”
“I see. Well, thank you for coming by.”
“You’re so welcome. I have a few more questions. I was wondering, when was the last time you saw Fab?”
She walked behind the counter and unfurled a roll of fabric. I followed along, holding my phone out so I could record her answers. “Let me think. Probably about a week before he died. We paddle boarded to Beer Can Island.”
That wasn’t really an island, it was a sand spit a few hundred yards from Devil’s Beach. It was known for being a party spot—or a make out spot for couples, at least back in high school. Kids would take their families’ boats there and hang out. As I didn’t kayak, canoe, paddle, or boat, I hadn’t been there since my return home.
“I see.” I paused. “Wait. The day he died. At Island Brewnette. You saw me confront him.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh! Yes. That’s right. I did. Stupid me. And I was supposed to see him the night he died but he texted and said something had come up.”
“Oh?” Fab seemed to have a lot of plans that night, between Lex and Brittany. Unless one of them was lying.
“Yeah, so I ended up staying here and sewing all night.” She held up the fabric. “I had an order for a mermaid costume for a stripper up in Jacksonville.”
I blinked, trying to imagine how that would work from a physical standpoint.
Brittany laughed, a pretty, tinkling sound. “You’re confused, right? I was, too. We think of mermaids as having no feet.”
I giggled. “Exactly!”
“See, I’m going to have more of a gown that hugs the lower part and kicks out in the back, like a tail. It’s open like a skirt, kind of like a Morticia Addams dress.” She ran her hand over a sequined swatch. “It will be held together with Velcro so it’s easily removeable on stage.”
“So clever.” I peered over the counter. “You think of all these patterns and designs yourself?”
“I do,” she said proudly. “I went to FIT in New York. But I figured this was a better place for a mermaid tail company than the city.” She glanced at a clock shaped like a clamshell that was attached to the wall. I’m so sorry, I have another appointment soon and must get ready. It’s a custom fitting. Is that all you wanted to ask?”
“I had one more question.”
“Shoot,” she smiled.
“Do you think Fab committed suicide?”
She licked her lips. “That’s what police say, right? I saw that on TV.”
“Pretty much.”
“Is there any reason not to believe them?” She blinked a few times, and I wondered how she kept those long, false eyelashes on so well. Every time I’d tried to use them, I felt like my eyes were covered in spiders.
“I guess not. It appeared as though Fab had everything to live for. And so many people are asking about him, I thought I’d write an article to try to shed some light on his life, and troubles.”
Brittany swept her hands over the fabric. “What is it that they say? Appearances can be deceiving?”
“True.” I paused, letting that sink in. I pushed the STOP button on my phone recorder. “Well, I’ll be sure to hit you up if I need a tail. Or a stripper outfit.”
We both smiled at each other and said goodbye. I hoisted Stanley in my arms and toted him to the car. Maybe Fab’s death had a silver lining—it had forced me to go out into the world and talk to actual human beings again.
* * *
Sundays were usually hopping at Perkatory, and thankfully today’s steady flow indicated that regulars were returning. Dad and I worked the counter together, then paused during a lull at around ten-thirty.
“I heard Miles was in town the other day,” Dad said. He was clutching a thermos of his gross green juice that he’d brought from home.
“He came to do a story on Fab.” I reached for my espresso and took a sip. Talking about my ex was the last thing I wanted, especially after the relatively normal morning, the first we’d had in days.
“Heard that, too. Someone at Bay-Bay’s told me.”
“Of course they did.”
“He didn’t try to talk you into moving back to Miami or anything, did he?”
I snorted, thinking about what Miles tried to talk me into. “Hardly. And even if he tried, I wouldn’t go back to Miami.”
“Really?” Dad’s eyebrows lifted. “Any reason you prefer it here on Devil’s Beach now? There was a time when as a teenager you couldn’t wait to leave.”
It was true. I wasted no time
in getting out of here when I graduated from high school. I shrugged. “Pfft. No. Even if Miles said he’d support me, and I could just hang out and go to the spa every day on Miami Beach. I’m done with him and that lifestyle.”
“Interesting. Might it have something to do with our handsome police chief?”
“Dad, no,” I protested, wondering who had been gossiping about Noah and me. “I want to make this work here. Just wish I could nail this article on Fab I’m doing for Mike at the paper, though. It’s the only thing I miss about my old life. Writing.”
“How is that story coming along?” Dad took a big slurp of juice.
I wiped down the counter and paused, shooting a judgmental glance at a green blob clinging to his mustache.
I’d woken at four this morning and tried to sketch an outline of the story but came up short. “My article is crap,” I mumbled, finishing my espresso.
“I find that hard to believe, pumpkin. Not with that shrimp boat captain having the criminal record that he does.”
I scowled. “Gary?”
“Yep. Gary. You need to get the official records of course, but rumor has it, he’s quite the felon.”
“Hmph. He was supposed to return from his shrimping trip last night. I wonder if he’s around today and available for an interview.”
I thought about calling Erica, since he’d been so flirty with her. Maybe we could go chat him up for the article and try to find out more about his relationship with Fab. And Crystal’s relationship—although from the photos, that connection was pretty obvious.
Erica. Come to think of it, I hadn’t heard from her since yesterday. She’d claimed to have a lot to do around the sailboat. Something about swabbing the deck or something. I didn’t know if that was a euphemism for something kinky or illegal, or if she was actually going to clean her boat.
I reached for my phone and texted her.
Mornin’! How are things with you?
My anxiety grew every second she didn’t reply. “Tell me more about Gary’s criminal record,” I said to Dad.
“From what I hear—and this is coming from the police department secretary—he was in a lot of trouble up in Louisiana.”
“What kind of trouble?” I hissed. Now I was exasperated. Dad sometimes did this, doled out the gossip in drips and drabs for dramatic effect.
“Oh, you know. Shrimp smuggling. That sort of thing.”
“Is that a thing? I’ve never heard of that criminal charge.”
Dad raised his shoulders. “That’s what I heard. Oh, and disorderly conduct. And I think an aggravated assault.”
My eyes widened. Dear God, I hoped Erica didn’t somehow hook up with him. Was she strange enough to do that? I didn’t know her all that well. They had talked about hanging out when he returned.
“Do you think he had anything to do with Fab’s death?” I lowered my voice.
“Hard to tell. You have any other possible suspects?”
“Not really,” I said. My phone vibrated and I lunged for it.
Oh God I’m barely alive. Send help.
I gasped. “I think Erica’s in trouble.”
Dad frowned. “How so?”
Where are you? Where is he holding you? I’ll call Noah and we’ll come save you.
My phone rang almost immediately. It was Erica.
“Why are you calling the chief?” she said in a raspy voice.
“Oh my God. How badly hurt are you?” I yelled.
“I’m not hurt at all,” she replied. “And thank God no one’s holding me right now.”
“Then why did you say you were barely alive?”
“Because I’m hungover.”
I paused. “Oh.”
“I went out last night with a couple of women I met at the marina. You’ve gotta meet them. They’re fun as hell.”
“Oh.”
“What did you do last night?”
“Baked cookies.” Suddenly I felt about eighty, not thirty.
“Cool. Save some for me.” I was surprised Erica didn’t make fun of my geekiness, but it was probably because she was moaning in pain.
“I’m just glad you’re okay.”
“Why did you think I wasn’t okay?”
“Well, because I thought you were with Gary Leon Knowles, and I was worried he’d hurt you somehow …” my voice trailed off. It sounded kinda stupid when I said it aloud.
“Nah. He never even called or texted like he said he would.”
“Probably a good thing.”
She yawned. “I’m going back to bed. See you tomorrow.”
We hung up and I drummed my fingers on the table. I needed to do more reporting. Wanted the thrill of writing an amazing story. Wanted to shed light on Fab’s brief life, and mysterious death. He’d sought the spotlight, and now that he was gone, might gain a bit of recognition if I could craft a great story. I owed that to Fab, after how I’d treated him on his last day alive.
“I’m going to do some sleuthing,” I said to Dad.
He slurped his green juice. “That’s my girl.”
* * *
I hadn’t asked Lex about Gary. They both knew Fab, but did they know each other?
It honestly hadn’t occurred to me—the two seemed like they were from different planets. One was a sexy surfer with ties to the mob (allegedly) and the other was a rough-hewn southern boy who looked like he might be a good candidate for casting in a remake of Urban Cowboy. Lex said “like” a lot, and Gary preferred “y’all.”
Still, unlike nearly everyone else, Lex had been kind to me. He’d practically cried on my shoulder. I needed to press him more about going on the record for the article, and to question him about Gary, so I headed back over to his cabin.
I pulled up under a palm tree, two homes down from Lex’s place. While walking to his front door, I worked up a sweat. Even though it was August, it was hotter than hell and all of Florida. If it got any warmer, I’d have to take off clothes I should really keep on.
The main door was open, and the screen door shut when I walked up the three steps. I gently rapped on the wooden side of the screen door. No answer. I pulled at the edge of my blue T-shirt, which was stuck to my back. My skort—yes, a skirt-shorts combo—had adhered to even more uncomfortable locations on my body.
I peered inside, but saw no one. Since his backyard faced the beach, I figured maybe I’d find him there. Sunning himself shirtless, probably. As terrifying as it was to think of Lex being part of the Mafia, I had to admit that he was nice to gawp at. Although he was no Noah Garcia, who was the full package of hot and smart.
Lex was pure guilty pleasure. Like a romance cover model.
There was a path with cement pavers along the side of the house, and I followed it toward the beach. It was heavily overgrown with foliage, and I could barely see a foot in front of me. Every few inches I shoved aside a tropical fern or palm frond. Lex was not keeping up with the gardening.
I nearly tripped over an uneven paver, and righted myself. The beach had to be here somewhere; this wasn’t a never-ending path. I could hear the surf and see the sand, but before I parted the foliage to emerge, like Indiana Jones, I heard a woman’s cry and paused.
“Being pregnant sucks in this heat. Sucks with everything else going on,” she wailed.
“I know, girl. I know.” Lex’s sympathetic voice was easily recognizable. “Are you drinking enough water?”
“I am, but my feet are swelling something fierce.”
“Maybe you need a foot rub.”
“Oh God, I would love that.”
Using only my index finger, I eased a giant leaf aside. Then nearly gasped. It was Paige! In a bikini. Sitting on a beach chair. Lex was on the sand, working his fingers into her bare foot.
Paige was definitely pregnant, I could figure from the small swell of her belly. I carefully let the leaf flutter back into place. Surely the baby was Fab’s.
“Babe, that feels so good.” Her moan was nearly orgasmic. Or perhaps her baby
wasn’t Fab’s.
She moaned again. How good were Lex’s foot rubs, anyway?
“You deserve a little pleasure; you know that, Paige?”
Maybe things were more complicated with Paige than I knew. She groaned again. Oh my God. This sounded so nearly pornographic that my face grew hot. I needed to get out of here. I carefully turned.
“I think I’d like some water,” Paige murmured in a baby voice. “But I don’t want you to stop.”
“I’ll fetch you some, then I’ll keep massaging.”
I tried to tiptoe quickly down the path, but tripped about halfway. Fortunately, I caught myself before I fell, and when I got to the front of the house, I sprinted to my car and peeled away. My heart hadn’t stopped racing ten minutes later when I pulled up to my house.
I needed to call Noah with what I’d just found out. What if the baby was Lex’s? What did it all mean? Sure sounded like Paige was cozy with Lex, the way they carried on.
Could it be that Fab was killed by the people he trusted most?
Chapter Nineteen
Noah wasn’t answering my calls. Of course, he probably had actual police business to attend to, and wasn’t eager to hear my theories about Fab’s death.
I was positively bursting with the details I’d seen and heard at Lex’s house earlier. Since Noah wasn’t around, I texted Erica.
I found out some really sketchy stuff, potentially impacting the Fab situation. I need to tell someone. Can you come over?
I’m on the mainland at the boat store, she responded. How about I come over when I’m done? Two hours?
I let out a sigh. Sounds good. Bring wine.
To control my shaking hands and overactive mind, I set about making up a cheese plate as a snack. Like me, Erica couldn’t resist cheese. And I happened to have several kinds. Plus, crackers. And those little cocktail pickles. I arranged everything on a pretty blue platter, slid it in the fridge, then started to fidget. What the heck, I might as well make more cookies for the coffee shop. I donned an apron and pre-heated the oven.
