Grounds for Murder

by Tara Lush

  “It was made of netting.”

  I scrunched my nose. “Netting. Like a fishnet?”

  “Kind of, but not a commercial one. Similar to one of those 1980s fishnet shirts. Remember those?” Noah glanced at me.

  “Not really. A bit before my time. Do you happen to have a photo?”

  “Got it right here on my phone. I’ll text it to you.”

  He tapped and swiped, and my phone pinged. We took off and I stared at the screen of my cell. The photo was of a greenish-hued fabric caked with dust. It looked more like a bralette, one of those that provide virtually no support. In the photo, it was almost an abstract pattern against a stark white background. I glanced up. “Interesting, don’t you think? It might not be a bra. It’s hard to tell from that photo.”

  “Lana, there were other small pieces of garbage in that alley. That happens a lot—we collect all sorts of stuff we think is evidence, but it turns up nothing. We also found cigarette butts, a paper cup—”

  “A shrimper net,” I said excitedly. “What if it’s not a bra and it came from Gary Leon Knowles?”

  “Doesn’t look like a net used to catch shrimp.” Noah said, pulling into the funeral home parking lot. “And besides. Would Gary have brought a net to push Fab off the roof? Seems implausible.”

  Probably not, but perhaps Crystal had worn something like that … “Have you had a chance to speak with Gary? Or his wife?”

  “I haven’t. We’re dealing with department recertification this month and I’ve been swamped.”

  We climbed out of the car and walked into the funeral home. Everyone stared as we entered, probably wondering why I had the guts to show up at Fab’s funeral when my last conversation with him was so nasty. But because I was with the chief, people were too polite to say anything. Instead, they shook my hand, nodding and murmuring about how sad it all was.

  I spotted Dad on the far side of the room. He was talking animatedly with a gaggle of women who appeared to be drinking wine. It was two in the afternoon. I waved, and Dad blew me a kiss.

  Thankfully, it was a closed casket. Father John O’Halloran, the island’s Catholic priest, took the podium and cleared his throat. Everyone in the place found a seat, and I perched next to Noah.

  “Fab was Catholic?” I hissed to Noah.

  He leaned in, his lips near my ear. I shivered. “He was from Italy, so I’m guessing yes.”

  Ugh, there was so much I didn’t know about him. I needed to get moving with the article. I reached a hand into my bag and discreetly took my phone out of my bag and opened it to a notes app. Noah glanced at me.

  “It’s for the article,” I whispered.

  The priest began to speak, and his voice was a droning monotone. I stealthily tapped a few notes and details as he talked.

  “Our Father in heaven, we thank you that, through Jesus Christ, you have given us the gift of eternal life. Keep us firm in the faith, that nothing can separate us from your love. When we lose someone who is dear to us, help us to receive your comfort and to share it with one another …”

  I tuned out, instead doing what I used to as a reporter: count the number of people in the room. I’d covered dozens of funerals and that was always the first thing I did. Find out how many people were in attendance.

  I began counting heads and came up with two hundred people. Bored, I counted again, realizing I recognized nearly all the islanders here. I spotted Brittany and Paige (sitting on opposite sides of the room, I noted), Lex, Mickey Dotson, and Mr. and Mrs. Clarke (she was sobbing softly, while her husband had a grim frown on his face). Many of our customers were also in attendance.

  After I counted the crowd a third time, that was when it hit me: Gary Leon Knowles and his girlfriend Crystal were nowhere in sight. Was that significant? I wasn’t sure.

  * * *

  I was near silent on the ride back to the café. All I could think of was how few people spoke at the funeral. Other than Lex, who dissolved into tears during a story about the two of them on a fishing trip, no one gave up any details about Fab.

  It seemed that he knew everyone, but no one really knew him.

  Noah pulled up to Perkatory.

  “I’d love to hang out more, but I need to be back at the station. We’ve got a meeting with the fish and wildlife folks about those dang monkeys. They’re really turning into a PR nightmare for the island,” he said, turning in his seat.

  “No worries.” As much as I’d have liked to sit here in his police cruiser and stare at him in his snappy dress blues while discussing wild primates, I had other things to do. My fingers found the door latch. “Thanks for the ride.”

  The corners of his mouth lifted. “Wasn’t quite the first date I’d hoped for.”

  “Well, maybe we can fix that and go out on a real first date.” Holy crap. Did I say that out loud?

  He chuckled. “I’d like that.”

  That stunned me into silence. At least until I blurted what was on my mind. “You would? You don’t mind dating a one-time possible suspect in a death investigation?”

  He frowned. “Are you talking about Fab? Or were you a suspect in another investigation that I don’t know about?”

  “Fab.”

  “Lana, you were never really a suspect. Not to me.”

  “I wasn’t?” A grin spread on my face.

  He shook his head. “I got the parking lot videos from the Miami hotel you stayed in the night of Fab’s death. There was no way you could’ve been responsible based on the ME’s time of death. You were on the road. Plus, your car was captured coming across the toll bridge in the Fast-Pass lane from the mainland at about, oh …” He fixed his eyes out the window moved his head from side to side, “Five forty five that morning. You might want to slow down when you go through those tollbooths, by the way.”

  “You knew all this and didn’t tell me?” I playfully punched his forearm.

  “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Lana.”

  We stared into each other’s eyes. The temperature in the cruiser ratcheted up about ten degrees. “We can change that.”

  He nodded. “Yes. We can. Dinner on Friday?”

  Dammit. Figures the first time I’m asked on a date since the breakup with my ex, I’m busy. “That’s the night before the barista championship. Erica and have plans to prepare.”

  “That’s right. The competition. I was planning on stopping by. Okay, Saturday, then? Dinner at my place? I’ll cook.”

  Whoa. This was a serious date. I did some mental calculations. The barista contest went from nine until three. Which meant I’d have time to go home, lick my wounds from losing, and get ready for the date. “Saturday sounds perfect.”

  We stared at each other until I blurted a question that had been on my mind for weeks. “Why don’t you drink coffee?”

  His chuckle was low and gentle. “You’re suspicious of people who don’t drink coffee?”

  “No. Well. A little.” I shifted in my seat.

  “My entire family drinks Cuban coffee. You know, the little shots of sweet jet fuel?” He held up his thumb and forefinger an inch apart.

  “I drank gallons of that in Miami. It was an entire food group.”

  “I’m sure you did. I used to, as well. Especially when I first started on patrol. I had to stop at a certain point. It made me too jittery and my thinking was impulsive. I like things to be,” he made a line in the air with his hand, “on an even keel.”

  “Perhaps I could introduce you to some blends that might be a little kinder on your nervous system. Cold brew, for example. It’s sixty-seven percent less acidic than regular coffee. So, you don’t get that harsh, bitter taste. The low acid’s also better for your teeth and your stomach. You might really enjoy it.”

  “Perhaps. If anyone’s able to persuade me into drinking coffee, it’s you.”

  My resolve to not date older men flew out the window of his police cruiser and sailed off into the distance, carried by the wind over the Gulf of Mexico and to
the Land of Swoon. I giggled softly.

  His police squad radio squawked, interrupting our flirtation. “We got a 10-54 by the nature preserve. Caller says there’s a crowd of tourists feeding a monkey on the side of the road.”

  “Uh-oh,” I said. The crackling tension between us dissipated. “You have to take care of some monkey business. See you this weekend.”

  “Sounds good, Lana.” His smile and the way his eyes flickered over my face made tingles race down my arms.

  I grinned all the way into the café. At least until I opened the door and saw Crystal—Gary’s old lady—sitting in the corner with mascara-streaked cheeks.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Erica was wiping down a nearby table and she sidled up to me.

  “That’s Gary’s main squeeze,” she hissed.

  “I recognize her from the photos in Fab’s desk. Why is she here?”

  “Not sure. She came in, ordered a latte, then started crying when I handed it to her. Mumbled something about Fab and then sat down. She’s been over there for about twenty minutes.” She blinked several times. “That’s a great business model. Come to Perkatory and weep.”

  “I’m going to chat with her. I wonder what she wants.”

  “Try to get her to stop crying.”

  I padded over and approached with a nonthreatening smile. She regarded me and dabbed the corner of her right eye with a napkin.

  “Hi there. I’m Lana Lewis. I’m the owner here.” I paused. “Can I sit?”

  She nodded and gestured to the chair across from her.

  I sunk down. “You okay?”

  “Do I seem okay?”

  “Not really. That’s why I wanted to come over. Our barista Erica said you mentioned Fab.”

  A fat tear rolled down her cheek. “I miss him,” she whispered.

  I took a long, thin inhale through my nose. Okay. Now we were getting somewhere. But if she missed him so much, why wasn’t she at the funeral?

  “We all do.”

  “I met him here in this very café.”

  “Really?” I scowled. Odd that I didn’t recall ever seeing her here.

  “When he first started. ’Bout a year ago. Right when your dad gave him the job and the apartment. I’d drink lattes in here all morning, then, after his shift, he’d take me upstairs.” She paused and wiped a tear.

  I nodded. Years of being a reporter meant that I didn’t react when people told me unusual or salacious details.

  “I stopped coming in here because it was too obvious to everyone. That hussy found out. Paige.” She practically spat the last word.

  Ah, so that was why I’d never seen her.

  “Oh.” I paused. “So, you and Fab were together, in a relationship kind of way? Sorry I’m asking so many questions. In addition to being the owner here, I’m also writing an article about him for the paper.”

  “You are?” She fixed a wary eye on me.

  “Yes. A feature story.”

  “Like a tribute?”

  I nodded. “Something like that, yes. Would you like to be quoted?”

  “I dunno.” She let out a sigh, and I studied her. With her long mane of red hair and a smattering of freckles on her face, she appeared a lot younger and prettier than in the photos in Fab’s desk. “I cared for him. He was such an amazing lover, you know?”

  I didn’t, and stopped myself from grimacing. If by amazing lover she meant, possibly exposing half the island’s female population to chlamydia, then yeah, I guess she had a point. “Your name’s Crystal, right?”

  She eyed me suspiciously. “How did you know?”

  I leaned in and lowered my voice to a whisper. “I saw some, um, photos of you in Fab’s house. I had to go upstairs to gather some things for Stanley. Your name was written on the back.”

  “What?” Her eyes widened.

  “Sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. I’d gone upstairs to look for vet records for Stanley, his dog, and stumbled across them.”

  She sagged back in the chair. “He told me he’d destroyed those.”

  My opinion of Fab, which had risen in the days since his death, plummeted. “Wow. What a jerk.”

  She nodded slowly, and stared at the table as if in a catatonic state. I needed to get the conversation back on track.

  “I actually wanted to meet you because I was curious about your thoughts on Fab.”

  “About what?” she was definitely nervous now, shifting in her chair and balling up tissue after tissue. “Oh, for the article. Right.”

  “I didn’t know him for long, but it seemed really out of character, the idea that he’d commit suicide.”

  She nodded and more tears fell from her eyes. “He betrayed me with the photos and now he’s dead. Just great. And I don’t think he committed suicide.”

  “Do you think he was murdered?”

  She lifted both her shoulders. “It crossed my mind.”

  I was racking my brain and trying to think of the best way to ask the difficult yet obvious question—did your husband Gary kill him—when she leaned in.

  “I can think of one person who wanted him dead,” she said.

  “Who?”

  She pressed her pink lips together.

  “You?”

  “No!” She paused. “Well, not until just now, when you told me about the photos.”

  “Right. Then who? Gary?” I prodded. “Your husband?”

  “Fiancé.” She scrunched her eyes shut and nodded once. Bingo.

  “Where was he the night of Fab’s death?”

  Her eyes snapped open. “I don’t know. It’s pretty common for him to leave and go places without telling me. He has a ton of drinking buddies and knows a lot of people. He even hung out with Fab a few times. But Gary and I haven’t had a good relationship in a while. All I know is that when I got home from work, Gary was still gone.”

  “What time was that?

  “’Bout five in the morning. I work at a bar, and we close at four. Takes us a while to clean up and for me to get home.”

  I mulled this for a few seconds. “Do you think you should talk to the police about Gary?”

  “Thought about it. But I’m still trying to decide. Part of me thinks Gary wouldn’t have killed him.”

  “But another part does?”

  She stared down at the table.

  “Why are you telling me all this?”

  She sniffled. “I don’t know. There’s no evidence against Gary. Not really, I suppose. I can’t believe he’d kill a man out of jealousy. He knew what I was doing with Fab. We had, well, have, an open relationship.”

  Blergh. “That sounds messy.”

  “It doesn’t have to be, but I let emotions get in the way. Gary’s had his flings, too.”

  I reached for her hand, then swept my eyes to the counter, hoping to get Erica’s attention. I needed backup here. “Are you okay at home with him?”

  “I believe I am. He’s never laid a hand on me.”

  I worried my lip between my teeth. “You sure you don’t need help getting somewhere safe? Is he back from his shrimp trip?”

  She shrugged. “Yeah, he came back this morning. I’m the one who screwed up by falling for Fab. Gary and I had a pact. We could have other lovers, just don’t fall for them. And I fell hard for Fab. He was so darned attentive, you know? Like I was the only one he cared for. And that Italian accent.” She pronounced it eye-talian.

  I cleared my throat. Theirs was the definition of a complicated relationship.

  “Of course, I wasn’t the only one who was smitten with Fab.” She dabbed at her eyes. “Gary was jealous that I had feelings for him.”

  “Sounds like you and Gary have a lot to work out,” I offered.

  “True.” She sighed heavily. “I’m sorry. I need to run. My shift starts soon. If you want to talk more for your article, you can call me tomorrow. I’d ask you to visit me today at work, but we’ve got a big group coming tonight. There’s a coin collector convention in town.
I’ll be there every afternoon this week.”

  “Oh, where do you work?”

  “I recently got a job on the mainland at the Pink Pony.”

  “The … strip club?”

  “Yeah, I’m a bartender. I work there six days a week. Great tips. Normally I work during the day, but the night Fab died, I was filling in on an overnight shift. We’re only closed from 4 AM until 10 AM.”

  “Oh.” No judgement. Work was work. “Good for you.”

  My phone buzzed from the abyss of my bag. “Come on back any time you want a free coffee,” I said. “If it makes you feel better about, you know. Everything. Fab. And I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  We both stood, and my phone buzzed. She pointed at the cell in my hand. “You’d better get that. And thanks. It does give me some bittersweet memories to be back in here. You’re a sweetheart. Put in your article that Fab was the eternal bachelor. He never wanted to grow up. That he was a big kid who liked to laugh and love. With the emphasis on love.”

  Finally, a decent quote. “Will do.”

  She scooped me up in a hug, and I was awash in an intense, floral perfume. Poor woman.

  We disentangled and said our goodbyes.

  “Wait,” I said. “One more question. Why didn’t you attend Fab’s funeral?”

  Her eyes once again filled with tears. “I couldn’t say goodbye. Not in public like that. Not with Paige there. I was worried that she’d start something. She’s mean as cat poop.”

  I nodded slowly. Crystal had a point. I squeezed her shoulder, then watched as she sashayed out of the café. My phone buzzed again, and I reached for it.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Lana, it’s Brittany. The mermaid tail maker.”

  “Oh, right. Yes. Hey.”

  “Beautiful service today, wasn’t it?” Her soft voice was at odds with what I’d seen of her at the service—she’d mostly glowered at Paige the entire time.

  “Yes. It was. Fab would have been pleased that so many came out for him.”

  “Definitely. So, I was thinking. And I wanted to apologize for getting into an argument with your barista. That was totally my fault and I’m sorry.”