Grounds for Murder

by Tara Lush

  I glanced at Erica, who was wiping down the espresso machine. “No worries. Seriously. Emotions are high around the island today.”

  “They sure are. And I didn’t get a chance to ask you at the memorial because you left so quickly with the police chief. But have you decided about the barista competition yet? Can I join in?”

  Goodness. So pushy. I barely had time to deal with the competition because I was writing an article and on the verge of solving a homicide. Maybe we wouldn’t enter at all. This was getting too much.

  I decided to evade her question and tell a little fib. “Our team’s set for the year. I can only have two people in the competition, and Erica and I are the team. Sorry, Brittany, maybe next year. Listen, I’m in the middle of something, and I have to run.”

  She made a little huffing noise, and I imagined her stamping her tiny feet. “Fine,” she grumbled.

  “See you around.”

  I hung up and went to Erica. “You’re not going to believe this,” I said.

  “Try me. We had a dude come in today with a parrot who had a more colorful vocabulary than me. The mayor was here enjoying a latte and the parrot called him a name that rhymes with the word rock.”

  I pressed my fingers to the bridge of my nose and shut my eyes. Great. He was a regular, and had stuck with us through the Fab situation. Did every day have to fail in some spectacular way? Couldn’t one thing go smoothly? The last thing I needed was an offended small-town public official going to the health board—namely, Mickey Dotson—and shutting me down for a violation over having birds in the café.

  Normally, I tried to have a pet-free establishment, but I’d been lax in recent days because of Stanley. Fortunately, he was home today, so I could apologize without a shred of hypocrisy. I dialed City Hall and asked for the mayor.

  “Mayor, I’m so sorry about the bird,” I cooed into the phone.

  “Oh, dear. It’s fine. At least that bird doesn’t vote.”

  The mayor thought that was way funnier than I did, but I laughed along. “Free coffee for you next time you come in.”

  At this rate I’d be handing out free coffee to the entire island. Gah.

  “Well, thanks for that, Lana,” he said warmly. “And I’m excited you’re representing the island this weekend at the barista championship. Read all about that in the paper. I’ll be there watching you and the Dotsons. That’ll be quite the battle, especially considering your two coffee shops had that issue with the dead barista.”

  “No issue, just a little misunderstanding.”

  I cleared my throat and thanked him for not holding the foulmouthed parrot against Perkatory. Then hung up. I didn’t have the heart to tell the mayor that I was leaning toward canceling on the barista contest.

  I wasn’t in a competition mindset, not after listening to Crystal’s sadness, the mourners at Fab’s funeral, and Brittany’s weird insistence on helping out. It was all too much—and that was on top of the probability that Gary Leon Knowles was most likely a murderer who committed a crime of passion. One who would get away with his crime if Noah didn’t start believing my theories.

  How was I going to even write the article? I had little hard evidence proving anything, and my story about Fab was turning out to be a tale of his sex escapades and his loneliness. At this rate, the article would be a thousand words of me retelling stories of him making lattes. Not exactly great reading.

  I must have seemed pretty dejected because Erica came up to my table with a cappuccino. “Spill the tea. Or, uh, coffee. What’s wrong with you?”

  I shrugged. “Thanks for making this. Hey, this is a unicorn!”

  She’d created a perfect foam replica of a unicorn in the cup. It was almost too pretty to drink.

  I told her everything, from how Gary and Crystal weren’t at Fab’s funeral to how Crystal doubted Gary’s innocence to my waffling on entering the competition. Everything was so damned overwhelming at the moment.

  “Okay, first things first. We’re entering the contest. No more waffling or discussion.” Her hand sliced through the air, a gesture of finality.

  “But—”

  “No buts. We’re a team. You’re good enough, and I’m amazing. We’re giving it a shot.”

  “Wish I had your confidence.” I mustered a smile. At one time, in Miami, I felt invincible. Where did that woman go?

  “What were you going to do when Fab was here? Weren’t you the second barista on the team?”

  I nodded. “But things seemed way less complicated back then. I thought people would overlook my incompetence with latte art. He wanted to compete to show off. I wanted publicity for the shop. Now it seems like the pressure’s on.”

  She scowled. “Screw the pressure. We’re doing this for fun. And the judges aren’t from around here. I did some research. So they’re not going to care about Fab or any scandal. And you aren’t incompetent. Your foam hearts have improved in the time I’ve been here. I’d advise you to stay away from any abstract patterns, because that’s when your lattes take on a blob-like quality.”

  “You really think we should be in the contest?” I sipped from the cup. Man, she made delicious coffee. It was as if the beans came alive for her.

  “Heck yeah, we should. Let’s hold our heads high and do it. Mickey and Paige aren’t that good. They’re okay. Before you hired me, I spent a few hours there, drinking coffee and reading a book. I watched them work. And there will be others from around the state, too. But it’s great publicity for the café, and isn’t that what you want? Let’s just get out there and rock it to the best of our ability.”

  I smiled. “Okay. Fine. You’ve talked me into it.”

  “Awesome. One problem solved. As for the other thing. Do you think Crystal’s in danger? Do you think you’re in danger?”

  “Me? Why me?”

  Erica shrugged. “What if Crystal tells her old man that she spilled her guts to you?”

  I winced and took another sip. “Oh God. I don’t know.”

  “Listen, I’ve had some experience with this.”

  “With what?” I must have appeared alarmed because she held up her hands and lowered them in a calming motion.

  “With abusive guys. I dated one, up north. Probably why flirting with Gary came so easy for me.”

  I nodded slowly. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s behind me. But I also wouldn’t put it past Gary to do something.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “I’d tell Sheriff Hunk about it. Maybe stay at your dad’s for a night or two.”

  “You think it’s unsafe for me to be in my own home alone?”

  She pressed her lips together. “I don’t know. Did Crystal say when Gary was getting back?”

  “He’s back, apparently.”

  We stared at each other and nodded. “Erica, what about you? Do you feel safe staying on board your sailboat? Gary’s familiar with all the marinas on the island and can probably figure out where you live. And who knows what Gary’s telling Crystal to make her jealous. Their relationship seems pretty messed up. Toxic.”

  She curled her lip and rolled her eyes.

  “Why don’t you stay at Dad’s with me and Stanley?”

  She nodded. “Probably a good idea.”

  “We could bake,” I said, trying to brighten the mood. “Maybe some cake pops.”

  * * *

  The cake pops turned out fabulously. They were chocolate, with vanilla frosting, and Erica carefully stabbed them with wooden popsicle sticks, then rolled them in sparkly pink sprinkles. Dad ate four of them, and was about to plow through another when I playfully smacked his hand.

  “We need some to sell tomorrow,” I said.

  “Fine,” he groaned. “I’m going to change the record.”

  As we were baking, Dad had been playing DJ, spinning albums on his old record player. He’d introduced Erica to the deep cuts of Fleetwood Mac, and we were now into Grateful Dead territory.

  “Don’t get him starte
d on how he followed their East Coast tour in 1978,” I muttered, handing a finished cake pop to Erica.

  “How’d you get into real estate, anyway? Seems weird for a Deadhead,” she said to Dad, who had put on Terrapin Station and was cracking open a kombucha.

  “My father was a realtor here on the island. I’d met Lana’s mom and fell in love hard, and wanted to do right by her. She didn’t want a bum. Lana’s mom was a few years older than me, and she already had this swashbuckling job, traveling all over to buy coffee beans. I had to step up and be a man.”

  “So, you settled down into suburban bliss,” I joked.

  “Hardly,” Dad said. “Your mom and I were pretty freaky.”

  “Okay, moving on.” I shot Dad a warning stare while Erica cracked up.

  “We were going to live in Miami, but felt like it was better to raise our daughter here on Devil’s Beach. My parents were still alive back then and they adored Lana. And Lana’s mom loved it here. It was always her goal to open a coffee shop. She came up with the Perkatory name decades ago. Thought it was hilarious.”

  “She’d be so proud to see it now,” I muttered sarcastically.

  “Lana, hush. Your mother would be proud.”

  My eyes snapped up to Dad. His voice was sharper than usual, which was odd since I knew he’d smoked some of his medical marijuana, which usually made him sound like he had a mouth full of oatmeal. “She’d be mortified if she knew what was going on with her café.”

  “Not true, LeLa. She’d have been offended by Fab jumping ship at the last minute. And she’d be behind you one hundred percent in trying to write your article to seek the truth about him.” He turned to Erica. “Lana and her mother were carbon copies of each other. Sharp as tacks, patient as all get out. But when they feel there’s justice to be had, watch out. Like pit bulls with facts.”

  “Too bad the Miami paper didn’t feel the same way,” I said.

  “Oh, screw them,” Erica said. “There’s this thing called the Internet, and it’s available to you. You can do great work here. Freelance articles, like you’re doing. Or maybe a podcast. Write true crime novels. You don’t need a stupid paper. Heck, I’ll help you start a blog or do a podcast with you. The three of us can do a podcast.”

  “Erica, you are brilliant,” Dad cried.

  As the two of them chattered on about the mechanics of starting a true crime podcast, my phone pinged.

  It was Noah.

  Just checking to make sure you don’t have a fish allergy. I’d like to make my special Key Lime grilled grouper for you on Saturday.

  Grinning, my fingers flew across the cell phone screen. There are few things I love more than grilled grouper.

  I waited a few seconds while three dots flashed on my screen. Then, a message from him.

  Can’t wait to find out the others.

  “Who was that?” Dad said. “Why that sly little grin?”

  “Noah. He’s making dinner for me Saturday night.”

  Dad and Erica high-fived each other, and I rolled my eyes.

  * * *

  At the crack of dawn, Erica and I returned to her boat so she could change. We’d left Stanley with Dad for the day—Dad was taking him to his first Doga class—and we made our way to Perkatory. I opened the back door and was hit with a funny odor.

  “Do you smell that?”

  Erica sniffed loudly. “I’m a little congested. Allergies have hit me hard this month.”

  “Weird.” I walked around, turning on the lights, taking deep inhales into my lower lungs. Nothing seemed out of place. My apron was as I’d left it the night before. The espresso machine gleamed, since Erica had given it a good scrub.

  I set the plastic tub with the cake pops on the counter and rested my hands on my hips. What was that awful smell?

  Usually the café in the morning was faintly scented from the previous day’s earthy, roasted coffee, and the lingering smell of cinnamon from either the baked goods or a cinnamon candle I sometimes burned.

  Today it was more of a rotten egg odor.

  Something in my brain clicked. Back when I was a reporter, I’d covered an explosion at a Cuban restaurant. I recalled what the owner had said to me: olor de huevos podridos. I’d asked the paper’s photographer to translate for me.

  Odor of rotten eggs.

  “Erica, crap, we need to get out of here. It’s gas. This is bad.”

  I grabbed the Tupperware container and we ran out. We stood across the street and dialed 911.

  “I think there’s a gas leak of some sort at my café,” I said, noticing one of my regulars walking toward the front door. I moved the phone away from my ear so I could shout. “Hey! We’re closed. Gas leak! You’d better stay back.”

  The guy jogged away.

  Within a half hour, the island’s fire chief came over with the news. “Somehow the gas line leading to your oven was cut,” he said. “That could’ve been deadly, Lana.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Perkatory was closed all day so we could air out the gas fumes. We threw open every door and window, and the fire chief graciously brought over two giant fans. That kindness was a definite perk of living in a small town.

  Erica, Dad, Stanley, and I sat drinking iced coffee at one of the café tables outside, listening to the whir of the oversized fans.

  “I can’t believe the luck I’ve had lately. First Fab. Then my ex comes to town. And now this,” I said morosely. My inner worrier had come out to play.

  My phone pinged. It was Raina, the woman who owned Dante’s Inferno, the yoga studio next door. I considered her a close acquaintance—not exactly a friend, since we enjoyed different things. Still, she’d been welcoming and warm when I took over the café.

  I’m in the airport about to fly home from Costa Rica. Just read my emails for the first time in days. I’m gutted about Fab. And the gas leak? I got a message from the utility company. What is going on there? Is everything okay? I leave for ten days and Devil’s Beach has imploded!

  Raina had been in Central America leading a yoga retreat. She’d missed everything. Probably for the best, since she and Fab had hooked up (or so I’d heard). I hoped her retreat was relaxing, because she was about to return to the world of weird here on Devil’s Beach.

  It’s complicated, but pretty tragic. I’m fine, the building’s fine, your studio is fine. I’ll tell you all the deets when you return and get settled. Safe flight. xo

  I raised my eyes from the phone and sighed. “We’ve lost an entire day of business. Between this and the slight downturn after the Fab situation, it’s going to be a tough month.”

  “You’ll make it up,” Dad said, ever the optimist. “There’s an ebb and flow in business. Isn’t that right, Erica?”

  She nodded. “We’ll get back on track after we win the barista championship. You’ll see.” Erica seemed to share my dad’s sunny nature, at least on this point. Or they were high; I’d seen them giggling in the alley together a couple of hours ago.

  “Even if we win, will we get back on track? I feel like as long as there’s a cloud over the café because of Fab’s death. Bad juju.”

  “Does Noah have any news about cause of death?” Dad asked.

  “Sort of. Says it was suicide and I need to accept that.”

  “What do you two think?” Dad looked at me, then Erica.

  I leaned in. “I have my suspicions. But I’m not finished with my reporting for the article. Maybe instead of sitting around here, I should get to that.”

  “We can hang here with Stanley for a while,” Erica fiddled with her phone.

  “You’re sure you two have this under control?”

  Dad and Erica assured me that they did, and I took off.

  * * *

  It was probably a bit stupid to knock on Gary’s door in the middle of the day. Crystal had said she had to bartend at the strip club today, which meant Gary would be alone. In theory. Hopefully he wasn’t entertaining any of his other ladies—or under the impre
ssion that I wanted to be a part of his harem. The very idea made me shudder.

  As I waited for someone to open the door of the trailer, I eyed the net in the yard. It didn’t look anything like the photo Noah had showed me of the evidence found near Fab’s body. Or did it? I walked a few paces and inspected it. Nope. This was black. The net near Fab’s body was green. I went back to the door and knocked again.

  Ugh. What did it all mean? My stomach churned. The flimsy door flung open.

  “Hey Gary,” I said brightly.

  “Hey girl!” he sounded casual and pleased, like it was the most natural thing in the world for me, a near stranger, to stop by. His overly tanned skin was especially leathery today, probably because he was shirtless. I studied him as he scratched the tattoo of a large, faded phoenix on his chest. If there was an entry of Florida Man in the dictionary, it would be accompanied by a photograph of Gary Leon Knowles.

  “I was in the neighborhood,” I said, feeling stupid. I’d used that excuse with Lex, too. What was I? Someone who roamed the neighborhoods of Devil’s Beach, visiting people I’d met once?

  Actually, yes.

  “C’mon in, it’s good to see you. I just woke up.” I followed him inside. The place was tidy and comfortable, and the only thing that stood out was a large photo portrait of a Rottweiler on the wall. I saw no evidence of a dog, though.

  “Beer?” He asked. It was two in the afternoon.

  “Nah.” I waved him off.

  He shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He ambled to the fridge and extracted a can of Busch Light, popping it open with a fluid motion.

  “Listen, Gary. I’m gonna be honest here.” I dug deep and tried to conjure the bravado I used to have while doing stories in Miami. “I’m writing an article for the Devil’s Beach Beacon. And I wanted to talk with you about Fabrizio.”

  “What about him?”

  “You’d said you were friendly with him. Where’d you meet?”

  He shrugged. “Around the island. Mutual friends. Saw him at the Dolphin now and then. Went fishing once together on a buddy’s boat. We hit it off pretty well. He liked to party.”