by Tara Lush
I nodded sagely and took my notebook out of my bag. I wrote down liked to party in cursive. Unoriginal, but it was something.
“I figured you’d be able to give me some quotes and details about his life. And death.”
He paused, the can of beer in mid-air.
“You want to know where I was the night Fab died. And if I killed him.”
My heart skidded against my ribs. Yikes. If he really murdered Fab, what would stop him from killing me? Well, I was here, and he brought it up. Might as well try not to show fear.
I looked him dead in the eye, recalling how he’d broken into Fab’s house and taken Crystal’s photos. “The thought crossed my mind.”
“How’d I guess. The answer is no.” He inhaled deeply. “That’s not to say I didn’t want to kill him after I found out how Crystal fell in love with him. And how he treated her. But I didn’t murder him, and I have an alibi. Just not one that I wanted to share with Crystal.”
“I see.” I paused. “What’s your alibi?”
“Why should I tell you? You’re going to put it in the paper.”
“No, I won’t. Promise. And I won’t tell Crystal. This is off the record. I don’t care what you do. I want to know about Fab. Don’t care about your business.”
“Hm. Dunno if I want to be quoted.”
“You don’t have to be. I can guarantee anonymity.”
He licked his lips. “See, I’m involved in some sketchy stuff.”
“Who isn’t? It’s Devil’s Beach,” I tried to appear casual.
“Not drugs or any of that crap. I, well, hell. Don’t tell the chief, okay? And you can’t put this in the paper. You gotta promise.”
“Fine.” I crossed my arms.
“I do a little alligator stuff on the side.”
I squinted. “What?”
“Alligator meat. Sometimes I go out on hunts and catch some gators. Also some swordfish and, on occasion, pythons. But not always during hunting season, if you get my drift.”
“Oh, you hunt and fish illegally?” I flashed back to the eyeball Stanley and I found on the beach.
“Yep. There ain’t no shortage of gators in Florida.”
He had a point. “So, you hunt gator and sell it somewhere. Is it good money?”
“Every little bit helps. The folks who want gator meat pay top dollar out of season. They want fresh, not frozen. Frozen tastes like crap, y’know?”
I didn’t, since I drew the line at eating cold-blooded reptiles. “So, you were out gator hunting when Fab died?” It seemed like the most Florida of all possible alibis.
“No. I’d just picked up some of the processed meat. In fact, Fab came with me to pick up the meat. I dropped him at his building.”
He took a long swig and my heart sped up. “So, you were with him that night.”
“Yeah, until about nine. Fab said he had a hot date. But he always had a hot date. So, I dropped him off and went over to see the guy I sell the meat to. I brought over a shipment and him and me and a couple of guys he works with had beers and played cards.”
“So, Fab knew about your gator business?”
“He used to help me. We’d drive to the Everglades and hunt, then drive the carcasses to the processing plant in Arcadia. We’d then pick up the meat and sell it.”
So that’s why Fab had that gator processing business card. “Did you sell meat to someone here on island the night he died?”
“Yup.” I racked my brain, trying to think of which restaurant in town served gator meat. The only one I could think of was the Square Grouper.
“Was Crystal with Fab the night he died?”
Gary shook his head. “Nope. She was working. She called me from the club’s phone at four. I was still playing cards, but left soon after she called.”
“Hmm.” I tapped my pen on the notepad. This was not going the way I planned.
He let out a long sigh, his beer breath washing over me. “It was only after Fab died that I found out how much she loved him. They’d been seeing each other off and on for a year. A year! She never let on while he was alive, dammit. Once he passed, she was inconsolable.”
“Oh?”
“Cried day and night. I wish I’d never introduced the two of ’em. She was totally swept away by his charm. Him and me were like total opposites. I actually thought he was a pretty decent guy when I first met him. I didn’t mind her havin’ a bit of fun, you know? I have my own fun and all. But then he did something I didn’t like. Found that out after he died, too.”
“What was that?”
“Took naked photos of Crystal. She told me, and asked me to try and find those pictures. Apparently, he dug that sort of thing. I draw the line at that kind of stuff, you know. Seems ill-advised. Anyone could get ahold of them and it could ruin her future job chances.”
“So true. And I’m sorry,” I said. And I was. Still, I didn’t fully believe his story. Not yet. It seemed flimsy and illogical.
“Can you tell me who you were with that night? So, I can check it out?”
“Damn girl, you’re more thorough than the cops.”
I shrugged. “I try.”
“I’m sure you can figure it out on your own. Ain’t that many restaurants that serve gator around here. But don’t you go telling that chief on me, okay? I’ve heard you two are tight. Not that he’d know what to do with alligator hunters, being a city boy from Tampa and all.”
“Thanks,” I said, standing up. “I hope you patch things up with Crystal. You seem like you really love her and want what’s best for her.” Maybe I’d been all wrong about Gary.
“I do. We have our issues, but I love her like crazy.”
When I got outside, I spotted storm clouds on the western horizon, and thunder boomed in the distance. It sounded close, yet I knew it was far in the distance. Much like solving Fab’s death.
* * *
Since I was a native of Devil’s Beach, I knew three things about the Square Grouper.
One: It had the best grouper sandwich on the island. Flaky and succulent, it was almost a crime to put it between two pieces of bread. Sometimes I ordered it without the bun. The fish was fresh because the restaurant sourced directly from the fishing docks on Devil’s Beach. Some restaurants didn’t do that—it had been a big scandal some years ago when a food magazine revealed that many popular Florida restaurants used tilapia instead of grouper.
Not the Square Grouper, though. They were authentic.
Two: It had the best sunset view of any restaurant on the island. Proposals, weddings, retirement parties, birthdays. Everyone celebrated at the Square Grouper.
Three: It was opened in the mid-seventies by a retired New York mobster named Salvatore “The Chin” Rizzo. Sal thought it would be hilarious to name a restaurant after his old pastime—trafficking drugs. Tourists think the name quirky, but few know that the definition of a Square Grouper is actually a brick of marijuana, usually found floating in the Gulf or near the Keys after a trafficking boat throws it overboard when pursued by the feds.
Somehow Sal never went to prison, and lived the second half of his life as a jolly and law-abiding restaurant owner. That’s what my dad claims, anyway. Sal died about ten years ago. and his son Josh took over the restaurant. As far as I knew, Josh wasn’t a mobster. I’d gone to high school with him. He’d been a skinny, quiet guy, and my only real recollection of him was when the two of us were in a band together. He played clarinet, I marched in back with the cymbals.
Yeah, the mobster’s son was a band geek. No one dared pick on Josh, though. He’d always had a crush on me in high school, and I was going to use that to my advantage today. Or try to.
I strutted in, channeling my inner Brittany. The blonde hostess with the plunging, black V-neck T-shirt glanced up. “Welcome to the Square Grouper,” she said brightly. “Are you meeting someone?”
“I was wondering if Josh was here. I’m an old friend and wanted to say hi.”
“Of course,” she purred.
“I think he’s behind the bar.”
That was the other thing about the Grouper. Sal, and now Josh, always tended bar. I assumed it was some holdover from Sal’s mafia days when he was hanging out in smoke-filled private clubs in New York.
“Thanks,” I said, strolling to the empty bar. It was only four in the afternoon, and while the tourists had gone, locals hadn’t quite arrived for happy hour yet. Although I expected they would soon.
Josh was polishing a glass when I slid into a seat. “Hey there,” I said, trying to mimic the hostess’ purr. I sounded more like a frog.
Josh turned his head. “Lana Lewis? Long time no see.”
He grinned. Surprisingly, time had been kind to him. He was handsome, in a nerdy way. Thick black hipster glasses, a shock of red hair. His skinny frame had turned lithe and muscular. Quirky. Not exactly my type. Tattoos ran up his arms.
“Right? Jeez, Josh, you look a lot different than you did in high school.”
“Look at you. My old partner in crime from the marching band.” He came around the bar and we hugged, then he sat in the chair next to me.
“How you doin’?” Somehow even though he’d lived on Devil’s Beach his entire life, he had the New York accent of his dad.
I grinned. “I’m all right. Getting used to island life after more than ten years away.”
“I heard about your divorce. Saw your dad at the hardware store and he told me all about it. I’ve been meaning to come by to the café and say hi. But this place keeps me so busy.”
Thanks, Dad. I nodded.
“You know how it is,” he shook his head. “Being a small business owner yourself now.”
“Sure am. Trying to.” I blew out a breath, thinking of the gas leak. “Listen, I’m sure you’re going to be swamped soon, so I wanted to ask you something before the dinner rush.”
“Sure. Anything, Lana.”
“It’s about a guy named Gary Leon Knowles.”
His smile faded. “What about him?” His voice was both cautious and slightly threatening. Or maybe that was his New York accent. It came out as one, long word. Whaddabout’im?
“Listen. I’m here because of my own curiosity. Whatever you tell me will stay with me.”
His eyes narrowed.
“I’m a reporter and I know how to keep my sources secret.” I could tell he wasn’t entirely convinced. “Right now, I’m doing a story for the Devil’s Beach Beacon.”
He held up his hands like I was robbing him. “Oh hell no, Lana. No way.”
“No, no, no,” I waved my hands in response. “I don’t care what you were doing. I don’t want to write about you at all. I want to confirm what someone told me. That’s all. I’m trying to figure out what really happened to my employee, Fab. The Italian guy.”
“Right. Heard about him. Sad news.” I wished Josh would blink, because his intense stare was extremely unsettling. “But I don’t think I can help you.”
I plowed on. During my time as a reporter in Miami, I’d learned to ask questions until someone slammed a door in my face. “There’s some evidence that ties Gary to Fab’s death. But Gary told me he was selling gator and playing cards when Fab died. He didn’t divulge who he was selling to, but I figured it out, since you’re the only restaurant with gator on the menu.”
Josh rubbed his lips together. He paused. Then after an excruciating thirty seconds, he nodded. “This won’t go in the paper? And you’re not going to tell the cops?”
“Swear to God, no. This is only fact checking.”
Josh sighed. “Gary was with me. We’ve got a bit of a side hustle together. Let’s leave it at that. Fab also helped a couple of times.”
Only in Florida would people describe alligator poaching as a side hustle, but that wasn’t my concern right now. I nodded. “Thank you. That’s all I needed to know.”
“Gary wouldn’t hurt a fly, you know. I mean. He might hunt or something, but he wouldn’t hurt a person. He knew about Crystal and Fab. There was something a little more going on there. Like he encouraged Crystal to be with Fab, if you know what I mean.”
I blinked. “Uh, I don’t.”
Josh rolled his eyes. “Gary’s into that. He gets off on his girl being with another man. They’ve got a whole game. He tried to get me to do her but—”
I held up my hand and winced. I didn’t need to know any more about Crystal and Gary’s weird sex escapades. Apparently, I was the only one on Devil’s Beach who wasn’t into kinky stuff. “Say no more.”
“I’m not that kinda guy, so I didn’t pry. I’m aiming for one good woman, you know. Being single around here sucks.” He eyed me.
“Can’t argue with that.” Please don’t ask me out.
I didn’t want to dash his hopes again, like I had in high school. So, I pivoted. “Hey, I think I might know a nice woman for you.”
His face brightened. “Oh yeah?”
“Have you heard about the barista championship this weekend? If you come by, you can meet her. She’s on my team. Her name’s Erica. Gorgeous. Kinda mysterious. She’s like poetry in motion when she makes espresso.”
His face brightened. “Sounds intriguing. I’m all for a woman who can make a decent cup of coffee.”
I scribbled the details of the competition on a napkin. Hopefully by Saturday I’d have written my article, set Erica up with a quirky hipster geek who trafficked in alligators, and was lip-locking with a handsome police chief—and not embarrassed myself or my business at the competition.
All seemed possible. Probable, even. But one thing was left hanging: solving Fab’s death.
Chapter Twenty-Three
By the time I arrived home, I was pretty dejected. Erica and Dad had dropped Stanley off, and he was thrilled to see me.
His puppy enthusiasm boosted my spirits for about an hour. We’d been working on playing fetch, which for him meant running around the living room with the ball in his mouth. Afterward, he tried to bite my ankles in an overstimulated, overtired, finale.
“We’ve got to get you into puppy school.” I shook my leg free of his miniscule but needle-like teeth.
He snatched the undersized tennis ball in his inch-long jaws, then stared longingly at the sofa until I picked him up and put him on his favorite cushion.
I melted next to him, wondering what the heck I was doing. It felt like spinning my wheels.
All my life, I’d wanted to succeed at something. Probably because when I was growing up, so much was expected of me. Dad was a successful real-estate agent, beloved by everyone on the island. Mom was even more revered, as a swashbuckling coffee buyer then as the owner of a popular café that became the island’s social hub.
In Miami, I thought I’d fulfilled my legacy by achieving it all—great job, awards, successful husband. All that came crashing down and then I’d returned to Devil’s Beach. Tried to revive the café that had lagged after Mom’s death.
For weeks, it had hummed along. Until Fab died. The cloud of Fab’s death, and how I’d been nasty to him on the last day of his life, hung over me and Perkatory like a slow-moving tropical storm. Agreeing to write the article was a bad idea, too. I didn’t have many interesting interviews yet, just a lot of disjointed quotes.
My deadline loomed like a guillotine. This wasn’t turning out to be the triumphant return to journalism that I’d hoped.
Stanley snuggled into my side. As I petted his soft fur, I mentally went through both the possible suspects for Fab’s death and the sources for my article. At this point, they were almost one and the same.
Gary Leon Knowles was in the clear because he’d been selling illegal alligator meat and playing cards. Crystal had been working, and she’d been too enamored with Fab to kill him. She also was at the strip club the night he died.
Could Paige have killed him for having other lovers? Possibly, but it seemed unlikely, because he was finally doing what she wanted and spending more time with her. Paige’s father? Why would he hire Fab and kill him the same day he star
ted? Made no sense. Plus, Noah said they had an alibi off island. I wondered if either of them could have hired someone to kill Fab.
Lex? What of that business on the boat? And yet, he too had an alibi with his shark bite. Although I hadn’t verified with the hospital that he’d been there all night. This I could do tomorrow.
Perhaps there were other women, or other angry husbands. Or, another possibility, one that was officially endorsed by Noah: Fab jumped off the roof. Or was drunk, lost his balance, and tumbled to his death.
I drifted off to sleep there on the sofa, Stanley by my side. Nightmares of falling from a great height plagued me, and in one version, I fell and landed in the bathwater-temperature Gulf. Dark blue water surrounded me, and as I struggled to swim to the surface, a creature came at me. It was a dead mermaid, something out of a horror movie.
I woke with a start, my scalp slick with perspiration. Stanley was curled against me. I reached for my phone to check the time. It was five in the morning. I flicked to check social media and some headlines, then glanced at my photos. The picture Noah had texted me of the mesh bra found near Fab’s body was the last picture I’d saved.
In the dark, I stared at the glowing screen for several minutes.
* * *
I waited until seven to text Noah. He hadn’t come into the café yet this morning, and I was impatient to share my new theory.
Good morning. I think I have an idea on Fab’s case.
He called right away. “Lana,” he sighed, although it sounded more like a sexy growl.
“Noah, I think you should check out Brittany, the mermaid tail maker.”
“Who?” I heard the shuffling of papers.
“Brittany Yates. She was a friend of Fab’s from New York and moved here not too long ago. She was supposed to hang out with him the night he died. She says she was in her studio, sewing. But was she?”
“Sewing what?”
“Mermaid tails. I think I saw some fabric similar to that mesh bra found near Fab’s body.”
Another sigh. “Lana. All signs point to suicide. Or an accident. I think it’s time you accepted it and moved on.”
