Bonbon With the Wind

by Dorothy St. James

  Gibbons nodded but held his silence.

  “I just learned a few hours ago that Joe Davies was an alias. His real name was John Fenton. He had left a wife and daughter behind when he’d run to Camellia Beach. Did you know that?” I asked.

  “Yes. Hank did mention that to me.”

  “I think Joe was murdered.” There. I’d said it.

  “Hank disagrees,” Gibbons said.

  “He’s wrong.” Friend or not, I put my hands on my hips prepared to win the argument I expected to have with him.

  Only, Gibbons didn’t argue. He sighed. “Joe’s death—while concerning—isn’t why I’m looking for you right now. Nor is his secret life.”

  “Oh?” I hadn’t expected him to say that. “That’s a relief.” I guessed. “So…you’re simply here to check up on me and the shop? That’s so…so sweet.”

  “Yeah, well…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “No. This isn’t a social call, Penn. I need to talk with you because you had a private conversation with a Mr. Silas Piper after the billionaire filed a missing person report.”

  “Really?”

  Why does Gibbons care about that?

  “Piper and my dad are old friends.”

  Unless—

  “Oh my goodness, his brother was murdered!” My heart started to pound. “That’s two murders in a short period of time.”

  “Hold up now.” He backed up a step. “I’m not saying anything of the sort. I’m not here to talk about Joe Davies or how he died. And honestly, I don’t know where Taylor Graham is. What I want to know is if you’re helping Silas Piper in his search for his brother. Are you searching for him?”

  I shook my head. “I talked with Piper that morning because I thought I might be able to give him some information about his brother.” I told Gibbons about how a stranger wearing a tweed hat had come into the Chocolate Box asking for Joe Davies the day the storm arrived. I also told him how we’d found a tweed hat by the door, and that seeing it had worried me. I finally told Gibbons how I’d asked Silas Piper to send me a picture of his brother.

  “And?” The older detective crossed his arms over his chest, and he watched me with what appeared to be mild curiosity. I suspected the patient expression was more practiced than real.

  “And I recognized the man in the photo. I recognized his brother.”

  He nodded as if the news didn’t affect him one way or the other. “And yet his brother is still listed as missing.”

  “Is he?” I asked, all innocent.

  “Did you tell Piper that you recognized the man in the picture?”

  “No,” I admitted. “Did Byrd ask you to come out to the island to search for the missing brother or did Mr. Piper?”

  “You already know what a powerhouse Silas Piper is. He makes a call to a politician, and suddenly I find my caseload shuffled to other detectives and told to focus only on locating Piper’s brother. That’s why I’m here.” He drew a long, controlled breath. “I find it interesting that as soon as I started searching for him, the first name that came up associated with Mr. Graham is yours.”

  “That does seem odd,” I agreed.

  “Like a bad penny, you do seem to turn up wherever there’s trouble.”

  “Now, you’re starting to sound like Chief Byrd.”

  He chuckled. “Unlike Hank, I understand that you’re not the cause of the trouble. You’re focused on getting out and helping the community. That will put you in some difficult spots from time to time. I’ve seen it happen before.”

  “You have?” For some reason, I felt comforted by that thought.

  “It’s a story for another time. Right now, I’ve got a younger brother to find. It seems as if you have a piece of the puzzle. So tell me, is the stranger with the tweed hat Piper’s long-lost brother?”

  “No.” I said with a smile. “I have no idea who that man was.”

  His bushy eyebrows shot up. “No? But you said you recognized the man in the picture Piper had sent to you.”

  I started to tell him what I knew about Piper’s brother. It wasn’t a secret, just slightly troubling.

  But suddenly I saw the man (the one who’d lost his tweed hat) walking down the street. He looked left. Then right. And then ducked inside Bunky’s, the island’s small grocery store.

  “Sorry. Can’t talk right now,” I said and jogged after him.

  Chapter 11

  “Penn!” Gibbons roared as he raced after me.

  “Wait for me at the Chocolate Box,” I called over my shoulder. If I was going to help Joe’s daughter find any kind of closure, I needed to find out why that man was looking for Joe and if he knew about Joe’s secret life. “Tell Fletch to give you some free samples.”

  I heard Gibbons swear and then the pounding of hard leather on the pavement behind me.

  A large hand clamped down on my shoulder. Although Gibbons was old enough to be my father and carried at least fifty more pounds than I did around his middle, the man was fast.

  “I need to talk to that man.” I tried to twist out of his hold. “He’s the man who lost his tweed hat.”

  His grip tightened. “You said he wasn’t Piper’s brother.”

  “No. But he seemed to know Joe. And he is a stranger to town. Joe didn’t have any friends from outside Camellia Beach. At least, none that anyone knew about. I need to talk with him.” I tried again to break free.

  Gibbons was a professional and knew how to keep a suspect or informant from running. “Talk to me first, Penn. I need to put this missing person case to bed. I don’t have time to chase after some bigwig’s alcoholic brother and drag him home when I finally catch up to him. I’m a busy man.”

  “But—” I saw his expression and closed my mouth. He wasn’t going to let me charm him or use logic to convince him to let me do what I wanted, not today. Like nearly everyone around here, his nerves were strained. Ever since the storm, we’d all gotten stretched like rubber bands on the verge of snapping.

  “Where did you see Piper’s missing brother?” Gibbons prompted with his hand still clamped on my shoulder. The strain in his voice had softened just a tad.

  I considered Gibbons a friend. He loved my chocolates and would tell strangers about my shop like I imagined a proud father would talk up his daughter’s accomplishments. He also worried about my safety and was protective. He cursed and complained whenever I’d start poking my nose into one of his murder investigations. He was a man with a good heart, and I truly wanted to help him.

  “He came into the Chocolate Box hours before the hurricane hit. I got the impression that he was some kind of professional surfer. He said he’d come to town to catch the big waves.” As I said that, I realized that wasn’t quite the truth. While I’d convinced myself that Big Dog had been in town just because of the waves, and his appearance at my shop had nothing to do with Joe Davies’ death, wasn’t what he’d said. No, not really. He’d told Harley that he was in town for another reason—a reason he hadn’t disclosed—and that the chance to catch some big waves had been a bonus.

  Gibbons’ hand slipped from my shoulder. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “I don’t like that look you have.”

  “Um…nothing. Really. Nothing. Just a stray thought.” A nagging worry gurgled in my stomach again. It had rumbled in my belly like a prickly burr when I first saw the picture Silas Piper had texted to me, the yellowed and slightly blurry photo of Big Dog. I needed to do some research. That was all. There was no reason for there to be any kind of connection between Joe Davies and Big Dog. The two men practically lived on two different planets. Any simple Google search would prove that.

  Gibbons watched me. “Nothing, huh?”

  “I must have eaten something that didn’t agree with me for lunch. Probably lettuce.” I patted my stomach and laughed. It was a nervous, inappropriate chuckle. Embarrassed, I tried to make it sound like a cough.

  He still appeared concerned, but he didn’t seem interested in pressing me about why I was acting so nervous
. “Taylor Graham is a professional surfer?” he asked instead.

  I nodded with no small measure of relief. “He calls himself Big Dog.”

  “Big Dog?” He stroked his chin. “If he’s a professional, that means Harley knows him. Harley knows all the pros.” He began to walk away.

  Crap. Crap. Crap.

  Even though I really, really wanted to get into Bunky’s and talk with the mysterious man who’d lost his tweed hat, I chased after Gibbons because I knew what he’d do next.

  He’d go and get Harley involved with whatever dangerous thing Big Dog had gotten himself into. It was the same dangerous thing that was eating a hole in my gut whenever my mind focused on the aging surfer and my premonition that his mysterious reason for coming to Camellia Beach was bad news.

  I was having premonitions. Wouldn’t Althea love to hear about that?

  My entire body trembled at the thought of Harley in any kind of danger.

  “Don’t involve Harley,” I begged.

  “Why not?” Gibbons stopped long enough to ask.

  “Because…because…” What could I say to convince him? “Because he has a son. Please, I’ll tell you whatever you need to know.”

  “You haven’t told me everything you know already? I’m disappointed.” He sighed. “Okay, I’m listening. Do you know where Big Dog is now?”

  “No, but—”

  “If Harley is his friend, he might have a phone number or know another way for me to get in touch with him. I won’t be asking him to set up an ambush or confront the guy. Besides, this surfer is merely a thorn in my side, not some dangerous criminal,” he said as he hurried down the street away from me.

  I ran after Gibbons. “I suppose Piper provided you with a copy of the letter from his brother. You did see that letter, right? It said if the letter was sent, he’d been murdered.” I drew a shaky breath and repeated that last word in case Gibbons had somehow missed it, “Murdered.”

  Perhaps it was some kind of post-traumatic stress that had me acting this way, so panicked and as irrational and as superstitious as Althea. But for the life of me, I couldn’t stop thinking how I needed to keep Harley safe at all costs. Because of me, Harley had nearly gotten himself killed. And that incident wasn’t the first time he’d found himself in danger while I pursued a killer. And simply remembering how close I was to losing him gutted me.

  “Don’t go to Harley with this,” I pleaded. My vision turned all blurry. I blinked. And then blinked some more before everything turned clear again. Dang it, I needed to get my eyes checked. There must have been something wrong with my eyes, because I didn’t cry. Not unless I was watching sappy commercials around Christmastime. “Don’t get him involved.”

  “No one has been murdered,” Gibbons said in a calm, fatherly voice. It was a voice that lured me into believing him.

  “No? Are you sure? Because I’m not.”

  “Penn—”

  I was too wound up to let him try and talk me out of what my subconscious knew to be true. “It’d be easy to kill someone during a hurricane by hitting him over the head, wouldn’t it? The flood waters would wash all the evidence away. Everyone would suspect that he’d gotten bludgeoned by the storm. It’d be an open and shut case. No one would question why strangers were in town searching for him or start to wonder about his double life.”

  “You’re talking about Joe Davies,” he said.

  I nodded.

  “I’m not interested in Joe Davies. Not right now I’m not. Not while the sheriff is breathing down my neck insisting I produce instant results for Piper. All I’m doing is searching for a man who has gotten himself misplaced during the storm. I’m betting he dropped his phone into the ocean and has been hanging out at a bar somewhere, blissfully unaware that he’s causing me such a colossal headache.”

  “Or he got washed out to sea while surfing the hurricane,” I mused aloud to reassure myself that Big Dog’s appearance in town had nothing to do with Joe’s murder.

  The detective cursed. “Don’t say that.” He swore again. “I hadn’t even considered that. But dang it, you’re probably right, and it’ll take weeks for me to track down the body…if it ever washes up.”

  I closed my eyes and pictured the surfer floating under the ocean somewhere beyond the breakers, that easy smirk still on his face. But as much as I wanted to let Gibbons convince me that there was no connection between Joe Davies and Big Dog, my grumpy gut wouldn’t allow me to do it.

  Piper wouldn’t have received such a letter from his estranged brother unless Big Dog had been worried that whatever he was pursuing here in Camellia Beach was going to get him killed. And since this was such a small island town, the chances that there were two deadly intrigues happening at the same time were incredibly low.

  I pulled out my phone.

  “Who are you calling?” he asked me.

  “Nobody. I’m doing a quick Google search.” I typed in the search bar “Taylor Graham” and “Joe Davies”. While neither name showed up on the same website, after a quick scroll I did find that the two men did have something in common.

  “The two men were both from Virginia!” I handed Gibbons my phone. In the list of known addresses, it showed that Big Dog had lived in Virginia. “Joe Davies lived in Virginia before he decided to run away to Camellia Beach to find a new life.”

  “Virginia is a large state.” Gibbons tried to hand the phone back to me.

  “It is,” I agreed. I pointed to the name of the town—Cedar’s Hill—on the phone’s screen. “Kind of makes me wonder why two men from the same town both eventually showed up in Camellia Beach. Joe Davies was from Cedar’s Hill too. I wonder”—I tapped my chin—“did they leave at the same time?”

  “They left about a year apart,” he admitted.

  “You already knew there was a connection between the two men?”

  He shrugged. I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised that he’d known about it. Gibbons was a thorough investigator. He’d have checked out all the angles before coming to Camellia Beach to talk to anyone. He’d once told me that the best investigators knew the answers to at least half of their questions before asking them. How else would one spot a lie?

  “Coincidences are not evidence of murder, Penn.”

  “Oddly timed deaths might be evidence, though. Was Big Dog in Camellia Beach searching for Joe Davies? And what about the other man?” I glanced over at the door to Bunky’s Grocery again. No one had come out. I needed to get in there to talk with him. I’d tell him that I’d found his hat and then try to turn the conversation over to Joe Davies. “Why was he looking for Joe Davies? Why now? What was the urgency?”

  “I don’t know,” Gibbons admitted. “Let’s not forget, however, that the Gray Lady had warned Joe. She’d told him to get off the island.”

  I rolled my eyes so fiercely my head started to ache. “Not you too. There’s no such thing as the Gray Lady.”

  He smirked. “Paranormal investigations aren’t part of my job description. Can’t say one way or the other if I believe in the otherworld. Nor does it really matter, does it? Joe—or John or whatever name the man cared to call himself—ignored the mandatory evacuation order and paid a steep price for it.”

  “Dead men can’t evacuate,” I argued.

  “No one at the coroner’s office has said that he died prior to Hurricane Avery coming ashore.”

  “Well, they should be saying that, because that’s what happened. I just know it. I feel it right here.” I touched my hand to my chest. Oh, wouldn’t Althea have loved to see that too? “Joe Davies was murdered.”

  Gibbons leaned toward me. “I understand what you believe. And you might even be right. But until I find this surfer who calls himself ‘Big Dog,’ Joe Davies’ death is none of my business. The two men might have come from the same town, but they lived in two completely different worlds within that town. Different sides of the railroad tracks. Joe’s death has nothing to do with a rich family’s missing black sheep.”<
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  Chapter 12

  The black sheep comment stung. It shouldn’t have. Gibbons hadn’t been talking about me. I knew that. Even so, as I hurried toward Bunky’s Grocery I was still thinking about it and feeling sorry for poor Big Dog. Perhaps he’d disappeared because he didn’t want to face his family’s scorn anymore. Or perhaps he’d written that letter claiming he’d been murdered as a way to test his family. Would they care he was in danger? Would they come to rescue him?

  Because I was my family’s black sheep, I knew how painful it was to be in such a position in a family.

  At least I had a makeshift family here on Camellia Beach who loved me. Just as I reached the grocery store’s front door, my phone pinged.

  It was a text from Harley. Ran into some trouble and couldn’t get to my phone. Have to deal with it this afternoon. Yes, we need to talk. Tonight?

  Trouble?

  As in Big Dog trouble?

  As in dead body trouble?

  As in murderers lurking around every corner trouble?

  What kind of trouble? I texted.

  Want to tell in person. Tonight? popped up on my phone’s screen.

  Ok. Tonight, I reluctantly texted while worry brought tears to my eyes. After blinking them away, I added, Gibbons wants to talk with you. Be careful.

  Always am. He’d added a heart emoji to the text that made my heart swell. Did that little symbol mean I was forgiven? Did it mean we’d returned to being…um…whatever it was we were to each other?

  Why couldn’t life in Camellia Beach be as simple as the police chief always claimed it was? The town’s newly revised travel brochure had promised the glamour of Miami Beach tucked within the fabric of a friendly small town. The glamour of Miami Beach had been an outright lie. There was nothing glamorous about Camellia Beach. It was shabby. It was charming. And, sometimes, terrifyingly deadly.

  I needed to get into Bunky’s and find that man who’d been wearing the tweed hat. But instead of rushing into the store, I stared down again at the heart emoji on my phone’s screen and smiled.