Murder Hooks a Mermaid

by Christy Fifield

  She shivered. “Chilly in here.” She dragged a quilt off the back of the sofa and draped it over my shoulders. She was cold, so I needed a blanket.

  “I suppose,” she continued after she had the quilt arranged to her satisfaction, “Riley put up the boat to get him bailed out. At least he’ll get it back now.”

  So she hadn’t heard everything after all. “Not quite. The boat was impounded, and the bondsman wouldn’t accept it as collateral. The boat’s forfeit if it was used for smuggling.”

  I nearly used some of Bluebeard’s saltier vocabulary, biting my lip to keep the frustrated curses from streaming out. “Which is ridiculous! I really, really can’t believe Bobby did that. Not knowingly.”

  “Then how did he make bail?”

  “Karen pledged her house.” The cocoa had cooled slightly, and I took a sip, letting the hot, sugary liquid slide down my throat. As the warmth spread through me, exhaustion dragged me down.

  Concern drew Linda’s eyebrows together. “You think that was a good idea?”

  I shook my head. “I honestly don’t know. She still thinks of the Freeds as family, and what I think really doesn’t matter.”

  She took the cup from my hands and set it on the table. “Go put on your pajamas,” she instructed.

  Too tired to argue, I walked into the bedroom and did as I was told. Linda had been telling me what to do since I was four, and obeying her came naturally.

  When I opened the bedroom door, she was waiting. She shooed me toward the bed. “Crawl in,” she said. “I’ll let myself out once you’re asleep.”

  I didn’t argue. There are times, even when you’re thirtysomething, that you just need someone to watch over you.

  Chapter 9

  FRIDAY MORNING WAS DREARY, FOG CREEPING IN off the bay and shrouding the entire town in a soft, gray cloud. Sound didn’t carry, and without the sun I couldn’t tell if it was morning or afternoon.

  The day dragged on, my normal activities a mechanical ritual of routine chores and occasional customers. I listened to WBBY. The substitute newscaster had taken Karen’s place for the day. She wasn’t usually off on Fridays, but I think this qualified as a family emergency. Question was, whose family?

  I shoved the question of Karen and Riley to the back of my brain and tried to concentrate on work.

  Late in the morning—the only way I knew was by looking at the clock—Linda came over from her shop next door. Linda and her husband, Guy, owned The Grog Shop, the liquor store on the east side of Southern Treasures.

  “I just came to see how you’re doing, honey,” she said, wrapping me in a big hug. I hugged her back and assured her I was okay.

  “Are you sure? You had enough trouble with that Parmenter boy to last a lifetime. I don’t want to see you mixed up all this.”

  “I’m not. Riley is, and Karen, and they’re my friends. That’s all.” I hoped it was the truth.

  “Have you heard from Karen? That other guy was doing the news this morning.”

  “Haven’t heard. I’ll give her a call later today, find out what the latest is.”

  “Well, you let me know if you need anything, y’hear?”

  I assured her I would.

  Karen called shortly after noon. She was at the Freeds, and it was clear she hadn’t been home all night.

  “We cleaned up and put the leftovers away,” I assured her, “and Ernie left the dishwasher running. All you have to do is put the clean dishes away.”

  “Thanks,” she said, sounding distracted. “I really appreciate it. Did one of you take the cake? It shouldn’t sit there and get stale.”

  “I covered it.” I had an idea. “How about I go get it and bring it over there after I close up?”

  “It’s a good idea, but you don’t have to do that, Glory. You’ve already done so much.”

  I really hadn’t, but it was sweet of her to say so.

  “Anyway, I have to go home in a little while. I’ll just bring the rest of the cake back here with me.”

  Despite her initial distraction, she seemed inclined to chat, and I settled down in the tall chair behind the counter. “How are the Freeds holding up?”

  “About as good as could be expected, I guess. Riley’s mom is tore up pretty good. His dad isn’t saying much—you know how the men around here are—but he looks about a million years older than when I saw him last week.”

  She’d seen Riley’s dad last week? I filed that information to examine later.

  “Tell them I’m praying for them.” It was a polite fiction. I wasn’t much given to praying—not since my parents were killed by a hit-and-run driver—but it was our way of saying we cared.

  “I do have a question, though, Karen. You said Bobby hooked up with these guys at Mermaid’s Grotto. I can’t figure out what he was doing there. I thought The Tank was more his style.”

  I could almost hear her shrug over the phone. “Beats me,” she said. “He usually hangs out at The Tank with the rest of the crew, but Riley said he’s been stopping in at the Mermaid every couple nights. Riley didn’t know exactly why, either.”

  “Just seems odd,” I said. “I can almost understand the tourists going to a tourist bar and thinking they can find a charter—they don’t know any better—but the locals almost never go in there.”

  She agreed, but she didn’t have any explanation to offer. We talked another couple minutes, but soon she had to go.

  “We’re trying to find a lawyer for Bobby,” she explained. “You don’t happen to have a good criminal attorney up your sleeve, do you?”

  I chuckled, then felt guilty. Finding Bobby a good defense lawyer was serious business, and I shouldn’t be laughing.

  “Sorry, but no. The only lawyer I know is Mr. Clifford Wilson. He’s my family attorney, but I think he mainly does wills and estates and stuff, not criminal law. And he’s about a million years old.”

  It was only a slight exaggeration. Mr. Wilson—I couldn’t imagine calling him by his first name—had been Uncle Louis’s attorney when he was still alive, and he’d taken care of my family’s legal affairs for three generations.

  Karen sighed. “We’re going to have to go down to Pensacola to find somebody,” she told me. “And we’re looking for any recommendations we can get.”

  “I’ll let you know if I think of anything,” I promised before hanging up.

  By closing time, I had a serious case of cabin fever. I’d been out two nights in a row, but restlessness didn’t respond to logic, and I found myself pacing the floor the last hour before I turned out the lights.

  I’d finished the display windows, and I stepped out onto the sidewalk to admire my handiwork. While I stood there, cocking my head from side to side trying to decide if I was happy with the final product, Jake loped across the street.

  “Looks good from my vantage point,” he said. “It should definitely draw some customers.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “Well, I am impressed with your eye for display. It’s like you see what should be there, and then you do it. I’m in awe.”

  I stood silently, not knowing quite what to say.

  After a moment, Jake looked down at me, his blue eyes clouded. “What has you so worried?”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “It is to anyone who’s watching,” he answered, softly. “It’s clear you have something on your mind, and it isn’t anything good.”

  Jake hadn’t been in town long enough to be well connected to the local gossip mill, and it seemed he hadn’t heard the latest about Bobby and Riley. And Karen.

  “It’s a long story,” I said. “But if you have some time, I’ll fill you in.” He’d hear it all eventually anyway. Might as well get the truth the first time.

  “I don’t close for another hour,” he said. “Have you got plans for dinner?”

  I didn’t, and we agreed he’d come over when he closed up. In the meantime, he said it was my responsibility to choose a place to eat. And I
wasn’t allowed to cook.

  It took me about two minutes to realize where I wanted to go: Mermaid’s Grotto. Maybe I could find the reason Bobby had been hanging out in a tourist trap.

  I told Jake I wanted to show him a piece of Keyhole Bay history, and I made him promise to split the check. Mermaid’s Grotto was a tourist place, with prices to match.

  LIKE MANY TOURIST RESTAURANTS IN resort towns, the Grotto didn’t have much of a dress code. Jeans were fine, and chinos were considered dressed up, and the Friday-night crowd in the restaurant wasn’t exactly fashion forward. Which meant I fit right in.

  Mermaid’s Grotto was a throwback to another era, and I watched Jake’s eyes widen when we walked in. I had to admit, if I hadn’t seen it before, the giant fish tank would have been overwhelming. Even knowing it was there, it was still pretty amazing.

  “There really were mermaids here, once upon a time,” I told Jake, after we were seated in the dining room. “There was an underwater show with mermaids swimming in the tank.”

  Jake stared at the giant tank that formed a wall between the bar and the dining room. “They swam in there?” he asked.

  I nodded. “They used a system of air hoses that let them breathe underwater. That way they could stay down through the whole show, without having to use respirators or tanks or anything.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “Well, I remember coming here a couple times when I was a little kid. Really little, like three or four. I thought the mermaids were the most beautiful things I had ever seen, and I remember telling my dad he was a liar when he told me they were real people.”

  I reddened a little at the memory. My parents usually didn’t allow such back talk, but that one time my dad had just laughed and let it pass—which was probably why I remembered it so clearly.

  Jake chuckled. “So you’ve always had strong opinions, eh?”

  “I guess so. I also told him I was going to grow a tail so I could be a mermaid.” I glanced at the tank, then back at Jake. “Which wasn’t such a great idea, since at the time I couldn’t even swim.”

  “But you lived here, right by the beach. You must have learned.”

  “I did, once I had some incentive. I spent that entire summer and the year after that practicing holding my breath underwater. Got pretty good at it, too. But by then they’d closed the show, and I couldn’t see much future as a mermaid.

  “I understand there is still a show somewhere down south, Weeki Wachee Springs, maybe. But I think I’m over my dreams of being a mermaid.”

  The waitress arrived to take our orders, and I stopped to take a quick look at the menu. The prices were even higher than I remembered, but I managed to find a salad I could shoehorn into my budget without too much pain.

  After she left, Jake gave me an appraising look, a grin playing around the corners of his mouth. “And that was when you were three or four? So the mermaid show’s been gone, what? Maybe twenty years?”

  “Oh, please!” I took a sip from my water and laughed. “More like thirty years. Sometimes I’m amazed that they’ve kept this place going that long!”

  “They look pretty busy.” Jake glanced around with the shrewd assessment all local businesspeople seemed to make on a daily basis, judging the number of paying customers and how much they appeared to be spending.

  I followed his gaze. There were several families in the dining room. Judging by the frazzled looks on the adults’ faces, I would guess most of them had driven down that afternoon and were looking forward to getting the kids fed and in bed for the night.

  On the other side of the giant tank, a decent crowd was starting to fill the bar. Most of them were clearly tourists, their brightly colored Hawaiian shirts and deck shoes without socks advertising how cool they thought they were.

  Jake caught my eye and winked slowly. “Yes, I do think we’re the only locals in here,” he said. “But you can blame it on me; you had to show me the historical sights.”

  “It really is a piece of Keyhole Bay history. The restaurant’s been here since the forties, at least. Maybe longer. You know, you have a section of local histories in your store,” I reminded him. “You probably have some books with pictures from when the mermaids were here.”

  “I probably do,” he said.

  Jake angled his chair slightly so that he could look at the fish tank. “I’m trying to imagine you in one of those mermaid tails, swimming around and flirting with all the guys at the bar. Probably have to cut your hair, though.”

  I raised one hand and smoothed it over my long, dark-blonde hair. I’d clipped it back and let it hang loose down my back. “Oh no! The girls all kept their hair long. That way it swirled around in the water.”

  Our dinners arrived and we ate quietly for a few minutes, watching the fish schooling in the tank and the tourist singles schooling in the bar. It was a reminder of all the reasons I didn’t much like the dating pool.

  I was sure I hadn’t spoken out loud, but Jake broke into a few bars of a Jimmy Buffett song, and I nearly fell off my chair.

  “How did you know exactly what I was thinking?” I asked.

  “It’s obvious, isn’t it?” he answered. “The sharks are circling.”

  “Which is why the locals pretty much avoid the place.”

  “Then where do the locals go?” he asked. “I need to know the best places to see and be seen.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, there’s such an amazing nightlife in Keyhole Bay,” I said drily. “But we can’t let just anybody find out about our special locals-only in spots.”

  Jake did his best to look lost and brokenhearted.

  “Okay,” I said. “But just this once. You can’t go telling people I let you in on the secrets.”

  “Cross my heart.” He made a broad gesture, looking serious. But the effect was spoiled by the breadstick in his hand. It looked more like he was waving a magic wand.

  “I suppose we should start with this place,” I said. “It’s always been a tourist attraction, but it was also the place where you took a date for special occasions. A lot of marriages in my parents’ generation started with a proposal in front of the mermaids. I remember hearing about a couple of guys who even got a mermaid to ‘find’ an engagement ring buried in the sand.”

  I didn’t mention that one of those guys was my father. I’d been embarrassed by how corny it seemed when my mother first told me about it. After their deaths, I couldn’t bear to think about it, the tragic romance story resonating with my inner teenage drama queen. Now it was something I tucked in a back corner of my memory.

  Jake nodded, and I went on. “By the time I was in high school, though, it became very uncool to come here. It was that place your parents went when they had a birthday or anniversary with a zero in it. No one under thirty would be caught dead in here.”

  I took a long look around. The restaurant had changed very little since then. Most of the decor would look right at home in my store, or in Carousel Antique Mall, Felipe and Ernie’s high-end shop.

  The dark paneling and tall leather booths represented the height of sophistication at the time they were installed, and the ironic hipster everything-old-is-new-again vibe had made it popular with the young crowd once more.

  “But the high-rise condos and big hotels were going in on the beach, and there were new restaurants for all the people who stayed in them. If you really wanted to celebrate—and you could afford it—you’d go to the beach and spend a night or two.”

  Jake poured me another glass of wine from our shared carafe. “So, I better take it off my list if I want to hang around.” A smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “I hope you won’t tell anyone I was here.”

  I grinned at him. He’d been here almost a year, but he had quickly recognized that many of us came from families who measured their lives in Keyhole Bay in generations rather than years.

  “I won’t tell, if you don’t,” I said.

  “Deal.”

  Jake reached acros
s the table to shake my hand. After we shook he didn’t let go, letting our clasped hands rest on the table.

  I looked at the remains of my salad and decided it wasn’t worth retrieving my hand in order to finish. I slid my plate to the side and took another sip of wine.

  “So where else shouldn’t I go?”

  “The other famous place is the Sea Witch Fish and Chowder. Do you know it?”

  “I’ve seen it. I’ve never been in, never had the time to stand in the lines.”

  “Like I said, it’s famous. At least with people who don’t know better. Then it’s more like infamous. The chowder is mostly potatoes and flour, and the fish is…” I shrugged. “It’s okay, but it isn’t anything special. Especially not when you have to stand in line forty minutes for lousy service.”

  Before I could continue my diatribe, the waitress came and cleared the table. “Did you save room for dessert?” she asked.

  I shook my head.

  She pulled a check presenter from her pocket and set it in front of Jake. I didn’t give him a chance, quickly letting go of his hand to snatch the bill. If I hadn’t, he would have found some way not to let me pay my share.

  I glanced at the total, mentally figured a tip, and rounded up a couple bucks. I pulled bills from my wallet and slid the folder across the table.

  Jake opened it, and I could see the rapid mental math run through his head. “This is way too much,” he said. “I ordered the wine, and my meal was a lot more expensive than yours.”

  I shook my head. “We shared the wine, and we agreed to split the bill.” When he opened his mouth to protest, I held up my hand. “Besides, you’re always buying my coffee, and you bought dinner the last time we went out. This time it’s my turn.”

  He tossed some bills into the folder and closed it, sliding it to the side of the table. “We probably should let them have the table,” he said, gesturing toward the hostess stand. “They have people waiting.”

  As we stood up, he took my arm. “How about we go over to the bar and you let me buy you an after-dinner drink?” he said. “Strictly research into the local nightlife.”