Executed in Paradise (Florida Keys Mystery Series Book 9)

by Deborah Brown

  EXECUTED IN PARADISE

  PARADISE SERIES

  BOOK 9

  DEBORAH BROWN

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted, materials.

  EXECUTED IN PARADISE

  Copyright © 2015 Deborah Brown

  Cover: Natasha Brown

  PARADISE BOOKS

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  EXECUTED IN PARADISE

  Chapter 1

  “What the hell?” I screeched, loud enough to be heard on the next block. I held down my skirt with one hand as another blast of wind came in from across the Gulf, blowing sand in its wake, and tried to toss it up and give the neighborhood a peep show of me in skimpy underwear.

  Fab covered her ears. “Language, Madison Westin,” she said and shook her finger at me. “What would your mother say?” She tugged on one of my red curls.

  “Why is there a dead body in the trash?” I glared at my best friend, struggling not to hyperventilate.

  Damn her. That Fab could look so hot first thing in the morning was annoying. She wore skin-tight blue jeans and knee-high black boots, a white dress shirt covering her handgun. The Sig Sauer P229 was a new purchase, since both our guns had been booked as evidence by the Miami Police Department during our last case and had yet to be returned.

  I didn’t bother to look down at my own outfit, which I was forced to pair with a jacket due to a nip in the air. Cold weather should be illegal in Florida, with a mandate of no days below seventy degrees. I had lived here long enough that my blood had thinned to water, and any temperature below that left me grumbling, “It’s freezing.”

  Ignoring Fab, I stomped around in a circle, almost running into my property manager, Mac. “Why, why, why?” I bent over slightly to calm my nerves. No other property in the neighborhood boasted the occasional dead body.

  The ten-unit beachfront property I’d inherited from my Aunt Elizabeth scored high in curb appeal. The individual cottages, painted in bright, art deco colors, were wrapped around a circular driveway, each with a flowerbed that ran along the front and sides. Those beds got regularly trampled by tenants and their friends squeezing out the bathroom windows to escape law enforcement; a few had even been successful, for a short time anyway. The property boasted beach access and a swimming pool with a tiki bar. It was a classic example of looks being deceiving; from the street, you wouldn’t suspect all the neurotic people that occupied the units in the past, present, and probably future.

  “If it makes you feel any better, it doesn’t appear that he was killed on the property.” Mac peered into the bin, studying the corpse dispassionately, then turned her attention to the ground in front of it. “No blood trail. I’ll have to explain to our crime scene cleaner dude that the reason we didn’t call him was because there was no mess. Don’t want him thinking we took our business elsewhere.”

  Nothing fazed my property manager, Mac Lane. All I could say was thank goodness I’d had the sense to hire her on the spot. The big, bosomy brunette had changed her look today, trading in her usual ankle-length skirt for an orange, knee-length full skirt, with what looked suspiciously like an aquamarine tutu underneath, and camo high-top tennis shoes. She hadn’t given up her overly small shirts; this one was a bright yellow, and in addition to letting everyone know that “I ate the worm,” it wrestled her assets together and held them in place with no room to move.

  “Yeah,” I drawled, “wouldn’t want to offend that creep-nut.”

  Fab whipped out her phone and snapped photos of the deceased in all his middle-aged glory. She must have quite an impressive array of crime scene photos hidden away on a thumb drive somewhere. No one would ever suspect the hot French woman of a little ghoulishness.

  “Fabiana Merceau,” I hissed. “Respect for the dead.”

  “It’s not like he’s going to know.” Fab pulled an elastic band from her pocket and pulled her long brown hair into a ponytail before taking one last look. “I don’t think he’s been dead long; rigor hasn’t set in and his skin hasn’t turned some unsightly color yet.”

  Too late to stick my fingers in my ears.

  “Seen him around anywhere?” Fab asked Mac.

  “Don’t recognize him.” Mac shook her head. “I forwarded his pic to Shirl. She showed it around and no hits.”

  Shirl, our resident RN, would help anyone, anytime, and always with a friendly smile. She worked at Tarpon Cove Hospital and had been best friends with Mac since grade school. She became a tenant after a messy break-up with her boyfriend, and soon after she arrived, I forbid her to ever move. Now she was the resident nurse, her reassuring bedside manner making tenants and guests love her.

  Fab rushed to the curb, waving away the approaching trash truck. The driver never braked as he drove on past. She turned around and closed the space between us to stand by my side. “I assumed we weren’t going to look the other way and let Mr. Doe go to the dump.”

  I banged my head against her shoulder and pointed to Mac. “You call.”

  * * *

  Sirens could be heard from a block over as they came screaming up Gulf Boulevard. One cruiser turned the corner and rocketed into the small parking lot, coming to a halt beside the dumpster, a second close behind it.

  Deputy Kevin Cory jumped out of his police car, having snagged the only available parking space for himself, and the other car parked half on the grass behind him.

  I ground my teeth at the tire marks that now marred the green lawn, but held my temper and chose instead to glare at the deputy, who ignored me. I didn’t budge an inch, not wanting to be any closer to the dumpster.

  Kevin squeezed in at around six feet, filling out his uniform in a way that wasn’t hard to n
otice; women always gave him a second look. Instead of his usual uptight, slicked-back do, the wind had whipped his hair into an unruly mess. Kevin was a by-the-rules guy who relaxed his standards when it came to his preference for strippers. He was someone that I would never have rented to, but my brother, Brad, had snuck him in, arguing that, since Brad was hot for Kevin’s sister, the deputy was almost family.

  Kevin and I managed to maintain a chilly relationship despite the fact that he thought I was guilty of multiple felonies and belonged in jail. The problem with his theory was that I didn’t have a record and any charges against me in the past had always been dropped.

  “You murder this one?” Kevin peered at me over his shoulder, half-amused by his own attempt at humor. He held his flashlight steady as he checked out the inside of the trash bin.

  “First of all, I’ve never murdered anyone.” Shot a few people, true, but decided that now wasn’t the time to point out that I didn’t make it a practice to shoot to kill.

  Fab grabbed the back of my jacket, holding me in place. “Florida has the death penalty,” she whispered.

  “Second.” I held up my fingers, changing my mind at the last second and holding up two instead of just the middle one. “You can move. Your stay here was supposed to be temporary, and it’s over.”

  “Evict me,” he said stonily.

  “No eviction necessary. I can get rid of you without stepping one foot inside a courtroom.” If only I could hire some thug for relocation services, but good sense said my only recourse was to let my brother handle it.

  “Are you threatening a deputy?”

  Before I could respond, Just pointing out a fact, Mac stepped between us. “Behave, you two. I found the body earlier when I came out with the office trash.” She pointed to a knotted white plastic bag lying off to one side. “I didn’t think it was appropriate to dump it on top of him, all things considered.” She waved her hand, cutting Kevin off. “And no, I’ve never seen him before.” She wisely kept it to herself that she had disseminated his picture to her phone list; most of her female friends were frequent drinkers at Custer’s and knew all the locals.

  Custer’s, a popular rat-hole bar across from the beach, attracted mostly lowlifes and tourists who wanted their picture taken in front of the “D” rating sign from the Health Department, which was proudly displayed on the door, with another one above the bar where the cat slept. The feline was popular and had his own set of groupies, who showed up just to see him. Due to the low cleanliness standards of the bar’s namesake owner, the liquor license had been revoked, and now they were only allowed to serve screw-cap wine and beer, though some said the revocation had more to do with local contractors salivating to get their hands on the valuable property.

  I gave Fab the friend-to-friend meaningful stare that hopefully she correctly translated as, “Let’s get the hell out of here.” Unfortunately, before I could take a second step, Kevin yelled, “Don’t go anywhere.”

  Fab linked her arm in mine. “We’ll be out by the pool,” she yelled back and snapped her fingers at Mac, motioning for her to follow.

  Mac bounced over and held out her arm. “We could pretend this is the yellow brick road and skip over to the pool,” she suggested.

  Fab gave her a confused look and ignored her. I bit back a laugh, wondering if the convent school graduate had ever watched the Wizard of Oz. Mac had to know by now that Fab didn’t do touchy-feely unless it was me or Mother, and that was only after we’d adopted her into the family and passed our trial period. Now she held the title of honorary sister/daughter. For his part, my brother found her amusing, but only when we weren’t getting into trouble.

  Due to the numerous pool keys that had gone “missing” over the years, I’d changed the lock and had a security pad installed. Since then, the incidents of drunken locals passing out by the pool had stopped. Mac had obviously made the enclosed area the first stop of her day today, as it was free of towels and the chaise lounges and chairs were not strewn around or floating in the water. Even the tiki bar had been cleaned.

  The three of us kicked off our shoes, Fab rolled up her jeans, and we plopped down on the concrete at the shallow end of the pool, sticking our feet in the water. The only thing missing was the margaritas, but I reminded myself it was still morning.

  I broke the silence. “Dead body is better than murder, don’t you think?”

  Chapter 2

  “Hello, ladies.” Professor Crum rode up on his newest acquisition, a pink Barbie two-wheeler, his thin, well-over-six-foot frame hunched over the handlebars. “The police are here. You need a place to hide, my door is always open.” He cackled.

  “You steal that off some little girl?” Fab asked.

  “He’s a regular dumpster diver.” Mac looked impressed with his current find.

  His rubber boot thrust the kickstand into place. Standing ramrod stiff, shirtless and smoothing down a skirt that barely covered his backside, he looked down his nose and said, “I don’t steal. And I am tired of having to remind you of that.”

  The professor was another gift from my brother, having been snuck in when one of Brad’s real estate deals required his eviction from his previous residence. No one ever believed that he had taught engineering at a private highbrow college in California. And yet, I’d verified the employment, and the woman on the phone had been effusive in her praise of Crum.

  “Know the dead guy, by any chance?” I asked.

  “You know I don’t have any friends except you three.” He gave us a toothy grin. He used his code to get in the gate, shoved a recliner into place with his foot, and straddled the seat.

  “Why don’t you go find out what’s going on with the investigation?” Fab suggested.

  Crum shook his head. “I gotta stay away from that weasel-sucking turd. Kev says he’s going to arrest me for being cross-eyed. Which I’m not. Not my fault he has a single-digit IQ.”

  “Pointing out that Kevin’s dumber than a rock isn’t conducive to good neighbor relations. If you want to be helpful, find an affordable place for him to live and give him the address. If you want to stay on my good side, keep my name out of it,” I said.

  “I’ll get on that.” He stretched out, craning his neck to the sun.

  Thankfully, the man crossed his legs. He was under a new dress code–no more strutting around in his form-fitting underwear and ugly shoes; he had to cover up. I’d hoped for shorts or pants, but no. He’d hustled up a couple of what appeared to be used bath towels and pinned them around his middle. When I suggested more tasteful attire, he’d gone on a rant about chafing, and I’d walked away, wondering if the pharmacist sold ear bleach.

  The gate opened and two couples, guests from England, strolled in. They waved to Mac and dragged chairs over to the back corner, which afforded a sliver-view of the dumpster.

  Crum stood. “Excuse me, ladies.” He swept a low bow. “Just remember: mi casa, your hideout, anytime.” He dragged a chair over to the foursome and plopped down. They greeted him like an old friend.

  “You’d think he’d be bad for business.” Fab stared at the group in disbelief.

  “Oh, hell no.” Mac laughed. “Crum knows everybody, and whether they like him or not, they all speak to him.”

  I caught movement from the corner of my eye and turned to check out the cottage that backed up to the pool. “Joseph just flipped up the blinds; is he okay?”

  Joseph, a war veteran, was one of two original tenants I’d inherited from my Aunt Elizabeth. According to his doctors, he was supposed to have died long ago from his myriad health issues. He never listened to anyone, so it made sense that he ignored them too.

  Mac craned her head back against her chaise, rocking it around to try to get a glimpse of his back window. She waved. “He’s happier since Svetlana came into his life. Ever since a couple of jerk-offs tried to kidnap her, he’s stopped dragging her around by the arm everywhere he goes. Now he stays close to home, and he hasn’t been arrested in a long time
.”

  I shook my head, thankful I’d finally called a halt to picking up Joseph from jail in the middle of the night; the end of the free rides had also helped to deter his wandering. “Who knew a rubber doll would keep him out of trouble.”

  Svet was a favorite among the guests; they liked to think of reasons to stop by and leer at the anatomically correct buxom blond. Joseph had inherited her—along with her impressive wardrobe, shoes, and several wigs—from Twizzle after he’d gone on to find out what his final reward was. I hoped, if Twizzle had found out that cigarettes and liquor weren’t served in the afterlife, that he wasn’t disappointed.

  “Why do we have to sit here when we haven’t done anything?” Fab stood, kicked water on Mac, and hopped out of the pool.

  I splashed a handful of water at her back, but she scooted out of range and threw herself into a chair. “Go ask Kevin if we can be excused,” I suggested. “Don’t pull your gun; you know it irritates him that we have concealed carry permits.”

  Fab held out her hands. “Toss me your phone; I’ll ring him up.”

  “If it breaks, you’re buying me a new one.” I steadied my breath and sent it airborne in a crappy underhand pitch, whooshing out a breath when Fab easily caught it.

  We both carried handguns. I never left the house without mine anymore, having found out the hard way that it paid to be prepared. My favorite gun, my Glock, had recently been confiscated, along with Fab’s. But my boyfriend, Creole, had surprised me with a beautifully wrapped square box containing a Five-SeveN, a semi-automatic handgun originally restricted to law enforcement and military. Creole and I had sat cross-legged on the bed as I displayed it in my palm, liking that it was lightweight and had a large magazine capacity. In short, it was badass, and I loved it.

  Fab, frustrated by several attempts to get Kevin to answer the phone, sent a text.

  Mac held up her phone. “Text from Shirl. Her sheriff’s department sources say this is the third middle-aged man to be dumped in the Keys in the last year.”