Deborah Brown - Madison Westin 06 - Revenge in Paradise

by Deborah Brown

  She recited her account in such grisly detail that I put my fingers in my ears and chanted, “La, la, la.”

  Creole lay back, pulling me into the crook of his arm. “It’s not going anywhere tonight. We’ll take care of it in the morning.” His fingers were slowly making their way up my inner thigh. I kicked him in the butt with my heel.

  “Didier,” I whined, “Fab told me today that she’s not helping me anymore.”

  Fab glared at me and said, “You are the worst friend ever.”

  I winked at her. “Thank you.”

  “She tried to blackmail me.” Fab’s voice was full of disgust. “She thinks you’ll believe her over me.”

  Creole laughed at Didier. “Good luck.” He scooped me up into his arms. “Say goodnight.”

  “Wait, I want that last bit of margarita,” I said as I wriggled my fingers for the glass.

  Creole handed me the drink and I downed it, waving to Fab and Didier. “If you could just work on her attitude––a little more pleasant would be nice.”

  “I’ll show you pleasant,” Fab shouted up the stairs.

  Creole kicked the bedroom door shut, dumping me in the middle of the bed. He pulled the drawstring on my sweat pants, tugged them off, and threw them onto the floor. “Raise your hands,” he said, and my shirt followed the pants.

  I stared as he unzipped his pants.

  “I’ll check tomorrow, and if your gardener has been transferred to county, I’ll call over and get her some jail perks.”

  I ran my foot down his torso, watching as his pants fell to his ankles and he stepped out of them.

  “Like what you see?” He wiggled his hips.

  I held out my arms. “I’ve missed you.”

  * * *

  Four adults in my kitchen! You’d think that it would be crowded but we co-habitated with little friction. Fab and Didier sat across from me at the island, Creole making coffee. After complaining that Fab’s coffee pot made his early morning version of the wake-up drink smell bad, he went out and got his own, taping a “Keep Out” notice on it, along with crudely drawn crossbones.

  “Don’t dawdle,” Fab said to me. “We’ve got a meeting this morning.”

  The only thing that consistently annoyed me about Fab was how damned good she looked in the morning: hair tumbled, pouty lips, wearing one of Didier’s white dress shirts. Didier dressed in only sweat pants, leaving his chest bare, which gave me a good excuse for a quick peek.

  “Brick?” I sighed. “If he wants me there, it must be more missing animals or dead people.” He’d once sent us to find a missing cat and Fab never let me forget that she—as a licensed private investigator—didn’t chase cats or dogs or any other weird thing someone might keep as a pet.

  “I installed an app on your GPS. When you input an address, it will alert you if it’s an area to stay out of. If it does,” Creole barked from the kitchen sink, “then you tell that bastard, Brick, to go screw himself.” As he said this, he was tapping his finger, willing the coffee to drain faster into his cup.

  “Oh, okay. We’ll drive to a job, then call and complain about the neighborhood.” Fab’s words dripped sarcasm.

  Creole’s face tightened even more, though his early-morning look was already a little frightening: disheveled hair, day-old beard, and his blue eyes stony.

  I bit my lip to keep from laughing, not wanting to be in the same trouble Fab now found herself in, with not one, but two Alpha men glaring down at her.

  Didier stuck his finger under her chin, turning her face to him. “Have you forgotten that you promised not to deliberately put yourself in any kind of danger?”

  She snapped back in French. He squeezed her chin, not breaking eye contact. He responded back in a hard voice I’d never heard him use before.

  “Thank you, Creole,” she said before rattling something to Didier that made him relax and put his arm around her.

  “How am I supposed to eavesdrop when you speak in a foreign language? I’m considering a ban against it,” I said.

  Creole laughed. “Love, it’s not nice to listen to other people’s conversations,” he tsked.

  “Humpf!” I glared at him.

  I didn’t like this app idea already. When the sound went off, I’d have to remind Fab of her promise––would she ignore it? What would I do if she did?

  Creole looked at his phone and said, “Gardener chick was booked last night on suspicion of murder.” He didn’t look up. “Doesn’t look good for her; evidence is piling up.”

  I gasped. “I can’t believe that she’d kill anyone, unless it happened when he beat her…but then how would she get the body to The Cottages?”

  “Good thing the cops didn’t see her reaction when you told her Eddie was dead. Smiling is pretty damning,” Fab said.

  “She’ll be old before she gets out of jail, if ever.” I looked at Fab. “Remind me to call Cruz’s office and get a referral for the best public defender on the list.”

  “I’ll put in a call for her to get some jail perks,” Creole said.

  “I’m booking a jail visit for tomorrow,” I said and flicked Fab’s hand. “You need to come with me, learn from the master so you’ll know how to act if you need to go in for a little video chat.”

  “How are you going to make that happen so fast?” Didier asked.

  “My connection bypasses that pesky one-week wait rule.” I winked at Creole. “How do I get a connection inside the jail, both men and women’s?”

  “You don’t. You bribe me and I’ll do it.” He put his mug in the sink and advanced on me. “Got to go, I’ve got a meeting with associates in a few.” He pulled me off my stool and headed for the front door.

  I smiled and leaned into him as he grabbed me and pushed his weight against me. As if he knew what I craved, he deepened the kiss, leaving no part of my mouth untouched.

  “Be careful,” I breathed into his ear.

  “Send me a dirty text later,” he said. He laid his finger across my lips, and slipped out the door.

  I turned and Fab and Didier were lip-locked. “Hey, is this a dress-up meeting? We have to leave early to take care of the foot problem.”

  “Just your usual skirt-wearing flip-flopped self. Be ready in an hour,” Fab said.

  * * *

  My daily uniform consisted of a T-shirt and a full skirt, easy to hide my Glock in the waistband or holstered to my thigh. A huge pile of flip-flops were in my closet to choose from but today I chose black and tan linen wedges.

  “Kevin never returned my call, so I called him and asked him to meet us at the Trailer Court. He wasn’t happy,” I told Fab en route.

  “Another dead body?” Kevin asked.

  “Not this time,” I responded vaguely, trying to work up the nerve to say, “Just a bodypart.”

  “Then I suggest you call the main number.”

  Before he could hang up I blurted, “Found a severed foot.”

  “I’ll be right there.” He slammed the phone down.

  “I really have to try to win Kevin over for my brother’s sake. He might be family one of these days. You need to try, too,” I said to Fab.

  “So who’s meeting us?” Fab hit the brakes, which produced a loud screech, remembering at the last minute that the driveway had a cement bump that someone installed at the side entrance. “What are you doing about this wagon?”

  The “Twinkie Princesses” had parked their lime and yellow-painted mobile kitchen roadside in the parking lot for as long as I could remember. I’d never once seen it open but they sent the rent check on time every month. Their slogan: “We fry anything.”

  “As long as they pay on time and there are no arrests, it adds to the rundown condition of the property.”

  I never understood why Gus Ivers willed me the property, other than to thwart his greedy daughter. He’d owned the property for thirty years and never spent one dime on fix-up; everything was in a sad state of disrepair. Since I had an aversion to being a slumlord, I left it as-i
s under the watchful eye of the professor, while I figured out what to do. I’d had a few offers to sell, but all of them wanted Jake's included in the deal.

  Right behind us, sheriffs Kevin and Ivy pulled in, and the professor was nowhere in sight. I hoped he hadn’t split town with the rest of the body. It seemed highly unlikely, since his two Cadillacs—stuffed with newspapers, cans, and bottles—were still in their usual spots. The man hated to pass up a good piece of trash that he could recycle.

  I barely had my foot out the door when Kevin yelled, “Where is it?” His signature uptight stare firmly in place.

  It was hard to believe that out of uniform he looked like a surfer, with tousled bleach blond hair, and was in excellent shape.

  Ivy smirked. “Seeing a lot of you lately.”

  I pointed to the old red truck. “It’s under the box in the bed.”

  “You said on the phone you found it yesterday, and yet you didn’t call it in.” He lifted the box. “It’s a foot all right.”

  “I did too. Left a message, and you never returned the call. I don’t have another number.”

  “Then you call someone else,” Kevin continued to yell in exasperation. “So, Miss Merceau, do you know where the rest of the body is?”

  “No, and neither does the professor.” Fab related the story in detail.

  “You could be a little nicer, Kevin. We could’ve thrown it in the Gulf and let it wash back up like the rest of the occasional body parts,” I said.

  Ivy handed me her card. “If you can’t get a hold of Kevin, give me a call.”

  Kevin finally calmed down. “Where’s the weirdo who lives here?”

  “He’s usually leaning on the fence. I’ll show you to his trailer.” I led the way. Fab skirted the outer edge and leaned against the picnic table. The last time she sat on it, I held my breath, hoping it wouldn’t collapse. I loved old pieces of furniture, but not if they were a hazard to a person’s health.

  His trailer had a piece of screen across the door opening, which stood ajar. I could see him lying on the couch and knocked.

  He shouted, “Come in.”

  I did a double take; the inside was clean and orderly. I had expected it to be like one of his Cadillacs, overrun with trash. He’d found a couch long enough to hold his over-six-foot frame, and he lay on it, huddled under a blanket. When he sat up the blanket dropped, exposing his skinny bare chest that had spurts of white hairs running down the middle that I hadn’t noticed before.

  “Wait, wait,” Kevin yelled. “You’d better be dressed under that blanket or wrap it around you.”

  Crum sneered at Kevin. “I’m always clothed.” He stood up and the blanket fell to the floor. Clad in only jockey shorts, he put each foot into his signature pair of rubber boots that sat next to the coffee table. “See!”

  Ivy’s mouth dropped open. She leaned next to me. “You knew,” she hissed, “and didn’t say a word. Give me back my card.”

  “I’m as shocked as you are,” I whispered back. “Can Fab and I leave?” I asked.

  “Go!” Kevin pointed to the door. “If your stories somehow match up you won’t hear from me until your next felony. If not, I know where to find you.”

  I pushed the screen aside, escaping outside, and motioned for Fab to hustle. “We need to get out of here before anything else happens.”

  “Let’s go shopping.” Fab gunned the engine.

  “Did you forget our meeting with Brick? Besides, we always drink too much and we don’t have a driver.”

  “When are you going to kiss and make up with your mother?”

  “I talked to her this morning while getting dressed. She’s coming to dinner. I have a project for her and ‘no’ is not an acceptable answer.”

  “Am I invited? Which one of you is picking up the take-out?”

  “Of course; it’s your house, too, and you’re part of the family. She offered, so I’m sure it will be yummy and there will be plenty of it, since she knows it irritates me when there are no leftovers.”

  “Hang on to your hat.” Fab leered at the young twenty-something next to her at the light, revved the engine, and took off when the signal turned green.

  I jerked my seat belt tight and leaned in her direction. “If you don’t slow down I’m going to projectile vomit.”

  “Joy killer.”

  Chapter 7

  Fab came to a screeching halt in front of the twin bookend sales agents posed on the steps of Famosa Motors. They looked like beach lizards, with slicked-back blond hair, tropical shirts, and insincere smiles pasted on their faces. They checked out the Hummer and went back to talking. They didn’t waste their charm when a commission wasn’t involved.

  We walked through the open rolled-up door of the auto sales/rental business. Bitsy looked alarmed, slowly opening a side drawer.

  “If you pull out a gun, I’m going to shoot you,” Fab said, and whipped out her Walther.

  “How’s our favorite little stripper-turned-receptionist?” My voice dripped with insincerity.

  In truth, there was nothing little about the curvy blonde, who stuffed her double Ds into a low-cut dress. She sold information on the side; the problem was, she thought nothing of selling the same info to other people—along with the name of the previous buyer—for a hefty tip. She double-crossed us and sent a stiletto-wearing ass-kicking stripper friend of hers after us. One could maybe look the other way if bullets hadn’t been factored into the equation.

  Brick turned a blind eye to her devious side dealings, claiming he needed eye candy for his big spenders.

  Bitsy sat frozen in place and glared until we started up the curvy staircase to Brick’s office.

  “It’s been a long time since the two of us have been here together.” I hit Fab with my hip, starting a game of push and shove as we ran up the stairs.

  Brick wanted his jobs done and pronto, and had a tendency to leave out pertinent details upfront that would have us refusing. I’d quit Brick for a while over his desire to use me in an underhanded eviction scheme; he failed to disclose that the building was full of senior citizens. I was back on speed dial after Fab forced a little kiss-and-make-up and we agreed to never mention the incident.

  As usual, the man sat behind his enormous desk talking on the phone. When we walked up, he ran his dark eyes leisurely up and down the both of us and waved us into his second-floor spacious office that was equipped with an amazing view of the entire lot and surrounding upscale business district. He finally tossed the most uncomfortable seats ever and replaced them with buttery chocolate-colored leather chairs. He’d gotten himself a larger chair to hold his burly frame, which was a well-over-six-foot boxer physique. He didn’t box for sport, just to stay in shape.

  I went straight to his credenza and fingered through the snack bowl, finding two bags of mini Oreos that I loved but would never purchase for myself. I dropped them in my purse and held up a package of peanut butter cookies to Fab; she nodded, and they followed the Oreos––road snacks.

  Brick banged his phone down, code for the meeting to start.

  “Sit down, you two.” He opened a file on his desk. “I need this car picked up.” He passed a picture and a set of keys to Fab.

  “Where is it?” Fab asked.

  “Don’t know; GPS isn’t working. I’m assuming the bastard had it disconnected. Once I locate it, you two need to be ready to go. Retrieve the damn thing and bring it back here. You know the drill.”

  I helped myself to his notepad and scribbled Jami Richards’ name. “I need a jail visit for tomorrow,” I said as I passed it to him.

  Brick had more connections than anyone I knew, including Creole. He owned various businesses and was well respected in the community. In addition to the car lot, he owned pawnshops around the state, recently branched out his bail bond locations, and owned and operated the Gentlemen’s Club, a stripper joint in Alligator Alley. He described it as classy, but I wouldn’t know.

  “One more thing: for safety reasons, n
o more sliding down the banister,” he said, directing his comment to Fab.

  I had a fear of falling on my butt.

  Chapter 8

  “Your mother’s here.” Fab nodded to the black Mercedes sitting at the curb. If you didn’t drive a black automobile you didn’t get into this family.

  “Didier’s home; you better hustle your sexy behind before Mother snatches him away from you and it will be you and Spoon sitting in the tree…” There are times when I’m so amused by myself. I laughed while Fab gave me a dirty look.

  I got out and made kissing noises, staying a strategic distance behind so that she couldn’t smack me. I peered in the kitchen garden window, waving to Mother and Didier who sat at the island.

  Fab flung open the door and yelled, “We didn’t get arrested today.”

  “Where’s the food?” I sniffed, and kissed Mother’s cheek.

  “I’ll call it in when we’re ready,” Mother said. In knee-length shorts and boat shoes, she looked ready for a boat ride.

  I went into the living room and retrieved a large manila envelope off the library table that sat in front of the windows. I handed it to Mother. “You need something legal to do.”

  She pushed it back. “I’m busy.”

  “You’re going to be good at this,” I said, shoving it into her hands. “Open it.”

  “You’re opening the poker room?” Her brown eyes sparkled as she thumbed through the paperwork.

  “We’re reopening it as a game room. The room can be reserved for private poker parties as long as”—I noticed the pink highlighted page, taking it out of the stack—“there is no cash on the table and no opportunity to win anything,” I read. “Do that, and Jake’s is not violating the no-gambling statute."

  Mother turned her nose up. “No one’s going to want to play with no betting,” she said, dropping it onto the footstool, disappointed.

  Didier lounged on the couch, Jazz getting his head scratched. Fab sat at the end with Didier’s feet in her lap; she’d never disturb the cat. “I think it’s a great idea,” he said.