Give Me Chills

by Tara Lush

  Give Me Chills

  A Devil’s Beach Novella

  Tara Lush

  Cover Design:

  Lou Malcangi

  Editor:

  Mistress Editing

  Copyright © 2020 by Tara Lush

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Also by Tara Lush

  GROUNDS FOR MURDER, A Coffee Shop Mystery

  Published by Crooked Lane Books

  Dec 08, 2020 | ISBN 9781643856193

  Barista Lana Lewis’s sleuthing may land her in a latte trouble as Tara Lush launches her debut Coffee Shop mystery series.

  Give Me Chills

  Ice cream and murder. Will this amateur sleuth melt under pressure?

  After being humiliated in front of her entire hometown of Moose Knuckle, New Hampshire, Hadley Mortimer heads south to lick her wounds. All the way to the island of Devil's Beach, Florida, where she's opened her first business: Give Me Chills, an artisan ice cream truck. After a couple of weeks, she’s living the cream and has even met a gorgeous guy named Zander, who seems to appreciate more than her soft serve cones.

  Then Zander asks her to bring an ice cream cake to his great-aunt’s funeral, and while delivering her pretty, frozen treat to the wake, overhears two people talking about murder. Hadley — a true crime junkie — lets curiosity get the best of her. She begins her own amateur investigation.

  It’s not easy to juggle a new crush, a popular food truck and a murder investigation. Hadley has to do all three without having a meltdown.

  Prologue

  She was surprisingly agile for her age.

  At seventy-five, she pulled her silver-blonde hair into a loose bun and raked the sandy earth each morning with veined, skeletal hands. She yanked tough weeds in her lush tropical garden, doting on the riot of scarlet hibiscus flowers that graced her front yard. The gardening was followed by an efficient shower in her sprawling beachfront home, then a selection of plain, utilitarian clothes. Hues of black and gray, stretchy forgiving material to hide the ravages of age. Sensible black sneakers allowed her to power-walk to a nearby shopping district even in the most humid weather.

  A tough old broad, really. But she wasn't invincible. The stalker clenched the steering wheel, watching as she dashed across the street to the coffeehouse.

  Like most elderly in Florida, she was lonely. It showed in the way she approached strangers with an over-eager grin. Her stories went on a touch too long, as if she wanted to wring every drop of human contact out of each conversation.

  The island’s post office, the bookstore, and the café were her social lifelines. The clerks and baristas seemed to love her, dote on her, despite her verbal diarrhea. They'd give her free baked treats and chat about meaningless crap, like the weather or books. She spent hours at Perkatory, the coffee shop, savoring tea and a book. Usually romance paperbacks, which was ironic since she probably hadn't felt a man's touch in decades, not since her husband died twenty years ago. Lately, she'd switched to an e-reader because of her faltering eyesight.

  In the early evenings she'd stretch and pant through a half hour of water aerobics in her pool that overlooked the Gulf of Mexico. Those aqua calisthenics, every night at seven, were an impressive feat of self-motivation. Then came a light dinner — always salad, no protein, tsk, tsk — and after, she always indulged in her favorite frozen dessert.

  It was a boring life, which made it all the more maddening. Why hadn't she spent any of those millions in her bank account? She could've lived a life of obscene luxury, draped in jewels and passing her final years on a cruise ship, surrounded by other old people. Or she could have moved to one of those many retirement communities in Florida where she could line dance through the days, play bingo, experience one final love affair. Had she followed that predictable path, she'd have saved her life.

  She had no one, so why did she choose to stay on an island where she had few friends and no family?

  Eh. What was the point of questioning her life choices? It didn't matter now that she'd finally changed her last will and testament. It hadn't been easy. It took years to win her confidence. Okay, and a few nights of cocktails, too. She liked her mint juleps strong. Many of them on the night she changed her will.

  Now all that remained was her death. And then real life could begin.

  The stalker grinned as a car in front of the café pulled away. The parking gods were benevolent in downtown Devil’s Beach today, and it was a cinch to find a spot on the island’s busy main drag. Sometimes it was overrun with beachgoers who figured it was easier to park there and walk to the sand.

  From this vantage point in the space near the café, the stalker could watch the woman through the sedan's tinted windows.

  She assumed her usual spot at the coffeehouse. Always in that comfy, overstuffed chair near the window, the beige chair with the light-blue pillow. She waved and smiled, probably at something one of the baristas said. When she laughed, the woman's face crinkled and cracked with decades of hard-earned wrinkles.

  Then a man came into view and sat in a chair next to the woman. The stalker scowled. What was this? The man was probably around thirty. Dirty blonde hair, stubble that made him look rakish, Ray-Ban sunglasses. He wore a dark blazer over a white T-shirt, and dark jeans. His smile was positively dazzling, and he tenderly reached for the woman's hand. He lowered the sunglasses, and his beauty increased by approximately a thousand percent.

  Who was this guy? Surely not a lover. She wasn't that bold. It couldn't be family, could it? The woman had mentioned no relatives in Florida, and only a distant few in the Midwest — and they hadn't shown interest in her for decades.

  She'd been chosen for her money and her isolation.

  The stalker's stomach soured as the pair laughed and chatted. The warmth between them was palpable even from a distance. This was an alarming development, one that meant rethinking the plan. It wouldn't be enough to poison the woman over thirty nights as planned. It would have to be done with one quick dose.

  Yes, before the month was through, Linda Caldwell would die.

  One

  People on Devil’s Beach leave garbage in the craziest of places.

  "What is this?" I whispered, plucking a soggy tissue from the space between the white painted bumper and the nose of my vintage Volkswagen van. Diving back into the gap, my fingers brushed against a crumpled ice cream cup and a mangled wooden tasting spoon. "So gross."

  "People are pigs." The deep voice interrupted my cleaning ritual.

  I glanced to my left and spotted a pair of brown leather oxfords. Because I was wearing a yellow cotton sundress and bent over in a pose that was suggestive at best and contorted at worst, I straightened my spine.

  And looked smack into a pair of sparkling blue eyes. Extremely alluring eyes. Attached to an equally intriguing-looking man, wearing a white linen shirt. He had a wide smile that drew me in, made me want to grin. He wasn't much older than me and looked like he was fresh off a yacht, with money and class and extremely excellent manners. But not fussy. Casual and easy.

  "Yes. People are pigs." I shoved the handful of garbage into a can near the front tire, then gestured to the back of the vehicle. "You should see what customers try to stuff in the engine compartment. Once I found the remnants of a waffle cone."

  The man stuffed his hands into his jeans pockets and tilted his head, studying my lavender-and-white-striped ice cream van. His gaze went to the chalkboard that listed the flavors. His eyes stopped on the logo painted in cursive on the side. "Give Me Chills. Great
name for an ice cream business. Does this thing run?"

  I brushed my hands against each other. "It not only runs, but runs amazing. I drove this here all the way from New Hampshire. Took me a full week, but I made it in one piece."

  "All the way from New Hampshire. I'll bet there's an intriguing backstory there." He slid a glance to me, the corners of his eyes crinkling. Goodness, he was gorgeous, with a messy mop of dirty blonde hair and a dusting of stubble on his jaw. So handsome that I was instantly wary.

  A backstory that you'll never know, dude. I smiled, tight-lipped.

  He cleared his throat. "Are you still serving? Or are you closed for the night?"

  "I'm still open for another half hour. Let me wash up and I'll take your order." I popped open the driver's side door, shut and locked it behind me, then slipped into the cabin. Since the interior was custom built, I had room to stand, move around, and scoop my handmade ice cream. I ran my hands under the cool water of my mini faucet — I'd had a sink, small tank, and a water pump installed during the van's overhaul — then wiped them on a lavender-colored towel that matched the van's exterior paint.

  One step forward, and I poked my head out the main window. The blue-eyed guy was on the other side, standing under the scalloped vinyl canopy that matched my van. Behind him, the white sand beach, and beyond that, the glittering water of the Gulf of Mexico, provided a near-perfect backdrop, as if he were ripped from a GQ fashion shoot.

  Like an angel who had landed on Devil’s Beach.

  His brow gently furrowed, studying the contents of my plexiglass case as if he were trying to decipher a particularly irksome Sudoku puzzle.

  "I'll have the salted double chocolate almond," he said after a long pause.

  "Excellent choice. Cone or cup?" I pointed to a stack of my vanilla waffle cones.

  "Cup, please."

  I packed two full scoops into a biodegradable ice cream container, stuck a bamboo disposable spoon into the creamy goodness, and handed him the ice cream through the window. In exchange, he offered me a twenty.

  "Keep the change."

  "Really? You sure? It's a five-dollar ice cream."

  He stuck a spoonful into his mouth and nodded, a soft groan rising in his throat. Although I was used to that reaction from people when they first tasted my ice cream, it was a bit unsettling to have a guy who looked like him making that kind of noise. I slid the money into the lock box stashed on a nearby shelf as sweat pricked the backs of my legs.

  His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed a mouthful of ice cream. "I've been wanting to try you since you started parking here, what was it, a month ago? I moved here about the same time but haven't been able to stop by until tonight. Been slammed with work."

  What did he do for a living that left him unable to indulge in an ice cream? Jeez.

  "Thanks. Glad you're enjoying. You live in the area?"

  "I live there." He pointed with his spoon toward the downtown main drag at a four-story, brick condo building. From what I’d read, it had been a cigar factory at the turn of last century and was now the newest and most expensive condo building on Devil’s Beach. I’d seen pictures in the local paper of the enormous lofts with the high ceilings and the tall windows.

  "And I work there, too. Well, not at the condo. Work in my condo. From my condo. All the heckin’ time."

  "Gotcha." I organized a stack of business cards in a small plastic holder that sat atop the small counter, then grabbed a couple and extended them in his direction. "I lucked out and got one of the permanent food truck spots here at the beach. Take a card or two and pass them out to friends and family."

  Our fingers touched when he took them, and a little zing of electricity raced up my arm. A totally unwanted zing since I was through with men. I'd come to Florida to flee a terrible relationship and lick my wounds. No way was I getting tangled up with another guy so soon.

  "You know, I'd love to also buy couple pints of this. If you have them." He held up his cup. "I'm headed to a dinner party tomorrow night at my aunt's. She'll love this stuff."

  I held up my index finger. "Let me check."

  Ducking back into the van, I opened the mini freezer and grinned. There were three pints of salted double chocolate almond left. It had been a good day, money-wise. Who knew people in Florida would love my ice cream this much?

  Take that, jerks up north in my hometown who thought I was weird for opening an ice cream van after getting an MBA.

  I slid the all three pints into a branded Give Me Chills paper sack with twine handles. The guy was still on the other side of the window, wolfing down his cup of ice cream.

  "Thanks, you're a lifesaver. I wasn't sure what I would bring to her party."

  I stuffed a few more cards into the bag and handed it to him. "I included a third pint for free. Hope the ice cream's a big hit."

  He offered me another twenty, and I waved him off. "Please," he said.

  I relented and took the cash. "Thanks. Next one's on me."

  "Deal."

  Just then, a minivan pulled into a nearby parking spot. The side door swung open, and children poured out, yelling and pointing at my van. All of them were various shades of pink, which meant they’d probably spent the entire day roasting in the Florida sun. I was still getting used to all this heat and humidity and stayed inside whenever I wasn’t working.

  "Tourists. I'm beginning to spot them from a distance now," I murmured, and the guy laughed.

  "Looks like you'll be busy for a while. I'll let you work. By the way, my name's Zander."

  "Hadley." I gave him a little wave and a genuine grin.

  For a second, I gazed at his white T-shirt and how it stretched deliciously across his muscular shoulders. Delicious equaled dangerous, in my experience. My smile melted.

  He held up his cup. "See you around, Hadley. I'll be back for another fix soon. This stuff is killer."

  Two

  I hadn't seen Zander in a week, and I didn't care. Much. Flirting with him had been entertaining, the first time I'd enjoyed male attention in a long while.

  But mostly, I put him and his beautiful blue eyes out of my mind and concentrated on my business. There were supplies to order. Festival requests to consider. And there was ice cream to make.

  It was the best part of my job, going to the culinary incubator space three times a week to make my artisanal ice cream. It was one of the reasons I'd chosen Devil’s Beach. I’d read in a business magazine about the island’s incubator space for culinary businesses, and when I’d emailed and told them about my ice cream van business, they eagerly accepted me into their fold.

  It was an incredible asset for my fledgling empire: a commercial kitchen with industrial-grade appliances, available to rent for small business owners like me.

  There, in the cool, windowless room of the warehouse, I escaped the Florida heat and used ice cream makers that normally cost hundreds of thousands of dollars for a small monthly fee.

  I crafted two new flavors (curry mint chip and strawberry cheesecake) and two standby favorites (chocolate and vanilla). I tried to give customers a rotating selection of the classics, along with edgier recipes.

  On Friday evening, just as the scalding Florida sun was about to drop below the horizon, I handed a waffle cone packed with vanilla to a customer. She accepted it with a grin and handed me the cash. As she wandered away, I spotted Zander coming down the sidewalk with a determined expression.

  My heart skipped a beat — only one, because I was trying to keep my emotions in check — but I grinned despite myself. He looked too yummy in a white polo shirt and madras shorts, and I couldn't stop myself from checking out his muscular legs.

  "Hey there." I leaned out the window and gave a little wave. "I have a couple new flavors for you to try."

  As he got closer, I noticed he'd changed since I'd seen him last. Dark circles marred the tan skin of his face, and his mouth slanted in a hard line. He was no less gorgeous, but something about him looked defeated, depress
ed even.

  "Hadley, hey." His voice didn't match his expression. It was warm, like the breeze that rustled the nearby palm trees. "Sorry I haven't been by. I'd hoped to visit earlier in the week, but… it's been a week. Feels like a lifetime, actually."

  He ran a hand through his sandy brown hair.

  "Oh, that doesn't sound good. I have something that will cheer you up," I said.

  His eyes met mine, and his expression softened into a foxy grin. Eep. That sounded suggestive. I tried to recover with a bright smile and an offer of ice cream. "I'll bet this new flavor will fix whatever's wrong."

  My face flushed hot, and I moved around the van, scooping the curry mint chip into a cup. I offered it to him. "On the house."

  He took it wordlessly and dug in. I studied him as he downed one bite, then two. He tilted his head. "Mint chocolate chip, and…" He took a third bite. "Curry?"

  "Yes!" I clapped my hands. "Few people identify it on the first try."

  "I'd never think to put these flavors together, that's for sure. But it works. You're quite talented."

  I beamed. These were the compliments I lived for. Between bites, he asked about my week. I waved my hand dismissively. "I was invited to a big food truck festival at a theme park in Orlando. It’ll be a couple hours’ drive, but I think it’s worth the effort."

  He murmured the name of the theme park.

  "That's the one," I replied. "Do you think I should attend the festival? Is it packed? I'll probably have to make a lot of extra ice cream."

  "Absolutely. But I'm biased." He flashed a grin, but the sadness in his eyes remained. I was dying to know why he seemed so down, but since we'd known each other for approximately five minutes, I wasn't going to pry.

  "Why do you say that?" Okay, I wouldn't pry too much. My parents always said I was inappropriately curious, and they were probably correct. That never-ending need to know all the things got me into trouble up north.