From Beer to Eternity

by Sherry Harris

  I came to the small pass that led from the ocean to the inlet behind the Sea Glass. This was nothing like the deeper, wider East Pass in Destin I’d heard about at the bar. I had quickly learned that people talked a lot in bars. While libraries aren’t the quiet places they once were, they had nothing on a bar. Liquor, loose lips, and all that.

  I turned back to the east and decided to run along the harbor to check out the boats to see if I could figure out which one was Rhett’s. See? Cat—curiosity—sometimes I couldn’t help myself. I powered my way through the soft sand between the water’s edge and the cement walkway that ran along the marina. Once on the walkway, I slowed my pace so I could read the names of the boats—Fish You Were Here, Sea Who Laughs Last, Sail and Fair Well, Tuna the Music Up, The Codfather. It didn’t take long to realize that unless Rhett was standing on his boat waving at me, I wouldn’t be able to figure out which one was his.

  Also, a lot of the slips were empty. Dawn was prime fishing time because that’s when the fish themselves were feeding. The boats still at dock ran the gamut of small fishing boats like Boone’s to sailboats to cabin cruisers. The big fishing operations were over in Destin Harbor.

  I shuddered as I came along the dumpster behind the Sea Glass. At least it was free of bodies this morning. I stopped while I sucked in gulps of humid air and looked around for security cameras. Maybe that would give some insight into what happened yesterday. There was one behind the Briny Pirate and one on the back of the Sea Glass. Both looked weathered, like they’d been there a long time. The one on the Sea Glass pointed straight down. It wasn’t going to help anyone. I hoped the sheriff’s department would find Elwell’s killer quickly. Up until yesterday morning, this place had seemed so peaceful after Chicago. Almost innocent.

  The back door of the Sea Glass popped open. Vivi came out. All dressed and decked out at this hour of the morning. Her gold flats even matched her gold purse. And here I was in an old sports bra, covered in sweat, with my hair sticking to my skull. Nothing like impressing the new boss. She looked surprised to see me, but covered it quickly.

  “Here,” she said. Vivi tossed me a set of keys. “Open up at eleven and do the best you can until I get back or Joaquín shows up.”

  The best I could? Was she serious? If someone wanted something fancier than a beer, I’d be toast. “Where are you going to be?”

  Vivi gave me a look that said mind your own business and walked to the parking lot. I watched as she climbed into a sleek, silver Mercedes. Then I remembered I hadn’t thanked her for the keys to Boone’s place.

  I raced over to the side of Vivi’s car. She rolled down the darkly tinted window. “What?”

  “Thank you for the keys to Boone’s place. Let me know how much I owe you for rent.”

  Vivi looked at me, opened her mouth, buzzed up the window, and peeled out of the parking lot.

  I looked after her for a moment before heading down to the water to run back to Boone’s. What the heck did that reaction mean? Trying to figure out Vivi was harder than running in soft sand.

  About the time I came even with the lake, the sun burst over the horizon. There were just enough clouds that the beauty of it made me catch my breath. I slowed down and decided to walk the rest of the way back to cool down. I looked for shells, as did other people, but shells were few and far between here. And I hadn’t seen a bit of sea glass, which made me wonder how the bar got its name. Two sandbars stretched along the beach in this area, which meant most of the shells were on the other side of the second sandbar. Maybe sea glass was there too. That’s also where sharks were occasionally spotted. One of these days I’d swim out there, but not now. Dawn meant feeding time for sharks too, and I didn’t want to be a shark’s breakfast.

  Once I got back to Boone’s place, I noticed there were surfboards, paddleboards, beach chairs, and a kayak tucked under the elevated screened porch. Oh good, toys to play with. I hauled the rest of my things out of my car and into the house, along with a bag of assorted snacks I’d purchased a couple of days before. I grabbed another apple, took it out to the porch, and flopped onto the wicker chaise. Then I looked up how to make different tropical drinks on my phone and prayed that Joaquín would show up early.

  * * *

  I unlocked the back door to the Sea Glass just after ten. It was weird to be here alone because the place was usually so full of life. That made me think of Elwell again. I stopped to listen for a moment. The refrigerator hummed, but I didn’t hear anything else. No one was waiting around to kill me too. Faint smells of beer, lemon cleaner, and salt air combined in a not-unpleasant scent. I flipped on lights, headed through the small kitchen, out to the bar. The water was dazzling today. People had already set up umbrellas on the beach, and a Frisbee game was in full swing.

  I’d never opened before and I had no idea what I was supposed to do, setup wise. Getting the register up and running seemed like a good first step. I flipped it on, and a start screen came up, asking for a password. Great. I remembered Joaquín had restarted it the other day as I watched. Concentrating on that image, I gave it a couple of tries. It bloomed to life after I’d typed in a combination of the words “Sea Glass” and Boone’s birthday. This system not only allowed us to ring up orders, but tracked everything from our hours to repeat customers to sales figures.

  An array of folders came up. One said “security.” I hesitated for a moment before opening the folder. You are not being nosy. You are being helpful. I repeated that to myself a few times. I didn’t believe it for a minute. There were two cameras. One in here that I hadn’t noticed hidden in a corner. It showed the cash register and the interior of the bar.

  I glanced over my shoulder and spotted the camera in the shadows of the back right corner. At this very moment, it was recording me opening this folder. It took all my strength not to wave to it. Hopefully, Vivi only watched the recordings if there was some reason to. But just in case, I moved my body until it blocked what I was doing on-screen.

  The other camera was the one I’d noticed that pointed straight down at the ground. The picture was cloudy. The lens was probably coated with salt spray. I’d noticed since I’d arrived in Emerald Cove that I had to clean off my windshield more frequently because of the salt air. The shot didn’t even show the area near the back door, which I figured was what it was supposed to do.

  Each day seemed to have its own file within the folder. I clicked on the one for the day before yesterday, hoping I could find proof that Vivi was arguing with someone other than Elwell. That way, if the police came after her, she’d have proof... of what? Proof she was angry with someone else? Proof she had a temper? I shrugged. Would that be better than nothing—or her arguing with Elwell?

  But that was not to be. The camera pointed straight down. I kept watching, hoping it had captured something. Zippo. The camera occasionally moved, like the wind pushed it a bit, but that was it. Nothing to help Vivi. Then again, there was nothing to hurt her either.

  CHAPTER 8

  At eleven fifteen someone pounded on the back door. I had everything like Joaquín always did. Fruit was cut and out, napkins and stirrers replenished. Glasses at the ready. I was ready, willing, and fingers and toes crossed hopefully able.

  One of the regulars, a man who’d ignored me up to this point, stood outside. “Why’s the door locked?” he asked as he breezed past me through the kitchen and into the bar. Vivi! She usually left the back door unlocked and regulars used it all the time. Easy enough for one of them to grab a channel knife on their way in or out. Heck, it didn’t even have to be a regular. Anyone could have slipped in and out unnoticed. Especially because the camera wasn’t working.

  The man slid into a seat midway between the doors that opened to the beach and the bar. His back to the wall. His Florida Gators hat tipped back. Another regular, a woman with gray, permed hair, who’d come in the front, sat opposite him on the other side of the bar. I grabbed a notebook and approached the woman first.

  “What can
I help you with?” I asked.

  She looked askance at me. Her skin defined the term “leathery.” “Help me with?” There was a chuckle in her voice.

  Oops. The “help you with” came from working at the library. But before I could correct it and ask her what she’d like to drink, she was talking.

  “Well, a lot of things. My car needs vacuuming, my knee aches, and my grown kids won’t move out.” She paused. “Can you help me with any of that?”

  Never count out a librarian when you needed something. “You might try drinking a combination of apple cider vinegar, honey, and cinnamon for the aching knees.” Librarians had a lot of aches and pains from all the standing, sitting, and squatting that took place with finding and reshelving books. “I have a coupon for a free vacuuming with car wash I can give you. But you’re on your own with the kids. If a drink would help, I can handle that.” I hoped.

  She laughed. “I’ll take you up on that coupon. And a mimosa would be a great start. Thanks.”

  “One mimosa coming up.” That I could do. I’d attended many a brunch in Chicago, where all the mimosas you could drink were included in the price. I walked over to the man.

  “What can I get you to drink?”

  “No offers of help for me?” He looked dead serious.

  “It depends on what you need.”

  “I need a drink. Why else would I come in here?”

  I could think of a lot of reasons—to hang out with friends, to enjoy the view, to look at Joaquín. I kept my opinions to myself. “What would you like?”

  “I’ll have an old-fashioned.”

  I waited for him to go on, pen poised. I looked up when he didn’t say anything else. He stared at me. “An old-fashioned what?” I asked.

  “It’s a drink. An old-fashioned.” He said it slowly, like I wasn’t too bright. It seems like that had been happening a lot lately. “Where’s Vivi and Joaquín?”

  As if I knew. “Fishing and out getting things for Elwell’s memorial.” That sounded good. “I’ll get that drink for you.”

  I hurried behind the bar, grabbed my phone, and did a quick search of how to make an old-fashioned. I found a brief history, which I knew I should ignore but scanned quickly. I blame the librarian side of my personality. I’d been curious as a kid, to my detriment sometimes.

  The word “cocktail” dated back to 1776 and supposedly came about when a woman in New York ran out of wooden stirrers and grabbed the feather of a cock’s tail to use instead. Ack. That sounded disgusting. The old-fashioned was considered a classic drink, and there was some argument about whether fruit should be included and muddled, meaning you pressed the fresh ingredients—like herbs or fruit—against the sides or bottom of the glass to release the flavors. As much as I wanted to keep reading, I needed to skip ahead to the actual making instead of muddling along here.

  I found the lumps of sugar and dropped one into the bottom of a rocks glass, which I just learned was also called an old-fashioned glass. I studied the liquor—or spirits, as Joaquín called them—behind the bar. Instead of the usual shelving, Vivi had the liquor in various open-fronted, staggered wooden cabinets that gave the place a homey feel. I finally found the Angostura bitters, whatever they were, and crushed the sugar and bitters together as instructed. I added two ounces of whiskey and gave it a stir. Then I garnished, as directed, with a lemon peel twist, orange slice, and maraschino cherry. It looked pretty. I was quite proud of myself.

  I whipped together the mimosa, put both drinks on a tray, and delivered them, ladies first. The two customers lifted their drinks. I think I saw the man wink.

  “To Elwell. May he rest in peace,” the woman said.

  “Unlikely. But I’ll drink to that,” he said.

  Both took a drink and neither spit them out. Woo-hoo. Success. I wanted to hear whether they were going to say anything else about Elwell, so I started straightening some of the many pictures that lined the walls. Some were old advertisements. Lots of photos—many of which were black and white. Most didn’t need straightening. I turned my back to the customers in an attempt to look like I wasn’t eavesdropping.

  “Why don’t you think he’ll rest in peace?” she asked.

  “Too ornery. Caused too many problems while he was here.” He paused, maybe took a drink. “A man must have to pay up at some point.”

  I took a closer look at the photo in front of me. Black and white. A young Vivi and Elwell. They looked to be in their late teens, but sometimes I found it hard to tell how old people are in old photos. They stood on the beach in swimwear, arms slung around each other. Vivi’s head was thrown back, laughing. A young woman stood off to the side, arms crossed and glaring.

  “Well, aren’t you philosophical today, and you haven’t even finished your first drink of the day,” the woman said.

  “Who says this is my first drink?” the man replied.

  I turned to them. “This photo looks like Vivi and Elwell.” The woman got up and came over to me. The man just swiveled on his barstool and squinted.

  “That’s them,” he said. He turned back to his drink.

  “High school sweethearts,” the woman said. “They had a bad breakup while Vivi was in college.”

  “Really?” I asked. Could their argument—if it was them arguing—have had something to do with their past? More likely it had to do with him wearing that weird armadillo hat. I couldn’t be the only one who’d noticed it was scaring away customers. Or was it some combination of the past and present? “How bad was their breakup?”

  “So bad that it’s amazing they were ever in the same room again.”

  Interesting. Yet Elwell had married someone else—he wore a wedding band—and hung around in the bar. Even more astonishing was that Vivi let him. She wasn’t one to tolerate anyone’s bull as far as I could tell. There was that old saying that time heals all wounds. Maybe time had healed theirs.

  The woman went back to her seat, so I headed back to the bar. I took another peek at the history of the old-fashioned. In 1806 a cocktail was considered a drink with liquor, sugar, water, and bitters. 1806! Jefferson was president. Cocktails had been around a long time.

  I checked on my two customers. “How’s everything?” I asked the man.

  “I’ve had worse,” he said.

  Deflated, I turned to the woman. She glanced at the man. “Mine’s perfect. Not watered down with too much orange juice like so many places.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “And ‘I’ve had worse’ is high praise from that cranky Yankee,” she said. Loud enough for him to hear. I gave her a quick smile. “His forefathers left New England and came down here in the eighteen hundreds for the fishing.”

  I nodded politely.

  “His family has been here longer than most. But somehow you can take a cranky Yankee out of New England . . .”

  “But you can’t take the cranky out of the Yankee,” he finished for her. “Heard it a million times from you, old woman.”

  “And you’ll hear it a million more, old man,” she said back.

  He looked at me. “At least you didn’t muddle the fruit. It’s an atrocity to call it an old-fashioned when people do that.”

  Well, my lack of muddling experience had worked well in this case.

  * * *

  Thirty minutes later, a group of college-aged girls stumbled in. It looked like they’d either been out all night or gotten an early start. I wasn’t sure what the policy was for serving people who looked tipsy. There must be Florida laws about that, but up until now I’d just done as I was told. No decision-making necessary. I guess I’d have to wing it until Joaquín showed up.

  One of the girls wore a tiara with a wedding veil attached. It sat askew on the top of her light red hair. She’d make a lovely if tipsy bride. I sure hoped this was her bachelorette party and not her wedding day. I headed over. The girls started shouting their orders. All of them wanted some kind of fruity frozen drinks. Daiquiris, margaritas, strawberry, peach. On
e asked for a Bahama Mama. A faint sweat dampened my forehead. I had to figure out something fast.

  “Mimosas are fifty percent off this morning,” I said.

  “Yay,” the one with the veil said. “Mimosas for everyone.”

  I did a happy dance in my head. And in my head, my moves were every bit as good as Joaquín’s. The only downside was it would create a deficit in Vivi’s revenue. I’d make up for the extra out of my own pocket. It would be so worth it.

  “I’ll need to see some ID.” They all grumbled and complained, but I heard far worse in the library. Try telling a little old lady her time was up on Ancestry.com and that another patron was waiting for the computer. I’ve heard sailors with better language. Fortunately, every last one of them actually had a valid ID.

  As I walked back past the other woman, I stopped. “I’ll make yours fifty percent off too.”

  “You’re quick on your feet,” she said. “But Vivi isn’t one to give deals to tourists.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” I said.

  I quickly got out champagne flutes. I made these with more orange juice than sparkling wine. After I delivered them I took over glasses of water too. They looked like they needed to hydrate. Another group of people came in—eight couples. I was seriously questioning my life decisions and praying that Joaquín would show up. I took their orders. The men all wanted beers (thank heavens) and the women decided on the half-price mimosas. As I returned to the bar, Joaquín walked in.

  I flung my arms around him. “You’re here,” I said. He smelled great—salt air and soap.

  He gave me a quick hug before freeing himself. “Where’s Vivi?”

  “No idea. I saw her when I was out on my morning run. She gave me the keys and told me to open.”

  I could tell by how his brow crinkled that this was unusual behavior, but there wasn’t time to speculate with the crowd he had. Joaquín and I worked together, preparing the beers and mimosas. They didn’t use frosty beer mugs at the Sea Glass. Joaquín told me it was because as the ice melted on the mug, it would dilute the flavor of the beer. Who knew?