Moscow Mules & Murder

by Quinn Avery

  "Thank you for believing me. You could've decided I had a screw loose when I came to you, rambling on about evil crabs and a laughing skull."

  One of his toothpaste-commercial-worthy smiles spread over his lips. "It was actually kind of cute."

  Cute? I smiled stiffly despite the irritated growl rising in my throat. "Anyway," I continued, "I was thinking...if you still wanted to come back for dinner after work, it'd be my treat. You know, to thank you for believing me, and for making you go to all this trouble. You can totally bring your girlfriend, too."

  Grayson's thick eyebrows shot upright. "My girlfriend?"

  A flame licked my cheeks. "Wife? Fiancée?"

  "It's just me. And I'll gladly take you up on your offer. It's time I start mingling with the locals." He raised a single eyebrow. "Hey, Zoey?"

  Nerves frayed, I licked my lips. "Yeah?"

  He jutted his chin downward. "Careful or you'll drop that tray."

  Squealing, I corrected my grip at the wrong angle. The empty glasses, pitcher, and my pride shattered at the detective's feet. Heat throbbed in my cheeks as I crouched down to pick up the mess.

  ”I swear I'm normally not this much of a klutz," I told him, eyes fixed on the shards of broken glass. "I guess I'm a little more shook up about finding a dead person than I realized."

  A second later, he was squatting beside me, helping collect pieces to put on the tray. "Despite what the chief said, I don't consider the matter closed. Not by a long shot. And what I do with my personal time is none of the taxpayers' business." Taking a hold of my shoulder, he lowered his voice. "You and I will figure this out, Zoey."

  Although my pride still buzzed with humiliation, I felt a spark of hope.

  Five

  Late the next afternoon, I launched items of clothing from my closet with the force of a missile. Everything I owned classified as either "cute" or "adorable," just like my personality.

  "Who's there?" Teenie demanded in a voice as squeaky as a rusted hinge. "What are you doing in Zoey's room? I may be old, but I'll kick your booty! I know ka-ra-te!"

  I peered around the corner to find my 100-pound landlord raising her tiny fists in a fighter’s stance. “It’s just me, Teenie.”

  Relief flooded her leathery face. In a purple floral coverup and the yellow floppy hat she wore on her daily trip to the beach, the 82-year-old's overly tanned skin was a stark contrast to her new dentures and snowy white pigtails fastened with rubber bands near her shoulders. Teenie was aware her tanning addiction had become unhealthy. Molly and I had decided she was reckless in everything she did, hoping she'd be reunited with her beloved Ernie sooner.

  "What's with the cyclone of clothes?" she asked, scowling. "Don't tell me you saw a rat! I can't deal with a rat in my beautiful home!"

  Molly slipped into the room behind Teenie, munching on a Granny Smith apple. Based on her messy dark hair and the fact that she was still wearing her pajamas, I assumed she'd been watching soap operas with Teenie all morning. "What's this about a rat?" she squeaked.

  "There's no rat," I assured them both. "I'm just trying to find something decent to wear. I was too busy to spend any time with Grayson last night, so he volunteered to stop by after his shift today."

  "Hold on." Still chomping on a chunk of apple, Molly grabbed one of my shoulders. "How exactly did he word it? What was the tone of his voice?"

  "Who's Grayson?" Teenie pipped. "Is this man making a booty call?"

  "What?" I shook my head frantically. "No! I mean...I don't know. All I know is he's coming here to talk about the skull, and I want him to stop looking at me like I'm someone's kid sister."

  "Skull?" Teenie gasped. "What skull? Did someone die?"

  Flinching with my mistake, I eyed Molly. We didn't need to feed Teenie's already overactive imagination.

  "Uh...Zoey found a, um, weird animal skull at the bar," Molly told her. "She met a crazy-hot veterinarian that wants to help her identify it."

  Teenie's eyebrows, drawn in with a flourishing pencil stroke, lifted in my direction. "You're letting a strange man into the house? What if he has a gun? Or a knife?"

  "I promise he's not a serial killer," I said.

  "Did he tell you that?" Teenie huffed, folding her thin arms. "Because that's exactly what a serial killer would say!"

  With a roll of her eyes, Molly steered Teenie toward the hallway. "You better get going before you miss that sexy young doctor taking his afternoon run on the beach!"

  "You're right!" Teenie declared, lighting up with a wide smile. "Lord knows what would happen if I missed out on my daily dose of beautiful man-buns! God bless the person that invented Speedos!" Her wrinkled lips blew us a kiss. "Toot-a-loo, ladies! Don't do anything I wouldn't!"

  "That doesn't leave much!" Molly called after her.

  Once they were alone, I threw Molly an accusatory scowl. "Why haven't you ever told me I have the wardrobe of a twelve-year old?"

  "I have," Molly replied in a dry tone. "Probably a thousand and one times since we've met. Until now, you've refused to listen."

  Muttering underneath my breath, I snagged a sundress off the floor and held it out between us. "Yellow flowers, Mol. Do you know who wears dresses with yellow flowers?"

  "Psychopaths who suddenly realize their wardrobe is lacking in allure?" Molly grabbed the sundress, giggling. "What you need is a tight pair of jeans and a cute crop top to go with those killer heels I gave you for Christmas."

  I cupped my chest, frowning. "What I really need is a bigger chest."

  "Your boobs are perfectly proportionate to the rest of you, Zo. You have Barbie's waist. If you also had her boobs, you'd fall over." Clicking her tongue, Molly snatched my hand and dragged me out from the closet. "We're swinging by the bar to get our paychecks, then we'll find you a killer outfit and a push-up bra that'll unhinge that hot detective's jaw."

  With the visual of Grayson's jaw dropping, I recoiled. It made me think of the laughing skull.

  At Beach Bummers, a row of shirtless male guests of all ages lined one side of the tiki bar, engaged in a lively debate with Finn, everyone's favorite bartender. The former Minnesota college quarterback had lost his scholarship his sophomore year after suffering from three concussions in a row. Like myself, he'd wanted a break from his shattered dreams and had moved to the island on a whim. In the eight years since, he became a local superstar. Between his small-town charm, impressive athletic build, and All-American appearance, he was the bar's male equivalent of Molly.

  "Women these days don't think that way!" Finn insisted, shaking his head of thick, sandy hair. His bright sapphire eyes sparkled when he saw us approaching. "Ladies! Come settle this argument!"

  Molly sauntered toward them, full chest on display beneath a spaghetti-strap tank top, thick lashes fluttering. She'd tried numerous times to hook up with Finn, but he'd always deflected her advances. "What's up, handsome?"

  Finn braced one arm against the bar. "If a rich, attractive man told you he'd take care of you so you never had to work another day in your life, would you take him up on the offer?"

  "Hell no," Molly declared. "I can take care of myself, thank you very much."

  "See?" Finn told the men, puffing his chest out. "It's like I told you—the ladies prefer broke guys over rich dudes. Tell them you live in a van on the beach, and they'll go nuts."

  "Where are you getting your information?" I scolded. "Most women only care about love."

  "What does love have to do with anything?" one of the men asked. The rest of his crew howled with laughter.

  Molly turned her back on them, rolling her eyes. "Can you please whip up two top-shelf margaritas, Finnster?" She swatted my rear. "I'll duck inside and grab our checks."

  As she headed toward the resort, I clambered onto the stool farthest away from the male guests. "Hey, Finn. Do you remember a waitress named Ginny Jones?"

  Retrieving a set of colorful margarita glasses with one hand, he scratched his chin with the other. "Skinny blonde wit
h weird eyes and a big rack, right?"

  With the memory of Todd the Terrible's busty cheerleader, I crossed my arms and huffed. "What is it with men and boobs?"

  "How can you blame us?" He flashed a dimpled grin as he rimmed each of the glasses with lime juice, then salt. "They're our first source of comfort when we come into the world."

  "Same with women, but you don't see us obsessing over them."

  "Sure you do. You just don't think about them as much because you get to walk around with a pair to admire twenty-four seven."

  Rubbing my face with both hands, I groaned. It wasn't surprising that Finn remained single. I watched as he filled the glasses with chunks of ice. "Is there anything helpful you can tell me about Ginny? Do you remember her talking about a significant other, or family members? Did she ever mention where she was from?"

  "I hope she didn't have a man somewhere, because we went a few rounds. She hooked up with guests all the time too." His eyes narrowed as he poured the expensive tequila. "Can't say I remember her saying anything about family, except the one time she mentioned she had a super rich grandpa. The only time I remember her taking a vacation, she went to visit him."

  "Did she mention where he lived?"

  "Something with a D." Drumming his fingers against the oak bar top, he rolled his eyes around. "Maybe Denver? Dallas? Detroit? Or was it Duluth? I dunno. I just remember it was some big city."

  "Do you remember her talking about leaving the island before she disappeared?"

  "How do you expect me to recall anything?" He tapped his temple. "I'm here because my brain got knocked around too many times, remember?" He placed the margaritas in front of me. "What's with all the questions about Ginny?"

  Stirring one of the drinks with a flamingo-shaped stick, I leaned in closer and lowered my voice. "Did you hear about the skull I found out back?"

  His blue eyes bulged. "A human skull?"

  "No, a pterodactyl's," I deadpanned.

  "What does that have to do with Ginny?" he asked, frowning.

  "I was hoping maybe she knew something about paleontology."

  He scratched his head and glanced around the bar as Sasha, the oldest waitress at Beach Bummers, approached. Born and raised in Atlanta, she was a true southern belle. According to her stories, she'd remained chaste until twenty-five when she married a family friend's successful son, and gave him four children. While on a family trip to the island 15 years prior, Sasha discovered her husband had been unfaithful to their marriage for years. She promptly sent him back to Atlanta and stayed on the island to raise their children on her own while juggling several jobs. She'd waitressed at Beach Bummers ever since Smith had taken over.

  She tossed an order ticket at Finn. "Either there's a full moon tonight, or the heat's makin' the tourists act extra funny." Her flawless red nails patted her white-blond cloud of hair that never seemed to move. "One of them was askin' about a human head found by the dumpster."

  "It was a dinosaur's head," Finn informed her before sulking away with the long list of drinks.

  With a cackling laugh, Sasha murmured, "Bless his heart." With a bright grin, she turned to me. "That one's as odd as a two-headed gator."

  "Hey, Sasha, do you remember Ginny Jones?"

  "Of course I remember Ginny, sugar." Sasha held a hand beside her mouth and whispered, "I'll never understand how a sweet little thing like her was born with naturally ginormous ta-tas. She swore up and down they were real."

  With an unbelieving shake of my head, I let out a sharp sigh. "Do you remember anything other than her boobs?"

  "Let me think." Sasha tapped her chin before her hazel eyes widened. "Oh! I know! She had goofy eyes just like David Bowie. One was bright blue, and the other looked black because the pupil was much larger. She said she was born that way."

  I squeezed the lime into my margarita and took a sip of the sugary goodness. The information about Ginny's eyes was more helpful than hearing about the size of her "ta-tas." I leaned back in the stool, eyeing Sasha thoughtfully. "Did she ever talk to you about anyone in her life, or say where she lived before she came to the island?"

  "I think that girl was a loner, bless her heart. She never discussed personal stuff unless she'd gotten up close and personal with a guest, if you get my drift." Sasha folded her arms and grunted. "I didn't care much for that kind of talk, but she told me about it anyway."

  "Do you know how old she was?"

  "Let me see." Sasha's eyes rolled upward for a moment. "I believe she'd turned twenty-one just before she moved here. I only remember because I heard her tellin' a guest about the party bus her older sister had rented for the occasion before she'd left home."

  "Did she mention a rich grandfather?"

  "Not that I can recall."

  "Did you know she was planning to leave the island?"

  "No, and I couldn't believe it when she just up and left without tellin' a soul. Guess that's how you do things when you're a loner." As a boisterous group of five couples claimed one of the tables, Sasha patted my arm. "I better get back at it. Nice chattin' with you, sweetheart. Enjoy the rest of your day off."

  Molly returned just then, tossing a sealed envelope in front of me before snagging the untouched margarita. "Drink up, my friend. We've got ourselves some serious shopping to do." Grinning from ear-to-ear, she clinked her glass with mine. "Smith had an exceptionally successful week, and we're reaping in the benefits."

  I drank reluctantly, wishing I was home on my laptop. With the information I'd gathered from my coworkers, the desire to search for Ginny Jones had grown even stronger.

  As I prepared for my big night with Grayson, I heard a persistent whine outside my bedroom window. I didn't think any of our neighbors owned a dog, and couldn't imagine why one would be in the area unless it had slipped away from its leash. If I hadn't been dressed to kill, I would've gone outside to make sure it was okay.

  "Go home!" I yelled out the window.

  I spritzed perfume on my pulse points behind my ears and checked my reflection one last time, feeling a fresh rush of nerves. Molly had transformed my unruly curls into sleek waves that spilled past the V of the floral halter top I'd found at my favorite boutique downtown. The strapless bra I purchased with it enhanced my chest an entire cup size. My freckles were nowhere to be seen beneath a dusting of high-end foundation, and the curve of my average lips popped with an application of velvety red lipstick. I didn't care much for the false eyelashes that made me skittish with every heavily-shadowed wink.

  When the doorbell rang several minutes later, my confidence vanished. I wished either Molly or Teenie had been around so I had a wing-woman. I admired my butt in my favorite spandex jeans before marching to the front door in a pair of black stilettos.

  Breath held, I swung the door open. The expression of surprise that lit Grayson's face warmed my skin like a steak on an open flame. He was extra dreamy in a crisp white dress shirt rolled to his elbows, tan khaki shorts with tan loafers, dark flow freshly combed back. He wet his lips as his eyes lazily took every bit of me in. "Wow, Zoey. You look—”

  A blur of black fur charged at him, knocking him off his feet. With a surprised cry, he tumbled sideways into Teenie's favorite hibiscus bush.

  "Grayson!" I shrieked, wobbling down the steps to his side.

  "Down, boy!" he pleaded among a chuckle, attempting to escape the long pink tongue lapping his face as he sat upright. A medium-sized dog stood over him, whimpering between licks. Between the canine's long nose and straight black coat covered in sand, it appeared to be some sort of Labrador mix. The poor thing's ribs were visible, and it was favoring a front leg. I nearly melted when his massive brown eyes rolled over to me.

  "I think he's hurt," I told Grayson.

  He pushed up to his feet, bending to scratch the dog behind the ear while assessing its injury. "You're right. This leg is swollen and there's a lot of dried blood. Poor guy. We better take him to the animal hospital." He began to unbutton his shirt.


  My eyes bulged once his tanned, fit chest was revealed. The reality put my previous fantasy of him in swim trunks to shame. The guy was buff in a way that put Liam Hemsworth to shame. "What are you doing?" I choked out.

  "I just picked this up from the dry cleaner today," he explained with a wink. "Wouldn't want to get it dirty." He handed the shirt to me and carefully scooped the dog off the ground. "There's a blanket in the back of my Bronco. Do you mind spreading it out for him?"

  Dazzled, I removed the stilettos from my feet and scooped them up before starting for his vehicle. The way my heart fluttered, I didn't trust myself not to fall.

  Six

  While the elderly veterinarian and a young tech examined the dog in the back, I waited in the pet hospital's small lobby alongside a young woman clutching a Chinese water dragon in her arms. I positioned myself as far away from the woman and her peculiar pet as the little room would allow, deciding I didn't care for lizards any more than I cared for aquatic creatures with googly eyes and an overabundance of legs.

  Grayson, having stepped outside to call the station, returned to my side a handful of minutes later. "I spoke with animal control," he reported. "If no one steps forward to claim the dog, they'll come retrieve him once the vet clears him for release."

  I sprang to my bare feet, relieved when it created a safer distance between me and the green lizard's searching tongue. "And then what?"

  "Then they'll take him to the humane society."

  The door behind us creaked open. We turned to face the hunchbacked veterinarian swallowed by an oversized white lab coat. "The penetration mark on his leg appears to be from the barb of a stingray," the man told us in a bored tone, adjusting his thick-rimmed glasses when they slid down his hooked nose. "The wound is deep and has become badly infected. Either the leg will have to be amputated, or the animal should be put down to spare him the pain."

  Tears thickened my throat. "But we don't know who the dog belongs to," I reminded him.