“I . . . I don’t know.” Attraction radiated to all parts of my body, and I barely restrained myself from embracing him with every ounce of my rising passion. Hot, hot, hot.
He slowly propelled me toward him.
As my arms slid around his neck, my chin tilted up, and I could already feel his lips on mine. Then, an image of Cole rose up in my mind, and I froze. “No.”
I pulled back, steeling myself to the surge of desire that had stirred all of my senses. “I can’t. Not when I’m engaged to another man.”
“I don’t see an engagement ring.”
“Uh . . . I don’t need a piece of jewelry to remind me that I have a fiancé.” That was true. I just left off the part about misplacing the diamond. “I love Cole.”
Nick stared down at me for a few seconds, then pivoted on his heel, not looking back as he walked away. The gravel crunched under his shoes with a hard, grinding sound.
I began to stop him but, instead, let him go.
It was over.
After watching Nick drive off, I climbed into Rusty and headed back to the Observer with a heavy heart. How could I have gotten myself into this situation? I was engaged to Cole—my buddy that I liked more than French fries—but I longed for Nick, the man I wanted more than a Krispy Kreme donut.
Obviously, they both rated high on my junk-food meter.
Maybe I just needed to date a food coach from Weight Watchers and be done with both of them.
Or maybe Bucky’s death had scrambled all ability to think straight, whether I scarfed down fast food or not.
My emotions still in turmoil, I finally turned into the newspaper’s parking lot and gave myself a mental shake. This relationship angst was tearing me up, and I needed all of my focus to get out this week’s edition. The “election antics” story had amped up into a potential piece on an untimely death—and maybe more. Closing my eyes while I sat in my battered, rust-ridden truck for a few moments, I tried to regain my equilibrium. But images of Nick and Cole flitted through my mind: the night Nick kissed me outside the Taste of Venice restaurant; the day Cole asked me to marry him under my Airstream awning. Hard to say which one excited me more.
A tap on the window startled me, and my eyes flew open.
“Look what Joe Earl brought in!” Madame Geri stood there, brandishing a battered old violin. “After looking at the real deal, there’s not a chance in hell you can say this isn’t Abe Lincoln.” She traced the swirling lines etched near the chin rest. “See?”
Shoving all thoughts of the men in my life out of my mind, I threw open the door and climbed out, striding past Madame Geri as I murmured, “I don’t need to look at it; what a piece of phony baloney.”
“You can run, but you can’t hide from the truth,” she said, following me into the Observer office. “This violin is practically a portal to communicating with Old Abe himself.”
“Really? Tell him the stovepipe hat was a big mistake.” I tossed her a glance over my shoulder. “How was Wanda Sue by the time you got her home?”
“Still upset.” Madame Geri kept on my heels. “But hanging in there.”
“Okay. Thanks.” I halted as I spied a twenty-something geek of a guy sitting at my desk, clicking away on his iPhone. He wore one of those splashy, Florida graphic t-shirts complemented by short, sun-bleached hair gelled into spiky points.
“I’m Joe Earl.” He waved the phone in my direction.
“Hi.” I waved back as I moved toward him. “I think you’re sitting at my desk.”
“Really? It’s a cool spot.” He thumped the ancient wooden desk, causing it to shake on its aging legs. Then he resumed texting on his iPhone as he put his flip-flop clad feet on my desk.
I circled around him and opened the drawer to check on my engagement ring. Damn. No diamond. No hope.
Sighing in frustration, I threw my hobo bag on Sandy’s desk, realizing this was going to be my temporary new “cool spot” since I couldn’t stand to sit in Anita’s pigsty of an office—more bad juju.
At least the main office didn’t have that empty, deserted feeling anymore. It was downright bustling, with several stories in the hopper, including another potential murder case. Granted, I could’ve done without Marley perched on my file cabinet as he surveyed the entire scene. His black wings lay flat, but his head swiveled incessantly, keeping tabs on every person’s movements—especially mine.
At that moment, it got a lot busier as Bernice pedaled a bicycle out of Anita’s office, ringing the bell on the handlebars. She’d traded her miniskirt for leather pants, but still wore the wig. “Hey, the bicycle thief left this gem at the Circle-K. Wahoo! I haven’t been on a bike in ages, but I guess the old saying is right about how it comes back to you. Outta my way!” She rang the bell again as she mowed down a trash can and aimed for the front door.
But Madame Geri had just entered the office in my wake and stood rooted near the doorway, her arms wrapped around the violin in a protective embrace.
Bernice tried to wheel around her by jerking the handlebars with a hard left, but Madame Geri moved in the same direction, trying to get out of the way. Bernice turned in the opposite direction and rammed into the doorjamb. The impact caused her to flip over, hitting the floor with a crash and some loud cursing.
Marley squawked loudly and began to flap his wings.
My breath caught in my throat.
“I think I broke my collarbone. Dammit,” Bernice exclaimed. “Someone help me.”
The parrot’s squawking grew more piercing, and I covered my ears. “Madame Geri, calm down your bird.”
Joe Earl reached back and stroked the parrot’s feathers, calming him down.
“Marley likes you?” I asked in amazement as my hands fell away from my head.
He nodded.
“Bernice, you’re a dimwitted fool,” Madame Geri berated her, cradling the violin. “If this violin had been damaged, you would’ve destroyed a piece of spiritual history. Do you understand that? It would be almost a sacrilege against one of our most beloved presidents.”
Bernice waved off the question as she edged out from under that bicycle. “Don’t everybody help me at once.”
“Okay.” I pulled out my cell phone. Joe Earl was still occupied with calming down Marley.
Bernice struggled to her feet, rubbing her hipbone and glaring at Madame Geri. “I told you to get outta my way. Now a crucial piece of evidence in the bicycle thief investigation could be ruined.”
“That’s small potatoes compared to Joe Earl’s psychic violin.”
“Says you.” Bernice righted the bicycle, but the front spokes had bent in the crash, causing the whole tire to tilt off-kilter. She tried to hop on again, but the seat fell off as she swung her leg over it. “Great, just great.”
Madame Geri carefully set the violin on my purloined desk in front of Joe Earl with solemn reverence. “The whole bicycle-thief thing is a tidal bore, not a front-page story by any stretch of the imagination.”
“This bike is evidence.” Bernice muttered more curses under her breath as she tried to fasten the seat back on. “It’s part of my headline story.”
“Neither of these pieces is much more than a sidebar,” I said, resisting the urge to kick the bicycle and toss the violin out the door. “Bucky McGuire just died at the town-hall building, surrounded by nothing but flopping tilapia. That’s our main story, especially if he were murdered.”
The last word finally caused Joe Earl to cease his parrot pacification. “Somebody killed that dude with the bad comb-over?”
“Maybe.” I sat in Sandy’s chair, pulled out my notepad, and began flipping through the pages. “We won’t know till Nick Billie has the autopsy report to show cause of death. In the meantime, we have to cover the story as an unexplained death.” At least as the temporary editor, I sounded like I knew what I was talking about.
“I guess that might trump my story,” Bernice admitted grudgingly as she rubbed her shoulder. “But time is of the essence t
o find out if it was foul play.”
“No need to wait,” Madame Geri said. “I can try to contact the spirit world about Bucky again, but this time with a more open channel.”
All three of us sucked in our collective breaths.
She pointed at the violin.
“Oh, no.” I raised both hands in dissent. “We are not going to rely on a musical instrument to tell us whether a killer is on the loose on the island again.”
“Wow.” Joe Earl lowered his feet and whistled under his breath. “Is it going to . . . like, speak to us? I knew the violin was special, but this just blows my mind.”
“Maybe it could sing show tunes.” Bernice threw the bike down and limped over to my desk as Joe Earl gave up my chair to Madame Geri.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Madame Geri responded, setting the violin on my desk so that it stretched out horizontally in front of her. “It will vibrate its answers.” She placed both palms on the chin rest.
“Like a psychic tuning fork?” I scoffed.
Ignoring me, she placed one hand on the violin’s chin rest and the other on its neck. “Was Bucky McGuire killed?”
Bernice and Joe Earl leaned over the desk; and, in spite of my now possessing the status of Senior Reporter and Temporary Editor, I did the same. Two years of chasing down leads, verifying sources, and checking public records for legitimate newspaper stories had boiled down to watching an image of Abe Lincoln on a violin for a headline.
CHAPTER FIVE
I held my breath. If Madame Geri were right about this one, I’d eat my Miami Dolphins cap Cole had given me—not a great sacrifice since I hated football anyway.
“I feel something,” she said, closing her eyes as her fingers skimmed along the instrument. “The violin is about to answer the question of ‘Who killed Bucky McGuire?’.”
“Cripes, you’ve already asked that question. You’re leading the ‘witness’ like a psycho CSI agent,” Bernice pronounced in disgust.
Madame Geri raised a brow. “Psychic.”
“Whatever.” Bernice pulled up a chair as she kept massaging her shoulder. “No one seems to care that I may need surgery after that wipeout on the bike.”
“You’re too ornery to break anything. It’s probably just a bruise,” I quipped. Not to mention, Bernice had quite a bit of padding on her upper arms that would cushion any hard-floor landing.
“Get a Reiki massage. It’ll release any toxins from the fall,” Madame Geri added.
Joe Earl tapped something on his iPhone screen. “I’ve got an app for that.”
“Okay, I can’t stand here all afternoon, waiting for this stupid violin to give us a message.”
Madame Geri cast a warning glance in my direction. “I’m starting to receive something from the next world.” The violin moved slightly on my desk.
“You’re doing that!” Bernice sneered as she folded her arms across her chest. “This is bogus.”
“I’m not touching it anymore.” Madame Geri wiggled her fingers, so we could tell they were above the violin.
“Cool.” Joe Earl snapped a picture.
The violin paused, then slowly slid across the desk with a whisper of its mahogany finish against cheap, pressed wood. All the while Madame Geri’s hands hovered above it. In spite of my skepticism that she was somehow really moving it, my eyes were riveted on the violin. It skimmed along, stopping and starting a couple of times, finally halting with the neck across one of Sandy’s magazines, Today’s Bride. “There’s your answer.” Madame Geri tapped the cover.
“What?” Bernice snatched up the periodical. “What does a picture of some young chippy in a wedding dress standing near a pond have to do with murder? Spare me.” Bernice tossed the magazine at me. “I’m getting back to my real news story on the ‘bicycle bandit.’ After I stop at the drugstore and pick up some Ben-Gay.” She clumped out of the office, giving the bike a little kick en route.
“Oh, ye of little faith.” Madame Geri patted the violin. “It gave us its message. You just have to figure it out. Tip number three in the Dummy’s Guide is ‘Don’t rule out the unlikely.’ ”
“Hey, maybe the violin was played at a wedding when someone was killed,” Joe Earl offered.
“How would that relate to Bucky’s death?” Intrigued in spite of myself, I picked up the magazine and scanned the other cover stories: caterer tips (yawn), invitation card suggestions (doze), and honeymoon tips (yikes). Nothing of much use there. “Your psychic world must be out for dinner, which is where I’m going to be in”—I checked my Mickey Mouse watch—“another half hour.”
“Take the magazine with you.” Madame Geri held it out to me. “You might need it.”
“For my upcoming wedding?”
“No, for the murder investigation,” she corrected me, flipping the pages of the magazine. “The violin has spoken.”
“You keep it,” I urged with a wave of my hand. “I like my journalism the old-fashioned way: legwork and snooping. In fact, I would swing by Bucky’s house on my way home—if I knew where he lived—just to check things out. That’s what a real reporter does when she’s trying to get the facts, not interrogate a violin.”
Raising my chin, I started for the door.
“His house is at 572 Seaside Lane near the Blue Creek Marina. It’s about seven minutes from here.” Joe Earl held up his iPhone with a grin.
I gave him a curt nod of thanks. “Of course, the ‘legwork’ includes technology,” I added.
Madame Geri tipped her fedora.
“Would you mind if I asked the violin a couple of questions?” Joe Earl turned back to her. “I lost my friend’s iPod yesterday and maybe the violin could give me a few pointers on where to look.”
“Of course you may,” she responded with a smile to Joe Earl. “There are no dumb questions—just dumb disbelievers.” The last words were uttered in my direction, so I grabbed my hobo bag and headed for the door before I could hear any more of this psychic mumbo jumbo.
Cole and I were going to have a nice dinner and enjoy some couple time. Just what I needed to dispel my doubts.
I paused, the image of my fiancé rising up in my mind. Could it be that the violin might actually help me find my lost engagement ring?
I glanced back at the two of them and saw Joe Earl’s spiked hair and Madame Geri’s felt fedora both bent over the violin with eager intent as Marley watched the whole proceedings from his perch. I hesitated. Then a brisk wind pulled the door open, and I felt a blast of coolness through my thin, cotton sweater.
Time to go home, after I swung by Bucky’s house.
I hopped into Rusty, started the engine, and headed north on Cypress Drive. Seaside Lane was the last turn on the right before the road curved left along the shoreline toward the Twin Palms RV Resort, my home.
After making the turn, I checked the mailboxes for Bucky’s address. Once I found it, I turned Rusty into the driveway and scanned the property. It was a typical three/two, one-story, stuccoed house with a pool and canal in the backyard. Nothing special, except for the lush vegetation. Bucky might’ve been a fish-thumping good ole boy, but he knew his landscaping. Huge royal palms lined the driveway, hibiscus bushes bloomed everywhere with their scarlet flowers, and sea-grape vines adorned the archway that led to the front door.
The entire front lawn teemed with life like a tropical paradise—sadly. But who would take care of the yard now that Bucky was dead? I gulped, not wanting to allow my thoughts to go there. It was too raw. Too painful.
I scanned the rest of the yard, but nothing looked amiss. Just to make sure, I slid out of Rusty and moved toward the front of the house. After tripping over a garden hose, I made it to the front windows and peered inside. Everything looked neat and orderly. No one had gone in to trash the place. In fact, I cast an admiring glance at the brown leather furniture. Granted, it was a “man-colored” sectional sofa, but it looked snug and inviting compared to my crummy couch.
Just as I was imagining myself meltin
g into the soft leather, I felt a hard tap on my shoulder.
I shrieked and stepped back, ready to run for my truck.
“Hey, I didn’t mean to startle you, but what are you doing here?” a middle-aged man said in a quiet voice. “This is Bucky McGuire’s house.” He held a machete in his right hand.
“I . . . I . . .” I swallowed hard, eying the sharp blade. Keep it together. “I’m Mallie Monroe, Senior Reporter for the Observer. I met Bucky today at the town-hall meeting, so I guess I qualify as a friend. Well, maybe that’s too strong—an acquaintance, perhaps? Anyway, I just wanted to see what his house looked like because he mentioned his landscaping business earlier today, and I thought I might like to . . . uh, use his company’s services to fix up the area around my Airstream . . .” Liar, liar. Next, I’ll be growing a Pinocchio nose and Anita-style chin hair. No, I wouldn’t go there. “Okay, to tell you the truth—”
“Bucky’s dead and you wanted to check his place out?” He raked a hand through his silver hair. He wore it long, pulled back into a small ponytail, with a doo-rag around his scalp and forehead.
“Unfortunately, yes to both questions.”
His eyes filled with tears as he dropped the machete.
“Did you know him?” I nudged the machete handle off to the side, out of his reach.
“He was my boss.” The man’s head dropped to his grass-stained shirt for a few moments as his shoulders heaved with emotion. Then he looked up again, his eyes dimmed with the shadow of grief. “He gave me a job when no one else on the island would take a chance on me. It’s a terrible thing when you want to work, earn your keep, but people think your medical condition will keep you from doing the job.” He thumped his right leg, then bent and flexed it.
“Bum knee?” I asked.
“No short-term memory.” He shook his head with a sigh.
Yikes.
“It makes it kinda hard to be a top-notch worker when I don’t remember details too well. But Bucky and I had a system; he’d write down all the jobs that I had to do and then pin them on my pocket.” He pointed at a small piece of paper attached to his shirt. “See, right here: ‘Trim bushes in Bucky’s front yard.’ That’s what I was doing.”
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