Trouble in Paradise

by Brown, Deborah

  “So you and Zach kissed and made up?” Brad asked.

  “He’s working on not being so bossy. There’s still the issue of my not doing what I’m told, even when it’s for my own good. Do you want me out sampling the men of the Keys?” I laughed, knowing the comment would drive him crazy.

  “You laugh now, but all I have to do is shoot one of them and word will get around.”

  The waitress set a margarita down in front of me along with a note. “Oh yum,” I said, while pushing the note under my napkin.

  Mother scanned the restaurant. “Aren’t you going to read that?”

  Brad reached out to grab it but I was a second quicker. I opened it. Dump the boyfriend yet? it said.

  Even without a signature, I recognized Creole’s barely legible writing. After Creole introduced himself and teased me how we were related, I invited Mother and Brad to dinner and of course Fab, and we welcomed him as the newest member of the family. Aunt Elizabeth had loved him like a son, often hiding him from an abusive, drunken father. Creole and Mother had hugged, and she welcomed him without a single question. I hadn’t asked Mother but I don’t think Creole’s existence was a surprise to her. She and Elizabeth shared all their secrets. “Creole’s here, in a business meeting, he says hello,” I said, not wanting to reveal the actual contents of the note.

  It would only complicate matters to tell Mother that we were attracted to one another and we’d shared several steamy moments.

  “We ordered for you since you choose the same thing every time.” Mother slid the menus to the end of the table. “We have two hours before we need to be at the funeral.”

  “We?” I stammered. “I don’t do funerals of people I don’t know.”

  “Cosmo Rich was one of your brother’s best friends. Can’t you go to support Brad?” Mother asked.

  I glared at Brad.

  “I knew Madison wouldn’t go and it’s fine.” Brad said, laughing. “I’m surprised you’re passing up an opportunity to poke your nose into a possible murder.”

  The waiter delivered our food, putting a plate of grilled scampi on a bed of rice and vegetables in front of me. “If you need my help, of course I’m available,” I reminded him.

  “I’m happy you didn’t know Cosmo,” Brad said. “That way I don’t have to worry about you getting shot at or worse.”

  “What’s the latest on Cosmo’s case?” Mother asked.

  “The official cause of death is drowning. Whisperings on the dock are that he was murdered. The coroner is awaiting test results.” Brad downed his beer. “There are rumors he was covered in bruises, his back and neck broken but no one seems to know if it happened before or after death.”

  Mother gasped, pulling out one of her pencil thin Cuban cigars. “That’s dreadful.” She had two vices, well three: cigars, Jack Daniels rocks, and poker.

  “There’s a no smoking sign,” I pointed. “And no ashtrays. Going to flick your ashes on the floor?”

  “I should have kept my beer bottle,” Brad said. Then, getting back to the subject at hand, “I know all of Cosmo’s friends and don’t know a single one angry enough to beat him and throw him into the Gulf to drown. The last time I talked to him, he didn’t have a bruise on him, he’d secured a side job and was on his way to the boat. It didn’t occur to me to ask which one.”

  “Beating someone seems personal to me,” Mother said. “Did he have family?”

  “His father, and two little kids, a boy and a girl,” Brad said.

  “We weren’t little, but it’s hard to lose a parent. So sad.” Our Father had died in our pre-teenage years. Mother smothered us with love and attention, and kept us busy, leaving little unsupervised time to get in trouble. I thought about my father every day. Being a daddy’s girl, I missed sitting next to him, holding his hand.

  “Enough with the questions.” Brad pointed his finger at me. “I don’t want to hear that you somehow got yourself involved.”

  “I didn’t even know Cosmo, but if I hear anything I’ll let you know.”

  Brad groaned. “That’s the way it starts with you. You promise you won’t get hurt? No you can’t, because you always do.”

  “You’re such a worrier. You taught me to defend myself, shoot a gun and also trip Billy Butt-Ass.” Billy was my second grade suitor who loved to pull my hair, until that fateful day I tripped him and he fell on his face in front of his friends.

  Mother sighed. “Billy’s a lawyer, married with three children.” Then turning back to the subject of Cosmo, “I wonder how many people will show for the funeral?”

  “Dickie will be thrilled if it’s a huge turn-out,” I said. “A full house means he can show off his dressing-the-dead talents. He considers all the mourners as potential clients.”

  Brad threw his hands out. “Why does my sister have to be friends with the local undertaker?”

  “‘Bereavement Specialist’ sounds better, don’t you think?”

  Brad snorted.

  “Dickie Vanderbilt’s a nice guy,” I defended. “He has a few creepy tendencies, but he’s conscientious about his work and, besides, Mother knows him too.” Dickie made only a so-so first impression. He’s socially awkward, terrible at small talk and his day job didn’t help.

  Mother downed the last of her Jack Daniels. “Really, Madison. Know is a little strong.”

  “Dickie takes pride in his work and will do a good job on Cosmo,” I said. “Besides, Raul will be there to make sure everything runs smoothly.”

  “Who the hell is Raul?” Brad asked.

  Feeling too queasy to eat another bite, I requested a to-go box from the waiter. Leftovers made great breakfast food. “Dickie’s more stabilizing half. Raul runs the business side of Tropical Slumber Funeral Home.”

  “How do you know these two?” Brad asked.

  “Did you forget Aunt Elizabeth’s funeral was at Tropical Slumber? I spoke to Dickie a few times regarding arrangements. You never know when a funeral director is a good connection to have.”

  Mother tapped her watch. “Time for us to leave.” Brad stood and pulled back Mother’s chair.

  “I’m sorry about your friend.” I kissed Brad on the cheek. “I hope there’s a speedy resolution.”

  “It’s not too late to change your mind. You can ride with us.” Brad handed me my to-go box.

  “Thanks, but I’ll pass. If you two want to stay overnight, you’re always welcome.”

  “I’m spending the night at Mother’s,” Brad informed me. She had bought a house in Coral Gables before selling the family home in South Carolina. Then, in a quieter voice, “We’re going to do some mother-son bonding. I’m going to get her drunk and find out what she’s really been up to.” Brad laughed.

  “That’s low,” I whispered.

  “You two whispering gives me hives,” Mother said. “Let’s go. I don’t want to be late for a funeral.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Fab’s latest ride, a black two-seater convertible Mercedes, sat in my driveway. She left me just enough room to park without dinging the paint on her door. Fabiana Merceau is my best friend and, since I’d known her, she’s driven a string of hot looking sports cars all on loan from Brick in exchange for unspecified favors.

  I inherited an old comfortable-looking Key West style two-story beach house from my Aunt Elizabeth. It recently received a fresh coat of white paint, with turquoise under the eaves to discourage bees. An abundance of potted hibiscuses in every variety, and an assortment of other colorful tropical flowers, lined the courtyard; the pots painted vibrant colors, seashells used as mulch. Elizabeth and I scoured South Miami nurseries every summer and I continued the tradition.

  There was no sign of Fab when I walked by the kitchen window. Grover, a middle-aged Golden Retriever, and latest addition to the family, saw me and raced to the front door, barking all the way.

  “Where’s Fab?” I asked Grover.

  “In the living room!” Fab yelled.

  At the bottom of the staircas
e sat two large suitcases. “Yours, I presume?”

  Fab looked normal enough. Sexy, hard-bodied, and could hold her own in any bar fight that she started. Lying stretched out on the most comfortable piece of furniture in the house, the couch, her waist length brown hair hung over the side. My old black cat, Jazz, was asleep on her chest. “I’m staying for a while if you don’t mind. My boxes are stacked up in your garage.”

  “Do you want a key or do you just want to continue to pick the lock?” My friends never knocked. They pretty much always came around the side of the house, slipped through the fence, and walked in from the pool area through the French doors, whether they were open or not, locked or not.

  Jazz jumped from the couch, landing on Grover. I thought Jazz, who had cleared one hundred in people years, would hate the dog on sight. Instead, he sniffed Grover a few times and now uses his back as a bed.

  “Where did you get the boobs?” Fab asked. “They look perky.”

  “Expensive bra and worth every penny.” I chuckled. Looking over at Fab’s suitcases, I asked, “What about Marco?” He was her Drug Enforcement Agency boyfriend who no one had ever met.

  “He got a promotion that required him to live in D.C. I wasn’t interested in going.”

  I kicked off my heels and sat down. “When does he leave?”

  “Two weeks ago. Our lease was up and the deadline had come and gone for me to move or recommit.”

  “You’re living out in the weeds by yourself and not one word? Next time you say something about friends not sharing, I’ll remind you of this conversation.”

  “I’m not the only one in the ‘not sharing’ mode. You left your holster in the drawer sans gun.”

  “I shot some thug trying to hold up Brick today.” I related the incident in vivid detail.

  Fab shook her head in disgust. “Give me one good reason why you didn’t blow his body parts all over the parking lot.”

  Didn’t any of the people who had asked me that question know about the relentless investigation, not to mention paperwork, when you kill someone? “My gun wasn’t big enough.”

  “He’ll be back.” Fab wagged her finger.

  I rolled my eyes then turned and made my way into the kitchen, with Fab on my heels.

  “Why is there a shotgun on the kitchen counter? I’m pretty sure it wasn’t there when I left earlier.”

  “Payment for a job I did today.” Fab came into the kitchen. “I scored with the pump-action and the two grenades in the drawer.”

  “You couldn’t just take cash?”

  “Old Mrs. Harcher had her wallet stolen. The thief crawled through her kitchen window, and then went into her bedroom while she napped and rifled through her purse. An easy job to track him. Amateur hour, and it didn’t take long to figure out it was the punk kid next door.”

  “Let me guess, you scared the hell out of him?” I smiled at the image of her grabbing the kid by the scruff of his neck, shaking fear into him.

  “He made some snotty comment about my being a dumb girl and he was looking to get lucky. My gun persuaded him otherwise and he got the message. I enjoyed every second. The little weasel had been burgling all the neighbors for several months. I sent him to Spoon for a regular job; told him I’d better never hear his name again.”

  I pulled open the kitchen junk drawer. “Get the grenades out of my house.” I wanted to pick one up but decided that might be my last stupid decision.

  “I don’t think they work, they just look cool.”

  “That’s not reassuring. Get rid of them.” I picked up the rifle and racked it. “Don’t you just love the sound it makes?”

  “It’s nice to know I’m not the only crazy one.” Fab gave me one of her creepy, deranged smiles that I found amusing when directed at other people.

  “The guest bedroom is yours for as long as you follow the rules.”

  “This ought to be good,” Fab said.

  “No wild parties.”

  “Since you’re my only friend not much chance of that happening.”

  “I’m tired, see you in the morning.” I picked up Jazz and started upstairs. “No loud sex either.”

  I heard her laughing when I closed my bedroom door.

  * * *

  The sound of people yelling in the hallway woke me from a sound sleep. I recognized the voices as Fab and Zach.

  Zach and I met when he showed up one day looking for my aunt after he’d been shot. She’d already passed away, unbeknownst to him, so I was the only option for first-aid. We slid into a relationship of sex, food and the occasional game of pool, which led back to sex. After a big fight, he stomped out of my life, making it clear he’d had enough of my endless risk taking. When he showed back up, I was happy to see him and forgot we were mad at each other. I jerked him in the front door by his shirt, kissing him. After serious make-up sex, I made the first concession. “I promise to be more careful with the chances I take, so you won’t have to worry. And I’ll try to be totally upfront.”

  To his credit, he skipped the lecture. “I can’t always be available to come to your rescue.” He sighed. “Don’t you have enough to keep you busy with The Cottages?”

  I left the question unanswered and kissed him instead. Sex was a great conversation derailer. I couldn’t be the stay-out-of-trouble girlfriend that he wanted. Fab was right; I’d become addicted to the adventure.

  “Don’t point that at me!” Zach yelled. “What in the hell are you doing here anyway?”

  “I live here!” Fab yelled back.

  After a slight pause, “Don’t get comfortable,” Zach said.

  “I suggest you knock next time or I may shoot you, you know, by accident,” Fab warned, still yelling.

  Zach opened my bedroom door and slammed it in response. “You let her move in?” His deep blue eyes were shooting sparks.

  I wanted to laugh but I didn’t dare. “Take off your clothes, get in bed and you’ll forget she’s here.”

  “I thought we talked about less drama in our relationship and how in the hell will that happen with her living here?”

  “Catch.” I took off my Miami Dolphins workout shirt and threw it at him.

  “I feel manipulated.” He already had his shoes off, his jeans dropped to the floor, followed by his t-shirt.

  I knew every inch of Zach Lazarro’s hard, tall, muscled body and never grew bored watching him strip naked.

  He crawled onto the bed, like a cat. “You can forget the foreplay chit-chat.” He pulled me on top of him, wrapped his arms around me, and kissed me hard.

  CHAPTER 4

  Zach and Fab left early the next morning. I didn’t hear any screaming so they must’ve left at separate times. When Zach introduced me to Fab, becoming friends hadn’t been part of his plan. Both of them are private investigators. Zach owns AZL Securities, handling security for A-list companies and corporations. Fab freelances at cash-only jobs, an exclusive list of mostly shady clients. In the past, Zach had used Fab on some of his cases. She excels in lock picking and, with no fear of heights, she can sneak into a building via the roof. Long before I met either one of them, they used one another for sex, which was how Fab described the relationship, but they didn’t get along outside the bedroom. Neither one spoke about the other.

  Grover barked and ran to get his leash as soon as I reached for the shell bucket. He knew that meant we were going to the beach to run and play on the sand; he barely tolerated my bending down every other step to pick up seashells. In the past, I never considered dog ownership. I liked dogs as long as they belonged to other people.

  A few months back, driving down the Overseas Highway, I slammed on my brakes, the beater truck in front of me slowed suddenly, after which a dog went flying out of the passenger side window. He bounced onto the shoulder and rolled into the grass, as the truck sped away. Positive he was dead, I pulled to the side of the road and hesitated, not sure of what to do with a dead dog; but knowing that leaving him there wasn’t an option.

&nbs
p; Opening the door, I heard him yelping and saw him struggling to get up on all fours. Another driver stopped and, between the two of us, we loaded him into the back of my SUV and I raced to my vet. Grover, so his nametag suggested, ended up staying there for two days; he needed treatment for dehydration and malnutrition. A much needed bath and haircut to shave away matted hair which revealed, to my dismay, abrasions showing abuse. Grover had completely snagged my heart, and his owner never looked for him, which didn’t surprise me. If he had, I detailed the events in a police report I filed to ensure Grover’s safety in the future.

  * * *

  Grover and I arrived at The Tarpon Cove Cottages, a ten-unit motel that I had inherited from my Aunt Elizabeth. Laid out in a three-sided u-shape overlooking the Gulf of Mexico, each individual cottage is painted a different color, and an abundance of tropical plants and colorful annuals in flowerbeds run along the sides of the units. Grover waited patiently for me to open the door so he could jump out and sniff the flowers.

  We rarely use the vacancy sign. Four of the cottages are inhabited by an assortment of eccentric tenants that my aunt had rented to. The neighbors refer to them as ‘weirdos.’ The remaining cottages fill with tourists and snowbirds that come and go by the week. It took a couple of complaining guests to make me realize I lacked the patience to sit behind a desk, so it was an easy decision to hire a manager, Mac Lane. Mac, short for Macklin, named after a grandfather so far down the line no one alive remembered him. Mac came to interview wearing a shoulder holster under an ugly sweater. She’d just come from The Arms Room, a gun range of which I was a member. She produced her concealed carry and convinced me she could handle crazy all day long.

  Mac had dragged a beach chair out to the barbeque area, and now sat with her feet propped on the table, her latest novel, ‘The Devil’s Mistress,’ in her lap. From her vantage point, she could see the entire property, which made her happy; she didn’t like being the last to know anything.