“On our last job, we snuck past the security guards and walked into this ten thousand square foot mansion. Unknowingly Gabriel tripped the alarm when he took a painting off the wall. The guards spotted him jumping out the library window, and they chased him down a few miles away. He got convicted of art theft, but the painting, interestingly enough, has never been recovered.” Fab pulled into my driveway.
“Where were you?”
“In the master bedroom, which was located at the opposite end of the house, rifling through the jewels. In the guard’s zeal to track down Gabriel, I slipped out unnoticed and got away.” She pulled quickly into my driveway and we got out of the car. She continued, “When I got word the local police were looking to interview me, I left France and never looked back. A jail cell wasn’t in my future.” Fab tossed me my keys, walking across the courtyard.
“When does he get out?” I unlocked the front door.
Fab went into the kitchen grabbing a bottle of water. “A few months. Toxic love would be a good description. He’d say let’s jump off the cliff and we’d race to see which one of us would fly off first. Gabriel was beautiful to look at but everything a mother warns you to stay away from: lethal, wicked-smart, and amoral.”
I opened the French doors before settling in my favorite oversized chair, the pool extending an invitation. “Can’t you mend the relationship with your parents?” I felt overwhelmingly sad for my friend.
“My parents would’ve forgiven me if I had stepped back into the mold they created. But Gabriel taught me to love living on the edge. I couldn’t go back to the rigidity of my old life, and suffocate slowly.” Fab picked up Jazz and lay on the couch. “They’d never approve of my current lifestyle any more than they did my previous one; the guns, picking locks, scaling sides of buildings. I reinvented myself when I moved here. I don’t steal. I skirt illegal, but always for a good reason.”
“You’re a part of the Westin family as long as you’ll have us,” I said. “Teach me to climb the side of a building.”
Fab laughed. “Only if you get permission from your mother.”
CHAPTER 7
My phone rang, waking me from a nap. “How you doing?” Brick asked. “I’ve got a case for you. You need to retrieve a stolen or lost item or whatever and return it to the client. Send the bill to me.”
“I could use some more details.”
“The client’s name is Kettle. Take Rock Harbor exit, go to the end of the road, gate will be open. Can’t miss it, only house out there. She’s expecting you.” He hung up. Brick liked to snap his fingers, expecting you to jump; the higher the better.
* * *
Brick failed to mention that the pavement ended fifty feet off the main highway. These bumpy back roads with major size potholes every few feet gave me a headache. Once inside the fence, a shack that could loosely be called a house sat an easy half-mile off the road. In reality, it was a large, run down, dry rotted dump. The steps to the front door lay in a pile in the dirt. Two Airstream trailers, ‘Happy Endings 1’ and ‘Happy Endings 2’ in bold script on the side of each, were parked on one side of the lot. Under an old swap meet canopy, someone had ginned up an outdoor dining area, with metal forties furniture, barbeque and pots planted with plastic flowers. Behind the house, an aluminium roof structure protected an interesting assortment of cars: an SUV that seated ten, a Mercedes sedan, both limo tinted, a Harley Fat Boy, and a half-dozen beater cars and pickup trucks. A category four or five hurricane would rip that cheap roof to shreds and send those autos airborne into the swamp that ran along the back of the property.
I listened for barking and growling, expecting a pack of wild dogs to come running from the back of the house. I unholstered my Glock, but decided it wouldn’t appear friendly or business-like to beat on the door holding it in my hand.
An ample-sized black woman stood in the doorway on the side of the house. “Who are you?” She looked like she just blew in from a tropical island, in an electric hot turquoise mid-calf dress, and bracelets running up her left arm.
“I’m Madison Westin. Brick Famosa called and asked me to come speak with Miss Kettle.”
“Kettle Q,” she said. “Come in, this is my sister Watusi.” She pointed to a smaller island version of herself. This one wasn’t afraid of color, her wild hair half-pink, with a hot pink dress to match, assorted bracelets up both arms and an assortment of necklaces.
“Wow.” I looked around, my mouth dropped open. They had completely gutted the kitchen and redone it in top of the line materials: travertine floors, granite countertops and stainless steel appliances and, my personal favorite, the starfish knobs on the solid wood cabinets.
Kettle laughed. “We get the same reaction from everyone. The dirt poor look works for us. We never have any trouble back here. Have a seat.” She pointed to the kitchen table.
I screamed and jumped. A skeleton, dressed in a suit and fedora had been propped in the chair next to the window. “I’ll stand.”
“That’s Dad, he’s been dead for ten years. That’s why it’s important that you find Mom-Mom.”
I moved away from the table, settling on a barstool at the island. “Brick didn’t give any details. You need to start from the beginning.”
“Mom-Mom died about a month ago, we had her cremated, and brought her home, put her next to Dad. I’m positive one of our rat-ass half siblings, Mom-Mom’s side, third marriage, took her because they’re trying to force me to bury her and Dad together.” Kettle handed me a list with three names on it. “If one of these asses say they don’t have the ashes then they know who does.”
No wonder Brick hadn’t given any details. I turned slightly, gauging the distance to the door; ten steps and I’d be free and clear. “I’ll need a description of the urn.”
“You look like a deer right before the bullet leaves the chamber,” Kettle said. “You sure you know what you’re doing?” She handed me a photo of her and Watusi posing with the missing urn.
“If one of the people on this list has your urn, I’ll get it back,” I said with confidence I didn’t feel.
“How long is this going to take?” Kettle asked.
“Give me a couple of days. How was your mother able to bring a dead body home?”
“Mom-Mom was friends with Nunzio, the first owner of Tropical Slumber, now owned by Raul and Richard. Nunzio embalmed Dad, to keep the smell down, and then delivered him after the service. Dad did eventually smell, so we put him in the bathtub and filled it with kitty litter. Read that on the internet. It didn’t work very well so we moved him to the garage and the stink eventually went away. Only family knew that Dad wasn’t buried in the plot at the cemetery,” Kettle said.
Watusi stood in the corner, wringing her hands, not uttering a word. If she barfed, I’d run, not caring if I ever worked for Brick again.
“If you need a better description of the urn, contact Raul at Tropical Slumber. We deal only with him. The other one is a piece of weirdness.”
Dickie preferred to be called Richard but Kettle was the only one I ever heard call him that. “For all his eccentricities, Dickie is a good guy. If you ever have a regular burial, he prides himself on his artistry skills,” I said, defending Dickie as best I could. Dead with makeup still looked dead in my opinion.
“I’ll walk you out to your car,” Watusi said. “I’ll lock the gates and let the dogs out.”
“I’ll be in touch,” I said to Kettle.
Once outside, Watusi grabbed my arm, pulling me across the driveway. “I wanted a moment alone,” she said, her voice low. “Promise not to breathe one word of what I tell you.”
Why me? If my leg were long enough, I’d kick my own butt for not running when I had the opportunity. “Okay.”
“Forget that stupid list. If one of those nit-brains finds out Mom-Mom is missing, it’ll be war. This is my fault and you’re not to breathe one word to Kettle or anyone else and don’t blame anyone.” She loosened her grip on my arm.
“Do you know where the ashes are?”
“I hurriedly put boxes out for a charity pickup and picked up the box by mistake. I didn’t write down who picked up that day and worse yet it was trash day. If you can’t find Mom-Mom, you go buy a new urn from those friends of yours. I’m sure Dickie must have leftover ashes.”
A startled laugh-choke snuck out. “Why not just tell Kettle?”
“Not one word to Kettle or anyone else. Find the ashes or get new ones.” Watusi started to cry.
“Calm down.” I got in my SUV, rolling down the window. “Either way, this will be over in a couple of days.” I gave her a friendly wave and refrained from jamming my foot on the accelerator.
A few feet from the main road, a loud popping noise startled me. The steering wheel jerked, the driver’s side back end dropped, and I coasted onto the pavement. My back tire was officially flat.
Rock Harbor, a small stretch of land, population ten, ranked high on the list of places one didn’t want to get a flat. No gas station for miles and when was the last time they offered anything more than soda and cigarettes?
The sound of an approaching motorcycle took me by surprise. I jumped back in my SUV and hit the door locks. A large, bald man, dressed head to toe in black, rode up on a black and silver Harley roadster. He pulled up and parked.
I watched him through the windshield as he got off his bike. He approached my closed window and yelled, “I can change your tire for you!”
I pointed my gun at him. “No thank you.”
He walked back to his motorcycle and stood beside it, arms across his chest, staring.
I picked up my cell and pressed an often used speed dial digit. “Spoon, send someone out to Rock Harbor to change my tire.” He was my go-to guy for all things auto related.
“I can walk you through the steps over the phone,” Spoon said.
“You’re not very funny. I’m scared. There’s a big guy here, won’t go away, even after I pointed my gun at him.” I rubbed my temples, not taking my eyes off the bad-ass on the motorcycle. At least he hadn’t produced a gun.
“Are you out at Happy Endings?”
“Stop laughing. I’m at the end of the road, just left the Q’s.”
“Why are you out there?” Spoon demanded. “Never mind. Describe the guy.”
“First draft linebacker pick, bizarre hair, I don’t think it’s real. Looks like paint.”
“Why does he do that?”
“What are you talking about?” I yelled. “I need help!” Bad-ass pulled his cell phone out of his pocket.
“Hang on,” Spoon told me.
“This is Spoon, where are you?”
“I just told you where I was,” I said.
“I’m not talking to you, Madison.”
“Will you change her tire?” Spoon asked. There was a pause. “She’ll be nice and put her gun away.”
“Madison, that’s Gunz, leaning his big ass on that sweet Harley of his. He’ll change your tire. He’s harmless unless you screw him and then you’re dead. Play nice.” Spoon hung up laughing.
Gunz glared at me as he walked back to my SUV.
“I don’t like having a gun pulled on me when I’m doing something nice,” he said. “Name’s Gunz by the way.”
“Madison. Looked in the mirror lately? You don’t exactly look like the boy next door.”
“Good thing, ’cuz they’re the ones that turn out to be the serial killers.”
Good point. “Gunz what?”
“That’s need to know.”
Gunz had limited small-talk skills. I had twenty or so questions I could rattle off, starting with what was he doing out here? He had the tire off the rim and replaced in record time. Looking down at his head while he worked, I concluded that it was definitely hair paint. It looked layered on and then a comb ran through it like some dreadful faux wall treatment.
“Just so you know, I’m not prone to shooting people. I owe you one.”
“What’re you going to do, change my tire?” Gunz snickered, getting back on his bike.
“Hardly. But you never know.” I waved, as he rode off in a cloud of dust.
CHAPTER 8
The Cottages appeared quiet but history has proven that that could be deceptive. My SUV was easily recognizable. Once I was spotted in the neighborhood, word would spread, and a few of the tenants would hide, hoping that my visit would be short. I got out of my SUV, and heard loud music coming from the pool area. I cut behind Cottage Two, and spotted several bikini-clad women. They were lounging in recliners, smoking, passing a pipe, and sharing a bottle of tequila, the gut wrenching kind with the disgusting worm. Barbie made eye contact, mumbled something to the always present Angie, and everyone turned in my direction. Barbie unlocked the gate to the beach and the women disappeared across the sand like fleas…
I cut across the driveway to where Mac sat in the barbeque area, her skirt hiked to an almost indecent level, feet up, not moving. I suspected behind those large sunglasses she had nodded off.
“What the hell is going on here?” I tried not to yell but barely succeeded. “They’re smoking pot out by the pool and you’re sleeping?”
“That Barbie bitch gives me a headache. I thought seriously this morning about doing everyone a favor and shooting her.” Mac straightened her skirt, tugging on her ill-fitting lime green polka dot top.
“What now?” I sat on a concrete bench opposite her, kicking off my designer flip-flops; a must have to throw into the mounting pile in my closet.
“The tequila and beer flowed last night. Drugs and screaming sex equals noise complaints from the neighbors. Kevin and Johnson rolled up with a flash of lights, no siren.”
“Why did you want to shoot her?” I sighed.
“Bitch got in my face and threatened if I breathed a word to disgusting Kibble that she cheats on him, she’d kick my teeth in the gutter. Then added he’d never take my fat ass word over hers.” Mac stood and turned. “Is my ass fat?”
“You should’ve shot her. She’s jealous. She sports that drugged out, hag look and you, girlfriend, are all curves.”
“Sheriff Johnson wanted to talk to the Mrs.,” Mac said. “But Barbie’s a slippery one. She climbed out the bathroom window and took off. The sheriff told the ones who were too stupid to run to go home and if they came back, they’d be arrested. My guess is that the runners had warrants.”
“Why the hell don’t you call me when you have these problems?” I shook my head. “If you ever feel threatened by Barbie I say take a clear shot.”
“Barbie’s reckless, running around manic, pushing the limits, she scares even me. Threats about consequences fall on deaf ears.”
I stood, smoothed my tropical print skirt, and slipped my flip-flops back on. “I’m going to have a girl chat with Barbie. Clear the air. First I need to talk to Joseph.”
“He’s home, keeping a low profile since he hooked up with that old woman. Sick of her and being talked to like I’m six years old.”
“I haven’t met her yet.”
“Good luck!” Mac yelled, as I walked towards Joseph’s cottage. I checked out every flower bed; they were flourishing and screamed tropical color, thanks to the liquid fertilizer we added to every watering.
A barbeque smoker had been fired up, sat to the side of Joseph’s front door, which stood open. “Came by to check on you, Joseph,” I called out, walking in and coming face-to-face with the girlfriend. Skinny, with grey hair pulled into a tight bun; my guess a twenty-five year age difference.
“This is my girlfriend, Veta Lindsey,” Joseph introduced from where he lay on the couch. His cottage was cleaner than I had ever seen it; no beer cans or old newspapers on the floor and newish slipcovers over the stained furniture.
“Nice to meet you.” I smiled. So this was his first grade teacher, dressed Amish-looking in an ankle length skirt and ruffle blouse, but no bonnet in sight.
“You can call me ‘Miss Lindsey,’” she scolded.
Joseph a
cted nervous, didn’t offer a seat, or bottled water. “Joseph, can we talk outside?” I asked.
“Joey and I don’t have secrets,” Veta said. “Whatever you have to say can be said in front of me.”
“Not to be rude but I prefer not to share. I’m here on personal business.”
Joseph sat up and put his bare feet on the floor. One good thing about the girlfriend, it looked like she’d even cleaned the carpet.
“You stay right there,” she ordered Joseph. “He’s not helping you with anything. I know all about you running around like a crazy person, inviting trouble. You will not involve my Joey anymore.”
“He’s a grown man. Doesn’t he get to decide for himself?” I asked.
“Stand up straight, for heaven’s sake, and listen,” Veta reprimanded. “He’s not helping you. We’re getting ready to have dinner.”
“I’m sorry,” Joseph mumbled.
It took every ounce of restraint not to slam the door. Mac met me in the middle of the driveway. “How did that go?”
“How he stands that whiney voice, I don’t know. Do I slouch?”
“That Miss Lindsey has told me to stand up straight three times now. I never slouch because it’s not the best view of the girls.”
Thinking about the encounter with Joseph, I said, “I feel like I’ve lost a friend.” Not to mention an informant.
“Some good news: all of Barbie’s friends just left, and she’s alone in her cottage.”
“How’s Miss January doing?” I asked. “I notice she’s not out and about as much as usual.”
“She took her dead cat inside to take a nap.” Mac sighed.
I’m not sure how long Kitty had been dead, but long before I’d taken over control. A friend had the cat stuffed and it turned out lumpy. Miss January didn’t seem to notice or care, she liked to sit on her porch with Kitty in her lap and talk to it.
I crossed the driveway and knocked politely on Barbie’s door, restraining myself from my best cop knock.
The blinds moved and Barbie opened the door. “How are you?” Her tone was sweet but her eyes snapped anger, her long blond hair pulled into a ponytail.
Trouble in Paradise Page 5