Warm air breezed over him, and he stretched. He could hear the comforting whoosh of the waves rolling in and racing out along the sand. The cowboy hat was tilted down over his eyes and sunlight peeked in through the straw.
Fighting the urge to catch another hour of shut-eye, he sat up, rolled out of the hammock and creaked his way up the back steps. He wasn’t sure if it was the decades-old wood groaning, or his body protesting the beating he’d given it chasing his rod and reel down the creek yesterday.
Guessing from the tide and the hazy early sun, it must’ve been about nine in the morning. He thought wistfully that it would’ve been a perfect morning to break out his rod and catch a few dozen fish from the creek ... if some blasted fish hadn’t decided to take it for a ride out to sea.
He opened the door, more than half expecting Karah to have vacated the premises (he was used to this sort of thing happening as well.) However, he was surprised to be hit by a surge of breakfast smells emanating from the kitchen. She was pushing a spatula through what appeared to be a skillet of scrambled eggs while a plate full of bacon sat nearby, dripping and drying on a paper towel. He didn’t remember having bacon in the house, or eggs ... or paper towels for that matter. The smell of the food was intoxicating.
She beamed at him from behind the kitchen counter as he came in. “Coffee or juice?”
“Coffee,” he said, scratching his head, “So ... where did all this—”
“Relax,” she said, stopping him mid-sentence. “I needed my venti iced chai tea with soy and espresso from Starbucks, so I hit up the Farmer’s Market on the way back.”
“You needed a what?”
She laughed. It was an infectious sound.
“Never mind, silly.” She grinned and handed him a large Starbuck’s cup with a pink wrapper saying Now Proudly Serving Pastries from La Boulange Bakery in San Francisco. “I got you a white chocolate mocha. It’s definitely not truck stop coffee, but I think you’ll like it.”
She watched and waited expectantly as he took a sip. He was pleasantly surprised. It wasn’t merely good ... it was damn good! It wasn’t really coffee in the technical sense, but more like hot chocolate, but he supposed that’s what the granolas were serving down at Starbucks anyway. He nodded his approval and slurped more of the warm, sweet coffee-esque beverage.
“Yayyy!” She clapped her hands together and smiled an even bigger smile. “I hope you like bacon too.”
“You’re kidding, right?” He slid onto a stool and pulled himself up to the bar that looked into the kitchen. “Who doesn’t like bacon?”
“Good,” she said, scooping some of the scrambled eggs onto a plate and piling bacon on top.
“Hats off at the breakfast table, mister,” she said, filling her own plate and coming around to perch on a stool beside him. He took the hat off and flung it over to the futon.
“Better?” He grinned.
She nodded, smiling around another bite of bacon.
Apparently, she had raided his closet to find an old Pawleys Island Fourth of July t-shirt and a pair of his boxers. Suddenly, she bit her bottom lip.
“I hope it’s okay I borrowed some of your clothes,” she asked, and nodded to the t-shirt. “More comfy than a bikini to sleep in.”
“Mi casa es tu casa.” He chewed a piece of bacon and sipped more coffee.
“I can put ‘em back if you want ... ” She started to raise the t-shirt.
Troy could see the tan skin of her stomach underneath and nearly choked on his bacon. “NO, no ... just keep it. Or you can bring it back later, or whatever.”
She looked puzzled, but then grinned and maybe blushed a little.
“Troy!” she playfully, pushing his shoulder and raising an eyebrow. “I have my bikini on underneath!”
“Ah ... oh ... um ... ” he stammered. It was his turn to blush.
She winked at him and picked up her cell phone from the counter. She tapped the screen with her thumbs in a flurry of what he thought must be a text message. Pause, set phone down, pick up phone, more tapping.
“I need to check in with my cousin in a bit anyway,” she said and looked up from the screen with a tinge of worry creasing her eyes. “I’ve been texting her since last night, but she hasn’t texted me back.”
Troy caught a glimpse of the phone’s screen. “Hey, what is that?”
“What is what?” she said guiltily, and thumped the phone to her chest, hiding the screen.
“Let me see it,” he said and arched an eyebrow.
She sighed heavily and handed the phone to him. He slid his finger on the screen and was somewhat surprised to see an image of himself kneeling in the creek water, hands on the back of his head, silver jon boat floating past.
“You saw that?” He wasn’t sure if he was creeped out or not.
She nodded but said nothing.
“How much did you see?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Um ... everything?”
His eyebrow arched even further and he looked back at the screen. Under his photo were the words: KarahC1989: #springbreak #vaca #bestever #pawleys. Then another line: KarahC1989: #hottie #headboat #ouch. Apparently, a friend had seen the photo and commented as well: LaKatLit: OMG total babe! Please tell me u talked to him!
Troy handed the phone back to Karah and said nothing.
“I’m so sorry,” she said sheepishly. “I’ll delete it right now!”
He shrugged his shoulders and a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Hashtag hottie, eh?”
She bit her lip again and the blush returned fiercely.
After breakfast, he made her leave the dishes for him to do and she made him promise he’d hang out with her after she checked on her cousin. He wasn’t sure what a college girl would think of as hanging out, but he presently didn’t have much else to do, so he’d agreed.
11
Balancing Act
Laura Kate Starlington (known to most Pawleys patrons as Georgiana) sat in a booth at Lee’s Inlet Kitchen crying, clutching the evidence bag containing Rick Hairre’s last lunch receipt.
“He’s my ... was my stepdad,” she said and choked out a sob. “Are you sure he’s ... ”
Deputy Chesney Biggins sat across the booth from her. “Georgiana, I’m afraid—”
“Please, call me Laura.”
He started again. “Okay, Laura, I’m afraid it’s definitely him.”
More tears burned her eyes.
“I found his body ... well, I found him myself,” Chesney said, obviously trying to soften the blow.
“Why? I don’t understand.” Laura looked up at him. “Everyone loved him.”
The deputy shifted nervously in his seat, erupting one of those squeaky-farty vinyl seat booth noises that would’ve been funny under any other circumstances but now just heightened the anxiety.
“We really don’t know much yet,” he said, and lifted a hand and rubbed the back of his neck. “That’s why I came to you.”
He shifted in his seat again. “I only thought you were the last person we could confirm to have seen him. I had no idea you were his daughter.”
“Step daughter, yes,” she said, “but he’s the only dad I’ve ever known.”
“So, you’re a Starlington?” Chesney raised an eyebrow. “Of the Starlington Stables Starlingtons?”
Laura took a sip of coffee that had long since gone cold, but she was numb from shock anyway.
“My mother’s family,” she added. “Pretty distant relations though. I haven’t kept up with any of them since she died.”
He nodded, but didn’t say anything. She knew what he was probably thinking. The Starlingtons were ridiculously rich. To not keep up with them would seem strange to most people. But her mother had been the black sheep of the Starlingtons, preferring a simpler life, not carrying on the family’s legendary horse breeding tradition. They hadn’t exiled her mother, but preference definitely went to her siblings. Laura was pretty sure she wouldn’t be in the will.
An awkward silence stretched between them before Chesney spoke again. “So, how did you know it was his receipt?”
She smiled, and tears welled up in her eyes again. Wiping them away, she said, “My bank account had gotten low and I accidently bounced a check. I told Mrs. Reedy, my landlord, to hold it, but she must’ve forgotten.”
Another sip of cold coffee. “Anyway, the bank charged me a twenty-five-dollar overdraft fee, basically putting me in the negative.”
Chesney nodded, looking a little confused.
“So, dad was gonna give me the money, but I refused. Heck, I was gonna get paid in a week and I’d have it then.”
A look of sudden understanding jumped into the deputy’s eyes. “Ahhh, the tip. He gave you the big tip to cover it.”
She nodded. He scribbled a note on a yellow pad. Laura thought it looked as if he was trying to be discreet about being an officer and collecting clues. He kept the yellow pad on the seat beside him and only looked at it through a sideways glance. Sweet, she thought.
“Laura,” he said and glanced up from his notes, “did Rick have any enemies?”
“God, no.” She let out a sigh. “I think everyone loved him, didn’t they?”
“As far as I know, yes,” he said, “but you just never know.” He paused, looking pained about discussing the details of the case. “But, it’s obvious he was ... well, he was beaten,” the deputy glanced at his notes again. “and his wallet was intact, credit cards, a little bit of cash, receipts, et cetera.” He touched the bag containing the receipt on the table between them. “So I’ve pretty much ruled out any kind of mugging or robbery.”
Laura could tell he was trying so hard to be delicate. She brushed her hair back over her ear.
“He was clearly ... tortured.” Chesney breathed out heavily. He used his hand to draw a semi-circle on the back of his head. “We think the final blow was here. And it looks like he was hit with a gun.” He paused again, then, “God, I’m sorry, Laura.” He put both his hands on the table in front of him, clearly unnerved to be telling her these details.
She laid her hands on top of his. “It’s okay, go on.”
His hands were hot and starting to sweat. She could tell he was nervous. But he was a cop ... he should be used to this kind of thing, right?
He took a deep breath, steadying himself, and continued. “From what little evidence we have so far,” he said, sounding more officer-like, “it’s clear that Rick was tortured at gun point and ultimately beaten so badly that he died from the wounds.”
Laura could find no words ... everything went numb. She guessed she might be in shock.
The deputy exhaled loudly and pulled his hands out from under hers and began to wring them together. “I’ll know more once the autopsy is complete.”
“Hey.” Laura took his hands again. “It’s okay. I’m the one who’s supposed to be all torn up here, right?”
“Yes, yeah, you’re right,” he stammered. “It’s just that this sort of thing never happens here and I’ve never had to deliver news of murder to next of kin. Sure, people have died, but it’s always natural causes.”
“Can I see him?” Laura asked.
Chesney clearly balked at this idea. “I don’t know Ms. Starlington—”
“It’s Laura.” She let her lips form into the slightest of smiles. “And I’m a big girl. I’d like to see him.”
He nodded, “Well, he’ll be in a state of ... well, post autopsy. He’ll have a few new scars.”
She felt a lump rise up in her throat and said nothing, afraid that if she started to cry now, she’d be overcome and never stop. First her mom with cancer, now this ...
A crackle of static suddenly erupted from Chesney’s radio. “Ches, we’ve got a 211 at the CVS. Can you get over there?”
“I’m sorry,” he said to Laura.
He pulled a card out from his shirt pocket and handed it to her. “My cell number’s on there. Call me later and I’ll take you to see him.”
He stood up and clicked his mic. “I’m on it, over. ETA five minutes.”
“Give it some thought,” he said as he shuffled out of the booth. “Who’d want to hurt your dad? It could be a political rival or someone he voted against or ... heck, I don’t know.”
She shrugged. She truly didn’t know either. As he half-jogged out the door, he held up his hand in the universal call me sign. She sat in the booth, numb, overwhelmed and aching, and staring at his card ... what to do now?
“Honey?” Martha startled her so badly that she jerked and knocked over her coffee mug. The last trickles of coffee in her cup splashed on the table.
“Oh, baby, I’m so sorry.” The older lady took a rag from her apron and wiped the table. Then she looked up at Laura who now had tears running down her cheeks. “Go home, honey. I’ll take care of this.”
Laura nodded, afraid to speak. She handed her apron to Martha and ran out the door. Jerking open her forest green Jetta’s door, she threw herself into the driver’s seat and slumped forward on the steering wheel. And that’s when she finally cried for her dad.
About thirty minutes had passed when she finally felt herself calming. She pulled the visor down to look in the mirror. Her cell phone dropped in her lap and she wiped her eyes as she clicked it on.
Fourteen text messages, all from Karah.
She replied: on my way, gotta stop by bank first.
She took a deep breath, and checked to make sure she’d gotten most of the mascara out from under her eyes. Zipping open her beer-stained Coach wallet, she double-checked to make sure the twenty-five dollars was still there from her dad’s tip, and headed to the Georgetown Kraft Credit Union.
12
I’m Gon’ Flick ‘Em Off
The 1973 Coachmen Trailer bounced along U.S. Route 521 at a whopping 37 miles-per-hour. The sides of the trailer, in between the rusted sheet metal, were off-white with two four-inch wide stripes of what might’ve at one time been adventurous yellow and outdoorsy orange. Amazingly, the two propane tanks hopping up and down at the front of the trailer hadn’t flown off on the bumpy corn-farm road. Empty as they were, they wouldn’t have caused more than a fender bender, but they hung on anyway.
In front of the trailer, in similar rusted-through condition and pulling mightily with its motor constantly redlining, was a 1977 bumblebee yellow-on-black-on-rust Chevy Camaro. Half of its once majestic chrome bumper was gone and the other half was pitted like a moldy cucumber. Sitting on the very front edge of the long bench seat, hands at two and ten, Winston No-Filter cigarette threatening to drop ash at any twitch, was Ellie Mae Gallop ... oldest (by a minute or so) of the Gallop twins.
She scrolled through the ancient FM/AM dial on the radio until the familiar strains of a classic rock station fought through the static.
She threw her head back and sang with the tune. “Dussstttt in da weendddd, all we are is dosstt in da weeeeeenddd.”
“Hell yeah fer some original Kansas,” she yelled to no one in particular.
“Hey, Ellie Mae, cain’t ya go no faster?” crackled a voice from the trailer through a toy army walkie-talkie.
Ellie Mae glared down at the green speaker. It’s a gall-dang Camaro haulin’ a gall-dang trailer; do ya think it’ll go any faster? Without clicking the talk button, she said, “I cain’t hear y’uns!”
Without skipping so much as a beat came the reply. “I knows ya can hear me up ‘ar!” the walkie-talkie screeched.
Ellie Mae snatched up the toy and clicked the button. “If y’uns think ya can drive this heap a she-it better ‘n me, Daisy Mae, why don’t ya jus come up ‘ere an have at it.”
With that she held down the squelch button, which emitted a loud squelching sound. She threw the walkie-talkie into the back seat and cursed as the ashes from her cigarette—Winstons, because they taste good, like a cigarette should—finally gave way and flopped down into her lap.
“Hey!” the voice erupted again from the speaker in the back seat, “pull over
. I gotta pee.”
“Gad o’ mighty,” Ellie Mae muttered. “Ever’ ten miles, dammit.”
She tapped the brakes, adding another squeal to the cacophony of sounds coming from the two vehicles, and drifted off the road onto the shoulder. Glaring into the rear-view mirror, she ran her fingers through her hair. Fine and limp like corn-silk and stuck to the side of her head like strands of wet albino kelp, her white blonde hair looked as frazzled as her nerves. T’aint easy drivin’ this heap, she thought. Splotchy sun freckles dotted her nose, threatening to be cute under icy blue eyes. Crow’s feet—from hard living, not from age—were deeper than she remembered. Being in the daylight hadn’t been much of a luxury she’d been able to enjoy the past few years.
She pulled out a greasy old Chapstick she’d found at the last gas station and wiped the top off on the seat next to her. Her thin little lips were cracked and dry. Not my best look, she mused, and winked at herself in the mirror.
“Always did look bett’r under blacklights in the dark, half nekid,” she muttered and then shouted, “Hey! What’re you doin back ‘ar?”
In the mirror, she saw an exact replica of herself stepping down from the rust-bucket trailer. Well, almost exact, except the version of herself coming out of the Coachmen had her hand on her belly—her swollen, eight-and-a-half months pregnant belly.
“Hold yer damn horses!” yelled Daisy Mae Gallop as she let the screen door slam shut on the trailer and stepped carefully down the metal steps.
Without much ceremony, the pregnant girl waddled into the high grass on the side of the road and squatted down, pulling up her short denim skirt. “Quit yer lookin’,” she called to her sister in the driver’s seat of the Camaro, “yer makin’ me pee-shy.”
Sliding into the front bench seat of the car, she yelped and squirmed. “Damn leather’s hot as tar’!”
“Saves gas ta keep the AC off,” Ellie Mae said while tapping the fuel gauge. “Don’t like it, get back in the trailer.”
The Complete Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Collection Page 13