"I'm sorry he put you through that," Kent said, though not sorry she ended up in Fortune Beach as a result. "Some men can be real asses."
"Tell me about it," Gena said, sipping her cappuccino. "But it was better that I found out what an ass he was before things went even further."
"I agree," Kent said. "Guess we really know how to pick them."
"Looks that way."
They both chuckled, though clearly there wasn't anything funny about the circumstances that had brought them to Fortune Beach. Not to mention the dead woman who brought them together.
Afterwards, Kent dropped Gena off at the cabin where she was staying. Neither made any plans to get together again. But in Kent's mind that was a given, if he had any say in the matter.
Right now, it was time to pay his client a visit and fill him in on the tragic news, in case he had not heard. Unless, of course, he already knew exactly what had become of his fiancée to prevent her from making it to the altar.
* * *
Gena had considered inviting Kent in to talk some more, enjoying his company. But she thought better of it. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to rush into anything just yet with Colin still fresh on her mind.
Then there was the fact that she and Kent needed time to get past the idea that they literally met over a dead body. Not exactly the ideal way to begin a new relationship.
Still, she was open to the possibility sometime in the future.
Gena took a shower and then grabbed her cell phone and called her best friend Roslyn.
"I was just thinking about you," Roslyn said.
"How sweet," Gena offered, though unsure she believed a word of it. "Now what were you really doing?" She could only imagine what guy of the week her friend had hooked up with this time.
"I'm serious," she said. "I ran into Colin yesterday and he asked about you..."
Gena's pulse raced. Could he have found out where she was?
"What did you tell him?" she demanded.
"Absolutely nothing," Roslyn insisted. "He has no idea you're in Fortune Beach."
"Are you sure about that?"
"Positive. I think he believes you went to New York, since you told him you have friends there."
"Good, let him think that," Gena said with satisfaction, knowing that the Big Apple was big enough for her to hide safely from Colin, had she actually been there.
"Seems like he's moved on, in any event," Roslyn said. "He was with another woman."
Gena was not too surprised, considering his wandering eye. "I pity her," she muttered. "But if it means he'll leave me alone, oh well..."
"My sentiments exactly," Roslyn said.
Gena told her about the dead ringer woman she found and the still mysterious circumstances of her death.
"Sounds horrible," Roslyn said.
"It was," Gena told her, the image of death still giving her the chills. "I almost felt like I was looking in the Twilight Zone mirror or something."
"Maybe you had a sister you never knew about," Roslyn kidded.
"I don't think so," Gena said. She was sure her parents would never have kept such from her. Even then, the chances of meeting this unknown sister randomly were like a trillion to one.
"Better her than you," Roslyn made clear. "I don't know what I'd do without my best friend."
"Hopefully, you won't have to find out anytime soon," Gena said.
* * *
Kent knocked on the door of the new house where Richard Mitchell lived. The newlywed couple had planned to live there after they were married.
The door opened and he saw his client standing there, his face contorted with pain.
"I guess you heard her body was found," Kent said.
"Yeah, the sheriff told me. They want me to come and identify her." Richard rubbed his eyes. "I just don't understand it. How could something like this happen?"
It was a question Kent very much wanted the answer to. "Mind if I come inside?"
Richard stepped aside and Kent walked past the older, taller man. He spotted a glass half filled with alcohol on the table. He couldn't help but wonder if his client was drinking to escape the hurt. Or his guilt.
"I'm sorry I couldn't come up with better news," Kent said sincerely.
"So am I. Jennifer didn't deserve to go out like that."
"No one does," Kent told him. "Do you know anyone who would want to kill her?"
Richard's brows furrowed. "No, I don't. She didn't have any enemies. Just the opposite. Everybody who knew Jennifer thought the world of her—including me."
At least one person may have thought considerably less of her, Kent thought. Maybe I'm looking at him.
"Was Jennifer suicidal?" Kent asked.
"No way!" Richard insisted. "She had everything to live for—not the least of which was our marriage and the family we planned to have. She wouldn't have given that up by killing herself."
Kent was inclined to agree, based on what he had learned from others who knew her. Then there was the body itself and the circumstances of its discovery that gave him pause.
He narrowed his eyes at Richard. "Well, there's no easy way to say this, but your girlfriend was either murdered, committed suicide, or her death was accidental. One or more will be ruled out soon enough. If there's something you haven't told me, now's the time to get it out."
Richard ran a hand through his hair. "I've told you everything I know," he said. "Jennifer had to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. She's an excellent swimmer, so I don't see her drowning accidentally. It's almost as though someone targeted her by mistake—"
* * *
He sat at the bar drinking scotch while thinking less about the woman he killed and more about the woman who may have seen him close enough to the body to arouse suspicion.
Who was she? Could he find her before she could put the authorities on his trail?
Just then, he heard the news and looked up at a plasma TV as a reporter was talking.
"An adult female's nude body was found on the beach early this morning. She was discovered by a jogger. The deceased has been identified as Jennifer Anderson, a thirty-year-old teacher. She disappeared four days ago, just one day before her wedding. The police aren't saying if foul play was involved or not. The autopsy report is scheduled to be released tomorrow—"
He stared at the screen in disbelief. He'd screwed up big time. But he always cleaned up his messes. In this case, he would solve two headaches at once.
He finished off the drink and left.
* * *
It's almost as though someone targeted her by mistake.
Richard's words stuck in Kent's mind like glue. What if Richard was right? What if Jennifer hadn't been the intended target, but Gena was instead? Crazy as it sounded, the two were practically twins. As such, one could easily have been mistaken for the other.
Maybe Gena's possessive ex fully intended to carry out his threat of making her pay should she ever leave him. Though she seemed confident he knew nothing of her whereabouts, Kent began to wonder if the asshole knew exactly where she was and had acted upon it.
But could he have actually gone after the wrong woman?
Kent didn't believe that was possible with someone Gena had been involved with. Especially since Jennifer would not have recognized him, thereby making it clear she was not Gena.
But what if Gena's ex had hired someone else to do the dirty work? He could have acted on appearance alone without giving Jennifer a chance to identify herself.
The more Kent thought about it, the more it seemed entirely plausible. When his cell phone rang, he answered, interrupting his thoughts.
"Hey, this is Sheriff Franklin. Though the official autopsy results won't be released till tomorrow, since you worked on the case I thought I'd let you know that the preliminary cause of Ms. Anderson's death is suffocation. Looks like we've got ourselves a murder investigation."
"I'm glad you called," Kent said. "I think I know who's behind it and where the killer
might be headed—"
Kent was out the door and on his way to Gena's cabin. He wished he had gotten her cell phone number earlier. Now he could only hope he got there in time to prevent another tragedy.
* * *
Gena heard the knock on the door. She thought it might be one of the neighbors looking for their cat or something. Part of her even hoped it might be Kent. She had been thinking about him after their get-together and was curious to see if there were any real sparks between them without death getting in the way.
She opened the door and saw a tall man standing there. His head looked freshly shaven and he wore a scowl.
"Gena LaCrosse," he said in a cold voice. "This time there won't be a mistake..."
Before she could wrap her mind around what he was talking about, Gena thought back to the beach and the dead woman. Suddenly she could envision this man as the one who had been on the beach. The killer!
She tried to close the door, but he easily blocked it with his foot and forced his way inside.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked unsteadily.
He flashed a maniacal grin. "Figured you would have guessed by now. I'm here courtesy of Colin Murray. He hired me to take you out."
"What—?" Gena's eyes widened with shock. Roslyn had convinced her that there was no way Colin could have known where she was.
"Course I thought I had already done the deed," he said smugly. "Turned out it wasn't you after all, just some poor bitch who looked like you. Colin wanted you to pay the ultimate price for your betrayal. As it turns out, I was already looking for you on the beach this morning, so it's all going to work out for the best—for me anyway."
Gena gasped as he pulled a clear plastic bag out of his back pocket.
"We can make this easy, or we can make it hard," he said tonelessly, approaching her. "Which is it going to be?"
"Go to hell!" she spat, determined not to give him or Colin the satisfaction of dying a horrible death.
Gena tried to run away. She got as far as the steps when he caught up to her, grabbing her by the hair.
She turned around and did the only thing she could at this point: fight for her life and scream as loud as she could.
Though she hit and kicked him, he warded off the blows and forced the bag over her head.
Immediately, Gena could barely breathe, though she tried to keep fighting. The thought of dying at thirty terrified her. She wasn't ready to see her life end this way, so that Colin won.
But it seemed to be a foregone conclusion as she became lightheaded and heard the man say with frightening satisfaction, "Goodbye, Gena."
She tried hard to keep breathing as her eyes watered and her chest heaved, but she was growing weaker by the moment. Suddenly, she heard the door burst open and watched as Kent rushed in. He immediately ran toward them, lunging at the man, who released her.
Gena ripped the plastic bag from her head and gasped while trying to force air into her lungs. She watched with blurry eyes as the two men fought.
Kent got the upper hand and ended up on top of her would-be killer, smashing his fist twice into the man's face, putting him out.
Kent got up and rushed over to her. "Are you all right?"
"I think so," Gena said, wheezing as air began to return to her lungs. "How did you know?"
"I figured it out after I put a few thoughts together," he said. "Your ex is an asshole and wanted you dead—twice. Thank goodness I wasn't too late the second time around."
"Thank goodness," she said to her hero. "In my book, you were right on time."
Kent smiled and put his arm around her. "Folks around here tend to look after their own."
"I can see that," she said, gazing into his eyes.
Kent glanced at the man on the floor. "We'd better make sure he stays out of commission till the sheriff gets here."
"Good idea," Gena said. The last thing she wanted was for Colin's hired killer to wreak further havoc on her life. Especially when it suddenly seemed so promising in Fortune Beach, where fortune had found a way to smile upon her just when she needed it most.
She took solace knowing that Colin would get his just due. In the meantime, Gena felt grateful to be alive with a whole new reason to live. Kent Stanton had seen to that. She would find many ways to thank him and see where they went beyond that. Something told her it could be a very long way.
# # #
The following is a bonus excerpt from the bestselling women's sleuth novel
MURDER IN HONOLULU: A Skye Delaney Mystery
By R. Barri Flowers
CHAPTER ONE
The name's Skye McKenzie Delaney. I'm part of the twenty-first century breed of licensed private investigators who live by their wits, survive on instincts, and take each case as though it may be their last. The fact that I double as a security consultant for companies in and around the city of Honolulu, where I reside, gives me financial backup not afforded to all private eyes. This notwithstanding, I take my work as an investigator of everything from cats stuck in trees to missing persons to crimes the police can't or won't touch very seriously. If not, I wouldn't be putting my heart, soul, and body into this often thankless job.
I also happen to be happily divorced—or at least no longer pining for my ex—and not afraid to get my hands dirty if necessary in my business. I get along with most people, but won't take any crap from anyone should it come my way.
Before I became a security consultant/private eye, I used to be a homicide cop for the Honolulu Police Department. Stress, fatigue, burnout, and a real desire to get into something that could provide more financial security and flexible hours, without the downside and depression of police work and know-it-all authority figures, convinced me to change careers.
During my six years on the force, I spent my nights earning a Master's Degree in Criminal Justice Administration. I'm hoping to get my Ph.D. someday when I no longer need to work for a living and can devote my time to further educating myself. In the meantime, I'm getting an honorary doctorate in private detectiveology, where every case can be a real learning experience.
On and off the job, I carry a .40 caliber or 9-millimeter pistol Smith and Wesson—depending on my mood. And I'm not afraid to use either one if I have to, as it sure beats the alternative of ending up as just another private dick on a cold slab in the morgue.
If I were to describe myself character-wise, the words that come to mind are feminine, adventurous yet conservative, streetwise though I often rely on intellect to get me over the hump, and kick-ass tough when duty calls.
I've been told on more than one occasion that I'm attractive—even beautiful—and sexy as hell. I leave that for others to decide, but I'm definitely in great shape at five-eight, thanks to a near obsession with running and swimming, along with not overdoing it with calories. I usually wear my long blonde hair in a ponytail. My contacts make my eyes seem greener than they really are.
I recently celebrated my thirty-fifth birthday. All right, in truth, it wasn't much of a celebration. I spent the entire day holed up in my house with my dog, Ollie, contemplating the future and happy to put much of my past behind me. That included my ex-husband, Carter Delaney, whose greatest contribution to my life and times was making me realize that no man was worth sacrificing one's own identity and integrity, even if it meant losing him in the process.
I did lose Carter five years ago, after deciding I had no desire to share him with his mistress (and probably others I didn't know about). It was a decision I firmly stand by today and am definitely the better for.
At least I convinced myself that was the case even as I came face to face with the subject in question on a muggy afternoon at the end of July. I had just filed away some papers when he walked into my office literally out of the blue. It was his first visit to my office since I joined the ranks of private eyes. I had once worked for the man as a security consultant. That turned into lust, sex, love, marriage, and divorce, and now we were little more than distant acquaintances.
The tremulous half-smile that played on Carter's lips told me that he was not entirely comfortable being there. I felt just as awkward for probably the same reason: the ex-spouse syndrome, which would forever keep a wall of regrets and painful memories between us, thick as molasses.
Never mind the fact that Carter Delaney was still every bit the physical specimen I had fallen in love with another lifetime ago. Tall, fit, handsome, and perennially tanned with dark hair and gray eyes, he almost looked as if he had just stepped out of the pages of Good Looking Digest. Though it was hotter than hell outside, he was decked out in an Italian navy designer suit and wing-tipped burgundy leather shoes. He glanced at the expensive watch on his wrist as if he needed to be somewhere else.
At thirty-eight, Carter Delaney was a successful businessman. A former Honolulu prosecutor in the career criminal division, Carter had walked away from the job after excelling at it for the lure of cold hard cash in the world of commerce. He had turned his smarts and acumen into a successful Internet-based international trade company.
It was during the early stages of this success that I entered the picture. Carter had hired me, wanting to have the best security devices for both his home and business. The rest, as they say, is history.
At least it was.
We had managed to avoid running into each other for nearly a year now, which suited me just fine. I wasn't looking for history to ever repeat itself, so quite naturally my curiosity was piqued as to why he was here now. Rather than appear too overeager, I decided to wait and let him take the lead.
"Hi," I said tonelessly as I eased back into my chair and scooted it up to my gray workstation desk. I shuffled some papers to at least give the guise of being busy. In fact, I was going through somewhat of a dry spell right now with the sluggish economy and all. This was particularly true on the private eye side of things, where potential clients seemed more willing to go it alone or rely on an overworked criminal justice system to solve their problems.
I wondered if Carter was here for a social call or if he was looking to hire me as a security consultant again.
"Nice office," he said, though the words seemed to squeeze through his tight-lipped smile.
I agreed with his assessment, as I'd paid enough for the roomy one-woman, air-conditioned unit in a high rent downtown office building that had all the tools of the private eye trade.
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