Absence of Alice

by Sherry Harris

  Seth kissed me. “You’re welcome. You deserve it. Since I met you, you’ve helped raise Ellington’s profile, brought tourists into town, solved some murders. I thought it was time we thanked you.”

  We looked over the town common. People were buying things. Kids were running around. People were eating and laughing. Carol waved to me from a table where she sat with her husband and three kids. It was almost perfect. If only Stella were here. I’d had a message from her that she’d been offered a small part in a movie based on an audition the director of Phantom had recommended her for. She was considering taking the part. I wondered if she’d ever come back.

  “What?” Seth asked. “You looked sad for a moment.”

  I smiled up at him. “I’m fine.”

  “I’m sorry for what I said about you trusting Harriet more than me. Turns out you were right about that, since Diego was using an employee in my office.”

  I shook my head. “It wasn’t you I didn’t trust. It was the possibility of someone in your office finding something out. I’m sorry that I made you feel that way.”

  “Forgive me?” he asked.

  “If you forgive me,” I said.

  He kissed me instead of answering.

  “I love you.” Once upon a time it had been so hard for me to say that to him. Not anymore.

  We heard car doors slam over by my apartment. I turned to see Stella climbing out of Awesome’s car. Seconds later she was running across the grass and flinging her arms around me. It was as if I’d conjured her by thinking about her. I hugged Stella tight.

  “I’m back,” she said as we pulled apart.

  “Thank heavens. I’ve missed you so much. But what about the movie?”

  “I’m going to go back in a few weeks for filming. It’s a small independent film backed by some big names. Can you imagine me in a movie?”

  “I can,” I said. “You’ll be wonderful.”

  Stella’s green eyes sparkled; her hair shone. Happiness oozed out of her pores—if such a thing could happen. I looked over her shoulder to see Awesome and Pellner standing there.

  “Go on, you two,” Stella said, looking at Awesome and Pellner.

  “I trust you, Sarah,” Pellner said. His dimple not so deep as to scare me.

  “I’d depend on you to find anyone,” Awesome said. “Even if it meant bending some rules.” He glanced down at his shoes for a moment. “I get it. I understand what you did and probably would have done the same thing.”

  I nodded slowly. Stella must have done a lot of convincing. “It wasn’t easy. I hope I never have to put anyone in that position again. But thank you.” Even though they had said the right things, I knew it would take some time for them to actually believe it.

  “We have a surprise for you,” Awesome said.

  “A surprise?” I couldn’t imagine what he was talking about.

  Awesome and Pellner looked back at the car and made a “come here” motion with their hands. The back passenger door opened. A foot came out, and then Alice Krandle stood up.

  For the second time today I clapped my hands to my mouth for a moment. “How?” I looked at Pellner and Awesome as Alice strode over to us. I turned to Seth. “Did you know?”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t.”

  “Alice was out for a walk when her house exploded,” Pellner said. “After you and almost everyone else had left the scene, Alice came walking up the sidewalk. I hustled her into the back of my police SUV so no one would see her. I made a snap decision to hide her for a couple of days.”

  “Two supposed attempts on her life made the decision for Pellner,” Awesome added. “And he didn’t tell anyone else what he was up to.”

  I gave Alice a big hug when she arrived by my side. She stood stiffly accepting the hug and didn’t push me away. She gave me an awkward pat on the shoulder as I breathed in her spearmint chewing gum scent.

  “I agreed because I didn’t want the third time to be a charm,” Alice said.

  “Where have you been?” I asked.

  “I’ve been at the Parker House Hotel in Boston, spoiled rotten with room service and enjoying Parker House rolls and Boston cream pie.”

  The Parker House had originated both.

  “So Diego tampered with Alice’s medications and that’s why she passed out?”

  “We don’t think so,” Awesome said. “He either heard it on the police scanner or through his source at the police station. We talked to Alice’s doctor and looked over the tests he ran that day. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. But Diego letting you think he’d done it worked into his whole scheme.”

  “I might just go back to the Parker House,” Alice said, “since I don’t have a house to live in. A woman of my age deserves Boston cream pie on a regular basis.”

  We all laughed at that.

  “Come on,” Stella said to the three of them. “Let’s go get some food.”

  Seth and I watched as they walked off. He slung an arm around my shoulders and squeezed me to him. The rest of the morning passed in a blur of friends and strangers stopping to congratulate me. Miss Belle donated a hefty sum of money to the fund. Charlie auctioned off a beautiful diamond necklace. James, Eleanor, and other base friends stopped by. Frida Chida auctioned off a month of cleaning, and my former client Kitty auctioned off a chance for someone to have his or her pet painted by her. The event was successful beyond my wildest dreams, and my heart was full.

  By two we were cleaning up. I watched as Seth rolled up his sleeves and carried tables back into the church. I was lucky to have him in my life. Lucky to have so many friends and this wonderful place to live. In the past people had questioned why I stayed here instead of going back to California after my divorce. There I would have returned as a failure. Here, I’d become a success. I looked over the town common again at all the people pitching in. This was why I stayed.

  Acknowledgments

  To John Talbot and Gary Goldstein—it doesn’t seem that long ago that a garage sale mystery series was just an idea we were tossing around, and here we are at book nine! Thank you both for all you’ve done for me.

  Thanks to Mark Bergin, a retired police lieutenant from Alexandria, Virginia, and the author of the fabulous book Apprehension. Also to Bruce Coffin, a retired detective sergeant from Portland, Maine, who writes the bestselling Detective John Byron Mystery series. All errors are mine!

  Fabulous independent editor Barb Goffman, this was barely a story when I gave you my manuscript to edit; with your guidance you helped me turn it into a novel. Barb continued to give advice and support up until the moment I hit send.

  To Jason Allen-Forrest, Christy Nichols, and Mary Titone—thank you for your friendship and for being my beta readers. Your eagle eyes caught many mistakes I didn’t even notice.

  To Ashley Harris, beloved former neighbor—thank you for talking me through the struggles military families face when they have a family member who has special needs. And thank you for talking to me about rare diseases.

  Thanks to Lou and Marilyn DiNapoli, our wonderful neighbors in Massachusetts, for sharing your amazing stories with me.

  Jennifer McGee, you are virtually wonderful, and I don’t know what I’d do without you.

  Julie Hennrikus, who knew a car ride from Lake Winnipesaukee to Logan Airport could be so productive. The time we spent plotting was invaluable. What would I have done without you?!!!

  To The Wickeds—Jessie Crockett, Julie Hennrikus, Edith Maxwell, Liz Mugavero, and Barbara Ross—by the time this book comes out we will have been blogging together for seven and a half years. To all who wish to write, find your people—the five of you are mine.

  To my family who supports me through the ups and downs of the creative process—I wouldn’t be here without you. Thank you for being smart enough to stay out of my way when my deadline is near. As my daughter said, “We avoid her around her deadline because all she has on her mind is murder.”

  Keep reading for a special excerpt of the fir
st book in an all-new series by Sherry Harris!

  FROM BEER TO ETERNITY

  A Chloe Jackson, Sea Glass Saloon Mystery

  A whip-smart librarian’s fresh start comes with a tart twist in this perfect cocktail of murder and mystery—with a romance chaser.

  With Chicago winters in the rearview mirror,

  Chloe Jackson is making good on a promise: help

  her late friend’s grandmother run the Sea Glass Saloon

  in the Florida Panhandle. To Chloe’s surprise, feisty

  Vivi Slidell isn’t the frail retiree Chloe expects.

  Nor is Emerald Cove. It’s less a sleepy fishing village

  than a panhandle hotspot overrun with land developers

  and tourists. But it’s a Sea Glass regular who has

  mysteriously crossed the cranky Vivi. When their

  bitter argument comes to a head and he’s found dead

  behind the bar, guess who’s the number one suspect?

  In trying to clear Vivi’s name, Chloe discovers the old

  woman isn’t the only one in Emerald Cove with secrets.

  Under the laid-back attitude, sparkling white beaches,

  and small town ways, something terrible is brewing.

  And the sure way a killer can keep those secrets

  bottled up is to finish off one murder with a double shot:

  aimed at Chloe and Vivi.

  Look for FROM BEER TO ETERNITY, on sale now.

  Chapter One

  Remember the big moment in The Wizard of Oz movie when Dorothy says, “Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore?” Boy, could I relate. Only a twister hadn’t brought me here; a promise had. This wasn’t the Emerald City, but the Emerald Coast of Florida. Ruby slippers wouldn’t get me home to Chicago. And neither would my red, vintage Volkswagen Beetle, if anyone believed the story I’d spread around. Nothing like lying to people you’d just met. But it couldn’t be helped. Really, it couldn’t.

  The truth was, as a twenty-eight-year-old children’s librarian, I never imagined I’d end up working in a beach bar in Emerald Cove, Florida. In the week I’d been here I’d already learned toddlers and drunk people weren’t that different. Both were unsteady on their feet, prone to temper tantrums one minute and sloppy hugs the next, and they liked to take naps wherever they happened to be. Go figure. But knowing that wasn’t helping me right now. I was currently giving the side-eye to one of the regulars.

  “Joaquín, why the heck is Elwell wearing that armadillo on his head?” I asked in a low voice. Elwell Pugh sat at the end of the bar, his back to the beach, nursing a beer in his wrinkled hands. I had known life would be different in the Panhandle of Florida, but armadillo shells on people’s heads?—that was a real conversation starter.

  “It’s not like it’s alive, Chloe,” Joaquín Diaz answered, as if that made sense of a man wearing a hollowed-out armadillo shell as a hat. Joaquín raised two perfectly manicured eyebrows at me.

  What? Maybe it was some kind of lodge thing down here. My uncle had been a member of a lodge in Chicago complete with funny fez hats, parades, and clowns riding miniature motorcycles. But he usually didn’t sit in bars in his hat—at least not alone.

  Elwell sported the deep tan of a Florida native. A few faded tattoos sprinkled his arms. His gray hair, cropped short, and grizzled face made him look unhappy—maybe he was. I’d met Elwell when I started working at the Sea Glass. I already knew that Elwell was a great tipper, didn’t make off-color comments, and kept his hands to himself. That alone made him a saint among men to me, because all three were rare when waitressing in a bar. At least in this one, the only bar I’d ever worked in.

  It hadn’t taken me long to figure out Elwell’s good points. But I’d seen more than one tourist start to walk in off the beach, spot him, and leave. There were other bars farther down the beach, plenty of places to drink. So, Elwell and his armadillo hat seemed like a problem to me.

  “Elwell started wearing it a few weeks back,” Joaquín said with a shrug that indicated what are you going to do about it. Joaquín’s eyes were almost the same color as the aquamarine waters of the Gulf of Mexico, which sparkled across the wide expanse of beach in front of the Sea Glass. With his tousled dark hair, Joaquín looked way more like a Hollywood heartthrob than a fisherman by morning, bartender by afternoon. That combination had the women who stopped in here swooning. He looked like he was a few years older than me.

  “It keeps the gub’ment from tracking me,” Elwell said in a drawl that dragged “guh-buh-men-t” into four syllables.

  Apparently, Elwell had exceptional hearing, or the armadillo shell was some kind of echo chamber.

  “Some fools,” Elwell continued, “believe tinfoil will stop the gub’ment, but they don’t understand radio waves.”

  Great, a science lesson from a man with an armadillo on his head. I nodded, keeping a straight face because I didn’t want to anger a man who seemed a tad crazy. He watched me for a moment and went back to staring at his beer. I grinned at Joaquín and he smiled at me. Joaquín didn’t seem concerned, so maybe I shouldn’t be either. I glanced at Elwell again. His eyes always had a calculating look that made me think there was a purpose for the armadillo shell that had nothing to do with the “gub’ment,” but what did I know?

  Chapter Two

  “Whatta ya gotta do to get a drink round here?” a man yelled from the front of the bar. He was one of two men playing a game of rummy at a high top. They were in here almost every day.

  “Not shout for a drink, Buford,” Joaquín yelled back. “Or get your lazy as—” he caught himself as he glanced at Vivi, the owner and our boss, who frowned at him from across the room, “asteroid up here.”

  Vivi’s face relaxed into a smile. She would have made a good children’s librarian considering how she tried to keep things PG around here. Joaquín tilted his head toward me. I took a pad out of the little black apron wrapped around my waist and trotted over to Buford.

  “Would you like another Bud?” I asked Buford. “Or something else?”

  “Sure would,” Buford said. There was a “duh” note in his voice suggesting why else would he be yelling to Joaquín.

  “Another Maker’s Mark whiskey?” I looked at Buford’s card playing partner as I wrote his beer order on my pad.

  “You have a good memory,” he said, looking at his half empty glass. “But I’m good.”

  Good grief, I’d been serving him the same drink all week, I’d hoped I could remember his order. I made the rounds of the other tables. By each drink I wrote a brief description of who ordered it: beer, black hair rummy player; martini, dirty, yellow Hawaiian shirt; gin and tonic, needs a bigger bikini. I’d seen way more oiled-up, sweaty, sandy body parts than I cared to in the week I’d been here. Not even my dad, a retired plumber, had seen this many cracks at a meeting of the Chicago plumbers union.

  Those images kept haunting my dreams, along with giant beach balls knocking me down, talking dolphins, and tidal waves. I’d yet to figure out what any of them meant—well, maybe I’d figured out one of them. But I wasn’t going to think about that now.

  Nope, I preferred to focus on the scenery, because, boy, this place had atmosphere—and that didn’t even include Elwell and his armadillo shell hat. The Sea Glass Saloon I’d pictured before I’d arrived had swinging, saloon-style doors, bawdy dancing girls, and wagon-wheel chandeliers. This was more like a tiki hut than an old western saloon, though thankfully I didn’t have to wear a sarong and coconut bra top. I could fill one out, but I preferred comfortable tank tops. Besides, the Gulf of Mexico was the real star of the show. The whole front of the bar was open to it, with retractable glass doors leading to a covered deck.

  The Sea Glass catered to locals who needed a break from the masses of tourists who descended on Emerald Cove and Destin, the bigger town next door, every summer. Not that Vivi would turn down tourists’ money. She needed their money to stay open, as far as I could tell.

&n
bsp; Like Dorothy, I was up for a new adventure and finding my way in a place that was so totally different from my life in Chicago. I only hoped that I’d find my own versions of Dorothy’s Scarecrow, Tin Man, and Cowardly Lion to help me on the way. So far, the only friend I’d made—and I wasn’t too sure about that—was Joaquín. He, and everybody, seemed nice enough, but I was still trying to adjust to the relaxed Southern attitude that prevailed among the locals in the Panhandle of Florida. It was also called the Emerald Coast, LA—lower Alabama, and get this—the Redneck Riviera.

  You could have knocked me over with a palm frond when I heard that nickname. The chamber of commerce never used it, nor would you see the name in a TV ad. But the locals used it with a mixture of pride and disdain. Some wanted to brush it under the proverbial rug, while others embraced it in its modern-day form—people who were proud of their local roots.

  The Emerald Coast stretched from Panama City, Florida, fifty miles east of here, to Pensacola, Florida, fifty miles to the west. The rhythm and flow was such a contrast from the go, go, go lifestyle in Chicago, where I’d lived my entire life. The local attitude matched the blue-green waves of the Gulf of Mexico, which lapped gently on sand so white you’d think Mr. Clean came by every night to tidy up.

  As I walked back to the bar Joaquín’s hips swayed to the island music playing over an old speaker system. He was in perpetual motion, with his hips moving like some suave combination of Elvis and Ricky Martin. My hips didn’t move like that even on my best day—even if I’d had a couple of drinks. Joaquín glanced at me as he added gin, tonic, and lime to a rocks glass. I’d learned that term a couple of days ago. Bars had names for everything, and “the short glasses” didn’t cut it in the eyes of my boss, Vivi Jo Slidell. And yeah, she was as Southern as her name sounded. I watched with interest as Joaquín grabbed a cocktail shaker, adding gin, dry vermouth, and olive brine.