This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2015 Claudia Lefeve
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
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Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781477829837
ISBN-10: 1477829830
Cover design by David Drummond
For my husband
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER ONE
I’m pretty sure it came out more like a choked squawk, but in my mind, it was a bloodcurdling scream—like the kind you’d hear in some bad B-rated horror movie.
There, between the wooden fence and the air-conditioning unit, lay Mr. Boyette.
Having been employed with the Federal Bureau of Investigation for the last five years, I’d seen my fair share of crime scene photos. No one had to tell me what had happened.
Harvey Boyette was dead.
But first, let me backtrack. This was neither the beginning nor the end of my story.
It all started the day my folks threw me a welcome-home party in the sweltering midsummer Texas heat. The entire island of Trouble was invited.
I’d spent the last hour fixing up the backyard and arranging patio furniture in order to accommodate the overwhelming guest list. I could already feel the tingling sensation of the sun’s heat on my shoulders and the first drops of perspiration on my forehead. Even in June, the sun could turn your first layer of skin into a burnt crisp by eleven in the morning. My once perpetually tanned complexion—courtesy of years of island living—had since turned pale after being hidden under business suits and sitting under bad fluorescent office lighting. I rarely, if ever, saw the sun during my time living in Virginia.
So here’s a tip: when you’re running from the law, don’t forget your sunscreen.
OK, I wasn’t necessarily running from the law. Just one particular member of law enforcement’s finest. When your FBI agent boyfriend of two years dumps you, and you find yourself surrounded by his presence twenty-four-seven because you both work for the same agency, the only thing a girl can do is head for the hills.
Or, in my case, the dunes on Trouble Island.
Ten years after flying the coop, I still considered the quiet island town of Trouble home. Which was exactly why I decided to take a long, overdue vacation from the bureau—using up almost all of my two months’ saved vacation time in the process.
I used to visit my family often when I was away at college; then I moved out of state for graduate school, and my visits trickled to the occasional obligatory holiday visit. After that, I focused on building my career as a crime analyst and got lost in my relationship with James. My visits had become almost nonexistent. I hadn’t been home in almost five years.
Someone (I forget who) once said, “You can’t go home again,” but in my case, I actually could. It’s an age-old adage, but it’s no more of a cliché than the “It’s not you, it’s me” speech I heard when my ex-boyfriend stopped by to pick up his belongings at my apartment a week after dumping me.
If you want to get technical, I guess this is really the point where my story begins and why I ended up in Trouble.
“I heard you’re taking some time off,” James said when he arrived at my doorstep, duffel bag in hand. The bag was empty, which meant he was picking up, not dropping off.
I shouldn’t have been too surprised that the news of my sudden request for time off had already reached James. Even a stiff, conservative working environment like the bureau was a breeding ground for gossip. “Good news travels fast,” I said, reluctantly opening the door for him.
James was so nonchalant upon entering the apartment; he was lucky I hadn’t answered the door with the spare Bureau-issued Glock he kept over at my place. I made a mental note not to remind him I still had it.
His face pinched up, as if he were trying to find the right words to say to me. Not that there was anything he could say at this point to placate me. “Don’t be that way, Jules. I still want us to be friends. We still have to work together, you know. I don’t want any hard feelings between us.”
After two years of dating and hints of marriage, I was—with good reason—offended by his attitude over the whole affair. We’d pretty much lived together, for crying out loud.
I held my hand to his face like a shield to prevent me from hearing any more of his crap. If he said anything more insulting, I really would use his gun. “Don’t go there, James. Just get your things, and get out.”
He sighed. “Look, I’m sorry about the way things ended, but you know how it is. It just wasn’t going to work out between us. It’s the job,” he said, as if it explained everything. “It’s better that we ended things now before someone really got hurt, don’t you think?”
The more excuses he gave, the angrier I got.
Was he actually serious? We’d only been separated a week. Definitely not enough time for me to get over our breakup. He’d taken me to my favorite restaurant, under the guise of celebrating a major case he’d closed, only to blindside me by announcing he wanted to end our relationship. And to top it all off, he did it in between dessert (forever ruining crème brûlée for me) and grabbing the check. What a jerk.
The job. It was a bullshit excuse, and we both knew it. I work for the bureau, too, I wanted to remind him. Now, had he used the line on some other poor, unsuspecting female, I’m sure she would have believed him hook, line, and sinker. But I knew better. There were plenty of FBI agents that managed to maintain long-term relationships that included marriage, kids, a white picket fence, and the requisite Volvo.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be out of your hair for the next two months,” I said. “Guess that works out peachy for you. Out of sight, out of mind.”
James shoved the last of his personal belongings into his bag. “It’s not that I don’t want to be with you. I just don’t think I can be with anyone right now.”
A likely story. After years of working in a male-dominated field, I was able to translate what he really meant: it
’s not you, it’s me.
I pressed my finger gently on my shoulder, feeling the heat radiate off my skin like a hot skillet. Whatever possessed me to come back to a place that could only be described as having yearlong blistering heat was beyond me. But I already knew the answer to that one—I had nowhere else to run.
The island itself was nestled in the northern portion of the Gulf of Mexico, a little over an hour’s drive from Houston and about an hour from the Louisiana state line in the opposite direction. Due to its close proximity to both Texas and Louisiana, the island’s original settlers couldn’t decide which state would ultimately keep the land. In the end, Texas won ownership of the small coastal island. According to local lore, one of the original founders said the island was “nothing but trouble.” It was, and the name stuck. There were still a few descendants of the Louisiana settlers residing on Trouble Island, and after all this time they still hadn’t let go of their claim to the land.
I wiped the beads of perspiration that trickled off my forehead with the back of my hand. Once again, I cursed myself for choosing the hottest time of the year for my little sabbatical. No, I take that back. I cursed both James and the blistering sun as I helped my mom finish decorating the backyard for the shindig that would be held in my honor later that afternoon.
The backyard picnic tables were already draped with linens in a red checkered pattern—not the plastic recyclable kind, mind you, but real 100 percent cotton. Never mind that they would ultimately be drenched in crab juice and heaven only knows what else by the end of the evening, Mom insisted on using real tablecloths as opposed to the cheap plastic or vinyl ones you could purchase at the supermarket for under two bucks.
I was somewhat embarrassed at having a welcome-home party thrown for me, but my mom had insisted. “What would people think if we didn’t welcome you home properly?” she had inquired when I told her that a party was unnecessary. Only I knew better. It had nothing to do with welcoming me home but more to do with keeping up appearances. The party was her attempt to camouflage any displeasure on her part. In her mind, if my folks threw me a party, they were announcing to everyone that everything was just hunky-dory and that they were happy to have me home for the summer—though my mom was anything but. She wasn’t thrilled with the idea of me taking the entire summer off, even if it meant spending time with my family.
So I continued to help Mom prepare the side dishes, played along with the charade, and didn’t ask too many questions. I didn’t even bother to ask who was on the guest list. But knowing my parents, the entire island of Trouble would be crammed into their backyard, which boasted a full Gulf Coast view.
As I continued to stew about my breakup with James, I added another heavy dollop of mayonnaise to the potato salad in an attempt to get it to the right consistency. Mom would simply be beside herself if I didn’t get it just right. It wasn’t even worth bringing up that with all the free beer they were serving, no one would remember the potato salad.
For the occasion, I went with one of my best Lilly Pulitzer shifts, knowing my aunt Lula would approve of my choice in attire, even if my skin was too pasty at the moment to do it any justice. It was one of the few things I shared with my aunt—a penchant for brightly colored clothes. It was an obsession I had reluctantly given up when I began working for the FBI. Black, navy, and slate—the unofficial colors of the largest federal law enforcement agency, in case you didn’t already know—just weren’t my colors. But now that I was back on the island, I’d reclaimed my old island wardrobe. You could take the girl out of the beach, but you couldn’t take the sand out of her hair.
Speaking of Aunt Lula, I wondered if Mom remembered to invite her.
There was no love lost between Aunt Lula and my mom. If you asked my mom, my aunt Lula never did anything without a hidden agenda. Personally, I think my aunt did half of what she did just to spite my mom.
Satisfied with the potato salad and coleslaw—the only dishes Mom allowed me to prepare—I headed outside to greet our guests.
CHAPTER TWO
An hour later, the party was in full swing, and I still had yet to lay eyes on Aunt Lula. She was either late or hadn’t been invited. Knowing both my mom and aunt, I wouldn’t have been surprised either way. In the meantime, I did my best to keep up with the local island gossip and the obligatory small talk one had to endure during these types of gatherings. There were only so many times I could say to inquiring minds, “I’m just here for the summer,” you know?
Just when I thought I had exchanged enough pleasantries with the entire town, offering one lame excuse after another as to why I was back in town, a familiar voice called out from behind me. “I was told the party was for you, but I didn’t actually believe it till I saw it with my very own eyes.”
I’d recognize that voice anywhere. It was Abby Lee, my best friend from high school. She yanked me out of my seat—literally—and embraced me in a hug.
“You haven’t been around these parts in a good while,” she said, obviously pleased I was home.
“Abby Lee! I didn’t know you’d be here,” I said, hugging her back. Of course I didn’t know, I chided myself. I hadn’t been in Trouble in ages and had been a piss-poor friend in the process. Hell, I hadn’t even known she was still living here after all these years. I instantly felt guilty for not staying in touch over the years, but not enough to dampen the moment.
Bubbly, bright Abby Lee was the captain of the cheerleading team to my role as captain of the debate team. Her bright blond locks—bleached from years in the island sun—contrasted against my dull chestnut hair. She was short and curvy, whereas I was tall and lanky at almost five nine. Abby Lee always spotted the silver lining, while I only saw dark, stormy clouds. In any other world our personalities would have clashed, but here in Trouble, opposites made for the oddest pair of friends.
We had lost touch after I graduated college, went on to graduate school, and then ultimately moved to the suburbs of Virginia to start my career with the FBI in DC. A few visits home here and there during the summer weren’t sufficient to sustain a childhood friendship, although most of it could be attributed to my lack of trying. But it was a friendship I had missed dearly. It was hard making friends when I spent most of my free time commuting to and from work.
“Your folks are obviously happy to have you back home,” she said, finally releasing me from her grip. “This is quite a shindig.”
“That it is,” I said, neglecting to mention that my mom almost had herself a small coronary when I told her I was spending the next two months at home.
I could still hear the protests ringing in my ear from when I’d told her I was coming down for the summer. “You don’t just take two months off from your job,” Mom had insisted. “What if they give your job to someone else?”
Even after several failed attempts to convince my mother that they couldn’t fire me, she was still wary about my taking vacation time. No matter how hard I tried to explain it to her, even when I told her it was time off with pay, she couldn’t grasp the concept of accrued leave.
“How’s your mom?” I asked, turning the tables. Abby Lee’s mother had been diagnosed with cancer when Abby Lee was a junior in college. She had quit school and moved back to Trouble in order to take care of her. From what little tidbits of information I’d managed to gather over the years, her mother was doing better.
That was seven years ago. Abby Lee never went back to finish school, even after her mother went into remission. I don’t know why I had foolishly assumed she’d moved off the island once her mother was better.
“Oh, she’s doing fine, thanks for askin’,” she said. “How long do we have you for?”
“I’ll be here for the summer,” I said.
Abby Lee grinned and clapped her hands in excitement. “Plenty of time to get all caught up. And your timing couldn’t have been better,” she said.
“Why’s that?�
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She shot me a wicked smile. I may have been absent for the last five years or so, but I knew that smile all too well—I wasn’t going to like what she was about to say. “It’s our ten-year reunion! Didn’t you get the invite?”
What? My instincts were right—I didn’t like what she had to say. Suddenly I felt old. Ten years had whizzed right by me, and I had hardly noticed. Where had the time gone?
I lied and shook my head. I distinctly remembered receiving something in the mail a few months ago with the school’s return address. I’d thrown it out without even looking at it. I’d just assumed the school was asking for donations. “It must have gotten lost in the mail,” I lied.
“No worries. Now that you’re here, there’s no excuse for you not to go. We can go together.”
Did I really want to attend my ten-year high school reunion? “I guess it would look weird if I didn’t, especially since everyone knows I’m in town,” I finally said, silently cursing my folks for hosting my welcome-home bash. I wondered why Mom didn’t mention the reunion. She’s usually on top of things like social engagements. Plus, she would have insisted I attend. In her book, everything boiled down to appearances.
“Once you’ve settled in, we have to get together before the reunion,” Abby Lee said. “I want to catch up before everyone vies for your attention.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” I said, shrugging off her comment. She seemed to have forgotten she was one of the few friends I had back in school. I knew for a fact no one would care about me one way or another, even if I did have what some might consider a badass job. Unfortunately, most folks were only acquainted with the FBI as portrayed in television or movies, not the real agency, complete with its never-ending bureaucratic roll of red tape. In short, it wasn’t as glamorous as fiction made it out to be.
Abby Lee could sense my hesitation. “Aren’t you dying to know how everyone turned out?”
Destined for Trouble (A Jules Cannon Mystery Book 1) Page 1