Wild Tropics: Christmas Key Book Two

by Stephanie Taylor

  “So what do we know about the other competitors?” Holly asks, rolling onto her back and looking up at the sky.

  “Okay, Chuck Cortwell introduced himself to you by name. That made him easy.”

  Holly exhales audibly. After the emergency village council meeting the day before, everyone had offered ideas and signed up for tasks—even Cap and Wyatt. Fiona’s task had been internet research to find out anything and everything she could about the other contestants, and even about the crew members.

  “Chuck is fifty-three, and from Beaufort, South Carolina. He’s part-owner of a military-themed karate studio.”

  “A what?” Holly frowns. “Like you have to salute before you chop a block of wood in half with your bare hands?”

  “Maybe. Or you have to march and sing cadence before you can do the crane on top of a wooden post at the beach.” Fiona sets down her own binoculars and rests her chin on her forearms.

  “I think you’re making up a movie in your head that’s half Platoon and half Karate Kid,” Holly says, lacing her fingers on top of her stomach as she watches a seagull fly overhead.

  “Probably, but I’d watch it. Anyway, Chuck is divorced, has three adult children, and a family history with the KKK.”

  “As in the actual KKK?” Holly recoils.

  “That’s the one. But nothing recent. We’re talking grandfather, great-uncle, cousins. That sort of thing.”

  “But that Confederate flag tattoo…”

  “Yeah, who knows. Maybe a youthful indiscretion.” Fiona pops back up on her elbows and turns to Holly. “The orange-haired chick was pretty easy, too. There’s an acting agency in Portland that only reps tattooed and pierced talent. Their website is pretty much wall-to-wall hipsters.”

  “And?”

  “And she’s on there. Violetta DuBois. Enjoys yoga retreats, chai tea, and Deepak Chopra.”

  “So basically exactly what you’d expect.”

  “Pretty much. I looked her up on Facebook. Grew up near Seattle. Has a cat. Nothing too exciting.”

  “That leaves the bland actor-boy and Bridget.” Holly looks at her best friend’s face. “And we really have nothing to go on with them.”

  “Right. Actor-boy could be any one of thousands of dudes trying to break into the biz, and Bridget-with-no-last-name is kind of vague in terms of doing research.”

  Holly puts one arm over her eyes and thinks for a second. “So what can we do now?”

  “We can keep observing the action on the beach, but I’ve got one other piece of news,” Fiona says. “My college friend Amanda is dating this guy Henry from New York.”

  “Okay…”

  “And Henry’s sister moved to L.A. a few years ago to live with her boyfriend. Anyway, the sister’s boyfriend is the personal assistant to a reality show producer from ABC.”

  “That seems like kind of a stretch,” Holly says dubiously.

  “It’s not. The guy is super-nice, and when I emailed him yesterday, he responded right away. He said it wouldn’t be too hard to find out through the grapevine which actors were working on which reality shows. Hollywood is actually a pretty small town, you know.”

  “I wouldn’t know about Hollywood, but I know Christmas Key is a small town, and if I screw this up, I’m never going to hear the end of it.” Holly rolls back onto her stomach and picks up her binoculars again. “So basically Amanda’s brother Henry’s friend is going to get back to us?”

  “No, Henry’s sister’s boyfriend is getting back to us,” Fiona clarifies, her shoulder touching Holly’s. They both squint into their binoculars and watch as the contestants haul long pieces of wood across the sand with their bare hands.

  “Got it,” Holly says. “And thanks for doing all the legwork. I hope we can find out something useful about Busty Bridget.”

  “No problem.” Fiona pulls her binoculars away from her eyes. “Wow. You’re not kidding about Bridget, but isn’t it kind of cold to be dragging giant logs around in a bikini top?”

  “Must not be fifty degrees in TV-land,” Holly says dryly. Jake and the other young guy are shirtless, but the crew members are wearing jeans and sweatshirts like Holly and Fiona. “Let’s head back to the B&B; there’s not much to see here.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Fiona says, wrinkling her nose as she looks through the binoculars again. “Shirtless guys carrying big pieces of wood across the beach isn’t a bad view for a Saturday morning.”

  “Come on, Fee,” Holly says, getting up onto her knees. She gives Fiona’s denim-clad backside a loud whack. “You can beg Buckhunter to take off his shirt and drag his wood around in the sand later.”

  Fiona cackles as gets up on her knees. “Okay, okay. Back to headquarters we go, boss.”

  “I’ve done everything you asked me to, sugar,” Bonnie says from her stool at the Ho Ho Hideaway later that evening. The sun has set, taking with it any semblance of tropical warmth. To combat the chill in the air, Joe Sacamano has two tall patio heaters running: one near the open steps leading into the bar, and the other at the top of the wide plank steps that lead down onto the beach. A good-sized Saturday night crowd has gathered, and the men with the least hair are wearing stocking caps or red Santa hats over their balding pates, while the ladies are wound in hand-knitted scarves and clutching their drinks with gloved hands.

  “Thanks, Bon.” Holly takes a warm mug from Joe Sacamano. “What is this?” she asks him, putting the drink to her nose and sniffing.

  “Salted butterscotch hot chocolate,” he says. Joe’s wearing a thick black sweatshirt that makes his snowy white curls stand out even more than usual. At almost seventy, his face is still tan and handsome, and there’s a twinkle in his eyes. “It’s got a shot of scotch in it.”

  “Holy smokes,” Holly says, tasting the sweet drink. “This is amazing.”

  “Thank you kindly, Mayor,” Joe says with a small bow. He disappears to serve two more mugs of the hot drink to the Cafferkeys at the other end of the bar.

  “I got Jake’s mom on the phone,” Bonnie goes on, holding her own mug delicately between her manicured fingertips. “And I told her the whole family is invited to the wrap party here at the Ho Ho when the show is over.”

  “Perfect.”

  “She knew about the show, but said she hadn’t heard from Jake in a couple of weeks, so I told her that the network forbids contestants from having any contact with the outside world during the course of the show.”

  “Which is basically true,” Holly says, taking another drink of her butterscotch cocoa. “I felt like Leanna was letting me get a peek at him the other day, but I could tell she didn’t want him to talk to me. And the most bizarre thing about it was that he obeyed her. His eyes were strange—it wasn’t him, Bon.”

  Bonnie puts a hand on Holly’s arm. “I believe you, sugar. I do. You know Jake better than any of us, and if you say he was acting funny then he was.”

  The unmistakable opening notes of Bobby Helms singing ‘Jingle Bell Rock’ blare over the speakers, and Buckhunter pulls Fiona onto the dance floor.

  “How ‘bout it?” Wyatt Bender asks, appearing between Bonnie and Holly. He holds out a hand to Bonnie. “I know we’re on different sides of the political fence, so to speak, but I’d love to take a fine lady like yourself for a spin on the dance floor if you’d oblige me.” Wyatt takes his cowboy hat off politely.

  Bonnie and Holly exchange a look. “My mother told me never to say no to a man who gets up the nerve to ask for a dance,” Bonnie explains to her friend. “It’s bad manners, and Southern girls are nothing if not well-mannered.”

  “Hey, no explanation necessary,” Holly says with a smile, holding her drink in her hands to warm her fingers. “Enjoy.” She watches as Wyatt leads Bonnie to the center of the room. They just get settled into one another’s arms and find a rhythm when the short song ends and Ella Fitzgerald starts singing ‘Let it Snow! Let it Snow! Let it Snow!’ Holly turns on her stool and watches them together.

  A
fter a few minutes, she takes her drink and ambles over to the steps that lead down onto the beach. Joe has wound strings of large, multi-colored bulbs around the railings of the stairs, and the palm trees on either side of the bar are already festooned with holiday lights from the ground all the way up to the fronds. The patio heater is radiant at her side, and the waves crash in the darkness beyond the bar. This combination of lights, music, cold winter weather, and the warm drink conspire to wrap Holly in the comfort and cheer of the holiday season.

  When ‘Santa Baby’ starts playing, Holly knows she’ll turn around and find Bonnie lip-synching and acting out the words. Sure enough, she’s up on the little stage that Joe uses when he plays his guitar for the locals, and the crowd is watching Bonnie do her silly Earth Kitt impression. It’s an annual favorite, and everyone laughs and cheers her on as she trains her eyes on Wyatt Bender, mouthing the words directly to him while his face goes pink.

  Holly watches from the steps. It’s beautiful to look around and see everyone mingling at the Ho Ho, and there’s comfort in the knowledge that even in the face of disagreement and disillusion, the islanders can pull together and work as a team.

  This shouldn’t surprise Holly—after all, they’d come together in August to keep everything running while a tropical storm battered the island, and they’ve seen each other through illness, loss, and plenty of good times—but knowing that a bond of real love and respect runs through the people of Christmas Key brings Holly peace. And in this moment, nothing else matters, not even Cap trying to unseat her from her position as mayor. Her eyes mist over as she watches these people she loves. They’re all her family, and without them, she wouldn’t be who she is—in fact, this island could never be at all.

  From the plummy darkness of the beach beyond, the rustic shack on the water twinkles with colorful lights and the buttery warmth of electricity while a woman sits on the steps alone. And as the sounds of the season mingle with the echoes of the crashing waves beyond the bar, the diamond-sharp stars in the sky blink high above the little island, clear and bright in the cold winter night.

  Chapter 20

  Holly stops and looks at the front window of Mistletoe Morning Brew at six-thirty on Monday morning, one hand resting on the door handle. The large pane of glass facing the street is covered with an intricately painted scene of a snowy city street. There’s a horse-drawn carriage in the center of a cobbled lane, and a glowing street lamp with a holiday wreath hanging beneath its lantern. She pushes the door in, and the cacophony of sleigh bells that Carrie-Anne and Ellen have tied to the door sends a cascade of sound careening around the coffee shop. Inside, the store is decorated for December, and all of the Poe paraphernalia from November has been sold or packed away. Delicate paper snowflakes dangle from invisible fishing line, and a holiday carol played on Scottish bagpipes fills the room.

  The temperature on the island has shot back up by about twenty degrees, so even with the pink skies of dawn outside, Holly is comfortable in cut-off jean shorts and a flannel button-up shirt over her tank top, along with her Yankees cap and Converse. She walks over to where Heddie Lang-Mueller sits at her favorite table, a cup of coffee resting on a saucer next to an open book.

  “Morning, Heddie,” Holly says, hanging her purse over the chair back. She takes off her hat and shoves it into the purse. “Looks festive in here.” Holly fishes her wallet out of her purse and looks at a glossy poster on the wall. It’s got a drawing of an old man in a nightshirt, and he’s hunched over, carrying a candle dripping with melted wax.

  Ellen is waiting behind the counter in a ruffled red-and-green checkered apron. “Up and at ‘em early, huh?” she asks Holly, one hand on her hip.

  “I am, but did you ever go to bed, or did you stay up all night painting that front window?”

  “Guilty as charged,” Ellen admits, looking at the window with pride. “I hear you and I both have late night projects to work on when we can’t sleep.”

  “True, but mine is nothing compared to the stuff you do here,” Holly says. “I just slap a few shells on the wall of my lanai late at night. You work magic while the rest of us sleep.”

  “Thank you kindly,” Ellen says, ducking her head modestly. “I can’t sleep when I’m in the middle of creating something.”

  “It’s pretty impressive. Hey, how are the turkeys doing?”

  “Oh, they’re running the show. We’ve been working on another pen so we have a place to put Madonkey when she gets here—which should be soon.” Ellen pulls a pen out of her apron pocket and taps the end of it against the counter. “What can I get for you this morning?”

  The chalkboard behind Ellen’s head has been rewritten and decorated for the holidays, and Holly scans the list of seasonal items. “Hmmm, the Mr. Lillyvick Latte? The Rose Maylie Mocha? I’m sensing a theme here…” Holly scrunches up her forehead, thinking. “Ahhh, I got it! Copperfield Cold Coffee—it’s Charles Dickens!”

  “Yay!” Ellen claps, clearly pleased that Holly has guessed correctly. “You got it.”

  “I’m going with plain coffee this morning,” Holly says, picking up an empty ceramic mug from the counter.

  “On the house today,” Ellen says, putting a hand in her apron pocket. “You and Heddie are our early birds, so you get the good stuff.” She nods at the big carafes of coffee on the counter that runs along the wall. “Help yourself.”

  Holly fills her mug with a steaming vanilla-nut blend, then tops it off with half-and-half and a sprinkle of cinnamon.

  “So,” she says to Heddie, setting her full coffee cup on the table gently and pulling out her chair. “You wanted to meet me here before the sun is even up, so you must have something good to share.” Holly settles into the tall chair at the bistro table and looks at Heddie expectantly.

  Heddie—as ever—is sitting ramrod straight in her chair, gray-blonde hair smoothed into a neat bun at the nape of her neck. The former German film star is known for carrying herself regally at all times, and six-thirty in the morning is no exception. Heddie closes a bookmark into the crease of the book she’s been reading.

  “I do have something to share,” she says, her flawless English flavored with her native accent. Heddie picks up the spoon she’s left on the saucer and sticks it into her cream-lightened coffee. She stirs slowly. “It’s about Cap.”

  Holly nods carefully, moving her own cup of coffee so that it rests directly in front of her. Her movements are measured; Heddie is like a horse she doesn’t want to spook. The bagpipe carols end and a jazzy rendition of ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’ begins. They are still the only customers in the shop.

  “Some time ago,” Heddie begins, “when you were still a very small girl and paid no mind to us old people, things were different than they are now.”

  “How so?” Holly ventures, picking up her mug.

  “Well, for starters, Cap Duncan wasn’t an old pirate whose only companion is a feathered nitwit.” Heddie glances at the door. “And for another thing, he was quite handsome.”

  Holly chokes on her coffee.

  “Yes, it’s true,” Heddie assures her, “he was tall and kept his hair short, and he wasn’t wearing that ridiculous earring yet.”

  Holly leans back in her chair, waiting for more.

  “Not only was he handsome, but he was a good dancer, and he’d read every book you could think of. Quite an interesting person to pass an evening with.”

  “I did dance with him once—in his shop this past summer,” Holly says, remembering the time he’d insisted on taking her in his arms and dancing to Bob Marley. “He was pretty good.”

  “Indeed he was. And then—as with all things—time changed him.” Heddie looks at Holly, her eyes serious. “We spent time together on a regular basis, and at some point I realized that it wasn’t working.”

  “Meaning…you broke up with him?” Holly asks tentatively.

  “I suppose you could say that,” Heddie says. “He was drinking again—this has been his life-long batt
le, you understand—and becoming less predictable. And I do not do unpredictable.” Heddie wags a long, slim finger back and forth in the air as she shakes her head.

  “That would have been my guess,” Holly jokes, one side of her mouth curling into a smile. She reaches for the Christmas tree-shaped sugar jar in the middle of the table and uses the miniature spoon sitting next to the jar to dump some into her coffee.

  “I like routine. I like structure. I like control.” Heddie straightens her shoulders, though they’re already straight enough to balance trays upon. “I am offended by a man who drinks himself into a stupor and can’t remember the things he did or didn’t say to a woman.”

  “That’s understandable.”

  “I have not forgiven him for some of the things that happened, but that is not why I want to tell you this—please let me be clear. It’s because I am a fan of all you do and all you stand for when it comes to this island, Holly. Your grandparents were very dear people, and I think the choices you make always honor their intentions.”

  “Thank you. That means a lot.” Tears well up in Holly’s eyes at the mention of her grandparents; she swallows hard.

  “I believe Cap is behaving foolishly, and much of what he’s doing and saying comes from the place of a lonely, drunken man. That said, I want you to know what it is he might be hiding, though all I can do is point you in the right direction.”

  Heddie has her complete attention at this point, and Holly waits for more, her eyes wide with anticipation.

  “It’s been nearly twenty-five years since I spent time in Cap’s apartment, but at one point I was a frequent visitor.” Heddie pauses, pulling the folded napkin from beneath her saucer. She pats her lips with the napkin. “It was during this time that I discovered that Cap isn’t really Cap.”