Desire on Deadline

by Lucy Lakestone

  Roz chuckled. “Thanks, Zoe. Have a good one.”

  “Take care, Roz.”

  Roz checked the starburst clock in her retro kitchen and cursed under her breath. That press release would be out any minute. She wrote up a quick story with the information about the victims and the likely cause of the explosion, leaving out the bit about the balloon, and put it in the staging area on the Gazette’s website. She checked her account for the sheriff’s department’s email and let it simmer for couple of minutes until the press release appeared in her in-box, then hit the publish button on her story.

  BOYD BELLAMY CONFIRMED DEAD IN BOAT EXPLOSION

  . . . That’s what her site’s headline said.

  She switched over to the Times. There was no new story.

  Five minutes later, there was, but with less information than hers and no byline. Maybe Alden was still working on replacing his phone. She felt gleeful — and possibly a bit guilty, which was ridiculous, because no matter what had happened this morning, she and Alden were still competing for the biggest story Mimosa Key had seen in years. And the Gazette’s web traffic already showed a big bump that should translate into more advertising, more dollars and a chance to sell the newspaper and get out.

  She felt a stab of guilt about that, too. Her mother wanted to shed the business, but Roz getting out also meant leaving her mom here alone in Mimosa Key.

  Maybe, after one more phone call, Roz could spare a few minutes for a quick visit before she went back to the office. And somehow get insight into her conflicted soul and hormones without actually confessing anything.

  ≈≈≈

  Alden walked up the stairs to his office on tender feet, cushioned by gauze, socks and cross-trainers, though the wounds weren’t all that bad after he’d cleaned them up and coated them in antibiotic ointment. Only a few scratches were deep enough to cause him real discomfort; his biggest concern was some goddamned tropical swamp germ taking hold and turning him into a zombie.

  But now, refreshed and clean in khakis and a pale blue button-up shirt, with a burrito from South of the Border in his belly, he felt a lot better — even if Roz had scooped them while he was driving back from Naples. One of his colleagues had slapped a story online, and he’d made a few phone calls from the road, but now it was time to dig in and get something fresh.

  His phone — his new phone, that is — rang in his pocket, and he extracted and answered it as he sat down. “Alden Knox.”

  “It’s Roz.”

  “That’s funny. I was just thinking that I never gave you my cell number. Shows what a good reporter you are.”

  “It was on your office voice mail.”

  “Then scooping me on the latest story shows what a good reporter you are.”

  “Maybe I had an unfair advantage,” she said, her tone warming slightly.

  “All’s fair in love and war, especially now that I have my cell phone back. I saw you talked to the fishing company. They wouldn’t give me the time of day. Anything you want to tell me?”

  “I’ll only tell you this because you deserve to know — Verret said he didn’t have any boats in the area this morning when we were there.”

  “Hmm,” Alden replied. “Did you tell him we were there?”

  “I told him I’d heard a report of a boat in the area.”

  “If it was one of his boats, he’s probably wondering how you knew about it.”

  “Why would he have a boat in the area? Especially one with guns?” Roz asked.

  “I don’t know, but if he shot at us, he probably wouldn’t tell us.”

  She harrumphed. “You’re being paranoid.”

  “Almost as if someone had nearly shot me to death at dawn.”

  “Oh, that,” Roz said dismissively, and he laughed. “Listen, I called Zoe about the balloon. She said she didn’t know any more than what Lacey told me, except that Bellamy was supposed to have a guest. Who, she didn’t know. I let it go at that.”

  “Did you set up an interview?”

  “I’m telling you now what she said.”

  “But I want to talk to her,” Alden replied.

  “Then freakin’ call her and talk to her,” Roz snapped. “I have a print deadline to meet this afternoon, and I don’t have time to re-interview someone for no reason.”

  “Perhaps I will.”

  “OK.”

  There was silence on the other end for a moment, and Alden couldn’t help filling the gap. “Want to do dinner and talk about our date with death?”

  “It wasn’t a date, and we didn’t die, and I’m seriously on deadline, Alden,” Roz said, more kindly. “I promise if I learn anything directly related to the gunners or my boat, I’ll let you know.”

  “Ah, I see. Duty calls.”

  “I’ll — I’ll talk to you later.” Did he hear regret in her voice?

  “I look forward to it,” Alden said, and they rang off.

  Just as well. She was the competition, for Christ’s sake.

  He wandered into John’s office. His editor was mumbling over a story he was slashing and burning, if the on-screen changes were any indication.

  “Got a minute?” Alden asked.

  “Urrrrgh.” John spun on his chair, chewing hard on his gum.

  “Thought you might want an update on the Bellamy story.”

  “Better late than never,” John said significantly, his bushy eyebrows almost comical, his gray-streaked black hair a jumbled mess. He made it stick up even more by pushing his glasses up on his head as he leaned back to listen.

  “I’ll make it up to you,” Alden said. “She only beat us by five minutes.”

  “And at least five inches.”

  “Ouch.”

  John waved at the one empty chair. “Sit down.”

  Alden sat, feeling surrounded. The other two chairs were piled high with newspapers. The file cabinets and John’s desk were cluttered with papers, magazines, press releases, folders, empty coffee cups, a couple of photos of his wife and kids at Disney World, overflowing pen holders, and a Tampa Bay Lightning mascot bobble head — a freakish, green bipedal insect.

  “I had an unusual morning,” Alden said.

  “So I gathered when you called me to say you’d be late when you were already three hours late.”

  “I went to the accident site to check it out.”

  “How?”

  “By boat, of course.”

  John’s eyebrows met in the middle, hearing something in Alden’s tone. “Whose boat?”

  “Therein lies the rub. I happened upon Roz Melander when I went down to Pleasure Pointe, and since my ride had bailed, I talked her into taking me with her.”

  “That sounds cozy,” John said, with just a hint of a smile.

  “Somebody shot at us.”

  John’s eyebrows shot up. “You OK?”

  “We’re both OK, though Roz’s boat may be on its way to Cuba, and I got an intimate tour of the wilds of northern Mimosa Key.”

  “What happened?”

  Alden gave him the short version, and John looked thoughtful.

  “I don’t want you taking any fool risks. It might have been drug dealers or worse,” John said.

  “We thought of that, but why there? Why right where the accident happened?”

  “Maybe they blew up the fishing boat, too.”

  “And returned to the scene of the crime? It doesn’t make sense.”

  John shook his head. “Strange. Keep an eye on it. And be careful. Don’t go out there again on your own.”

  “That’s an easy promise to make. I never want to repeat that experience.” Except for maybe that slow, salty kiss.

  “You got leads? I want something juicy on Bellamy. What he was doing here. Something that will get people interested. They don’t really care about explosions.”

  “Exactly my point to Ms. Melander.”

  “And don’t fraternize with the competition, unless you can use it to your advantage.”

  Alden smirked
as if he found the very idea amusing, but privately, he eagerly imagined what fraternizing might involve. “I’m heading back to Casa Blanca this afternoon.”

  “Then get out of here. And don’t expense another dinner at Junonia. We can’t afford your taste in wine.”

  “Yes, sir.” Alden smiled and left the office, heading for Barefoot Bay.

  He got there after another pleasant drive up the beach road, this time with the top down, thinking about how nice the foliage was when he didn’t have to hack his way through it soaking wet, in bare feet.

  At the registration desk, he inquired about the balloon ride service and was asked when he’d like to schedule one. He said he just wanted to get in touch with the pilot, and in a few minutes, he was standing on the beach, talking on the phone with Zoe Bradbury, who pretty much repeated what Roz had told him.

  “What do people do on these balloon rides?” he asked.

  “Mostly enjoy the view, take pictures, get smoochy when it’s romantic. Propose when it’s really romantic. Drink champagne.”

  “Do they have a meal?”

  “A picnic isn’t unusual,” she said.

  “Thanks. Appreciate your time.”

  “Glad to help, if I helped. Roz said you might be calling.”

  “Oh, did she?” Alden thanked Zoe again and hung up, wondering if Roz was looking out for him or warning off his sources. He walked back toward the main building, contemplating the exterior, then walked around to where he thought the back door of the restaurant might be. As he suspected, during the slow time between lunch and dinner, someone from the kitchen was on a break — a young redheaded guy in an apron, smoking outside the back door.

  “Pardon me,” Alden said, approaching him in as friendly a manner as he could manage.

  The previously relaxed kitchen grunt stood up straighter and partially hid his cigarette behind him. “May I help you?”

  Good training, Alden thought. “I was just curious about something. Does your kitchen ever prepare picnic lunches for the balloon rides?”

  The young man seemed to relax a bit. “All the time. In fact, we had a big one we were going to do today, but it got canceled.”

  “What do you consider a big lunch? Just wondering for a ride I’m planning — I want it to be perfect when I pop the question.”

  The freckled young man grinned. “Better you than me,” he said. “We’ve had people order everything from brie and crackers to steak dinners.”

  “Is that what you were making today?”

  “Naw. Today’s was supposed to be lobster with all the trimmings and the world’s most expensive cupcake.”

  “How can a cupcake be expensive?”

  “You wouldn’t catch me paying seven hundred bucks for a cupcake, but this one has some kind of special Venezuelan chocolate, aged vanilla, 100-year-old cognac and real gold.”

  “You seem to know a lot about this cupcake,” Alden said.

  “Wouldn’t you be curious? I’d like to be a pastry chef someday, so I looked into it. It came chilled, overnight express from Las Vegas. Nobody thought to cancel the order, I guess, and now the chef is wondering what to do with it.”

  “That would have been some balloon ride,” Alden remarked.

  “Even though all they wanted to drink was organic milk and water.” The kid laughed, crushed his cigarette and threw it in a trash can. “Good luck, man.”

  “Thanks.”

  Alden walked back toward the beach, pondering this tidbit. It might be juicy enough for his editor, but he had a feeling he could milk it further. So to speak.

  He sat on the sand, got out his new phone and started searching the Internet for “Boyd Bellamy” and “cupcake.” Not surprisingly, there were a few uses of “cupcake” as a synonym for buxom Hollywood hotties, but on the second page of results, he saw a story about a party Bellamy had hosted in Las Vegas.

  He clicked through to the newspaper article. Bellamy had held a birthday party for his then-girlfriend, Mysty Wellington, at one of the tonier Vegas bars. It was quite the bacchanal, apparently, with an elaborate menu that included, for Mysty, one Golden Sin cupcake. It was a special favorite of hers, the story said, and she’d requested it specifically. The description of the treat sounded exactly like the cupcake ordered for the midair picnic — and besides, how many seven-hundred-dollar cupcakes were there?

  Alden’s mind reeled. Maybe Bellamy ordered that crazy cupcake for every girlfriend he had.

  Or maybe he ordered it especially for Mysty Wellington, who’d been scheduled to be on that balloon ride.

  He was scrolling through his contacts for someone who knew Mysty Wellington’s agent when a presence cast a shadow over him. He looked up. It was the striking maid with the schoolmarm attitude and the Jamaican accent.

  “Are you still looking for the restaurant?” she asked.

  “No, ma’am,” Alden said, getting up. “But I’m about to go there for another meal.”

  “I didn’t see you lurking around the back of the building, did I?”

  Damn, she had a sharp eye. Or access to security cameras, which also could be interesting.

  “I like to walk a few laps before I eat. Improves the digestion. So if you don’t mind?”

  “Hmph,” she said, but she stepped back and watched him walk all the way into the building. He knew, because when he looked over his shoulder, she was still there, with her hands on her hips.

  He didn’t want to eat at Junonia. It was the middle of the afternoon, and he still wanted to make a few phone calls and try to extract more information out of any guests he ran across. The only way he could do that without looking suspicious was to hang out at the bar. That’s where people talked, especially when they started drinking.

  So Alden found a seat at the bar, ordered a bourbon and started drinking.

  ≈≈≈

  Roz let herself into her mom’s house, still decorated the way she remembered it from her childhood, with beachy bamboo furniture, eccentric lamps and eclectic art. Among the paintings of flowers and beachscapes were black-and-white photos of locations and people around Mimosa Key, reflecting her parents’ years of newsgathering at the Gazette.

  Roz found her mother on the couch in the living room, covered with a blanket. The older woman eased herself to a sitting position with difficulty. Her reddish hair, streaked with gray, was cut short and mussed by the pillow. Where Roz’s eyes were hazel, Megan’s were a striking gray-green, and they looked tired.

  “How you doing today?” Roz asked. “Did I wake you up?”

  “It’s not a bad day. Just taking a little nap,” Megan Melander said. But in her face were now all-too-familiar lines of pain.

  Roz went to her and hugged her. “Can I get you something?”

  “A ginger ale, if you’re getting one for yourself.”

  “Sure,” Roz said, setting down her bag and heading to the kitchen. She came back a few minutes later with a couple of glasses of soda and a plate of cheese and crackers.

  “You know I can’t resist cheese,” Megan said, helping herself. “Thanks.”

  “Purely selfish. I can’t resist, either,” Roz said. She sat on a comfy chair next to the couch and tried not to think about how much worse her mother’s progressive MS could get. That someday, even eating might be a problem. But for now, her mom seemed OK, and it was comforting to see her.

  “So how’s your explosive new story?” Megan asked. She always was one for bad puns.

  “Quite possibly too interesting. And I have some bad news.”

  “What?” Motherly concern crossed Megan’s face.

  “I — uh — I lost the boat.”

  “You lost the boat? You don’t even know how to work the boat.”

  Roz grimaced. “I know. I had help.”

  “So someone else lost the boat?”

  “Not exactly.” Roz gave her mother an account of what had happened, leaving out the kiss that she had been unable to get out of her mind all morning.

 
“Well, I’m not all that worried about losing the boat since you’re OK,” Megan said, looking fresher after her snack. “But if we want to collect the insurance, we’ll need to report it.”

  “Probably, but I’m kind of worried they aren’t going to be all that pleased that we essentially let the boat drive itself across the gulf. I don’t want to lie. And I’m not sure if I want to broadcast right now that I was the one out there getting shot at.”

  “Good point.” Megan shrugged. “We can just wait and see if and when it turns up.”

  “You’re not upset?” Roz knew Megan couldn’t afford to write off a boat.

  Her mother laughed. “Well, I have been wondering how to get rid of it.”

  “Yeah, but you could use the money.”

  “I’ll be all right,” she said. “How’s circulation?”

  “Hits are way up. Too early to tell about circ. But we’ve had new ad inquiries.”

  “Good.” Megan winced as she shifted on the couch. “So what do you know? What caused the blast? Give me the scoop.”

  “There’s a theory that the explosion was caused by a spark and a fuel leak. In the short time we had to survey the debris, I didn’t get any more ideas. There were no big chunks of boat floating around out there.”

  “I know what your grandfather would have said.”

  “Your dad? What?”

  “It was a bomb.”

  Roz shook her head. “Why would anyone bomb the boat?”

  “Not that kind of bomb. He always talked about bombs lying all over the floor of the gulf.”

  “For real?” Roz pondered the idea. “Is that even possible?”

  “I don’t know the details, only that he said his own father talked about dumping World War II bombs out there.”

  “Seems like a real outside chance that a fishing boat could hook a bomb, but I’ll look into it,” Roz said. “At least it would make an interesting story on its own, if a bunch of explosives were sitting in the water off Mimosa Key.”

  “Adds a whole new level of excitement to offshore fishing,” her mom agreed. “So what’s the Times reporter like?”

  “Alden?” Roz scrambled to find something to say. “Arrogant.”

  “So was your father,” Megan said with a knowing smile.