by Tara Lush
I’d known him when he was just an impoverished local TV reporter, buying two-for-one suits at the discount mall and begging me to split a five-dollar footlong at Subway for dinner.
In the last year of our marriage, his newfound fame as a network correspondent had been one of many things that drove us apart. Well, that and the fact that he’d been sleeping with a woman who was barely old enough to drink. Yes, that had been the final straw.
“Good evening, folks, please have a seat,” he said in that deep baritone that I once loved. Now it was mildly irritating, like that little runny spurt of ketchup that comes out when you first squeeze the bottle.
“In case you don’t know me …” he guffawed and paused for dramatic effect. Obviously, everyone in Miami knew him because he’d have never gone to a red-carpet event that he didn’t slavishly walk down. “I’m Miles Ross, the Miami correspondent for ACN, American Cable News. I’ll be your emcee tonight, and helping to hand out awards to all of our talented Florida journalists.”
“What?” I mouthed to Erol, whose face had twisted into a sour expression. I leaned in and whispered, “I don’t recall him being on the invite.”
“He wasn’t.” Erol hissed. “Jerk.”
“You might be surprised to see me up here tonight,” my ex boomed into the microphone. “But the usual emcee, the publisher from the Fort Lauderdale paper, had a sudden situation and was unable to attend.”
Erol leaned into my ear and whispered, “That editor was canned yesterday.”
I groaned softly and glared at my ex, who kept speaking.
“So, the Florida Society of Professional Journalists asked me to be the host tonight. I hope I’m a worthy substitute.” Miles chuckled, probably hoping to sound humble.
I snorted softly under my breath. Had I known, I’d have stayed home on the island and watched the sunset or gone to dolphin meditation with my dad or … heck, scrubbed the tile in the café’s bathrooms.
I swiveled in my seat; my cheeks hot. I caught the eye of one of the copy editors at the table, and she averted her gaze. Everyone probably wondered how I felt at seeing my handsome and rich ex-husband up there on stage. They all pitied me.
Poor Lana, who was dumped by her beefcake network correspondent husband. Poor Lana, who was fired from her high-profile crime beat at the Tribune, right as she’d written the best story of her career. Poor Lana, who had to leave Miami, tail between her legs, because she couldn’t find another job.
I held my head a little higher as my ex droned on about the First Amendment. As if he cared about any of that. I was the one to show him how to request arrest records from the Miami Police Department, for God’s sake. That’s how we’d met. I was a cub reporter at the Tribune, filing a public records request at the police department. Miles was standing in the clerk’s office with a cat-who-ate-the-canary grin. Like all women in his orbit, I was captivated.
He’d gotten my number—and the public records—by the time we made it to the parking lot.
“Before we start with the program, I’d also like to introduce someone special to me, and share some news of my own,” he gestured to the middle of the room, and I drained my drink. This was the kind of thing he used to do, public declarations of his emotions. He’d proposed to me on New Year’s Eve at the Shore Club, in front of several hundred people. I’d wanted the earth to swallow me whole.
“Right there,” he said, pointing in my direction. I froze. What? Me? My stomach seized, much in the way it did when he’d asked me to marry him. I inched down in my chair, clutching my empty champagne glass. Was this being broadcast live on Twitter?
A spotlight flooded the table immediately beside us, and a perky, young woman with shiny black hair stood. Oh. Her. The local TV intern he’d slept with in the waning months of our marriage. I exhaled.
“That’s my girlfriend, Yasmin Balenciaga. She was promoted to assistant producer at WSVN. I wanted to acknowledge how special she is to me. Where would I be without her?” Miles beamed, and she pressed her hands together in a prayer gesture.
“Still married,” I muttered, as everyone clapped. Erol folded his arms in protest and scowled.
Well, good luck to Yasmin. Surely he’d dump her once she reached the ripe old age of twenty-nine. I inhaled a thin breath and waved down the waiter.
“I’ll take a Scotch, but make it a double.”
* * *
Three glasses of Scotch, one cockroach next to the bed in the hotel, and sixteen hours later, I pounded a sweet shot of Cuban coffee at a gas station at the edge of Alligator Alley and bought a colada—four ounces of the thick, high-octane blend in a Styrofoam cup—for the road.
Normally one was supposed to share a colada in thimble-sized plastic cups, but I was not in a sharing mood today.
Fab’s departure meant my presence was required on Devil’s Beach by six, because Perkatory opened at six thirty in the morning. Last week, Dad had told me that he couldn’t do the early shift because of a prior commitment, and I’d assumed Fab could handle the first couple hours by himself. Now, of course, I was on my own. I didn’t mind leaving Miami at the crack of dawn, mostly because it meant I could avoid the hellacious traffic.
Still, leaving in the middle of the night—when half of Miami was still out clubbing—was unpleasant, considering I was moderately hungover. As I drove across the state through the Everglades, a soft rain fell. Daylight broke, revealing a purple, bruise-colored sky, and I tried not to think about seeing my ex last night.
Tried to squelch the memory of the pity in his eyes when I’d gone on stage to claim second place in investigative reporting for the story that should have made my career. I’d lost to a reporter from a paper in Tampa, who had written an amazing series on the state’s screwed up foster care system.
Still, second place stung. I’d put everything into that story on the serial killer, which had ended in a high-profile arrest. Now, I felt more like a loser than ever before.
Afterward, while posing for photos with the other winners and Miles, I’d been forced to shake his new girlfriend’s hand and gawp at her smooth, young face. It burned an angry hole in my stomach, not because I wanted to get back together with Miles. It was from the regret that I’d spent years of my life with a disloyal man who cast me aside without a second thought.
I cranked the volume on the radio, drowning out my thoughts with Fleetwood Mac’s Rumors album. Even though I was thirty years younger than the average Fleetwood Mac fan, I adored the band. I loved Stevie Nicks’ songwriting talent, her vulnerability, and her style. She poured out her heart into her lyrics about Lindsey Buckingham’s affairs and still managed to soar to stardom like the gorgeous, ethereal angel she was.
I shifted in my seat, trying to get comfortable for the long drive, tugging the hem of my white shirt that read, STEVIE NICKS IS MY FAIRY GODMOTHER.
As I sailed along, crooning and sipping the last drops of caramel-tinged foam from my Cuban coffee, I wondered if Dad had found out any gossipy details on Fab. For a few minutes, I pondered whether I should apologize to him for my outburst the previous day. I decided against it because he was the one who’d run out on me.
I dialed Dad’s number, hoping to grab him before he went kayaking with dolphins or meditating in silence or whatever quirky thing he was doing. He didn’t answer.
That launched me back into a dark mood, as dark as the sky. The clouds were even thicker on the Gulf Coast, and by the time I paid the toll and crossed the bridge to Devil’s Beach, I knew we were in for a storm.
At least that would be great for the café—tourists loved to hang out at Perkatory during summer storms. The beachy, cozy décor meant people could sink into the overstuffed sofas and relax as the rain hit the windows.
It was almost Labor Day weekend, the island’s busiest of the year. Maybe I’d see if Barbara could come in earlier to help.
I pulled into sleepy downtown Devil’s Beach at five minutes to six, my mind churning at the idea of hiring and training a new b
arista. For a split second, I thought of driving to my house—it had been my childhood home, but now it was only me since Dad lived on the beach—and parking there. No, I was running too late. Best to go right to the shop and get ready for the crush of caffeine addicts.
I parked in the café’s one spot in the alley. Today was unusually foggy, which sometimes happened when the humidity and rain descended on the island. I squinted to see in the gray, dawn light and killed the engine. What was that on the far side of the alley? It had the shape of a pile of clothes, but that didn’t make sense. There were no clothing stores on this block.
Leaning forward in my seat, I studied the form. It was like something I’d only seen on the cop beat in Miami.
A body. No, that couldn’t be. Or could it? There were a few homeless people on Devil’s Beach, so maybe that was it. Could it be Dale, the older homeless guy who lived in the park downtown? Perhaps he’d suffered a heart attack. He’d told me about some health problems recently.
Oh, no. I hoped it wasn’t him. Dale was a veteran who adored sunsets, the beach, and tallboys of cheap beer. He’d had a difficult life since Vietnam, and I had a soft spot for him. I often gave him unsold pastries and free coffee.
I hurried out of the car and slammed the door. With every step closer, my heartbeat grew faster. The person was curled almost in a fetal position, back facing me. Clad in khaki pants and a black T-shirt. Obviously a man, from the muscular body and short, dark hair, and way younger than Dale. Maybe it was a wayward tourist who’d passed out after partying at a local bar. I was used to drunks in the alley, but usually during the island’s pirate fest in February.
I kept a wide berth as I circled to the man’s front so I could get a better view. My hand flew to my throat, and I gasped in horror.
Even in death, Fabrizio “Fab” Bellucci couldn’t wipe the smirk from his face.
Chapter Four
Fab was lying nearest to the brick building across the alley from my own, half under a scraggly palm tree that had sprouted between broken clumps of black asphalt. When it registered that his tanned limbs were splayed at physically impossible angles, I inhaled sharply. Despite his lifelessness, my mind went straight into denial mode, trying to find the positive.
“Fab?” I asked in a quavering voice while taking a step forward. Then, louder. “Fab?”
My voice bounced off the brick walls. A claustrophobic feeling settled in when there was no response. His expression was sardonic, seductive and smarmy every single day, so that’s probably why I didn’t want to accept he was dead.
I moved forward. “Fab, it’s going to be okay. Hang tight. I’ll call an ambulance.” Still trying to apply logic to this scene while keeping as much distance as possible, I reached for my former employee with my free hand and gently brushed my fingers over his stubble-roughened jaw.
It was not the temperature that skin should have been. Not in this Florida heat. Wincing, I firmly pressed a spot at the base of his neck, checking for a pulse.
None.
I sprang back, a jolt of horror stabbing at my chest. He was really and truly dead.
A sob clawed inside my throat. Fab was the playboy of Devil’s Beach. A local Instagram star. My best barista at Perkatory. Well, had been, until yesterday. He was also my dad’s tenant on the fourth floor of our building. Dead, in the alley, a few short steps from my café’s back door.
I should call someone. Police? An ambulance? Dad? Yes. All three. Now.
The morning’s coffee in my stomach began to fizz. My last encounter with Fab had been so combative that a wave of guilt washed over me. I didn’t hate Fab. Not really. Yesterday had been out of character, a vortex of stress and frustration because he’d left me high and dry.
“What happened to you?” I whispered.
How long had he been dead? An hour? Five? All night? Of all people, I knew what death looked like, and now that I studied him, it seemed like he’d been there a while.
It had been a year since I’d seen a corpse; the last one was in Miami. A homeless woman, on a cold, steel table at the morgue. A victim of that serial killer I’d helped put behind bars, the story that had gotten me a second-place award less than twelve hours ago. I shut my eyes. Last night’s booze-soaked ceremony at the Icon Hotel in Miami seemed like a lifetime ago. My head throbbed with fear and the remnants of my hangover.
I whirled and ran to the back door of the cafe. The waistband of my jeans absorbed a trickle of sweat running down my back. It was crazy humid today, that blanket of moisture in the air that always settles in before a huge storm.
“Police. Call the chief. Noah,” I muttered aloud, my trembling hands reaching for the keys in my purse. My arm was suspended in the air, about to twist the key in the lock, when a sickening realization came over me.
Was I in danger?
Lowering my hand, I turned, the early morning gray sky giving everything an eerie sheen. It all appeared normal. The back door to Beach Boss, the souvenir shop next door, was closed, as it always was. So was the back door to Dante’s Inferno, the hot yoga studio that was the other tenant in the building. Our shared green dumpster sat against the brick wall, opposite of Fab’s body.
My gaze landed back on him and I shuddered. Police. I needed to call the chief immediately. My stomach lurched again when I turned back to the door.
What had happened? What if Fab had interrupted a burglary in progress? He might have come downstairs in the middle of the night to throw away his trash and caught someone in the act. What if the person who’d attacked him was in my café right now? What if Fab had been trying to save me, even after I’d been so nasty yesterday?
Choking back tears, I took one last glance at Fab and hustled over to my Honda. I’d only seen him, what? Less than twenty-four hours ago.
When I’d confronted him at his new job at Island Brewnette and told him that I hoped he’d fail. That my father should have never hired him, should have never rented him an apartment above the cafe. That I wanted him out of the apartment in a month.
That I wished he didn’t exist.
And now, he didn’t.
My hands quaked as I dialed Noah. He’d given me his number last week. Had wanted me to have it “in case” I ever needed anything. I’d spent days wondering if this was a thinly veiled, slightly shy attempt at a date and had even considered contacting him.
I never thought I’d call him under these circumstances.
“Chief Garcia,” he answered in a brisk tone.
“Hi. It’s Lana. Lana Lewis, from Perkatory.” My voice shook and I took a huge, honking sniffle.
“Lana, are you okay? What’s wrong? You sound upset.” His voice dripped with concern.
“I … I’m okay. But Fab’s not.”
* * *
The tourists who come to Devil’s Beach say the island is a tropical paradise like no other. It’s twelve miles long, three miles at its widest, a postcard-perfect spit of land in the Gulf of Mexico.
Visitors love the sugar-sand beaches, the majestic royal palms that line each side of Main Street and the quaint, historic downtown that’s walkable and bustling with business. The New York Times raved about it being an example of “unspoiled Florida,” and Southern Living Magazine called it “the New Gulf Hotspot.” (That was when they ran the sidebar brief about Perkatory).
Today, downtown Devil’s Beach was like an opening scene from Law & Order.
Yellow police tape stretched from my family’s building across the alley to the brick building next door. All four of the island police department’s cruisers were parked on the street outside the alley, and another half-dozen sheriff’s vehicles from the mainland were scattered in spaces nearby. A county medical examiner’s van stood at the ready, near the corner of Main and Beach streets.
By order of the Devil’s Beach Police, I was not allowed to open Perkatory to the public. At least not until forensics combed through the place.
For the same reasons, I was prohibited from going to my second
-floor office. I thought about heading home, but my curiosity got the better of me, plus I needed to explain to regulars and tourists why we weren’t open.
So, I parked myself on a faded wooden bench outside the café as crime scene investigators, officers, and media descended on our block. It felt weird to not stand at the crime scene tape and take notes.
The rain had yet to arrive on the island, but thunder rumbled in the distance from the direction of the Gulf. The storm was coming soon, and from the looks of the dark cloud to the west, it was going to be nasty.
I dialed Dad’s number and got his voicemail. Again.
“Hey, it’s me. Call me right away. Something really awful happened. You’re not going to believe this. ’Kay. Love you. Bye.”
Two women who were probably in their fifties and both wearing tropical print caftans sauntered up. Each carried canvas beach totes and foldable chairs, and both looked like they’d already gotten too much sun for their fair complexions.
“You open today?” The one with a green floppy hat asked in a thick Southern accent.
“We want to meet that beefcake. The one on Instagram. We came all the way from Atlanta to get a shot of his coffee,” said the other one. She seemed like she’d fit in on a reality TV show with her over-plumped lips. “What’s his name. Fab? Fab with the abs.”
They dissolved into giggles, and I cleared my throat. Little did they know that Fab with the abs was lying about thirty feet away, deader than a bag of rocks.
“Did, ah, do you know Fab?”
“No. We followed him on Instagram religiously and were here for a girls’ weekend. Thought we’d get an eyeful of some man candy and a photo to make our husbands jealous.”
I winced. “He’s no longer with the café.” Was that diplomatic enough? “And, er, we’re closed for the morning. We’re dealing with an issue here.”
The women turned their attention to the hubbub in the alley.