by Tara Lush
The chief, who was standing with his hands on his hips, rotated his body and shook his head. “That’s fine.”
He stepped to a table by the door that was littered with junk. “You might need this. Looks like this is Stanley’s leash.”
I moved to the doorway as he pulled a red retractable leash off the messy table and extended it in my direction. A business card and pair of women’s white lace panties fluttered to the floor. I rolled my eyes.
Noah scowled, then knelt. He studied the card. “Ace’s Alligator Farm. Was Fab a gator hunter?”
I snorted and pointed at the panties. “Hardly. He liked the beach, but mostly because he looked great in selfies at sunset. And the only thing he hunted was his next conquest. As you can see by the evidence.”
Noah slid a pen out of his breast pocket and lifted the panties with the pen’s end. They appeared to be of the thong variety, a mere scrap of fabric.
I clipped the leash to the dog’s collar. “Don’t be surprised about what you find in here. Fab had an active social life. Which is a charitable way of saying, he got around.”
Noah raised his gaze, fixing his dark amber eyes on me. “We’ll be investigating into exactly where he’s been, and with whom.”
I tore down the stairs, a shiver crawling up my spine when I thought about Fab’s final moments.
* * *
Stanley didn’t move away from my side the rest of the morning. Not while police combed through Fab’s apartment (I stayed in the doorway, my curiosity at that point equal to my fear of heights), not when reporters tried to interview me (I gave an exclusive interview to the Devil’s Beach Beacon and said no comment to the TV reporters from the mainland) and not when Noah allowed me to reopen the café (I think he wanted to reward his officers after a long day with some of my coffee. Or maybe he wanted to eke out a few more minutes with me, but perhaps that was wishful thinking).
Around three that afternoon—I decided the day was a wash and wasn’t going to reopen until the morning—I sank into a tall, wooden window seat with a cup of house blend, a day-old carrot cookie, and Stanley at my feet. He seemed to be in ecstasy as he gnawed on a donut-shaped dog bagel.
My black leather Moleskine notebook and a pen sat nearby, because I needed to make a list of everything I had to do tomorrow. I’d started bullet journaling—a detailed way to keep a calendar—only a couple of weeks ago. It was a way to wrestle organization into my out-of-control life.
For a few minutes, I fiddled with a music app on my phone, finally settling on a soothing seventies radio station to play on the shop speakers. My ex had always teased me about my love of yacht rock, saying I should listen to more electronic dance music. Which I hated. Yes, I was single here on Devil’s Beach, but I could at least listen to whatever I wanted without feeling like I was the least hip person alive.
I watched as the county medical examiner’s van rolled away with Fab inside. Almost immediately after, a yellow VW Beetle with a giant plastic cockroach on the roof inched past. The driver waved. It was Pete, of Pete’s Pests, and I made a note in my journal to call Pete about a termite inspection.
Then I immediately felt terrible. I was sailing on with life, drinking coffee and scheduling appointments as if someone I knew hadn’t been found dead at my back door less than twelve hours ago.
I dialed Dad for the fifth time today. He hadn’t answered any of my messages. I rubbed my temples with my fingers. Was today the day he was supposed to go north for a real estate conference? Or was it a yoga retreat? A meditation thing? Why couldn’t I recall? Blergh. Had seeing Fab’s body given me PTSD? Was I dissociating from trauma? I was probably exhausted, judging how stiff and achy my bones felt, and I yawned.
I glanced down at the golden puppy, who yawned right back. For the first time, I realized the fur on his chest was lighter than the rest of his body, almost a cream color. “You sleepy, Stanley? What are we going to do with you, anyway?”
He met my stare with mournful, chocolate-brown eyes. He was adorable as heck. I racked my brain trying to recall which woman gave the dog to Fab. Was it Paige? No, probably not her. I had a vague memory that she was allergic to both dogs and cats. In high school she’d made a big deal about her allergy when a duo of state troopers gave a K-9 demonstration.
Maybe it had been the waitress at the Dirty Dolphin? I always got her confused with the woman who owned the all-organic clothing boutique the next block over because they had identical, pin-straight blonde hair. Fab’s accent, his forearms, and his coffee skills had attracted so many women. It was going to be a delicate matter approaching all of them, asking if they wanted the puppy back. He rolled onto his side and stretched, showing me his downy, chubby belly.
“Aww. You’re too cute to give away.” Still, didn’t I have an obligation to break the news of his death to some of his former lovers? As I was making a list of the many women I’d have to call, my cell rang.
“Café Perkatory,” I said, mustering a chipper tone.
“Hi. Uh, is this where Fabrizio worked?” The man’s thick New York accent was the vocal equivalent of burnt coffee.
“Um.” I paused. Way to be articulate. “Fab’s, ah. It was where he worked.”
“Listen, let’s not beat around the bush. I know about his death.”
I snapped to attention. “Who is this?”
“This is his uncle Jimmy. His only living relative. Someone named Paige claimed to be his girlfriend called me a couple hours ago and told me what happened. Asked me if I’d be coming down to claim the body. I thought it was a prank but then saw online when I clicked on that local paper down there and sure enough, it was true. Damn shame.”
“Uh-huh,” I said, now in reporter mode. I wanted to know more. I’d never heard of an uncle Jimmy. I opened my notebook and clicked my pen, then turned to a few blank pages from the back.
“I’m from New York,” he offered.
“So I gathered.”
“Yeah, Fab and I weren’t close. He lived with me a bit when he came from the old country. But I kicked him out because he wouldn’t stop bringing girls home. I like my peace and quiet, yanno?”
“Sounds like Fab.” I scrawled every word he said into the notebook. It was like second nature, writing during phone conversations. I’d done this for years as a journalist.
“You know him well? Then you know how he is with the ladies. Maybe he was like that with you.”
“He most certainly wasn’t like that with me. I’m his manager. Well, was. My name’s Lana Lewis.”
“Oh yeah, I think I saw something on Instagram. At your café. And he mentioned you in an email a few months ago, how you were taking over from your dad. I assumed you were one of Fab’s latest girls.”
“Absolutely not,” I said sourly, still taking notes.
“Right. Anyway, I gotta business thing. Won’t be able to come to claim him. So, I was wondering if you could arrange something. Or maybe someone there will arrange it. Sounds like Paige might, but she seems a little flighty to handle it.”
“It?” I grimaced.
“The funeral, the service, the wake.”
I glanced down at Stanley, who wagged his tail every time we made eye contact. My heart cracked a little, both for Fab and his dog. “But what about his things? His body? Where do you want him buried? What about his puppy?”
Jimmy snorted. “Well his parents in Italy are dead, they passed when he was a teen. He’s got no brothers and sisters. So you can’t really send him back there. He was happiest in Florida. That’s what he said, but probably because he bonked all the women he wanted. That’s what happens to men with mommy issues, you know. Let him stay in Florida.” Jimmy stretched out the word, so it sounded like Flaaa-rih-duuuuh. “He might as well be laid to rest there. Wish I could be there for the service. And as far as his things, give ’em away. I don’t need ’em.”
“Okay,” I said slowly, wondering how anyone could be so callous in the face of the death of such a young man. “Hey, did Fab
ever mention anything about an alligator farm?”
It was such an odd detail, that card. One that had stuck in my mind.
“Alligator farm?” Jimmy chuckled. “Do they really have those in Florida? And, no. Fab didn’t. Did you say he had a dog? I didn’t even know Fab liked animals. He was nothin’ but an animal himself.” He yawned with a roar. A real charmer, this Jimmy. But he gave great quotes, and I itched to use them in an article.
That wouldn’t be happening anytime soon, though, because my days of journalism were over.
I muttered something in the affirmative and hung up. Somehow, I’d learned more about my former barista in a three-minute phone conversation than I had while working with him for two months. Maybe he had killed himself. It sounded like he’d had a troubled past.
Stanley pressed his fluffy little body against my leg. I leaned down and scratched his soft, golden ear. Both ears were the same color, and he had a white splotch on top of his head that extended to his liver-colored nose.
“Guess you’re coming to live with me now, you little floof. At least for now.”
The bells on the front door jangled.
“We’re closed,” I called out, swiveling in my chair as the door creaked open. A woman with black hair, sharp cheekbones and red lips poked her head in. I pressed my palm to my forehead. I’d forgotten that we had set a time to meet.
“Erica!”
Stanley bounded from my feet, and before I could stop him, aimed for her. Erica shut the door and knelt, grinning and cooing.
“I’m so sorry. I forgot that you were coming in, with everything that happened today. Stanley, don’t harass. That’s Fab’s dog.”
She straightened to standing. “No worries. I love animals. Yeah, I heard about Fab. Crazy that someone would murder him. Awfully sad.”
I scowled. “Murder?”
She shrugged and walked toward me, almost with a swagger. It was then that I noticed she had on a black tank top, black shorts, and Doc Martens. Not boots, but shoes. Next to the soft, blue-and-white décor of my café, this woman stuck out like a goth in a Precious Moments shop.
“That’s what people are saying around the island. It’s all speculation.”
“People are talking already?” Groaning, I slid off my seat and gestured to the counter. Why hadn’t Dad called? By now he’d have the scoop on what the islanders were saying.
“Yeah. Over at the marina, where I keep my sailboat. That’s where I heard the murder rumor. People said Fab was too full of himself to commit suicide. Dunno if any of that’s true, though.”
“I’d say that’s pretty accurate.” I paused as we stood near the cash register. “But I guess you never know. Would you like a cup of something?”
Her eyes widened and sparkled, a genuine expression that lit up her entire face. “I would. Black.”
“Cool. Want to try our house blend?”
She gazed over my shoulder, up at the chalkboard menu. “Sure. But the Idido also sounds tasty. I had that when I traveled to Ethiopia a few years ago.”
As I prepared the grounds, she leaned on the counter and a lazy smile unfurled on her face. “Hey, love your T-shirt.”
I glanced down, having forgotten I was wearing my favorite Stevie Nicks shirt. It was a point in Erica’s favor. Impressed, I made a special pour-over carafe, just for her.
Chapter Six
Erica was an excellent conversationalist, the kind of person who could talk about everything and nothing, without being too intrusive. She entertained me with stories of world travel, and I told her about my layoff in Miami and my ex.
“Sounds like a real tool,” she sniffed. “Men.”
“Can’t live with them,” I said.
“Can’t kill them,” she responded.
We stared at each other for a beat. “Too soon, probably,” I said, a pang of guilt striking my stomach.
She nodded. “Probably.”
That conversational gaffe aside, Erica made me realize that since I’d been back on Devil’s Beach, I hadn’t had much contact with other women my age on a personal level. I’d spent most of my time with Dad since coming home, and with Fab at the café. It was energizing to chat with Erica, like we’d been friends for years.
I took her on a tour of the café, showing her the stock room, the bathrooms with the vintage mirrored settees, and the bookcase wall that showed off some of Barbara’s art and books by local authors. I pointed out the area near the sugar and creamer station. It was wallpapered with old album covers from the ’70s and ’80s.
“Whoever decorated this place did a great job,” she said.
My chest swelled with pride. “Thanks. My mom went with the blue-and-white theme and I ran with it. When I came home after the layoff, Dad put me in charge. I freshened it up a bit. I think buying new stuff and going with my own vibe helped pull me out of a funk.”
“Nothing wrong with a little retail therapy. Your mom must love what you’ve done to the café. Does she come in often?”
A thickness formed in my throat at the mention of Mom. I swallowed. “I wish she could see this. She’s been gone three years.”
Erica reached to squeeze my shoulder. “Sorry to bring it up.”
“It’s okay. This place was her passion.”
“And you want to keep that going, understandably.”
I tilted my head. “Never thought of it that way, but yeah. Once Dad suggested I take over the place, it made sense, you know? He didn’t want to run the business, and I didn’t have a job, so I stepped up.”
“It’s awesome you have that connection still with your mom.”
I fidgeted with a napkin on the counter, rolling it into a skinny cylinder. “Mom spent her life in pursuit of excellent coffee. She worked as a green coffee buyer.”
Erica’s eyes widened. “Really? That is so cool.”
“Yeah, for a good part of my childhood she specialized in Caribbean and Latin American beans. She traveled a lot. Sometimes I went with her, to places like Jamaica and Costa Rica. But she always wanted to open her own shop and she finally did.”
“I love it. So, you grew up learning about coffee.”
“I did. I even thought about following in her footsteps as a buyer. But I was bitten by the newspaper bug in high school.” A cynical laugh erupted in my throat. “Good choice that was.”
“I dunno. From what you said about your time in Miami, you did some pretty kickass work. Probably did more good for the world in those years at the paper than other people do in a lifetime. Do you miss it?”
I’d never considered it like that, but maybe she was right. I tossed the napkin in the garbage. “I do. A lot. But there’s no going back, you know?”
“What about the local paper?”
I lifted my shoulders and sighed. “I interned there in high school. They don’t have the budget for a full-time reporter. So, every month I’m out of journalism, the profession’s further out of reach. I’m trying to make the best of what I have here. I mean, look around. This is pretty important, too, keeping the town hub alive. Mom did an amazing job of making this place into a coffee shop the whole island loves. I’m trying to keep that alive.”
As I took in the pretty décor of my café—Mom’s legacy—I almost believed myself, and sipped in a shaky breath. I didn’t want to burst into tears thinking of Mom, so I changed the subject.
“How about you show me more of your coffee skills? Want to pull a few espressos? Make some specialty drinks? C’mon.”
I waved her around the back of the counter and gestured to the La Marzocco. “It was the last thing Mom bought for the café.”
Erica washed her hands, and I held out a clean towel. “It’s really the best machine to work with. Now, how about I make a range of drinks?”
“Sounds good to me. Here’s the fridge,” I pointed to the stainless steel door below the counter, then to a rack beside the espresso machine, “And the syrups, the condiments, the glasses and the utensils. Let me know if you need a
nything else.”
“Nope. This should be perfect.”
She got to work, pulling shots and frothing milk. I leaned against the counter and watched her fluid movements. She set the first mug on the counter.
“That’s a sweetened almond milk latte, with a shot of espresso.”
It had no latte art, but was delicious. “We don’t normally sell complicated drinks here because I wanted the menu to be coffee-focused and simple. But maybe we could do a drink of the day, because this is wonderful.”
She reached into her bag and pulled out a plastic package of rosemary and a squirt bottle. “Mind if I use some of my own ingredients?”
“Be my guest.”
Within minutes, the pungent aroma of rosemary mixed with the heavy, earthy coffee scent. She set down a mug. Two hearts were etched in foam on top, and a delicate sprig of deep green rosemary kissed the side of the design.
“Rosemary latte?” I raised the mug to my face and took a deep inhale. It was aromatic, with notes of herbs and something I couldn’t quite place. “Interesting.”
“Rosemary simple syrup. Honey. Caramel powder. Whole milk, and of course, espresso.”
She watched as I sipped. “Whoa. Whoa. It’s like,” I took another sip to evaluate the party happening on my taste buds, “It’s like the Mediterranean in a mug.”
She pointed a finger in my direction. “You got it.”
As I sucked down the rosemary latte, she made a few iced drinks with the syrups I had on hand—maple latte, toasted coconut, and finally, an iced mocha. I grabbed the mocha.
“These are deceptively simple yet difficult to master well. They can either be too cloying, or too bitter,” I said.
“Tell me what you think.” She rested her hand on her hip.
I took a slurp, and it was perfect. Satisfyingly creamy, with a wee bit of a bitter bite and a mouthful of chocolate. I sighed pleasurably. “Where’d you learn all this, anyway? Seattle?”
“Yeah, there, and I worked at a café in Boston for a bit. Then in various places around the world to support my travels. I’m thirty, and have been on my own since I was seventeen.”