Grounds for Murder

by Tara Lush

  I kissed his cheek. “Hey there, look who I found on the beach.”

  “Chief,” Dad said warmly, shaking his hand. As if it was the most normal thing in the world for his daughter to go on a walk and return with the island’s police chief.

  “Sir, nice to see you.”

  Dad stared at me and squinted. “I didn’t realize you were going to be so long. Guess I lost track of time. I’ve been watching Dr. Who and thought I’d grab myself some munchies.” He held up a bag of blue corn tortilla chips.

  “I was taking Stanley to do his business, remember? Then I called Noah because we found a giant eyeball on the beach. It was wild.” I poured Noah a glass of water from the fridge spout on the door.

  Dad froze, chip in hand. I could tell he was trying to figure out whether I was joking or if he was incredibly high. He let out a giggle.

  “Yes, it was a blue eyeball, from some sea creature, probably,” Noah shrugged.

  “Probably?” I muttered while filling a water bowl for Stanley. “What else could it be from? An alien?”

  “Trippy,” Dad whispered.

  “Yep, it’s been a banner day on Devil’s Beach.” I leaned on the black granite counter. Noah’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he gulped down the water. His eye went to a framed Fleetwood Mac record album on the wall, and he walked over to study it.

  “Check this out,” he said.

  “Rumors was Mom’s favorite album. To surprise her for their anniversary one year, Dad tracked down a friend of a friend who knew everyone in the band and got them to sign it.”

  Noah turned to Dad and I. “Impressive,” he said.

  “Yeah, that’s where Lana was conceived, in fact. At a Fleetwood Mac show. November 7. University of South Florida Sun Dome.”

  “Dad,” I cried, while Noah nearly choked on his water. “You didn’t conceive me at the show.”

  “Well, no. But after. We’d been dating about a year.” Dad turned to Noah and I winced, wondering what deeply personal family detail he was about to reveal. “I’d just started selling real estate on the island, and Sara had come here to work for the summer as a waitress and never left. I surprised her with two tickets to the concert and we got a hotel room. That’s where we—.”

  “Okay. How about a glass of wine?” I grabbed the bottle I’d been drinking earlier.

  A mournful-looking Dad shook his head. “Noah?” I held up the bottle.

  “No, I’m good.”

  “You don’t drink coffee or alcohol?” I asked, pouring myself a glass.

  “I do drink alcohol. But I’m hoping to get back to my workout tonight.”

  I grunted, wondering what it would be like to have that kind of dedication to a personal fitness routine. Since I’d likely never know, I savored my sip of Pinot as silence descended on the kitchen.

  “Oh, while you’re here,” Dad had snapped out of his reverie. “Any word on Fabrizio? I was stunned by the news, Noah. Just shocked.”

  “We all were. And no, not really. We’re still leaning toward suicide, but we’ve got to talk with his girlfriend, Paige …” he drummed his fingers on the counter.

  I screwed up my face. “Paige Dotson. I went to high school with her.”

  Noah raised an eyebrow. “From your expression, I can tell the two of you have a history.”

  I shrugged. “She was a cheerleader; I was a band geek. We weren’t friends. That’s about all there is to say.”

  “Wait … a … minute,” Dad chimed in, his voice slow and drawn out. I could tell he was super high because he was about ten steps behind in the conversation. “Why would Fab kill himself? Something’s not adding up.”

  “Did you find a suicide note in his apartment?” I asked Noah.

  Noah shook his head.

  “Any other evidence that points to suicide? Did anyone say he was depressed?”

  Noah shot me a devastatingly sexy grin. “Are you back on the crime beat?”

  I smirked. If only I could write this as a news article. The desire to tell stories was a gnawing, living thing, and would probably never go away. “Maybe,” I teased.

  Wait. What if I could write an article? Would I uncover enough information to find out why Fab killed himself? Or if he killed himself. Hmm. I mulled this over while Dad mentioned Fab’s enthusiasm for Instagram.

  Noah sighed. “So far, no one we’ve talked with said he was depressed. But we weren’t able to reach Paige.”

  “Did you talk with his uncle Jimmy in New York?” I asked.

  Noah’s grin faded. “I wasn’t aware he had an uncle Jimmy.”

  “Yeah, he called the café today. Said I should handle funeral arrangements.” Another reason I should write the article. After all, I had taken notes when I spoke with Jimmy. Quotes and all.

  Noah nodded thoughtfully. “Can you give me the number?”

  I shrugged as I reached for my phone, sliding it to him. “Sure. It’s the 212 number.”

  Dad munched on a chip. “Did you talk with the Clarkes?”

  “Dad, you have crumbs in your beard.”

  “Ooh, sorry.” He brushed them off over the sink.

  Noah finished his water. “I heard the rumors about the Clarkes. Their housekeeper told me they’re on a fifteen-day cruise. They left five days ago.”

  “Pfft,” I said, resting my hand on my hip. “People can hire others to do their dirty work.”

  “Are you saying the Clarkes killed Fab?” Noah raised an eyebrow.

  “Anything’s possible, right?” I could tell he wasn’t on board with my theory that Noah didn’t commit suicide.

  “No offense, but I’d like to study the more obvious suspects, the ones who were on island, first.”

  I ignored Noah’s snark and sipped my wine.

  “Who did Fab have problems with?” Dad stroked his beard. In his mind, he was probably Sherlock Holmes, poised to make a break in the case.

  Noah took a deep breath. “There’s only one person who’s had issues with him recently, and that’s Lana.”

  “I was in Miami,” I yelped.

  “I know.” Noah said. He stared at me for a beat and gave a slight shake of his head. “Lana, Mr. Lewis, thanks for the water. And make sure you come by tomorrow so you can give your formal statement.” Noah’s voice was all business now, and a chill went through my body. Surely, he didn’t think I had anything to do with Fab’s death? More reason than ever to pitch an article to the local paper: to prove my innocence to Noah, once and for all.

  That night, in Dad’s guest bedroom, I tossed and turned. My mind raced from the events of the day. Fab’s body. The eyeball. Fab’s uncle’s gruff New York accent. Little Stanley, who had flopped down next to me in bed and was softly snoring.

  Once I drifted to sleep, I was restless even then. My missing high school friend Gisela flitted in and out of my dreams, and Noah made an appearance. By the time I awoke at six, it felt like I hadn’t gotten a minute of rest.

  Chapter Nine

  Saturday mornings were usually busy at Perkatory, with tourists and locals stopping by to get their fix of high-octane coffee. Usually the dozen tables inside and the five spots on the sidewalk were jam-packed.

  Today, not so much. Which was weird for a late summer weekend.

  I glanced around the half-empty café, then turned to Erica. She’d brought in a basket of dog goodies for Stanley. Was she trying to send a message about my new puppy by including a bottle of oatmeal-flavored shampoo? He did smell a little clam-like this morning, but I chalked that up to our stroll on the beach last night.

  At the moment, he was back at my Dad’s house, probably snoozing on the lanai. Lucky dog.

  Still. I was grateful Erica was here, and happy that she’d caught on so quickly to the quirks of our espresso machine. She was slamming out shots like a pro, and decorating lattes with Instagrammable foam hearts, to the delight of the trickle of tourists.

  But where were the regulars? I drummed my fingers on the counter.

  “We
ll, at least I can teach you the cash register properly and not have to deal with all the stress of serving a morning rush,” I said.

  “Why do you think it’s so slow?” she asked.

  I shrugged. “Maybe because Fab’s not here? He had a cult-like following.”

  She scowled. “No. You think? People still need coffee.”

  I rolled my shoulders, trying to appear casual. “Dunno. It’s weird more islanders haven’t come in. Apparently, it’s all over town that I yelled at Fab the day before he died. I seem like a big bad witch because of it. Or that’s what my dad suggested.”

  Erica gave me a funny, quizzical look.

  “My dad’s kind of the island gossip. Imagine a busybody, with a ponytail and a crystal necklace.”

  “Gotcha,” she said.

  “Speaking of Dad, he’s supposed to be here any minute. I need to go to the police station to give a formal statement about Fab. You think you can handle being by yourself for a little while?” It was risky, leaving a new employee here by herself. She was incredibly competent, though, and it’s not like there was more than fifty bucks in cash at the register. What was the worst she could do? I figured the three regulars sitting at a corner table—the only ones who’d come in this morning, a trio of elderly women who’d known my mother and visited the shop every Saturday—would let me know if Erica started wheeling out major appliances.

  Erica waved her hand in the air. “I’ve got this.”

  “Cool. You’re a lifesaver. Thanks. My dad’s name is Peter. Peter Lewis. You can’t miss him. Tall, ponytail, goatee. He might try to balance your chakras. I’ll only be an hour or so. Hopefully less. That is, if I’m not arrested.”

  Erica’s eyes went wide.

  “Joking,” I said, making my way out the door.

  I walked the few blocks to the police station, passing my three favorite stores: Whim So Doodle (a cute craft store), Culture Waves (island-themed knickknacks and housewares) and Beach Books. The latter had been here since I was a girl, and had it been open, I’d have been tempted to wander the stacks, searching for a new read. But I needed to get this interview out of the way. The thought of answering questions—not asking them—made me a tad nervous.

  As I strode down the sidewalk, I figured that from here on in, I’d stop with the arrest jokes. Especially if it was true that people around town thought I had bullied Fab prior to his death. As a painful reminder, I spied Island Brewnette while walking. I’d intentionally kept a wide berth and stayed on the opposite side of the street, and still, I could tell that it was packed.

  That made me walk quicker in defiance. I tried to focus on the bursting orange-and-blue Bird of Paradise flowers planted by the city in between the sidewalk and street, one of the only flowers that blooms in the dead of summer here.

  The receptionist at the cop shop buzzed me in, then told me to go straight to Chief Garcia’s office. I padded down the short hallway, my Converse sneakers making soft pat-pat noises on the gleaming white linoleum floor.

  I came to the last door on the left, and paused before rapping my knuckles against the wood frame.

  “Knock knock,” I said.

  The Chief raised his head. “Lana,” he said, and his eyes brightened.

  Gah. Why did he have to be wearing a dark blue polo shirt that stretched across his tan biceps like that? Didn’t he have anything baggy and less enticing?

  “Chief,” I said, as he motioned for me to sit in a chair on the opposite side of his desk. I notice he didn’t tell me to call him Noah, and I straightened my spine. This was a professional visit. I crossed one jean-clad leg over the other.

  He took out a notebook and uncapped a pen. His desk was predictably clean.

  “Let’s get right to it. I know you’re busy with the café, it being the end of summer and all.”

  I smiled, tight-lipped, thinking of the four customers back at Perkatory—and the twenty-four I’d seen at Island Brewnette on my way here.

  “You’re doing the interview?”

  “Yes. This isn’t Miami or Tampa. We’re a small force, and I help out with the investigations when I can.”

  “Okay then.” I hadn’t anticipated this.

  “Tell me about your relationship with Fab, please.”

  I inhaled. “My dad had hired him before I returned to the island. He’d brought him on as the morning barista and rented the apartment on the fourth floor of the building. But you know that part.”

  Noah nodded.

  “And … nothing. When I was laid off, Dad figured I could run the café. Dad wanted to semi-retire and work on selling a few condos here and there. He never much enjoyed running the place, but he does still like working there from time to time. Mostly to socialize.”

  “I’ve noticed. Back to you and Fab.”

  “Yes. Well, we had a decent relationship, I guess. When I first arrived, he tried to, ah …” I paused.

  Noah tilted his head. “Tried to what?”

  “He tried to seduce me. Because that’s how he was with every woman. Young, old, it didn’t matter. Anyone with two X chromosomes was fair game to Fab.”

  “And you didn’t succumb to his charms? Why not? He was a handsome guy.”

  I squinted. “Isn’t that a little personal? And no, I wasn’t charmed by him. For your information, Fab wasn’t my type.”

  Noah nodded slowly. “Would you say you were friends with him? Did you socialize together?”

  I shook my head. “Friends? I guess. I felt like we had a good relationship. Were we friendly, in a boss-employee way? Sure. He was an extremely loyal employee and loved being the public face of the coffee shop. At least he did until that last day.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Noah scribbled some notes on his pad.

  “We once ran into each other at the Dirty Dolphin and had a beer together. But he was with three women, and I was with my dad, so it was more of a group thing. Honestly, I didn’t know much about him until he died. Fab was like the court jester of the café. He kept everyone entertained with his amazing latte-making skills and his relationship drama. When I first started at the café, I was so overwhelmed, between running a business and …” My voice trailed off, thinking about those nights when I’d go home exhausted, and cry. Sob over how much I grieved for my old profession.

  “And?” Noah prompted.

  I shook my head. “I was in a bad place back then because I missed my old job in Miami and wasn’t sure I wanted to be here on Devil’s Beach. It’s hard spending your whole life wanting to be a certain thing, then achieving your goal, only to have it ripped out from under you. I miss being a reporter.”

  “Okay.” He paused, and an expression of sympathy crossed his face. “What do you know about Fab’s relationship drama?”

  What did I know that wasn’t pure speculation and scurrilous rumor? “He was dating Paige. That I knew for sure. I think they were on the outs this month, though. And there was the scuttlebutt that he had a fling with Mrs. Clarke. Or Mr. and Mrs. Clarke.”

  Noah tilted his head. “Huh?”

  “You should ask my dad. He said that Mr. Clarke used to watch Fab and his wife. Doing, well, you know. And Mrs. Clarke bought him a Vespa scooter.”

  Was that a flush of embarrassment creeping on top of his cheeks? Noah’s gaze went to his notebook and I plowed on. “Oh, and there was the woman who gave Stanley to Fab. I can’t recall who that was—it might have been a tourist who’s long gone, or this other woman he’d met at the Dirty Dolphin, the clothing store owner. Honestly, I didn’t pay much attention. It was literally a parade of women. I tuned it out.”

  “Why not? You were a reporter. I’d think you’d pay a lot of attention to everything?”

  I curled my lip. “Are you always this judgmental in your line of questioning? I thought cops were more dispassionate.”

  “I’m trying to make sure all the puzzle pieces fit.”

  I leaned forward. “I pay attention when it matters. I didn’t think Fab’s social life was any o
f my business. He did his job well, promoted the café on Instagram, and showed up on time every day. Well, at least until that last day.”

  “Did you want to retaliate against him for quitting without giving notice?”

  I reared back, shocked. “Retaliate? Are you trying to say I’m a suspect in his death?”

  Noah shook his head. “No. Not exactly. We don’t know how he died. I’m waiting for preliminary results from the medical examiner. Tell me about where you were the night Fab died.”

  “You know. I told you already. I was in Miami for that award ceremony.”

  “And where did you stay?”

  I rolled my eyes. “At the Motel 8 near the airport. Bad choice. Terrible coffee, cockroach near nightstand.”

  “Bummer.”

  We locked eyes and I tried to summon a measure of defiance. Why did it feel like he was questioning me as a suspect?

  “How late did you stay at the award ceremony?”

  “Let’s see. About midnight. I took an Uber to my hotel because I’d been drinking.”

  “How much did you have to drink?”

  “One glass of champagne and three glasses of Scotch.”

  His eyebrows notched up by a millimeter. “Were you drunk?”

  “Too drunk to drive, that’s for sure.”

  “And what time did you leave Miami?”

  I twisted my mouth. He was being thorough. “About three thirty in the morning. I had to be back on Devil’s Beach by six to open the store. Because Fab had quit and my dad had a prior commitment.”

  “Did anyone see you leave? The desk clerk? Did you check out?”

  “No. I was too worried about being the victim of a robbery at the front desk. So, I scrammed to my car, which was parked right out front. But I did stop for some Cuban coffee at a gas station.”

  “I see.”

  “But they probably have surveillance video. And there’s a toll on Alligator Alley, and probably some traffic cams on the bridge to Devil’s Beach, if you’re that concerned I somehow slipped back onto the island unnoticed and killed Fab. Oh, and here.”

  I reached for my phone and swiped to the car share app, then held the cell to Noah. “My receipt for the ride back to the hotel that night in Miami.”