by Tara Lush
“Ah. Okay. Mr. Clarke, weird spurned husband.” She held up three fingers. “What about Lax?”
“Lex? The sexy surfer?” I raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah. Him. He said he was a friend, but is he really? And he has Mafia ties, allegedly.”
I shrugged. “Who knows? I mean, it’s Florida. Who isn’t hiding something? There’s also Fab’s uncle. I spoke with him on the phone and he sounded super sketchy. Can’t even make it here to claim the body or plan a funeral.”
“When’s the funeral, anyway?”
I was silent for a beat. “I’m not sure. I kind of assumed Paige and her dad would arrange something. Since she was closest to him and he was technically working there when he died. I forgot to ask her while she was accusing me of murder this morning at the grocery store.”
“She accused you publicly?”
“Oh. I didn’t tell you about that.” I gave her the rundown of what had happened at the market.
“Hmph. She sounds like a loose cannon. I’d keep an eye on her, if I were you.”
Erica and I drank in silence, and when Stanley started to get wriggly, she held out her arms. I handed him over. “I have to pee,” I said, sliding down from the chair and wobbling a little. “Whoo-ee, that Sex on the Beach really packs a punch.” I’d never been good at holding my liquor.
I made my way through the now crowded bar. It was filled with people wringing the final drop out of their summer vacations, doing shots and slurping down fruity frozen drinks from tall plastic glasses. Of course there was a line for the restroom, and I stood in a dank, dark hallway, waiting for whoever was in the women’s room to finish.
There was already a guy slumped against the wall, waiting for the men’s room. He nodded at me, his sandy hair dull in the dim light.
Eons passed. The jukebox started to blare a Doobie Brothers song. I hummed along. What was taking the person in the bathroom so long? I checked my messages. Nothing. I crossed my legs and sighed.
“Come on,” I groaned aloud, rolling my eyes.
The guy next to me chuckled. “Yeah, what are they doing in there? Same with the men’s room. Been in there for freaking hours.” The guy pounded on the men’s door, and I looked up.
He was lanky, with a thin, beak-like nose. His skin was overly tanned, a burnished leathery texture common among some Floridians who work outside a lot. He wore the unofficial male uniform of Devil’s Beach: white T-shirt, khaki cargo shorts, flip flops.
No wonder I liked Noah—he was so well-dressed. Even that night on the beach when he’d come from the gym, he seemed like he’d jumped from the page of a Crossfit ad. I crossed my legs and tried to think about more pleasant things, like what Noah would look like in a tuxedo.
“Hey, jerks. Snort your last line and get the eff out.” He swore out loud. “Some folks just have no manners. What happened to being courteous, dammit?”
I froze. That swear word. That voice. Growly and with an old Florida accent. No. It couldn’t be. A chill ran down my spine.
The door to the women’s bathroom opened slowly. An elderly lady hobbled out. I practically knocked her over to get inside and latch the door, and not just because my bladder was about to burst from fear.
I’d have recognized that man’s voice anywhere. After all, it was imprinted in my brain after hearing it echo through Fab’s apartment.
* * *
You need to get in here right now, I texted Erica while I peed. Through the flimsy walls, I heard a toilet flush and the door slam from the men’s bathroom.
In where? I was about to order us another round of drinks. Can Stanley have more whipped cream?
No, he may not. I’m in the bathroom. Now! It’s important. I wondered if this was too much to ask of a new friend. But if anyone understood quirkiness, it was Erica. She had an eccentricity that I admired.
Okay, okay. I’ll put the drinks on hold. You’re buying the next round.
I hyperventilated. What were the chances of running into the guy who’d broken into Fab’s apartment (while I was breaking into it)? Pretty high, actually. Devil’s Beach wasn’t that big, and the Dirty Dolphin was the only bar with live music tonight, if you didn’t count that hoity-toity lounge at The Sands, the luxury resort on the other end of the island. Had I run into the sketchy guy at The Sands? That would have been odd.
Running into a burglar and possible murderer at the Dirty Dolphin? I snorted out loud. Probably a quarter of the men in this bar had been charged with at least one, if not both, of those crimes. Another quarter were probably on probation. (It was another reason why my love life here stunk, but I wasn’t ready to unpack that particular detail tonight).
After about a minute, there was a sharp rap on the door.
“Lana?” Erica’s throaty voice wafted through the flimsy wood. I flung it open ushering her and Stanley inside.
“What’s up?”
I peered out into the hall. It was empty.
“Quiet,” I hissed, shutting the door and locking it.
“Hey, if you want me to snort some toot, just so you know, I don’t do that crap anymore,” she said, putting Stanley on the floor. He wandered to the corner and hiked his leg on a discarded paper towel.
“Stanley, no,” I sighed. Whatever. We had bigger problems. At least it was on a towel. “Erica, no. I wasn’t asking you in here to do coke. I’ve never done drugs.”
She peered into the mirror, checking her ruby red lipstick. It was somehow still bold and perfect. I’d have to ask her later for the brand. “You didn’t seem the type, but you never know. What’s up?”
“The guy from Fab’s apartment. He’s here in this very bar.” I paused for dramatic effect. Blergh. Could I sound more like a bad extra from CSI: Miami?
I explained how I’d been waiting for the bathroom when the guy standing next to me spoke and I recognized his gravelly voice.
“I felt ice through my veins,” I hissed. “I know this is the guy. I’d know the voice anywhere. I swear to God it was him.”
Erica turned, leaning against the lavatory. “Well, this is an interesting dilemma. What are we going to do? Do you want to call Sheriff Hunk?”
I grimaced. “Chief Noah Garcia?”
She waved her hand dismissively. “Chief, Sheriff, whatever. Yeah. Him. Hunk. Dude who wants to get in your pants.”
“Now’s not the time to think about that, unfortunately.” I ran my tongue across my teeth. Admittedly, I hadn’t thought of getting Noah involved. “What would I say if I called? Hey, I broke into Fab’s house tonight to snoop around, and I think the other burglar is here so come arrest him for murder because I have a funny feeling?”
“Not optimal,” she agreed. “You’d have to come up with something a little more concrete.”
I sighed. “I think we need to talk to the guy, somehow. Get more evidence.”
“We absolutely need to talk to him. What does he look like?”
“Tall. Thin nose. Sandy brown hair. Wearing a white T-shirt and cargo pants.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “You’ve just described half the dudes in this place. Unfortunately.”
“I know, right? It’s pretty slim pickings on this island, man-wise.” I paused. “He had tattoos on both arms.”
“That doesn’t narrow it down at all. I think you’re the only one without ink here.” She studied my bare arms, pale as skim milk. Hers were liberally decorated with seafaring scenes.
“Are you saying I’m a prude?”
“No, I’m saying that you could use a little art on your skin. Maybe I need to take you to my guy in Orlando.” She held out her freckled arm, showing a sleeve with a cat and a sailboat.
Like that was going to happen, with my fear of needles. “I’ll think about it.” I tapped my foot on the floor.
“Okay, I’ve got an idea. Let’s go. Let’s hope he hasn’t left.”
I scooped up Stanley and followed Erica out of the bathroom. Since someone had taken our seats at the bar, we migrated to the fa
r corner of the room. Several guys sized us up, and it was no small feat to avoid eye contact while I searched the place for the mystery man. Finally, I spotted him. He was standing at a high-top table, alone, drinking a beer and seemingly absorbed in whatever was on the television. Matlock, I think.
Boy, he was going to be disappointed when the Margaritaville Maniacs—a popular Jimmy Buffet cover band on Devil’s Beach—started up. The guitar player plugged in his amp and the singer tapped the microphone, sending an ear-splitting hum of feedback into the air.
I leaned toward Erica. “That’s him. By himself. Nine o’clock. Tattoo of a machete on his left arm.”
Her eyes flickered up and down, scanning his entire body. He was about ten feet away, and we could only see his hawkish profile. “Got it. Follow me.”
Before I could ask her what she had planned, she marched up to the bar. “Three shots of tequila,” she said to the guy behind the counter before handing over her credit card. “And keep the tab open.”
I cleared my throat and poked her with my free hand.
“I’m driving,” I muttered.
“Don’t sweat it,” she said. “Leave your car here.”
“Tomorrow’s a work day.”
“Who cares?” she hissed. “We’re trying to get some answers tonight.”
Yes, we were. Emboldened by her certainty, I decided to follow her lead.
Erica collected the three shot glasses then gestured with her head. “You get the lime and salt.”
I grabbed the salt shaker and stuffed it in a plastic cup, along with three lime wedges. Like a laser, Erica focused on the guy and strutted up. Catwalk models had nothing on her, and several men glanced, whistled, and murmured in appreciation. I scurried to keep up with her, Stanley tucked under one arm and holding the condiments with my free hand.
We stopped at the guy’s table.
“Hey there,” she said with a giant grin, setting the three glasses down. “The bartender accidentally poured too many shots for me and my friend here. Since the dog doesn’t drink, I figured you looked like a man who could use some free booze.”
The guy’s eyes went from Erica, to the shots, to me. I was wearing jeans and one of Mom’s old Tom Petty tour T-shirts. A grin spread across his face. “Maybe tonight’s my lucky night after all. Make yourselves comfortable. Here, put the dog on this chair.”
He pulled up a high-top chair for Stanley and scratched his head. “How’s it going, buddy?”
Stanley wagged his tail. Probably because he was a young and innocent dog, he wasn’t too discerning between good strangers and serial killers. We’d have to work on that in puppy kindergarten.
“Cute little guy,” the man growled. Aww, he was a dog lover. Well, he might be a murderer but that sure scored points with me. Stanley settled in. I placed the cup of limes and salt in the middle of the table.
The guy licked his hand, then grabbed the salt shaker, coating the skin between his thumb and forefinger on the back of his leathery hand. Erica did the same, and I followed. We all took limes.
Erica slid us each a shot and held hers up. “To new friends.”
I paused. This was a situation that called for thinking on one’s feet. How was I going to get any details from him if I was drinking and didn’t have a way to take notes? I’d never drank with sources as a reporter. I knew many reporter guys who did, but as a woman, I walked the straight and narrow.
“Lana?” Erica said with a warning glance.
“Oh, right. To new friends and the end of summer,” I said cheerfully.
“To free booze and island girls,” the guy said in that southern accent, chilling me to my core.
The guy’s tongue darted out of his mouth, lapping his hand. Erica and I locked eyes, and I watched her lick her hand. This seemed like a terrible idea, because tequila was almost always a poor choice in any situation.
In this circumstance? Tequila had the potential to be an incendiary device. Or a truth serum. Oh well, I had no other options of investigating this man and his connection to Fab. Wincing, I put my tongue to salt.
The liquor burned during its journey down my throat, giving me prickles of confidence along the way.
Chapter Fourteen
Approximately ninety minutes, six Jimmy Buffett cover tunes, and two more tequila shots later, I was cracking up at one of Gary’s stories. I had to admit, if you moved past the tattoos of the violent scenes, his one gold tooth (left incisor) and his habit of scratching his jaw with the spout of his Corona bottle, he was a pretty good guy.
Yes, we were old friends by now. Drinking buddies. Gary was a shrimp boat captain, and he seemingly had an endless supply of stories about damaged shrimp nets, fishing in tropical storms, and shark attacks.
“I had no idea shrimping was so exciting,” I admitted. It was true; I merely snarfed shrimp every chance I could get without giving so much as a thought about where they came from.
“I was even thinking about writing a book called Big Shrimpin’,” he said, holding up his giant hand and skimming it through the air. “I can see it now. Big Shrimpin’ with Gary Leon Knowles. I think it would be way better than that Tiger King crap.”
“Oh, is that your full name?” Erica batted her eyelashes. She’d been doing that a lot, and was so convincing that I could’ve sworn she was flirting with him for real. It was a little disturbing to watch, but considering I was getting a treasure trove of info, I didn’t mind all that much.
“Yep, that’s my name. Gary Leon Knowles. I go by three names. Like a serial killer.” He and Erica dissolved in laughter, and I tittered. Oh dear. His little joke reminded me of why we were really here at the table, drinking with this random man. Because he probably has clues about a murder!
“In speaking of death,” I said brightly, while Erica and Gary’s grins faded, “How about that barista who died? Fab. That was quite a shock, wasn’t it?”
In my drunken state, it occurred to me that Gary might actually know who I was—there weren’t any other Lanas on the island as far as I knew. But he seemed to be oblivious, and I pressed on, inspired by Jose Cuervo.
“Sure was,” Gary said, suddenly sober. “Quite. The. Shock.”
“Did you know him?” I probed, while wobbling a little.
He stared at me without blinking. His eyes were a clear green, like sea glass, and a current of fear went down my spine. “I did. We’re friends. Well, were friends. Used to hang out. Did you know him?”
Was he trying to intimidate me? My boozy bravado reared up. “He worked for me. I own Perkatory, the coffee shop.”
Gary nodded slowly. “He lived in that building, too, didn’t he?”
You and I both know he did because you were there a few hours ago going through his stuff, I wanted to say, while pointing accusingly as if we were in a courtroom drama. But I didn’t. “Sure did. My dad rented him the place. I didn’t hang out with him much outside of work.”
“Hmph. Guess you’re about the only woman on the island who didn’t.” Gary took a big slug of his beer, then focused on Erica. Goodness, this man could drink. “How about you? You ever hook up with Fab?”
She shook her head. “Only met him once, at Perkatory, right before he died. I just moved to the island a few weeks ago.”
The two of them started talking about Erica’s liveaboard sailboat, Eek. That wasn’t good. He seemed quite interested in her. Not cool. There were three marinas on the island, so it would take time for him to figure it out. But still. She shouldn’t roll out the red carpet for a probable killer. The more I drank, the more convinced I became he was behind Fab’s death. Why would he change the subject so abruptly?
Three names. Like a serial killer. I glanced at his tattoo. It was of a machete, slicing through an anatomically correct heart. There was a snake somewhere in there, too. Lovely.
I grabbed my phone and waved it at them. “Erica,” I said shrilly, nearly losing my balance. I clutched the back of her chair to steady myself. “My dad’s coming to
pick us up.”
Gary roared with laughter. “What are you, Cinderella? You sure you’re old enough to drink? You two have curfews?”
“No,” Erica said.
“Yes,” I blurted. “Work, you know. Gotta punch the clock for the man. I mean, I’m the man.” Good lord, I was ridiculous when I was drunk.
He chuckled and Erica rolled her eyes.
“You two are too much. I’d love to hang out with you again.” I figured he’d rather hang out with Erica only, but I nodded enthusiastically anyway, glad I’d steered the conversation from where she lived.
“Anytime,” Erica purred.
I turned to my phone and tapped out a message to Dad.
Hey you. I’ve been drinking. Can you come and get me and Erica and Stanley at the Dolphin?
My dad texted back: Can’t Stanley drive?
I blinked. Sometimes my dad’s texting skills were questionable. No, he’s a dog. He doesn’t drive. Yet. Are you high?
Oh, right. I thought Stanley was some guy you two picked up. Sorry! Laughing out Loud. Be there soon. No, I haven’t been smoking tonight.
Dad still didn’t grasp the concept of LOL, no matter how many times I’d explained it to him.
“How about we grab a drink next weekend?” Gary said to Erica. “I’m going out on the boat for a few nights, but I’ll probably be back by Saturday afternoon. We could meet here that night. Normally that’s date night, but screw it. Time to find some new playmates.”
“Date night? Playmates?” I piped up. “You’re spoken for?”
Erica snorted.
Gary lifted his hands, palms up. “I’ve got an old lady. But we got a real unconventional situation. It’s complicated. An open kinda thing. We’ve been having some troubles lately.”
I frowned and pressed my hand to my chest. “Are you married?”
“Well, a Florida marriage. Crystal and I have been living together for a while. She’d probably get jealous of you two. Or maybe she’d like you. Could go either way, she’s a little freaky.” He grinned menacingly.
“Crystal?” I said weakly. “Freaky?”