Grounds for Murder

by Tara Lush

  We were close to Gary and Crystal’s street. “There,” I pointed. “Mariner Avenue. On the left.”

  Noah turned the car, and I peered out of my window. “I think that’s it. He mentioned that he had a black truck.”

  There, in the driveway, was a monstrous truck with big, jacked-up wheels. My heart fluttered a bit. I’d forgotten how exciting it was to be out with an officer doing their job.

  Noah pulled in behind the truck. “You stay here.”

  “Why?”

  He stared at me.

  “You think it’s dangerous?” I asked. “Wouldn’t it be better if I was there to casually introduce you to Crystal? Or Gary, if he’s here? Tell them that we were driving around together and stopped.”

  Noah burst out laughing. “Lana, I don’t need an excuse. I’m the police chief.”

  “It’s a small island. Might be friendlier. You are considered a newcomer here,” I pointed out.

  Noah grunted adorably. “Fine.”

  We both got out of the car, and I followed him down the long driveway to the trailer door. The yard was barren, save for some odd metal contraptions that looked like they were tangled in rotting nets.

  “Wonder what those are,” I muttered.

  “Shrimp trawl nets,” Noah replied casually, without breaking his step. “I spent four months undercover on an illegal seafood ring some years back.”

  “Oh, so that’s how you knew the eyeball was from a swordfish,” I said.

  “Exactly. I suspect that eyeball came from an illegal fishing expedition. You need a permit to catch ’em.”

  I was about to ask him why he didn’t become a fish and wildlife officer —I was actually thinking about how he’d look shirtless, on a beach—but before I could open my mouth, he was bounding up the two white steps leading to the trailer.

  The white door was adorned with a pretty wreath made of cream-colored and sparkly gold bows. A small hand-lettered plaque was tucked amidst the frill. It read, “Dogs welcome (People tolerated).”

  “At least Gary wasn’t pulling my chain about that,” I muttered.

  “About what?” Noah glanced at me, his eyes flashing dark.

  “He seemed to genuinely like Stanley, and I’d wondered if he was putting on an act.” I gestured to the door. “Guess he wasn’t.”

  Noah rapped on the door, a short, staccato sound. Even his knock was efficient.

  No one answered.

  “Did Gary happen to say where Crystal worked?”

  I shook my head. “He didn’t actually talk much about her. He only told us that Crystal was his old lady,” I used air quotes, “much later in the conversation. I think he didn’t want to lose the chance at a date with Erica.”

  Noah knocked again, but there was no answer.

  “No one home,” he said cheerfully. “Guess we’ll get going.”

  We climbed back in the car. “You going to come back to question them?”

  He shrugged. “Possibly.”

  “Did you come out here to humor me?”

  “Lana, I don’t do investigations to humor pesky coffee shop owners, no matter how pretty they are.”

  Flirt alert! I beamed. “So, you’ll check it out? You agree with me that Fab didn’t commit suicide?”

  “Are you quoting me for your article?”

  I tilted my head. “No, but I was hoping for an exclusive.”

  “Yes, I’ll check it out. I’m not going to comment on Fab’s cause of death.”

  That he believed my story about Gary—and the fact that he called me pretty—seemed like a huge win. We rode back to Perkatory, and my entire body was bathed in a warm glow, something I hadn’t felt in a long time.

  * * *

  Later that night, Erica and I were in my kitchen, drinking some Perkatory house blend spiked with Kahlua.

  “How were things today with Sheriff Hunk?” She reached for the can of whipped cream and squirted a giant ball into her coffee.

  “He’s not a sheriff,” I said primly.

  “Did he ask you on a date?”

  “No.” She handed me the whipped cream and I squirted it on a spoon, then opened my mouth and took it like syrup. “He called me pretty, though.”

  “How gallant! How old fashioned!” Erica hooted and raised her right hand in the air. She gave herself a high five with her other hand, which made me giggle. “I was right. Let’s get this show on the road.”

  I shook my head. “It was nice to flirt and all, but I should take it slow. Or not go down that road at all. Could be a dangerous one for me.”

  “Bull crap,” she said, leaning in. “You are thirsty. For Sheriff Hunk.”

  “Naw. He’s too old. And he’s a chief.”

  “How old is he? Forty? Forty-five? He’s not married, right?”

  “Nope. Not according to what Dad told me.”

  “Not engaged, right?”

  “Doesn’t seem so. Said he went through a bad breakup in Tampa then moved here. He’s only been here a few months, and so far no one’s seen him with a date. Dad discreetly asked around.”

  “Your father is a reliable source. He gave me the rundown on every City Council member the other day.”

  I smirked. “I just can’t go there with Noah.”

  “Go where? Down the pants of Sheriff Hunk?”

  “Crass.” Laughter erupted out of my mouth.

  She shrugged. “You’re single. He’s single. He’s stopped considering you as a suspect for Fab’s death, right?”

  “I think so. Hope so. He’s leaning toward suicide. I think he’s wrong on that, though.”

  “Is that why you can’t date him? Because you disagree with his investigative tactics?”

  I slurped my drink, the alcohol sliding smoothly down my throat. “He’s too old.”

  She frowned. “How old are you?”

  “Thirty.”

  Erica held her mug halfway to her mouth. “There’s a ten-year age gap at most. So?”

  I lifted a shoulder. “He’s around the same age as my ex-husband.”

  “There are millions of dudes the same age as your ex. Can you not date any of them? Are you swearing off an entire generation?”

  “I want to make sure Noah’s not on the prowl for younger women.”

  Erica took a gulp. “Okay. Fair enough. Doesn’t seem like it, though. I noticed that he didn’t even take his eyes off you when those three college girls came in wearing string bikinis the other day.”

  “That’s good to hear. I’m just really hesitant about older men. My ex and I started dating when I was twenty-one. Then right before my twenty-ninth birthday, he left me for a twenty-two-year-old. I want to avoid a repeat of that.”

  She shook her head. “Men.”

  “See why I’m wary of Noah?”

  “I get it, girl. But are you still in love with your ex?”

  I let out a snort. “Hell, no. He taught me a valuable lesson: that I couldn’t change someone by loving them more.”

  “There you go. So, don’t let that stop you from having a little fun.” She took the can of whipped cream and squirted it directly into her mouth. Stanley ran in from the kitchen and reared up on his hind legs, pressing his front paws into my calf.

  “Only a little for you.” I squirted a dab on my finger and allowed him to lick my finger clean. “I don’t think I can do fun. I’m not wired that way.” I didn’t want to let on that I’d lost my virginity to my ex and that he’d been the only guy I’d ever been with. Even though Erica was around my age, she was much more worldly. I’d been a news nerd for my entire adult life.

  And now? I didn’t know what I was. A café owner who was trying to solve a murder, and trying not to fall for the wrong man all over again.

  * * *

  As if things couldn’t get any stranger on Devil’s Beach, the devil himself appeared on the island the following morning while I was eating my oatmeal.

  “And we’ve got a special report from Florida, with our own Miles Ross.”
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  My ex-husband. He was on my morning news. It was Thursday, and because I’d scheduled a veterinary appointment for Stanley, I was going to the café a little later. Erica and Dad were handling the morning rush. Which meant I’d been able to sleep in. It had been a lovely morning.

  Until this.

  I swallowed a thick lump of steel-cut oats just as my ex came on the screen. “Oh, come on,” I gurgled loudly. Stanley was next to me with his new toy, a plush gray seal. He looked at me, his brown eyes alarmed.

  I stroked his fur, to calm us both down. What was my ex doing on my island? This was the risk of watching his network. Usually I watched a different channel, not wanting to take the chance of seeing him, but I’d been alerted in a Facebook group to a segment about five-ingredient cookies and didn’t want to miss that.

  “I’m live here on Devil’s Beach, a sleepy island in Florida about three hours west of Miami,” Miles intoned in that Have-I-Got-A-Story-For-You-Martha folksiness. Back when he worked for the local station in Miami, I’d helped him perfect this. I’d joked that it was his “Boy- Next-Door Authoritative Voice,” but he’d clearly taken it to heart.

  I squinted at the television with a simpering expression. He was doing his live shot from the North Beach sand dunes, which was arguably the most popular spot on the entire island. He should know—we got married on that beach, at sunset, six months after we’d met.

  Today, the morning sunlight kissed his face and a soft breeze ruffled his hair. Almost as it did when we were married. Only today I felt no softness, no love. Just a deep, seething annoyance.

  Wasn’t there enough news in Miami to cover? Corruption, murders, celebrities—Miami had it all. What did we have on Devil’s Beach that could possibly be of interest to a network TV morning show?

  “The Italian consulate in Miami is investigating the death of Fabrizio Bellucci, a well-known Instagrammer and coffee barista who lived here on Devil’s Beach.”

  A photo of a shirtless Fab, holding a Perkatory coffee mug, flashed on the screen. Then an Instagram video of him at the cafe, working the espresso machine with a grin and a flex of his muscled forearms. Then a third, of him on the beach flanked by two bikini-clad women.

  As a former journalist, I had to admit, Fab was a made-for-TV story. Too bad he never got the chance to be a wrestler. Still. This wasn’t going to be good for business. Or the island.

  “Authorities have ruled the death a suicide, sources tell us.”

  An image of Noah flashed in my mind and a corresponding flutter of desire appeared in my stomach. Wait. Had Noah told Miles the cause of death before sharing it with me? Or had he phoned the consulate? My competitive reporter instinct kicked in.

  “But an official from the consulate told me exclusively that they have their doubts whether it was suicide.”

  At least someone agreed with me.

  “I’ll be speaking with the island’s police chief later tonight, so stay tuned. This is Miles Ross.” He paused, giving viewers a smoldering glance, “reporting from Devil’s Beach, Florida.”

  I stabbed at the remote’s off button, then snatched my phone. Didn’t I, as the owner of the café where Fab had worked, deserve some say in this? Any publicity about his death would reflect on Perkatory, and none of it would be good. Ugh. Being on the other side of the news wasn’t pleasant.

  I dialed Noah’s number, rolling my eyes when I realized that Erica had somehow gotten ahold of my phone when I wasn’t looking and saved him under the name Sheriff Hunk in my contacts.

  “Lana, I was just about to call you,” Noah said.

  “Why did you give him, of all reporters, the scoop?”

  “Hang on, let me shut my door.” I heard the phone clatter to a hard surface, and a door slamming. “Lana, you there?”

  “Yeah,” I grumbled. God, I loved the way he said my name.

  “Do you know Miles Ross?” he asked.

  “Do I know him? I was married to him.” I said.

  “Oh.”

  There was a pause.

  “Yeah. Oh. So why did you give him the scoop?”

  “I didn’t. I think there’s a leak in the department. Someone else told him we were leaning toward suicide. Probably the new guy on patrol; he seems to like publicity. I still haven’t made a final determination on the case. But Miles ran with the off-the-record info, and says I’ll be on the network news tonight.”

  “That’s his tactic,” I cried, pacing my living room. Stanley, who was on the floor chewing on a toy shaped like an eggplant, looked up in alarm. “That little weasel does that to people. Because if you don’t show up for the interview, you’re the one who seems like you’re evading him. Well, he didn’t always do that, not when I first met him. He was once an ethical journalist.”

  I spared Noah the story of how Miles and I had gotten in a huge fight when he told me about that particular interview tactic. That was in the final year of our marriage.

  Noah groaned. “He’d left a message early this morning, and I wanted to check with you before I called him back. He said he was from Miami and I figured you might know him and give me some intel.”

  “Sadly, I know him all too well.”

  Noah cleared his throat.

  “What should I do about Miles?”

  I sighed. “If you’re feeling particularly salty, don’t show up. He’ll insinuate you’re avoiding him, but it will also take the wind out of his sails and he won’t have as exciting of a live shot. Or show up and correct his reporting. Depends on your mood.”

  “I’ll think about it. And, hey, Lana?”

  “Yeah?”

  “That guy doesn’t seem like your type.”

  I huffed a little laugh. “No kidding. I made a huge mistake.”

  “We all have. Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.”

  “Why’d you break up?”

  “He cheated on me with a woman half his age, an intern. Humiliating, isn’t it?”

  Noah pushed out a breath. “For him. Not for you. But he looks like the type to do that. You’re better off. You deserve better. Chin up, cupcake.”

  A smile spread on my face. “Thanks, Noah.”

  “You’re welcome.” I could tell he was grinning from the sound of his voice. “I’ll let you know what I decide about the interview. You at the café this afternoon?”

  “I’ll be there after about eleven. Gotta bring Stanley to the vet.”

  “Give him a scratch for me, okay?”

  When I hung up, I somehow didn’t feel so bad.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Clean bill of health, pupper.”

  I set Stanley in the back of my car and buckled his harness onto his special doggie car seat. I’d ordered one online and it had arrived the other day, and this was the first time I’d been able to use it. Seeing him in his tiny plush seat, his little tongue lolling out of his mouth, I felt a maternal swell of my heart. I was a responsible dog owner. Me!

  Because Stanley was probably exhausted from the stress of the vet visit—he’d gotten two shots—I planned on dropping him home first. Dad said he’d stop by to take him for a potty break, and I was grateful for that.

  Today, the sun was high and bright, and the sky a brilliant azure. I rolled down my window so Stanley and I could get some fresh air. There was nothing better than the smell here in the summer—salty and tinged with suntan lotion, with a hint of earthiness from the humidity. The scent of home.

  A few blocks from my house, while I was driving down Main Street, Carly Simon’s “Nobody Does it Better” came on. Not sure what it is about that song, but it always inspires me to croon along.

  The light at the corner of Main and Oak turned red, and I was midway through belting out the chorus and laughing like a maniac because Stanley howled when I hit certain notes.

  A police car with its windows down glided next to me.

  “Nobody does it betterrrrrrrr …” I belted out the chorus and as I crooned the last word, Stanley howled in
sync.

  It was Noah. He was laughing, hard. I spotted his dimple and everything. Oh blergh. The light turned green and I drove off, my face hot as scalded coffee.

  Once I got Stanley settled at home, I power-walked to the cafe, still smarting from the embarrassment of the car karaoke. Just when Noah had flirted and called me pretty, I went and did something dorky.

  I pulled open the glass door to Perkatory and the first thing I saw was Miles, my ex. Ugh. He was a bout of instant indigestion, and just as welcome.

  He stood, smoothing the lapels of his dark blue suit. “Lana, so good to see you.”

  I rolled my eyes and went behind the counter, donning an apron. Erica came up to me. “I tried texting but you didn’t answer.”

  “I was busy with Stanley. Where’s Dad?”

  “He had to go show a condo. Said it was some new, rich lady who also does crystals.”

  I glanced at my ex, who stood near the temporary display of album covers that graced the back wall. It was a funky addition to the coziness of the café, and I’d plastered the space behind the sugar and creamer station with the square covers. Miles would probably launch into a discourse about how many of the bands he’d seen back in the day.

  Erica and I locked eyes. “I take it that he showed up after Dad left.”

  “The timing was uncanny. About five minutes after Peter walked out, he waltzed in. Was super picky about his order.”

  “Small, not-too-sweet, half-decaf mocha latte with caramel drizzles on the bottom of the cup?” I asked while staring at the back of my ex’s head, shooting him with invisible daggers of hate.

  “I can’t even picture the two of you together. How did you endure that?”

  “I endured his crap taste in coffee and a lot more.” I sighed. “Believe it or not, he was once a good guy. Although I have to dig deep to remind myself of that.”

  “Why’s he here?” she hissed.

  “Didn’t you see the morning news?”

  “No. Don’t have a TV on the boat.”