by Tara Lush
I wanted to know the deal with Lex, and whether Miles’s sources were correct. After all, I was working on an article, and I hoped I could find him at his place of employment.
I knew so little about surfing, in fact, that it came as a shock when I strolled in and asked a muscular young woman behind the counter for the owner—who turned out to be my sixth-grade history teacher. Mr. Johnson emerged from a back room, grinning. He had to be sixty, at least, but a robust sixty.
“Lana,” he said warmly. We hugged.
“I had no idea you owned this place.”
“Took it over last year. You in for a surf lesson? Want to rent a paddleboard?”
I chuckled. “Not really. I was in the neighborhood. I’m doing an article.” I glanced around, but there was nothing but paddleboards and surfboards and those shorter boards. Boogie boards? I had no clue because I was under the impression that people didn’t surf in the Gulf of Mexico unless there was a hurricane approaching that kicked up the swells.
“For the local paper?”
I grinned and nodded. “It’s a longer feature on Fab, the barista who died. I’m sure you heard about it. Apparently, he and Lex, your employee, were friends.”
A shadow crossed Mr. Johnson’s face, and he took me gently by the elbow and steered me toward a rack of what appeared to be extraordinarily long canoe oars. Probably they were for paddle boarding.
“Lana, please tell me you’re not mixed up with Lex. I know you always liked a certain kind of guy—”
“Hey, just because I went to the junior prom with a guy who was later on the FBI’s most wanted list for bank robbery doesn’t mean I like bad boys. I’m doing an article, not angling for a date.”
He shook his head. “Okay. Lex used to work here. But I let him go. He’s involved with all sorts of shady things.”
Like drug smuggling, I almost asked. “Like what?”
Mr. Johnson rubbed his bald head. “I mean, I have no proof. But the signs were all there that he was dealing in pot. Or what’s that new drug? Spice? He had two phones. And he got a lot of calls. And once, an extremely unsavory man came here, asking for him. I hope you’re not dating him.”
I pressed my lips together, trying not to laugh. Of all that I’d heard about Lex Bradstreet, none of the things Mr. Johnson listed as “signs” seemed all that bad. But maybe I’d gone soft since I left reporting.
“Mr. Johnson, I’m single and definitely not ready to mingle after my divorce.”
“I’m so sorry.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “Your dad told me about your breakup.”
Him and the rest of the island. “Right. Well, it’s for the best. I was searching for Lex because I thought he could give me some insight into Fab’s past.”
“Well, that does make sense, doesn’t it? In that case, let me give you Lex’s address. I think he lives in those beach huts at Devil’s Village.”
Mr. Johnson hustled over to the counter and scribbled on a piece of paper. “This was the address he gave on his application. He’s a nice kid, but I couldn’t have someone dealing weed here. I’m not against it for medical reasons. All for that, in fact. But I can’t risk illegal business in my own shop.”
“Of course not. And thanks. See you around!”
“Come on in and I’ll give you a free paddleboard lesson,” he cried as I walked out.
That would happen exactly … never.
* * *
It took me about ten minutes to get to Lex’s house. Devil’s Village was a cluster of brightly colored cabins on the island’s south side. It was once a hippie commune in the seventies. Dad liked to tell stories about how he and Mom would hang out there before I was born.
Now it was something of low-income housing for service workers, albeit with a prime beachfront view. Rumor had it that the property’s owner was militant about height restrictions of buildings on the beach, so he maintained the cabins and refused every big shot developer’s offer that came his way.
Lex lived in a tiny pink cabin closest to the water. It was a million-dollar view, and he probably paid no more than eight hundred a month, if that. As I parked my car and studied the miniscule home, a pang of envy went through me. I imagined cute potted flowers, a beach-themed flag, a tiny fenced yard for Stanley.
I didn’t have anything rehearsed as I walked to the door and knocked. Sometimes I’d done this as a reporter—winged it during interviews and asked whatever came to mind. Not during the important interviews, mind you. Just the ones where I was on a fishing expedition.
The door swung open. Lex’s eyes registered surprise, but his mouth spread into a wide grin.
He was shirtless, and wore only blue swim trunks. No shoes. I swallowed. He was definitely easy on the eyes.
“Hey,” he said warmly. “Lana, right?”
I grinned. “Yeah. Hey, Lex. I thought I’d stop by and say hello.”
What the heck was I doing? Stop by and say hello? I was flirting with a drug dealer. A possible murderer. “I mean, I’m doing an article for the local paper and thought you could help.”
“Sweet. Well, I’m glad you came by.”
We paused and stared into each other’s eyes. They were so blue and clear.
“Wanna come in?” he asked.
“Sure.” Was this a good idea, going into his house alone? I’d done this dozens, if not hundreds, of times, as a reporter. Don’t know why I was worried now.
He wandered inside and I followed. Part of me was curious what his tiny home looked like from the inside, and I wasn’t disappointed.
I walked over gleaming wooden floorboards, past an expensive looking, modern sofa that looked like it was crafted out of butter. His house was decorated like a surf shack, with a couple of gleaming, waxed boards leaning against one wall. Everything else was blonde wood and white, and I could see through a door that there was a bedroom back there. Unlike Fab, Lex seemed to value a clean home.
I cleared my throat.
“You want some water? A beer?” He asked. “I just got back from paddle boarding.”
“Water would be great,” I said.
He took a pitcher out of the fridge and poured it into a plastic cup. He gulped from a green glass beer bottle.
“So …” he said. “How’d you know where I lived?”
Should I tell him? I didn’t see any reason not to. “The owner of the surf shop told me. He was my sixth-grade teacher.”
He nodded, but didn’t say anything.
“I wanted to come by to ask you about Fab for an article I’m writing.”
Lex came around to the sofa, an overstuffed brown sectional. He scrunched up his face and looked like he might cry, then pointed. “Have a seat.”
I did.
“What did you want to know?”
“Mind if I take notes?”
He shook his head, which was my cue to grab my pen and notebook. Sometimes I recorded interviews with my phone, but I preferred the old-fashioned reporting method. “Tell me how you met Fab.”
He was silent for a second, staring at the remote on the coffee table. “I met him the first week he came to Devil’s Beach. So, about a year ago. I was drinking at the Dirty Dolphin, at the bar. He came in and we started to talk about surfing. I invited him out to paddleboard and we just, I dunno. Bonded. We loved a lot of the same things. Boats. Water. Fishing, Paddling …”
“Women,” I added.
Lex grinned and stroked his chin. “Yep. Women. Dude, we had some good times together.”
“I was wondering about the last time you saw him. Fab and I ended things on a bad note. And I wanted to try to piece together his last days.”
He nodded. “I get it. You want to try to get over the guilt.”
I winced. “Yeah. I guess that’s it.”
“Fab really liked you. He felt bad about leaving your café without giving notice. But he didn’t have any other choice.”
That hardly seemed possible. Two weeks’ notice wasn’t that difficult. “I don’t under
stand. What do you mean, didn’t have any other choice?”
Lex ran a hand through his mop of sun-streaked, dirty blonde hair. “Paige. She wanted him close by at all times.”
“His girlfriend.” I nodded, hoping he’d elaborate.
“It was complicated, the two of them.”
“He had quite the reputation with women.”
“I told him he was going to get himself in trouble, but …” he shrugged and sipped his beer.
“Trouble for what?”
Lex turned his blazing blue eyes on me. “Fab had some unusual tastes.”
“Meaning?” My mind went to the pictures of Crystal.
“Let’s just say he was sexually liberated. More than me. The guy was insatiable and really liked ah,” Lex cleared his throat, “does this need to be in the paper?”
I tapped my pen against my mouth. If this were Miami, I wouldn’t hesitate to say yes. Here on a small island? I pondered for a beat. “What’s the harm of telling me things on the record?”
“Fab knew a lot of powerful people on the island. I don’t want any blowback. I’m trying to stay clean here.” Lex shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
“Understood,” I said slowly. “What about you? When was the last time you saw him?”
He sighed. “We were supposed to hang out that night, the night he died. But I’d gone out surfing that day—remember it was raining and a little windy? There was a decent light surf and I was bitten while out on the water.”
“Bitten?”
“Yeah, by a shark. A small one. But I went to the hospital to get it checked out. Hurt like hell. They kept me there overnight so I never went over to Fab’s.” He extended his leg, and sure enough, there was a large bandage on the shin. His long fingers went to the bandage and peeled it aside to reveal three puncture wounds. “That’s where it clamped down on me. See the teeth marks?”
“Yikes,” I said.
“It’s not so bad now.” He reattached the bandage.
I nodded. This sure did seem like an alibi.
“Hang on. I want to show you something.” Lex set his bottle on the coffee table, next to a phone, and rose. He ambled into the bedroom.
I sipped my water as I waited. His phone, which was about a foot from my knee, lit up. My eyes went to it immediately, because a photo flashed on the screen.
“ONE HOT MAMA,” the text read.
It was Paige, in a crop top and shorts, her hand resting on her stomach.
I almost gasped. What was that about? I flashed back to how her father had used the phrase in your condition. She was almost certainly pregnant. The question was, who was the baby’s father? It had to be Fab. But why was she texting Lex?
“Here it is!” he called out.
I swiveled in my seat to meet his voice and pasted on a smile. Had he been sleeping with Paige? Why would she send a sexy photo to her dead boyfriend’s friend?
Lex sat next to me. He held a photo in his hand. It was of him and Fab, on the beach. They were both flashing hang ten hand signs, and I wondered if the two of them ever were captured on film without making some sort of gesture. I had to admit, though, they both appeared extremely handsome in the shot.
“My best friend,” Lex said, his voice husky.
“You two look like GQ models,” I said.
“You think?”
I glanced up and Lex’s blue eyes were wet.
“I do. It’s a photo to cherish,” I said. “Thank you for sharing it with me.”
“I’d love to send you a copy, but I don’t want my face in the paper. I’ve probably said too much. I don’t want to be quoted after all.”
We both stared at the photo as my mind spun over the other photo on Lex’s phone. And at the fact that my best quotes had just come from someone who no longer wanted to be part of the article.
“Could I quote you anonymously? Identify you as a friend?”
He stuck his index finger in his ear and twisted. “That could work. Let me think about it and I’ll get back to you. How’s that?”
This interview wasn’t going as I’d hoped. Was I losing my touch?
“Well, you’ve already gone to the trouble of talking with me.”
“I’ve had some problems with the law in the past, and I don’t want any attention. I’ve got a good thing going here and don’t want to screw it up.”
Probably I should ask what kind of troubles, but I’d deal with that later when I searched his criminal record online. I finished my water and stood. “Fine. Let’s talk in a couple of days. Do you think Fab killed himself?” I asked Lex. His broad shoulders slumped.
“No. I don’t. And I don’t think he lost his balance, either. You should’ve seen him on a paddleboard. Fab had wicked balance skills.” He wiped a tear from the corner of his left eye.
“Then what happened?” I chewed on the inside of my cheek.
He shook his head and set the photo down next to his phone, misery clouding his expression. “I’m sorry. I don’t think I can talk about this anymore.”
The poor guy appeared so sad that I squeezed his shoulder and left.
* * *
The next morning, I was still thinking about Lex and Paige and Fab—why did they all have such hip names—when I grabbed a copy of the newspaper off my walkway. It was Saturday, and Dad was working at the café. Which meant I could spend the morning reading the paper and drinking coffee while lounging in bed with my main man: Stanley.
He seemed to be a dog after my own heart. I allowed him out to do his business in the front yard, and he was already done and waiting at the door by the time I picked up the paper.
We went inside, and I grabbed a cup of Perkatory’s house roast, then shuffled back to the bedroom. It was 9 AM, and I was still in my pajamas. Stanley’s little legs were too small for him to jump onto the bed, so I gave him a boost. He immediately flopped down and resumed sleeping.
Not a bad idea … but. A leftover instinct from journalism meant I had to read the headlines first thing. I’d actually already scanned The New York Times, CNN, and The Miami Tribune on my phone, but checking the physical paper was a compulsion.
I slid the Devil’s Beach Beacon out of its plastic sleeve. A sip of delicious coffee warmed my throat, and I unfolded the paper. There was the usual small-town fare on the front page: a hot debate over sewer rate increases, a feature about a dog who body surfed, and yet another article about the barista championships.
Today’s story had the entire line-up of competitors from around Florida, and my stomach tensed with nerves as I scanned the list. I recognized the names of some of the baristas and their coffeehouses; many were from larger, better known shops in Orlando and Miami. There was no way Erica and I would place, much less win.
“Crap,” I muttered, turning the page to the crime blotter. This was more my speed.
Today’s best story: Man Tells Police Wind Must Have Blown Cocaine Into Car
I chuckled and scanned the article, followed by the rest of the paper. I thumbed through, skimming stories about the island’s parks and rec board, the engagements, the births, and the obituaries.
The Lifestyle section held my interest for a while because there was a detailed story about a vegetable pickling class at the community center. I was about to close the paper and fall back asleep next to Stanley, who lounged on his back, showing his chubby puppy belly.
Then I saw a photo of a familiar woman.
Island Resident is Mer-Mazing With Her Mermaid Tail Business, the headline read.
Who was that? I moved the paper closer to my face, then away. That severe ponytail … where had I seen her? Definitely at the café.
The day before Fab died. She was the woman who’d asked for him that morning. And who was in Island Brewnette when I had my spectacular meltdown. Hmm.
I read the article. Apparently her name was Brittany Yates, and she’d recently moved to the island and opened a mermaid tail business. At first, I wasn’t entirely sure what that was, but the lengthy
profile told me all I needed to know—apparently young women and girls had a huge desire to dress, swim, and act like mermaids, and the comely Brittany was filling a gap in the marketplace by making mermaid fins.
Some sold for upwards of a grand, which seemed excessive to me. But what did I know? My salary standards were obviously low after years of being a reporter and now as a small business owner selling coffee. Maybe I should have gone into mermaid fashion.
The article said Brittany was single, but she said that she’d recently lost someone close to her. That had to be Fab. I ran through a mental list of the people I’d chatted with about Fab. Lex, Gary, Paige (reluctantly), Paige’s dad, Mickey. Maybe Brittany could shed some light on Fab’s final weeks on earth.
At the very least, I’d get a quote and some context for the article from one of Fab’s adoring fans.
I reached over and scratched Stanley’s floppy ear. “I think we’re going to pay Mermaid Lady a visit today, buddy.”
Chapter Eighteen
Mer-Mazing Creations was located in a strip mall on the eastern edge of the island, near the bridge leading to the mainland. Situated between a sandwich shop and a nail salon, it was a place easily overlooked.
I tucked Stanley under my arm and walked to the front door. “Buddy, you’re gaining weight,” I murmured. He’d lived with me just over a week. He felt like a small lead football. Could he have gained an entire pound in the time I had him? A question for the vet. Still, he was so darned cute with his puppy fur and his new blue harness.
Unlike when I paid Lex an unexpected visit, today I was prepared with interview questions.
I opened the door. Brittany was at a long table covered in fabric, and she raised her head in greeting. Today she wore bright pink, plastic-rimmed glasses and her silky, blonde hair loose. She had on a lime green sweat suit that accentuated her curves. She looked like the stripper version of a Lilly Pulitzer model. Odd, but it worked in her favor. Sometimes I wished I could pull off interesting outfits like that.
“Hello,” she chirped, grinning. “How can I help you have a mer-mazing day?”
I had to give it to her, she had her branding down. The walls were lined with photos of people in various mermaid tails—including men, which surprised me a little, but hey, equal opportunity fantasies here on Devil’s Beach—and mannequins in mermaid tails and matching tops.