Grounds for Murder

by Tara Lush

  I rooted around in my cupboards, thinking about cookies and murder. Flour, sugar, baking powder. What if Lex was the father of Paige’s baby and Fab had confronted them? What if he’d gotten into a fight with Lex and somehow Fab was thrown off the roof? I could almost see it happening as if a movie were unfolding in my mind. Maybe the two men had been drinking.

  But that dashed my Gary theory.

  Crap. I was out of chocolate chips. I did have raisins and oatmeal, though. I was in the mood for something more substantial than cookies, so this was good news. As I was mixing the flour for oatmeal raisin bars—the kind that are chewy and dense and give the illusion that they’re healthy like energy bars but are actually full of sugar—there was a knock at the door. Erica must be early.

  Stanley barked twice—short, sharp woofs. Wiping my hands, I went to the door and peered out the side window.

  It was Noah, and he wasn’t wearing his uniform. No, he was dressed similarly to that night on the beach, in workout clothes. A blue T-shirt and black shorts. Sneakers. Delish. I flung the door open.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Hey.” He gave me the once over, and I fidgeted with the pocket of my apron. “Are you okay?”

  I glanced down at my flour-covered, red-and-white polka dot retro apron. “Oh. Sorry. I was baking.”

  “I can see that.” His dark brows drew together, and he seemed a little out of breath.

  “Come on in.” I led him inside and shut the door. “Want water? I don’t have lemon.”

  “Yes, please. That’s fine.” He slid onto a stool at the kitchen counter and I grabbed him a bottle of water. He gulped it down. Lord, he looked supremely sexy with that little bit of sweat on his dark brow.

  “Did you jog here or something?” I cracked an egg into a bowl.

  “I did, in fact. I was at the gym and checked my phone. You’d called about a million times and I was worried. Then you didn’t answer your phone, so I thought I’d come by since the gym’s down the street.”

  Weird. He sounded either peeved or … concerned. A triumphant warmth spread through my body. “Sorry. I was caught up in my baking.”

  “Why’d you call so many times, Lana?”

  “I didn’t mean to alarm you. I’m fine.”

  “And I’m glad for that.” He paused and we stared into each other’s eyes. A smile spread on his face and corresponding goose bumps raced down my arms. My gaze skittered to his hand, which was holding the water. He had the most masculine hands I’d ever seen.

  “At least I get to see you in that 1950s apron.”

  I bit my lip. Oh, dear. Is he flirting? I think he’s flirting. “Uh. Thanks. I, uh, really called you about Fab. About some things I found out today.”

  “Doing some more investigating?” His eyebrow quirked upward. “I thought I told you—”

  “Research for my article. I was visiting Lex Bradstreet—”

  “You were what?” His dark eyes flashed.

  “I figured he’d give good quotes for the article.” Plausible.

  He nodded. “And?”

  “And I stumbled upon him and Fab’s girlfriend, Paige. Did you know she was pregnant?”

  By his split second of stunned expression, I guessed he didn’t. “Go on.”

  “They were quite cozy together.” I leaned over the counter. “Like foot rub cozy.”

  “Foot rub cozy? Am I supposed to know what that is? Is that like Netflix and chill?”

  I giggled. “No. It’s my own phrase. He was giving her an actual foot rub while sitting on the beach. They didn’t know I saw them. That’s a pretty intimate thing, foot rubs.”

  “So, you were spying on them?”

  “No. I wasn’t,” I tried to sound indignant. “They were out in public, on the beach. I was, ah, behind a tree. With large leaves. You know the kind.”

  “Sounds like spying to me.”

  “Okay, maybe it was unintentional spying. Whatever. I didn’t set out to do that. I didn’t wake up this morning and think, “I’m going to hide in the bushes and perform surveillance on a sketchy surfer and a dead man’s girlfriend.”

  He snorted, and I guessed he didn’t quite believe me.

  “Seeing them canoodling like that made me wonder if they wanted Fab dead for some reason.”

  “Canoodling?” He scratched his square jaw.

  “That’s what it seemed like, yes.”

  Noah took a deep breath. “Lana, you have an extremely overactive imagination. Paige has an alibi for the night Fab died. I’ve already checked it out. Maybe she and Lex are just friends.”

  Just as I was about to tell him not to ignore my clues, there was another knock at the door. “Yeah, right. Excuse me, I said daintily.

  It was Erica. “Hey. The chief’s here,” I whispered. “We were …”

  “Going down to bone town?” She arched her right eyebrow.

  “You’re a perv. We were not—”

  “Lana was telling me about her latest theory about Fab’s death.” Oh dear, I hadn’t realized he was right behind me and heard that entire exchange. “I was just leaving.”

  “Great!” I said brightly. “Thanks for coming over. Check that tip out, willya?”

  “Sure thing. Hey, are you going to Fab’s memorial tomorrow?”

  I grimaced. “Yeah, I probably should.”

  “I’ve got the café covered,” Erica piped up. “So, if you two want to go together …”

  I shot her a hard stare. Was she trying to set us up on a date … for a funeral?

  He inhaled and nodded. “Pick you up at twelve thirty?” he asked.

  Well. Maybe this was a date. Was this a new thing, funeral dates? It seemed inappropriate, but then again, if anyone would have made a move on a member of the opposite sex during a funeral, it would have been Fab. Might as well seize the moment.

  “Sounds great,” I replied. Erica beamed.

  Noah smirked and nodded at Erica, sliding by us on his way out and squeezing my arm in the process. He paused at the door. “Oh, and Lana?”

  His eyes bored into mine and my face burst into flames. I’m certain my skin was as red as my apron. Awesome.

  “Yes?” With the back of my hand, I mopped a rivulet of sweat above my left brow.

  “Don’t go over to Lex Bradstreet’s house again. At least not without me. You got that?”

  My jaw dropped. Two simultaneous thoughts went through my mind.

  You’re not the boss of me.

  Dear God, he’s sexy when he’s possessive like that.

  Still, since he and Lex were both from Tampa, I figured he might know something about him that I didn’t. Something that I’d try to pry out of him on the way to Fab’s funeral. So, I cooed in agreement, and he turned and jogged down my walkway.

  Erica shot me a lusty smile. When she shut the door, she turned to me and made a growling noise.

  “Geeky Sheriff Hunk has a jealous streak,” she said in a sing-song voice.

  “What. Ever.”

  “He was totally checking out your butt, you know. I was watching him as he stood behind you.”

  “Oh, come on, no way,” I cried. Still, the scorching sexual tension between me and Noah, along with Erica noticing that he’d checked me out, was enough to make me a bit giddy. “Get in here and eat some cheese with me.”

  * * *

  The next day was overcast and oppressively muggy, perfect for a Florida funeral.

  I was at my usual corner table at Perkatory, wondering whether to order a smaller shipment of beans for our cold brew. I’d crunched the numbers and discovered that business had taken a thirty percent hit since Fab’s death. Hopefully we were on the upswing, but many of the customers who hadn’t abandoned us adored the cold brew. It was the second most popular thing on the menu, after the cappuccino, which meant I should order the beans.

  Each night, I made a small vat of the cold brew in a food-grade plastic bucket. Because it was still infernally hot outside, cold coffee sales might
stay steady, or even increase. The organic Guatemalan volcano roast was so heckin’ delicious, with its full body, heavy sweetness, and medium acidity. My mouth watered while thinking about brewing a new vat.

  Decisions, decisions. This was what being a business owner was about. It was far different from working as a reporter, when I had to make choices about stories and writing, and little else. Definitely not about the bottom line and money.

  “Good morning,” came a chirpy voice.

  I lifted my eyes from the spreadsheet on my screen. It was Brittany, the mermaid tail maker.

  “Hey,” I said. Unlike the other two times I’d seen her, she wasn’t wearing bright colors. Today she was in black, a sleek sheath dress, and she looked formidable. Her hair was pulled back in a severe ponytail, and huge, dark sunglasses covered her eyes. Extremely pretty, in a severe way. Then it hit me.

  “Aww, you’re going to Fab’s memorial?” I asked sympathetically, making a tsk sound with my tongue.

  “I am. I had to run a few errands first and wanted to stop by.”

  “Oh, nice. Have a seat.” I shut my laptop and gestured to the chair across from me. “How are you holding up, anyway?”

  She lifted a shoulder but didn’t sit. “I have good and bad days. Hey, I came by because I wanted to ask you a question.”

  “Sure.”

  “I saw that you entered that barista championship. Your café, anyway. I finally read the local paper, first time since I’ve been here. Saw an article about it.”

  I blew out a breath. “I think so. I mean, it had been the plan, but Fab had quit the day before he, ah, died. Erica wants to do it. I need two people. Barbara, our afternoon person, would be great but she already has an art fair in Fort Lauderdale that day, and she can’t get out of it.”

  “Ohh,” Britt said in a breathy voice.

  “And my dad isn’t great with latte art, and I’m pretty questionable myself. I’m trying to get better. I’ve mastered the heart and the fern and am working on some other designs.” I thought back to the heart-shaped latte I had made for her that day before Fab died. When I went and studied her tag on Insta, I realized my latte that day had all the aesthetic appeal of something Picasso pulled out of his butt.

  “Well, that’s where I come in.” She slid her sunglasses off and her blue eyes glittered. “I’d love to compete for your café.”

  “Hunh? You’re a mermaid tail maker.” I squinted.

  “That’s my profession now. I told you. I was a barista while in college. Remember? It was how Fab and I met.”

  “I remember. New York, of course.” I nodded as if I was intimately familiar with the city, which I wasn’t.

  She leaned down, almost in my face, and spoke in a low tone. “Fab never wanted to admit it, but I was better than he was when it came to latte art. Well, at least with the tulips. I can also do mermaids. And palm trees—those are super cute. Want me to show you?”

  She sounded so excited that I didn’t have the heart to tell her that we’d probably lose against Paige and Mickey Dotson anyway. Both had gone to culinary school.

  Unless Paige was arrested for Fab’s murder before Saturday … but no. Noah said he’d confirmed Paige’s alibi, something I wanted to ask him about when I saw him later today. Gary was the killer. Right? Gah. I was all mixed up.

  I eyed Erica, who was working the espresso machine like she was one with the metal and steam. She’d become part of the café’s fabric so quickly. She grinned at a customer, who stuffed bills into the tip jar. Even with her punk rock fashion sense, people seemed to love her.

  It would be best to consult with her before I brought anyone else into our orbit. Given how wry and snarky Erica was, and how bubbly Brittany appeared, it might be a recipe for a piping hot mess.

  “Let me think about it, okay? I need to study the rules. See if I could hire you as a temporary worker or something. I think there are regulations about the number of people on a team.” If I recalled correctly, there were two people to a team and one alternate. Maybe she could be on the team and I’d become the alternate …

  Brittany’s eyes were wet with tears. “Thank you. I’d love that.”

  Poor thing. I glanced around nervously and spotted Mike entering the café. Must be a doozy of a day, since he’d already come in for one cup a few hours ago.

  “Excuse me, I’ve got to chat with someone. I’ll text you or stop by your shop, okay?”

  She slid her glasses on and straightened her spine. Good lord, her heels were tall. I had to crane my neck to peer up at her.

  “Sounds great, Lana. See you later?”

  “Yes. See you at the funeral. Take care, okay?”

  She nodded and strutted to the counter, her glossy ponytail swishing against her narrow shoulders. It was clear that Brittany had that New Yorker attitude, that “don’t screw with me” aura.

  What I wouldn’t give for an iota of her confidence.

  I tried to harness some of that and sashayed over to Mike.

  “Hey, kiddo,” he said as he accepted a cup of Americano from Erica. Brittany stepped up, and I heard her ask for a flax milk latte.

  “No can do, hon,” Erica said jovially. Normally I’d step in, but I figured she could handle it.

  Mike moved away from the counter, gesturing with his head for me to follow him a few feet.

  “How’s the article coming along?” he asked while gingerly removing the top of his piping hot coffee.

  “Pretty good. I’ve talked to a bunch of people, and just this morning did an outline for it.” A bit of an exaggeration but all writers did that when talking to editors at this stage of a story.

  He nodded thoughtfully. “Good. Because I’d love to run something sooner rather than later. Considering his funeral’s today. I’m afraid it’ll be old news pretty soon.”

  Spoken like an editor. Okay, I could do this. After all, I produced better copy on deadline. I was a last minute kind of writer. “I was hoping to gather more details at the funeral. What if I got it to you Saturday, and you could run it Sunday?”

  “That works. If we can’t run it Sunday, I think we’ll have to kill the idea. I still want that other feature, though.”

  Ugh. I hadn’t even thought about that story. “I promise you’ll have the article on Fab first thing Saturday morning.” I’d have to call Dad in to work a shift while I talked with more people and wrote the article.

  “Good. And try to keep it under twelve-hundred words.”

  “Twelve hundred? That’s nothing. I was thinking more like two thousand.” I pressed my hand to my chest. Like I even had two thousand words of content. “Sorry. That was an automatic reaction. I get that way with editors. Or did, at my old paper.”

  Mike grinned. “I know how you writers are. Can you try to keep it at a reasonable length?”

  After agreeing, I watched him walk out, then turned to the counter. Erica and Brittany were still talking. Oh, good. Maybe they were getting to know each other. Maybe I could hire Brittany temporarily and she and Erica could compete in the barista championship, and I could watch from the sidelines. That would make life so much easier over the next few days.

  “Flax milk does foam just as good as cow’s milk. I’ve tried it myself,” Brittany huffed.

  “It absolutely does not. And it tastes like crap.” Erica crossed her arms and smirked. She was a coffee purist, like me.

  Brittany turned on her four-inch black heels. “Witch,” she said under her breath, and stalked out.

  My eyebrows shot up to my hairline and I approached Erica. “So much for asking the two of you to be a barista team.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Noah was ten minutes early in picking me up for Fab’s funeral. A zing of desire went through me when he walked in, and even Erica let out a little impressed grunt under her breath.

  “Your date is here,” she whispered.

  “Stop it. We’re going to a funeral,” I hissed in response.

  “You seem … more formal
than usual,” I said, pointing at Noah’s midnight blue ensemble. He wasn’t wearing his glasses today.

  “Dress uniform,” he said. “And you look quite nice yourself.”

  While I wasn’t as sleek as Brittany, I’d worn my cutest black wrap dress and plain black kitten heels. And the only strand of pearls I owned; they were once Mom’s. Okay, and maybe my most supportive push-up bra. Fab would have approved of the cleavage, I was sure of it.

  Erica waggled her fingers at us when she waved goodbye, as if she was a proud mom, sending her daughter off with the town’s most eligible bachelor. Once in Noah’s cruiser, I was about to seize the opportunity to grill him when he spoke first.

  “Lana, about Fab. I think we’re pretty close to declaring his death a suicide. I know it’s not what you want to hear, because suicide is difficult to accept.” His voice was exceedingly gentle.

  “I think you’re making a mistake. Surely there must be some other evidence tying someone to Fab’s death. What was Paige’s alibi?”

  “She and her mom and dad were off island, spending the night with family friends.”

  I squinted at him. “And she didn’t take along Fab, her boyfriend? The father of her child? Seems odd.”

  Noah shrugged.

  “What about the autopsy? Any results from that?”

  He took a deep breath. “He had alcohol in his system.”

  I snorted. “That goes for ninety percent of the island.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Did anything else from the autopsy or the evidence stand out? Anything at all? Just try me.”

  “There was one thing that struck me, but I didn’t think it meant anything considering his body was found by a garbage dumpster.”

  “What?” I couldn’t believe how breathless I was.

  “It was fabric of some sort. Found next to his body. It looked torn. Almost like a bra.”

  I stared out the window for a few beats as we passed the beach. “Weird.”

  “Yep. A woman’s bra. Well, not a traditional one made of lace or silk. I’ve never seen one that looked like this.”

  “How familiar with lingerie are you?” I side eyed him, and he bit his lip. “Don’t answer that.”