Grounds for Murder

by Tara Lush

  She grimaced, and when she paused, I thought she was going to shoot. My limbs started trembling all on their own rhythm, and I clenched the ledge, squeezing the stone so hard I could feel the rough texture against my palms.

  “There’s nothing to tell. He used me and I let him use me again when we ran into each other here on Devil’s Beach. He was like my drug, and I had to kill him to stop the addiction. And now I’m going to kill you in the same way, then go downstairs to grab my photos. People will think you committed suicide because you were mourning Fab. Or because you were so guilt ridden about killing him,” she ranted. “Do you want a push, or do you want to jump on your own? How much of a coward are you?”

  My jaw dropped. Was this happening? Was this how I’d die, at the age of thirty? At the hands of a crazy woman who owned a pink gun and made mermaid tails for a living? It seemed ridiculous and absurd.

  “You might live if you jump yourself. It’s only four stories. Some people live at that height. You’ll be seriously injured, though. Or you might get lucky? Why don’t you look down?” She laughed.

  I shook my head. “N-no. I won’t do it.”

  “Look down,” she hollered, inching forward.

  Out the corner of my eye came a golden flash. A comet of fur. It was low to the ground and headed right for Brittany.

  Stanley.

  He clamped his tiny mouth around her bare ankle, probably wanting to play. He was so fast that it caught her off guard just enough that she lowered the gun.

  I dove at her, and the two of us, along with Stanley, were a frenzy of arms, legs, and paws. Stanley growled like I’d never heard, a bit like a tiny wolf. I wrenched the gun from her grip and got the upper hand. While she was still on the ground, my hands clamped around the pink handle and I jumped to my feet.

  “Stanley, down,” I said in a stern voice, aiming the gun at Brittany. He galloped away, tongue lolling, thinking this was all a game. “And you, Brittany. Don’t move.”

  She rolled to one side, into a fetal position. Stanley backed off and ran to the door—right in time for Erica to peek her glossy blue-and-brunette head out.

  “Hey, kids, what’s going on—whoa!”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  It was well after midnight when all the detectives, crime scene techs, and other officers finally left Perkatory. Brittany had shot me a final, nasty glare as she was escorted away in handcuffs. She was booked into the county jail on the mainland on second-degree murder charges.

  The only ones who remained behind in the café were Noah, Dad, Erica, and me.

  “Anyone for a nightcap?” I asked, my voice gravelly from talking so much—I’d given my story to not only Noah, but two detectives. And to Mike, who came here personally to write a breaking news article since none of his reporters were answering their phones this late at night.

  My body still buzzed with adrenaline, and I wasn’t ready to go home. “How about a boozy iced coffee?”

  Erica groaned, and Dad shook his head.

  “All I want is to crash after all this excitement. Don’t want any more stress on my adrenals.” Dad pressed a hand to his chest.

  “Man, same. I’m beat.” Erica stretched and eyeballed me, then Noah. “You good? I’m gonna take off.”

  I squeezed her shoulder, grateful that she’d heard just enough of the conversation between Brittany and me to be alarmed. When Brittany had uttered the words “I’ll kill something else,” Erica had immediately hung up, dialed Noah, and then rushed to the coffeehouse. He had arrived about a minute after Erica.

  She and Dad stood up. “You need a ride?” he asked her.

  “Nah, I have my scooter. Bought it the other day with my first paycheck.”

  “Cool beans,” Dad said, sliding his arm around me. “LeLa, you need me to stay?”

  “Nah. I’m good. I’m going to clean up here a bit, have a drink to calm down, then head home with Stanley.”

  “I’ll make sure she gets home safe, sir.” Noah’s deep voice cut through the air conditioner’s hum. He was sitting at a far table, typing a report on a laptop.

  Erica snickered. “Have a good night.”

  She and Dad and I all embraced. “You two are awesome,” I said, tears springing to my eyes. We broke apart and they walked out. Wiping my eyes, I turned to Noah and he snapped his computer shut.

  “About that boozy latte,” he said.

  My eyebrows shot up. “Yeah? You want one? Really?”

  “Are you having one?”

  “Is there caffeine in coffee?”

  “Then I’ll join you.”

  I went behind the counter and got to work. After the events of the night, it felt good to do something other than talk. Or think. Into two medium glasses, I poured from a pitcher of cold brew I’d started the previous day—it seemed like years—then added shots of Frangelico, whole milk and a dash of vanilla stevia. After stirring well, I topped the drinks with a squirt of whipped cream, then stuck straws in each glass.

  Noah grinned when I set the drinks on the table.

  “When was the last time you had coffee?” I held up my glass.

  “Years. Can’t remember.”

  “Well, I’m honored that you’re breaking your coffee fast for me.”

  We touched glasses.

  “To reporters who don’t take no for an answer. I owe you a thank you.”

  I laughed. “To police chiefs and new friends who arrive on the scene in time.”

  We both sipped. I stared at him expectantly. “Well? Thoughts?”

  “It’s much better than I remember.”

  I dabbed my mouth with a napkin and laughed. “That’s the best you can do?”

  “It’s excellent, Lana. Thank you.”

  We sipped in comfortable silence and then he set his glass on the table. He stirred the drink with his straw. “You could’ve been hurt tonight, you know. What you did was dangerous.”

  I swallowed hard. “I know. It was kind of stupid. I got caught up in proving everything for the story. Instead, I became the story.”

  “You still writing that article on Fab?”

  I sighed. “Mike said I couldn’t. And I understand. It’s one thing to write a first-person, New Yorker-style profile of someone for the features section. It’s another thing altogether when you’re the victim of a crime involving the perp. We’ll see. He said we’d talk next week about freelancing other articles for the paper.”

  “You miss it, don’t you?”

  “Journalism? Heck, yeah.” I paused. “You know, I was sure Fab’s killer was Gary. Or even Lex. Both are really shady individuals.”

  “Lana, about that …” his voice trailed off and he rolled the glass between his fingers. “I’d advise you to stay away from Lex Bradstreet.”

  “Why? Because he was involved with the Mafia in Tampa? I read all about it. Is that why? Did you know him up there?”

  Noah’s dark eyes bore into mine. “I did. And let’s just say that Lex isn’t what he appears to be.”

  I scowled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He shook his head.

  “Not fair. You can’t tease me with a detail like that. Oh. Wait!” I drummed my fingers on my chin in thought. “Is he some kind of police informant? That would explain why he’s running around, free.”

  Noah took a deep breath. “I cannot confirm or deny that.”

  “Wouldn’t he have a different name if he was an informant or in the witness protection program?” I smirked.

  He didn’t say a word.

  I sucked the rest of my drink down. Noah did the same.

  “Hey, do you think Fab was really the father of Paige’s baby? Or is Lex the father?”

  Noah tilted his head. “From what I know about Lex, my guess is on Fab.”

  “So, you do know more than you’re letting on.” I looked at him through my lashes.

  “That’s what investigators do, Lana.” The look on his face told me that he wasn’t going to give up any more deta
ils about Lex. “You must be exhausted. I’ll walk you home.”

  We gathered our things and left through the front door. I carefully checked each lock at the front and back door three times, even though there was nothing to worry about. Fab’s killer was behind bars. Devil’s Beach would return to its normal, quirky, sleepy self.

  Noah and I slowly strolled down the street to my house. I held Stanley’s leash, and he tottered on sleepy legs. My little canine lifesaver.

  The air was slightly humid, with a hint of a welcome ocean breeze. A screech of crickets sliced through the air as we made our way up the walk to my front door. We paused under the wan yellow glow of the porch light. Noah was as handsome as ever, his long, sooty lashes framing those dark eyes. No glasses tonight.

  His broad shoulders filled out his uniform, still crisp after hours of police work.

  Maybe it was time to take another chance on a man. After all, Noah wasn’t Miles. Not by a long shot. It didn’t matter if he was older. He was a true gentleman.

  “Thanks for walking with me. And thanks for taking Erica’s call. And for coming to rescue me, and—” He was staring at me with the cutest grin. “What?”

  “You’re pretty wonderful, Lana Lewis.”

  I bit my lip. For once, I was speechless.

  “I’d kiss you goodnight, but since I don’t usually end investigations with crime victims that way. So, I’ll save it for Saturday.”

  “Okay, that sounds good,” I squeaked. “Um, how about a hug?”

  His strong arms went around me, and we hugged for several long and pleasurable seconds. How he smelled so incredible, like spicy cinnamon and limes, after such a long night was the real mystery. When we finally released each other, we were both grinning.

  “See you Saturday,” I said, unlocking the door. Stanley bounded inside.

  “Night.”

  He waited on the porch until I was inside. “Make sure you lock the top and bottom,” he called through the door.

  I did, then pumped the air with my fist.

  * * *

  The first annual Sunshine State Barista Championship was held at the Devil’s Beach Recreation Center, an alabaster-colored Art Deco building erected in the twenties, only steps away from Sunset Beach, one of the island’s popular strips of sand. For decades it had been a dance hall, hosting Big Band greats such as Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald.

  In the 1970s and early ’80s, the building fell into disrepair, and then the city purchased the place. After millions of dollars in renovations, it became a top destination for weddings and conventions.

  And now, several hundred coffee aficionados.

  There were twenty teams in all, from across Florida. I feared the team I knew best: Paige Dotson and her father Mickey representing Island Brewnette.

  I spotted him shaking hands with a group of island officials, while Paige stood alone near an empty row of chairs. Her pregnancy was evident, and my sympathetic side took over. Sure, she’d been nasty to me in high school. And recently.

  But she’d suffered that awful loss, and probably felt humiliated when news of Brittany’s arrest was splashed on the front page of the Devil’s Beach Beacon this morning.

  Come to think of it, why was she even here? How stressful for her. Was her father making her compete? Probably. Jerk.

  I nudged Erica’s arm with my elbow. “I’m going to make nice with Paige.”

  As I turned to walk away, Erica reached for me, making a clicking noise with her tongue. “Make nice afterward. I don’t want her to psych you out. We’ve gotta focus here.”

  “Good point. Right.”

  Just then, Mickey caught my eye. He strode over with an expression that resembled a smirking bulldog. Erica swore under her breath.

  “Good to see you showed up,” he boomed.

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I replied coolly.

  “Guess we’ll finally know which coffee shop makes the best lattes, won’t we, Lana?”

  Erica snorted.

  I drew myself up to my full height of five feet two and a quarter inches. “I think we know which coffee shop is the best. Now we’ll just make it official.”

  He harrumphed and glanced over my shoulder, then walked away.

  “He is the worst,” Erica said. “Forget about him.”

  Nodding, I immediately sized up our main off-island competition: two gorgeous women with flaxen hair from a café on South Beach in Miami, and two hipster-looking dudes with identical handlebar moustaches from St. Petersburg. I’d read about both teams in a coffee trade publication; they were known for being Instagram famous. Like Fab had been.

  If only he could have had the satisfaction of competing against them …

  A wave of grief percolated inside me, and I inhaled deep to steady my mood. I had to shove memories of Fab in the recess of my mind because the mayor was on stage and the event was about to begin. He thanked everyone for coming, and was going to act as the emcee, explaining how the contest would unfold.

  Everyone in the competition had eight minutes to make espressos, then another eight minutes to make a milk beverage. There were four judges, and we would be assessed on both our technical skills such as tamping, extraction and steaming, and on our sensory skills—crema, taste, and texture.

  The machines were provided by the sponsor, a large coffee distributor. We were allowed to bring our own beans, and I hoped our carefully curated selection would push Erica and I over the top.

  Hours later, we’d run through the espresso round, and were now on the milk beverage portion of the contest. Erica and I were almost up. My heartbeat was beating like a bongo drum.

  “We’ve got this,” Erica murmured as we watched the hipsters with the mustaches froth their milk. “Look. Their timing is off.”

  We watched as they served the judges slightly watery lattes. To the average coffee-drinker, the beverages would have been perfect. But to judges like these—people who worked in the coffee industry, some of whom I recognized from my days traveling with Mom—the hipsters’ drinks were subpar.

  “Lana Lewis and Erica Penmark of Perkatory, you’re next,” the head judge called out.

  We stepped up to the two white, enamel espresso machines that had been placed on heavy wood tables. And then Erica and I started our ballet, grinding and pulling shots and frothing milk. The air was heavy with the aroma of the coffee we’d selected for our drinks—beans from Guatemala, with notes of golden raisin, brown sugar, and rum. It paired well with our locally sourced whole milk.

  Our plan was for Erica to serve a detailed, pretty unicorn latte. I was going the traditional route, with a heart. My hands were steady as I removed the stainless-steel milk pitcher from the wand, and when I held the espresso in one hand, I felt inspired. And confident.

  Carefully, I poured a thin stream of milk into the espresso until I spotted a halo of white foam collecting on the top of the coffee. That was my cue to gently rock the pitcher from side to side. Once I reached the top of the cup, the only thing left was the piece de resistance: the rosetta stem.

  I backed up on my pour while moving the milk stream forward, toward my thumb. The motion was similar to dragging a knife through chocolate and vanilla cake batter to create a marbled effect.

  “There,” I whispered, putting the cup on its saucer. While holding my breath, I carried it to the judges.

  Then I made three more.

  When we were finished, Erica and I sat on a row of bleachers reserved for the contestants. I was eager to watch the final team, and a ball of nerves grew in my stomach. I knew we’d nailed our presentation.

  But Mickey and Paige were next.

  Mickey worked flawlessly, but Paige was slow. She pulled an espresso and fumbled when she frothed the milk, almost dropping it. Mickey barked something in a low voice at her, but I couldn’t hear what he’d said because the room was cavernous and echoey.

  She shot daggers at her father, and I stood up to get a better look. We were about twenty fee
t away, and from my slightly elevated vantage point, I caught an eyeful. My eyebrows shot up and I eased myself back onto the bench.

  Erica leaned into me and hissed, “Did something go wrong?”

  “Dead shot, it looked like,” I murmured. A dead shot was when the crema dissipates on the top of the espresso, and it’s an indicator of the quality and freshness of the roasted beans.

  Erica pursed her lips.

  We watched, rapt, as the judges tasted their concoctions. As they had with all the teams, their faces might as well have been etched out of granite. Poker players had nothing on these people.

  As the judges tallied the scores, the conversational roar in the place grew louder. I turned to Erica.

  “You did amazing,” I said.

  “No, you were amazing. Seriously. Don’t doubt yourself so much, okay? You worked hard for this. Maybe you need to consider the possibility that you’re as good of a coffee shop owner as you were a journalist. It’s okay to be two things in a lifetime, you know. Or more.”

  “Hmm.”

  The inside of my mouth turned to sandpaper. I pondered Erica’s words while I studied the judges. If we placed in the top three, I’d be over the moon. It wouldn’t take much to make me feel accomplished, this being a new direction for me and all.

  Maybe Perkatory truly was a new beginning. It was something I hadn’t honestly considered when I was laid off and returned to Devil’s Beach. Coming home somehow seemed like a second-best option, but perhaps it wasn’t.

  My heart sped up when the mayor walked to the stage at the front of the room. He told all of the contestants to “come on down” to the stage, in a voice reminiscent of a certain game show host. Erica and I stood on the side, way in back.

  We held hands, and I noticed that hers were just as clammy as mine.

  From the floor, the head judge handed up a piece of paper to the mayor. Erica’s fingers squeezed mine.

  “And now for our second runners up,” the mayor said.

  He announced the names of the women from Miami, and they strutted to accept their certificates. A team from Jacksonville were the first runners up, and they high-fived each other.