Damn Jake.
“He’s no longer the owner and I don’t run anything illegal out of here.” Jake had run out of town, knowing he’d been marked as a dead man over his non-existent repayment plan for his massive gambling debt. A few other attempts at collection had been made by other gun-toting thugs, but I’d been able to convince them that the bar was under new management and they went away quietly.
“Get up, let’s go and check out that safe of yours. You’d better be lying about not having cash. Boss man is tired of waiting on payment that is long overdue.”
I stood up.
“Why me? I’m not Jake.” After being on the run for months, Jake had finally made contact and I bought out my silent partner. We used our shared CPA to construct a fair deal and he helped me set up private, legal financing. I had several illegal options, but passed.
“Bet you’ll find the money if I tie you to a chair and listen to you scream while I slice off various body parts. How many will it take, one, two…?” He whipped a blade from his back pocket, kissing it tenderly and shoving it in the front of his pants.
The chilling, matter-of-fact way he threatened me scared me more than his gun. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Phil, the bartender, drop behind the bar. I hoped she had the sheriff on speed dial.
“Just know that if you touch me, Jimmy Spoon will track your ass down and kill you. You do know Spoon don’t you?” I asked.
Jimmy Spoon was the badass of the Keys and claimed boyfriend status with my mother. He was reformed from his criminal days, but still inspired fear amongst the low-life element. I also knew this man would die a slow death if Spoon got ahold of him, but I stayed focused on getting out of this alive and with no missing body parts.
He laughed. “Get moving.”
As I moved slowly across the wooden floor inside, he knocked me in my lower back with his gun, and I felt hot pain spidering up my back. I reflexively turned, jumped, and kicked him in the arm. When he dropped his gun and scrambled to retrieve it, I hopped to my feet and headed for the door, where I tripped.
“Damn.”
Phil popped up from behind the bar and racked her shotgun. “Drop the gun, asshole.” Thankfully, Jake left behind his Mossberg when he split town.
The man snaked his fingers out and, pulling his gun back into his grasp, rolled onto his back. He pointed the barrel toward Phil, but she pulled her trigger first. There was blood everywhere from a gaping stomach wound and he lifted slightly off the floor just before he died.
I leapt up, “Are you okay?” I fished my cell phone from my pocket to call Kevin Cory, a local sheriff. I only had his number because his sister, Julie, was dating my brother, Brad.
“You never call, what’s up?” Kevin asked when he answered.
“There’s been a shooting at Jake’s. No need for an ambulance; call the coroner.” I wouldn’t tell Kevin this, but I was glad the shooter had been dispatched to the afterlife, or he’d get out of jail and be back.
“Who’d you shoot this time?” Kevin asked. “Don’t touch anything, we’re on our way.”
I hung up abruptly before he started to lecture. I’d tell him we must have gotten disconnected when I saw him. “I’ll be upset if you quit over this,” I said to Phil, taking a seat at the bar.
Curvy, blond Phil, short for Philipa, had walked into the bar one day wanting to be the new bartender. A straight A second-year law school student, she was good for business in her butt-cheek baring jean shorts, tank tops, and tennis shoes. She handled the overly-obnoxious in an efficient manner; she’d had to ban a couple of men permanently.
“My daddy didn’t raise no quitter.” She laid the shotgun on the bar. “Wait till I call him tonight and give him the grisly details, he’ll be bragging to his friends. Hell, he taught me and my brother to shoot—refused to have a helpless girl for a daughter.”
Tarpon Cove is a small town that sits at the top of the Florida Keys, so the sheriff could get from one end of town to the other in a matter of minutes, depending on tourist traffic. Sirens could be heard in the distance.
“We’ll need to close today,” I sighed.
“I’ll put out a sign: ‘Death in the restaurant.’ There’s an upside—dirtbag’s death could bring in the gawker crowd and it’ll be good for business.”
Phil grabbed two waters and shoved one across to me. “What did he want anyway?”
“Jake owed him money.” I downed half my water, twisting the cap back on and rolling it across the back of my neck. “Maybe I need to put up a big neon sign that says, ‘New owner.’”
“I’ve had a few collectors in here. Explained to them in small words that Jake left town, comped them a beer, and they left.”
My hair clip snapped in half when I rolled on the floor, so I scooped my long red hair off my neck and fashioned it into a makeshift ponytail.
Kevin and his partner, Johnson, rushed through the door, two paramedics with a stretcher right behind them. “They don’t listen very well. I told them the dude was dead,” I said to Phil.
“Madison Westin, you’re nothing but trouble, aren’t you?” Johnson eyed me with his tight-ass smile firmly in place.
Johnson was the most uptight sheriff on the force and he even looked the part. We had a well-documented dislike for one another. It frustrated him that I never gave him an excuse to cuff me and drag me to jail.
“He walked in, pointed a gun in my face, demanded money, and threatened to cut off body parts. Phil saved my life. End of story,” I said.
Phil walked around the bar, extended her hand to Johnson. “Philipa Grey.” She turned to me. “I advise you to call your lawyer before answering any more of the officer’s questions, since there seems to be animosity between the two of you.”
“Is that all you have—annoying, snotty-ass friends?” Johnson glared.
Kevin cut in. “I’ll question these two, Johnson. You make sure the paramedics don’t screw up the evidence. Jake’s is closed today.”
While Johnson stomped away, I gave the middle finger to his back. Kevin slapped my hand down and shook his head. Kevin had two personalities. Personally, I liked the out-of-uniform, easy-going, laughing, beach-boy good looks Kevin. Johnson turned back. “Madison, sorry to hear your boyfriend left you for that beautiful Italian model.”
I sucked in my breath, but ignored Johnson. “Would you like something cold to drink?” I asked Kevin as I walked behind the bar.
Kevin nodded. He questioned Phil and I separately and took very few notes. He looked bored. “Dead guy is Carlos Osa—long, violent rap sheet. Good riddance.”
“When can we reopen, capitalize on the bad publicity?” I asked.
“Once we haul his body out of here, we’ll be done with our investigation. Pretty cut-and-dried,” Kevin said. “I’ve got a crime scene cleaner on speed dial.”
“I used him once at The Cottages. He did a good job; you wouldn’t know the stain was blood unless someone told you.” I owned a ten-unit building on the beach that had seen more than its fair share of excitement.
“Try being nice to Johnson, he’ll come around,” Kevin said.
“I’ll bake cookies,” I said, struggling not to make another inappropriate gesture. “I’m going to send everyone home and I’ll be out on the deck until you’re done.”
* * *
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Deborah Brown is the author of the Paradise series. She lives in South Florida, with her ungrateful animals, where Mother Nature takes out her bad attitude in the form of hurricanes. You can contact her at [email protected]
Deborah’s books are available on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and most online retailers
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Table of Contents
Murder in Paradise (Paradise Series) Page 26