Beach Town

by Mary Kay Andrews

  Greer took a deep breath. “So. I guess maybe I owe you an apology?”

  “I guess,” Eb said. “But what would be better is if, since you’re apparently going to be around town for the next six weeks or so, you didn’t treat me like your sworn enemy.”

  “I don’t think that,” Greer said. “It’s just—I’ve got a job to do, and frankly, I could lose my job over a leak like this—and I can’t afford to lose a job right now. Especially this one. Nothing personal, you know?”

  “Of course not,” Eb said. The phone on his desk rang, and he peered down at the digital screen and sighed. “This is the Tampa Bay Times. I think maybe I’ll just let it roll over to voice mail.”

  11

  Greer’s phone was still blowing up with calls, text messages, and e-mails—all from the media, all wanting details about Kregg’s participation in Beach Town. She ignored all of them—until Bryce Levy called, or rather, CeeJay called to warn her that Bryce would be calling.

  As usual, her best friend got right down to business. “Girl—are you nuts? Leaking the fact that Kregg signed to do Bryce’s movie?”

  Greer felt the heat rising in her cheeks. This was it. Bryce was using CeeJay to do his dirty work. Probably her replacement was already on the way to Florida right now. If she lost this job, it really would be all over.

  “You know me better than that,” Greer said. “I told maybe three people, all of whom were definitely on a need-to-know basis, including the police chief and the mayor. Somebody talked—I’m not sure who, but the mayor swears he wasn’t the one, and I’m inclined to believe him. Cypress Key is this tiny little flyspeck of a place. This is the biggest thing to hit the town since the last big hurricane. It’s impossible to keep secrets here.”

  “Well, somebody started a real shit storm,” CeeJay said. “And Bryce is not happy. He’s had the media calling his office all day. And, of course, Kregg’s manager went ballistic when the media started calling him. He even threatened to pull out of the movie.”

  “He can’t really do that, can he?”

  “Nah. Bryce has him under contract, and anyway, his manager knows this is a great start for Kregg’s transition from music to movies. The guy’s just blowing smoke, I think.”

  “Oh God. You don’t think Bryce is gonna fire me, do you? I need this job, CeeJay.”

  “I think he just needs to blow off some steam,” CeeJay said. “He’s not gonna pull you off the project before it even really gets under way. Just tell him what you told me. I already told him there’s no way you would have deliberately let the cat out of the bag. He’ll probably yell and raise hell with you, and that’ll be it.”

  “Hope so.”

  “You leave him to me,” CeeJay said. “I gotta get back to packing. Did I tell ya, when we get back from Florida, Bryce wants me to move into the big house with him?”

  “That’s great, CeeJay. Out of the garage apartment and into the house. I guess that means things are going good between the two of you?”

  “I hate to jinx it, but yeah, things are great. His ex has a new boyfriend, so she’s kind of taking a break from squeezing his balls, which is nice.”

  “Has he filed for divorce yet?”

  Silence.

  “CeeJay?”

  “Look. You know how messed up legal shit is. His ex wants to clean him out and take half of everything. It’s ridiculous that he should have to fork over a pile of money to that bitch. You know she’s never had a job? In, like, ever? All she does all day is go to yoga and shop. Bryce’s lawyers are trying to figure out how to keep her from taking him to the cleaners. It takes time. Right?”

  “I guess.”

  “Don’t use that tone with me, young lady.”

  Greer laughed. “I’m not judging. I just want you to be happy. You deserve somebody wonderful, who wants to be with you. That’s all I’m sayin’.”

  “Quit worrying about me. I can take care of myself. You hear? I am happy. Bryce is amazeballs. We are going to make a kick-ass movie and all will be well. See you Monday, right?”

  “Right.”

  * * *

  She waited all day for the other shoe to drop. Finally, since it was Saturday night and she was weary of microwaved popcorn and take-out pizza, she decided to treat herself to a real dinner—at what Ginny promised was the best restaurant in town.

  For the first time all week, Greer took some pains with her appearance. She blew her hair dry to straighten out some of the curl and applied a bit of brown eyeliner and mascara. Most of the clothes she’d packed were strictly utilitarian—jeans and T-shirts, some capris and tank tops, but she had thought to throw a dress in her suitcase.

  It was an old dress of her mother’s, actually. Greer had liberated the Mexican cotton wedding dress while sorting through her mother’s clothes. Most of Lise’s clothes had been too flashy for Greer’s taste, but there was something endearing about the simplicity of this piece.

  The dress, a seventies throwback, was a fine white cotton minidress with a scooped, drawstring neckline, hand-embroidered bodice, and loose, bell-shaped sleeves. She added a string of turquoise and coral beads she’d picked up during a shoot in Santa Fe, and some turquoise and silver drop earrings, and slid her feet into a pair of leather sandals.

  She set out to walk to the Cypress Key Inn, feeling oddly self-conscious in the short dress and jewelry.

  Saturday night was apparently the hot night in town. Cars and trucks lined Pine Street, and diners sat at tables on the sidewalk in front of the pizza parlor. She heard the heavy bass thump of music coming from a place called the Crow’s Nest, which, by the looks of the Harleys parked out front, constituted the local biker bar, and through the open door at Castaways she saw young families waiting to be seated for the chalkboard-advertised seafood buffet.

  The scent of shrimp boil drifted on to the sidewalk. An older-model sedan rolled slowly past on the street, and a horn honked, followed by a low wolf whistle.

  She allowed herself a small, secret smile, then walked a little faster.

  * * *

  The Cypress Key Inn was a white two-story wood-frame building with a wraparound porch furnished with wide-bottomed rocking chairs, wicker settees, and huge, leafy ferns. A pair of gas lanterns marked the front door, and Greer was charmed even before she walked inside.

  The hotel lobby was dimly lit, but she could make out dark varnished wood floors, white plank walls, and a few pieces of ornate Victorian furniture. Behind the high-topped reception desk a staircase curved upward to the second floor. It looked like a movie set—in fact, it would be perfect for the film, and she wondered why she hadn’t found this place earlier.

  An elaborately carved bar stretched along one side of the lobby, and every stool was full. Sitting in the stool right in the center, looking up at the wall-mounted television showing a baseball game, was Eb Thibadeaux.

  Greer stepped neatly into the dining room, hoping to avoid another encounter with Cypress Key’s mayor.

  There was a hostess stand located a few feet inside the door. The blond girl manning the stand was naturally pretty, but she’d given herself the dramatic Katy Perry eye makeup treatment in a failed attempt to make herself look older. Despite the navy shadow, the shiny black eyeliner, and the short, sleeveless black dress, it was obvious that she couldn’t have been more than eighteen.

  “Dinner?” the girl asked, gazing over Greer’s shoulder to see if she had a date.

  “Yes, please. Table for one.”

  The girl frowned and looked down at the open book on her stand before glancing into the dining room just beyond the doorway. The room held a dozen or so tables, and at least three were vacant. But the tables were candlelit, with pale pink starched tablecloths and small vases of flowers, and the diners were dressed up, for Cypress Key, which meant collared shirts for the men, a scattered few sport coats, and dresses on the women.

  “Do you have a reservation?”

  “No. Do I need one?”

  “Not r
eally. I’m just supposed to ask, because it sounds fancier.” The girl giggled, grabbed a menu, and motioned for Greer to follow.

  She seated her at a table on the enclosed porch, by a window. “How’s this?”

  “Great.”

  The girl looked around for a moment. “Okay, um, well, we’re kind of shorthanded tonight. Do you want something to drink?”

  Greer scanned the abbreviated wine list and ordered what she hoped was a safe choice—the house white—then went back to reading the menu.

  “Everything’s really good,” the hostess offered. “Like, the grouper came off a boat just a little while ago, so it’s fresh, and so is the redfish, but it’s kind of spicy. The fried shrimp is my favorite, but some people like the linguine with clam sauce. We farm the clams locally, you know. And uh, well, you can always get the chicken or a steak. We only have one special tonight, the soft-shell crabs. They’re sautéed in butter and wine, and served over potatoes and some kind of spinach stuff.”

  “Soft-shell crabs,” Greer said quickly.

  * * *

  Her food arrived, and she had to agree with the recommendation that the Inn actually did have the best food in town. In fact, it was the best she’d had in a long time. She nibbled at her salad, sipped her wine, and savored the sweet crabmeat and buttery, salty potatoes.

  The room began to clear out, and soon, even though it was barely nine o’clock, Greer realized she was the only diner still eating. But she was determined not to cut short her only night out on the town.

  She glanced out the window at the alley just outside and spied the young hostess.

  The girl was standing under a streetlight, having what looked like a fairly heated conversation with a young man who looked about her age.

  He was muscular looking, tanned, with short, spiky dark hair and dressed in a white T-shirt, navy baseball pants, and cleats, and to Greer’s eyes it looked like he and the girl were having a fight. At one point he grabbed the girl’s arm, but she quickly wrested it away from him.

  There was another sharp exchange and the girl stalked off, while the baseball player stood for a moment, watching her go.

  “Young love,” Greer murmured, returning to her dinner.

  She was just finishing up her crab when a shadow fell over the table. Eb Thibadeaux stood looking down at her.

  “I thought that was you,” Eb Thibadeaux said.

  “Yep,” Greer agreed. “It’s me.”

  “I just finished dinner at the bar,” he said, glancing at her nearly empty plate. “You had the soft-shells? Great choice.”

  “Best ever,” Greer said. She was feeling surprisingly mellow—maybe because of the wine, maybe because she’d finally had a decent dinner. “Care to join me?” she asked. “If I can manage to flag down the waitress, I’m going to get coffee.”

  “I’ll get her,” he said, and turning toward the hostess stand, he called, “Allie?”

  The waitress hustled over to the table, her face flushed.

  “Hi, Uncle Eb.”

  “Could you bring the lady a cup of coffee? And I’ll have a Fat Tire, okay?”

  “No problem,” the girl said.

  Greer watched her speed in the direction of the bar.

  “That’s your niece? Allie?”

  “Yep, that’s our Allie.”

  “Pretty girl,” Greer said.

  “Too pretty.” He frowned.

  “Probably has a lot of boyfriends, huh?”

  “Just one that I know of.”

  “The baseball player? I saw them a minute ago, standing outside. It looked like they were having words.”

  “Great,” Eb said, looking gloomy. “Now she’ll be in one of her moods all week. Bart’s not a bad kid. He’s the catcher on the high school team. And a senior, which I’m not crazy about. Allie’s a year younger.”

  Allie arrived back at the table, carefully placing Eb’s beer on the table in front of him and a cup of coffee at Greer’s place.

  “Thanks, kiddo,” Eb said. “Kind of quiet tonight, huh?”

  Allie nodded. “If nobody else shows up in the next fifteen minutes, Rebecca says I can go ahead and clock out.”

  “You going out with Bart tonight?”

  “No way,” she said scornfully. “I’ll probably just go hang out over at Tristin’s house for a while.” She paused. “If that’s okay with you.”

  Eb gave his niece an appraising look. “Are Tristin’s parents home tonight? I can call and check, you know.”

  Allie rolled her eyes and gave a dramatic sigh. “God! Yes, they’re home. You can call and check all you like. Jeez. It was just that one time. Can you please cut me some slack?”

  “Yeah. I’ll cut you some slack when you’re twenty-one,” Eb said.

  The girl scowled, then flounced away.

  “God help me, she looks just like Amanda when she does that,” Eb said softly, shaking his head.

  “Amanda. Is that her mom?”

  “Afraid so.” He sipped his beer.

  “And is Amanda your sister?”

  “Thankfully, no.” He set his glass down abruptly. “As screwed up as the Thibadeaux family is, I’m proud to say that Amanda is not blood kin. She’s my sister-in-law. Well, ex.”

  Allie was back.

  “Okay, Rebecca says she’ll close everything down, so I’m going over to Triss’s now. A bunch of other girls are coming too, and we’re going to sleep over. Triss’s mom says it’s all right with her. And you can call her if you don’t believe me.”

  “Don’t worry, I will,” Eb said. “And if Chief Bottoms sees any carloads of girls joyriding around town in a certain red Camaro, she knows to call me, too. Understand?”

  “Whatever,” Allie rolled her eyes again, then leaned in and gave her uncle a quick peck on the cheek. “G’night, boss man.”

  12

  Greer studied Eb Thibadeaux over the rim of her coffee cup. He still needed a shave, but tonight he was somewhat dressed up, and he looked, she allowed, fairly presentable in a pale blue oxford cloth button-down shirt with rolled-up sleeves and navy slacks. She’d noticed when he walked that he wore loafers but no socks. This, she guessed, was the equivalent of black tie in Cypress Key.

  He appeared to be studying her too.

  “You look kinda nice tonight,” he offered.

  “Was that a compliment? It sounded semi-complimentary.”

  “It was definitely a compliment. I like your dress. You’ve got good legs, you know?

  Greer tugged self-consciously at her hem and decided to change the subject.

  “Do you mind if I ask where Allie’s parents are?”

  “I don’t mind. Like I said, Jared, my brother, and Amanda are divorced. They split up years ago. I’m not real sure where Amanda is these days. Her folks are both dead. She drifts in and out of town, and sees Allie when it suits her. To tell you the truth, I think Allie’s a little bit relieved when her mom isn’t around.”

  “And Jared?”

  “Jared.” He took a long drink of beer.

  “My older brother Jared is currently a guest of the State of Florida at the Starke correctional institution.”

  “Oh.” Common sense, or decency, suggested she should drop this line of questioning. But now she was curious. And Eb didn’t seem disinclined to shut her down. “That’s a prison?”

  “It is. If you’re inclined to visit, it’s in the northeast corner of the state. But I’m going to guess the state isn’t going to encourage you to scout it for a movie location.”

  “Nope. Usually we only shoot at abandoned prisons. And then we blow them up.”

  “Touché.” He smiled. “Would you like to know what Jared’s in for? That’s what everybody wants to know.”

  “If you don’t mind telling me.”

  “I don’t mind,” Eb said. “Jared is currently incarcerated for possession with intent to distribute Schedule II narcotics.”

  “Oh.”

  “He was running a pill mill,” Eb sai
d abruptly. “OxyContin, Percocet, Darvocet. Whatever kind of pocket rockets you wanted, my big brother was happy to prescribe.”

  Greer’s eyes widened. “He was a doctor?”

  “No, but he was good at pretending. Jared graduated from an offshore medical school in Spain, did some kind of residency in the British Virgin Islands, but never quite managed to pass his boards in the States. Which never stopped him from practicing medicine.”

  Eb tapped the side of his half-empty beer glass. “He’s quite a resourceful guy, my brother.”

  She was at a loss for words. “I hear there’s a big black market for pain pills. It’s quite a racket back in California.”

  “It’s quite a racket in Florida, too,” Eb said. “Big business, baby. Which is why hucksters like Jared get into it.”

  “But if he never passed his state boards, how did he get certified to practice medicine?”

  “He was never certified. After he failed his state boards a second time, Jared was working as an EMT in Jacksonville. By that time, he and Amanda were split up. She had custody of Allie and was still living in Cypress Key, but Jared had bigger plans. In Jacksonville he met a guy—I think he was officially an ear, nose, and throat doc who was up for charges up North somewhere. Some kind of sexual harassment thing. They hooked up, and this doc suggested that they become partners in a promising new enterprise. They opened a string of these ‘pain clinics’ in small towns in north Florida—places where they figured the local cops weren’t sophisticated enough to figure out what they were up to.”

  “And they got caught,” Greer said.

  “Yes they did. The local cops might not have noticed, but a couple of pharmacists got suspicious about the number of controlled substance scrips being written by these little clinics. They tipped off the FDLE, that’s the Florida Department of Law Enforcement, and the FDLE sent in a couple of undercover narcs, who visited Jared and his buddy and made it plain they were looking to score Oxy. Bam! Now Jared is looking fine in an orange jumpsuit.”

  “And you’re raising his daughter.”

  “Well. Ginny and I are raising her. It takes a village, you know. Or so I hear.”