“You're not going to arrest me, are you, Detective Danny?”
“No. I'll let you off with a warning. This time.”
“You want a beer, Danny?” Jess fishes a long-neck out of the watery ice.
I check my watch.
“What's with the watch?” Mook saw me. “You're actually waiting an hour between brewskis? What a weenie! Your cop pal is a hardass. And that haircut! Who does he think he is? GI Joe?”
If Mook knew Ceepak like I do he'd realize: GI Joe probably plays with a Ceepak Action Figure. The guy's that good. I shake my head, ignore Mook, and mosey away with my beer.
Becca, Olivia, and Katie are sitting in short beach chairs, the kind that put your butt about two inches above the sand. I plop down with them.
“Someone please remind me why we hang out with Mook,” I say.
Becca shrugs. “Because we always have?”
I guess that nails it.
On the radio, the deejay's yammering about “Sea Haven’s gigantic Labor Day Beach Party and Boogaloo BBQ. MTV will be broadcasting live. So will we…”
They've been hyping this Labor Day deal all month. Come Monday, the beach will be so crowded, you'll be lucky to find enough sand to spread out a hand towel, maybe a washcloth.
“Here's another hot hit from the sizzling summer of ’96!”
The radio throbs with “C'mon 'N Ride It (The Train)”—a bass-thumping dance tune from the Quad City DJs, the same people who gave the world “Whoot, There It Is.” The choo-choo song was big in 1996, the summer The Marshmallow Crew first got together and somebody said, “You know what? We should do this again next summer!”
“Hey, let's dance!” Katie pops up, like she's ready to teach us all the hokey-pokey—the adults-only version.
The girls fling off flip-flops, kick up sand. Becca cranks up the volume on the radio, shimmies her blonde hair like she's in a shampoo commercial. I attempt to get my groove thing going. Basically, when I dance, I stand still and sway my hips back and forth. Tonight, I also “move my arm up and down” as the singer suggests. Lyrics like that are extremely helpful for those of us who are dance impaired.
“Hey, isn't dancing on the beach against the law?” Mook brays like an annoying ass. Actually, the herky-jerky moves he is currently making should be ruled illegal. “You gonna haul us off to jail, Danny? Get your picture in the paper again?”
Ceepak and I got some press back in July. The wire services and magazines picked up the Tilt-A-Whirl story. I was semifamous for about a week. On top of being obnoxious, Mook sounds jealous.
Fortunately, any thoughts of Harley Mook drift away when Katie sashays over to dance with me instead of the whole group. She opens up her arms, swings her hips, invites me to move closer.
Then I hear these pops.
Pop! Pop! Pop!
Like someone stomping on Dixie cups up on the street.
I'm hit.
My chest explodes in a big splotch of fluorescent yellow.
Katie's hands drop down and fly behind her. She must be hit, too.
Pop!
A paintball hits the radio and sends it backwards. The batteries tumble out. The music dies.
Pop! Snap! Pop!
We're all hit—splattered with this eerie yellow-green paint that shines like a cracked glow stick. My sternum stings where the paint-ball whacked me.
“Danny?” It's Becca. She sounds hurt. “Danny?”
She sinks to her knees and brings a hand up to cover her eye.
It's fluorescent yellow and red.
The paint is mixing with her blood.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Chris Grabenstein is an award-winning, New York Times best-selling author of mysteries, thrillers, and chillers. His first Ceepak mystery, TILT A WHIRL, won the Anthony Award for Best First Mystery. The sixth book in the series, ROLLING THUNDER, is a finalist for The Watson Award, given to the series with the best sidekick.
His ghost stories for younger readers have won both the Anthony and Agatha awards.
Tilt-a-Whirl (The John Ceepak Mysteries) Page 27