A childhood friend of Mac’s, Shirl had been our resident RN. She’d moved in after a messy breakup for what was supposed to be several days, but turned into over a year, and now lived across the street. Everyone loved her, as she dealt patiently with their health complaints, some made up for attention, some not.
Crum opened the door, sticking his head out. “All clear.”
Once I set foot on the driveway, Fab yelled from where she held court next to Mac, “Hey. Let’s go.”
“I’m surprised she wasn’t over here listening in. So unlike her.”
Crum grunted. “Spotted Fab talking to the most recent tourists from Canada. You know, the latest bunch fits right in. During the hubbub, they dragged out Joseph’s stash of beach chairs, sat themselves down, and made no bones about listening in. They didn’t flinch at the glares Kevin shot their way. A sturdy bunch; comes from surviving all that cold weather.”
“Thanks for the info.” I waved and cut across the driveway to meet up with Mac and Fab. “Miss January okay?” I asked Mac. “She missed out on the excitement.”
Miss January and Joseph were both inherited tenants from my Aunt Elizabeth. Both had been labeled terminal by their doctors long before I took over, but they continued to defy the odds, neither giving a thought to cutting back on cigarettes and liquor.
“Miss January got drunk earlier than usual and fell asleep in her chair on the porch. I found her lying in a heap on the ground next to it. Had to hoist her up by the arms—barely got her standing—and helped her to bed. She got a little sniffly over Score. We need to find her a new boyfriend; then maybe she’ll stay sober for an extra hour or two.”
Score was the boyfriend she “found” on the beach and dragged back to her cottage, where he’d lived in a perpetual state of drunkenness until he passed on.
“Find someone closer to her own age,” I suggested. Score had been in his nineties, close to one hundred. The problem was Miss January looked closer to Score’s age than the forties her identification stated. And the boyfriend pool slimmed down after a certain age.
I watched as Fab crossed the street and got behind the wheel of the SUV. She’d barely got the door closed when she laid on the horn. I shook my head.
“You better hurry up, or she might leave you.” Mac laughed. “If that happens, I’ll give you a ride.”
“If Fab did that, I’d kick her designer-clad butt.” On the other hand, given how she exceled at martial arts… “Maybe not,” I said in response to Mac’s raised eyebrow. “I’d whine to her boyfriend and to Mother, and she knows that.”
Fab laid on the horn again.
I waved to Mac. “Call me if any more dead bodies turn up.”
Chapter Four
I did a double take when Fab turned off the Overseas onto the road that led to the house. “Why aren’t we going to Mother and Spoon’s? You need a car, or did you forget?”
“I’m in no hurry. I’ll just drive your car.”
“I’m telling you now, sharing my car isn’t going to work. Why are you dragging your designer shoes?”
“I’m thinking Brick is going to come to his senses and send the Porsche back.” Fab parked in the driveway.
We both got out, slamming the doors, and headed to the front door.
A lump on the ground caught my attention. “What the hell?” I pointed to the front door knob lying on the brick step.
Fab whipped out her Walther from the waistband of her jeans. “I hope you have your damn gun on you.” She tossed her hair and headed for the back yard.
She wasn’t quick enough to hide her slight smirk as I went for my Glock. “You be careful,” I whispered hoarsely.
Now what? Damn, I forgot to ask. No one would be going in or out the front door until the lock was changed. This wasn’t a professional job. I snickered to myself. Since I hadn’t been invited as backup, I decided to go back to the SUV and wait for shots to be fired. Normal people would call the police. But why annoy Fab and deprive her of the opportunity to shoot someone?
I had just slid into the passenger seat when Fab reappeared, opening the front door from inside, her handgun reholstered.
“There’s no one here,” she yelled. Lowering her voice as I met her halfway, she added, “The back was locked up, and there’s no place to hide in the pool area. There’s no sign anyone made it into the house. Bigger question: Did whoever it was want something specific, in which case they’ll be back, or did someone decide on a whim that it would be fun to break into a house today?”
“We’re lucky that whoever it was didn’t have lock-picking skills. Who’s going to tell the guys?” I asked.
“Let’s just replace the door knob and keep it to ourselves. They don’t have to know everything.”
“They always find out. Besides, can you change a lock? I tried once and then called a professional.” I chewed on my lower lip. “How do we explain new keys?”
“I’ve got this handled. You grab the old lock.” Fab stomped across the kitchen to the garage and returned with a brand new lockset and screwdriver, the island becoming her workspace.
I was impressed but didn’t ask where it came from and instead asked, “What’s up with you and Didier?”
I saw the sadness that flitted across her face and disappeared. “He wants me to change professions,” she said quietly, taking a pair of kitchen shears to cut away the plastic packaging on the lockset.
“And do what?”
“That’s what I asked. I threw in his face that if he wanted a trophy girlfriend who always says and does the right thing, he should’ve figured it out a long time ago. Suggested he stop looking for reasons to break up and just walk out.”
Fab sorted the parts on the counter. I watched as she removed the lock cylinder from the old knob and put it in the new one. Armed with the screwdriver, she crossed to the front door to dispatch the remains of the old knob and put the new one on.
Leaning against a stool, I said, “You need help, I’ll get the number for a locksmith.”
Fab shook her head and had the lock off in an impressively short amount of time. She motioned me over, handing me the old parts, which I dumped in the trash.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“For the first time in my life, I have no idea. I’d like to be able to figure out whatever the answer is without ultimatums.”
Fab lined the pieces up on the floor and snapped her fingers, gesturing for me to be useful and hand her the parts.
“Think about what you might love doing and open another business,” I suggested. “Or expand your one-woman operation and hire other people to dodge bullets. Let them worry about staying off the radar of local law enforcement and avoiding ugly orange jumpsuits.”
“Since I’m not in the mood to interview a boyfriend replacement—” She lifted her head and rolled her eyes. “—I’m taking Didier to dinner and an overnight in Miami. Throw in some sex, and that should bring back his good mood.”
“About the sex thing, don’t make it look manipulative.”
Fab laughed. “You’re dispensing sex tips now?” She laughed again. “That felt good.”
“Don’t be mean. Does Creole look unhappy? No,” I answered for her. “Pay attention. You’re going to tell Didier before you leave on your romantic evening about this attempted break-in and not wait for it to ruin your evening.” I took my phone out, ignoring her scowl, and texted Creole. “This isn’t that big a deal. Not worth getting into a fight over.”
The boyfriends had a hard and fast rule that they be the first to know when things went awry; if they weren’t, an argument was ensured. I’d gotten better at reporting in. Fab just wanted to dig in and be contrary, even when she didn’t have a good reason, which was most of the time.
“Clean up your mess and let’s get to Jake’s for tacos.”
Chapter Five
On the main strip in the middle of town sat Jake’s, a dive bar my Aunt Elizabeth once owned a half-interest in. Due to its namesake’s ina
bility to stop gambling, I’d bought out his half-interest and he skipped town. Rather shocked by my aunt’s business dealings, I wished I could have asked her, “What were you thinking?” It didn’t take long after her death for me to discover that she’d led a secret double life, which she’d left to me, giving me a life I loved. Making Tarpon Cove my home was the best decision I ever made.
I’d inherited the rest of the block with the caveat that I never turn it into high-rise condos. As for the other businesses on the block, I got the impression their owners didn’t have the goal of making money. Junker’s, an old gas station, had been converted into a garden antique store and finally started to eke out a profit when the missus advertised to out-of-town dealers wanting to drag junk back to their stores and jack up the prices.
A couple of years ago, Fab had accepted a lighthouse in payment for a job in lieu of cash. It had arrived in the middle of the night, off-loaded without anyone seeing anything. Her original idea was to use it for office space, but that didn’t last a day. She’d hated the isolation and theoretically moved to a table on the back deck of Jake’s for meeting clients, which hadn’t actually happened yet. Most of her clients preferred the anonymity of the phone. Currently, the lighthouse drew tourists who wanted to stop and take pictures.
Twinkie Princesses, a lime-green and pink roach coach parked at the end of the driveway parallel to the road, boasted they’d “fry anything.” If only either of the two women owners ever showed up to work. They were the perfect tenants—paid their rent on time, didn’t invite trouble, and no police calls—so I said nothing.
Fab drove just under the speed limit; her incentive a cop on her tail that I suspected was Kevin, though I couldn’t verify that through the tinted windows. The parking lot of the tropical-style tiki bar was about half full. One of the first things I did after taking control was spruce up the dilapidated building with fresh paint, plants, and lighting. Power washing and bug control raised the “F” health rating to an “A” one step ahead of being closed down. The old locals that Jake had run off had returned, along with new ones, and even tourists once we were written up in a couple of magazines: “Best Mexican food in the Keys.”
Bypassing the kitchen entrance, Fab scored a parking place in the front, and we entered through the front door for a change, waving to the bartender. The jukebox blared over the customers’ voices, the pool tables were taken, and there were two in line for the dartboard.
I sighed and tried not to dwell on the fact that any day now, my superstar bartender, Phil, aka Philipa Grey, would be handing in her resignation, now that she’d passed the bar on the first go-round. So far, she’d been mum about her future plans, and I didn’t bring it up.
“Margarita, rocks,” I ordered as I slipped onto a stool. A regular moved over one so that Fab and I could sit together.
“I’m driving,” Fab said. “Something sparkling with a lime.”
“How’s tricks?” I eyed the leggy blond over the rim of my glass.
Before Phil could utter an answer, accusations, including a liberal use of the F-word, filled the room. Chairs were upended; bodies crashed to the floor. The men at the bar turned on their stools for a ringside view. The lone woman at the other end of the bar glanced up, briefly taking her eyes away from the video poker machine. The patrons seated at the tables stood, and a couple of women climbed up on the tabletops. As fists flew, cheers went up for one man or the other.
I sent a look of annoyance at Phil, reminding her that bar fights fell under her job description. She let out a loud sigh and reached for the Mossburg conveniently stored behind the bar for these “just in case” situations. The universally recognized clack of the pump shotgun brought a hush to the bar. The brawlers didn’t react, and no one tipped them off. Phil waited calmly for about three seconds, then lodged a bullet in a beam crossing the ceiling. That brought the fight to a halt and sent a few customers running for the door.
I poked Fab. “Go chase those people down; they need to settle their tabs. No one stiffs Jake’s.”
Her deranged smile firmly in place, she hopped off her stool and sprinted toward the front door.
Phil called out to a couple of regulars, admonishing them to make sure the fight didn’t resume. The two burly men climbed off their stools and strode over to the brawlers, shoving them apart with their feet, helping them to stand. Both immediately sank back down. Two drunk women pushed through the gawkers; shouting at one another over whose fault it was, they ran to the men, slobbering over them to get up.
Glancing at Phil, I motioned to the pair of bruisers. “Get the two on the floor out of here before law enforcement shows up.” As the words came out of my mouth, sirens could be heard close by, and I hoped that didn’t mean the cops were turning into the parking lot.
“Get your ass up.” A short, squat man stood, what appeared to be vomit stuck to the lower legs of his jeans. The woman with him hooked her arm in his. “Bathroom?” she asked, eyes flitting around.
I pointed to the hallway leading to the kitchen, covering my nose as they passed. “I’d like to sneak out the back door, but we’re parked in front,” I whispered to Phil.
“Stay seated,” Kevin shouted from the door. After the room went quiet, he continued, “My partner and I are going to want statements from all of you.” He zeroed in on me. “Where’s the body?”
I pointed to the middle of the room, where the remaining man sat on the floor, head in hand, his fingers smeared with blood. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the other couple making a clean getaway, bypassing the bathroom and heading straight for the back door.
Fab did her trick of appearing out of nowhere and pushed a handful of cash across the bar to Phil. “The runners wanted me to apologize for their bad behavior. They estimated the tab. I thanked them and told them to hurry back.”
I rolled my eyes. “What really happened?”
“What? That was a good story.” She humphed at me when I said nothing. “Fine. I told them it was a felony to run out on a bar tab, punishable by a year in prison. Added that Jake’s prosecutes and they wouldn’t be the first we sent to the big house.”
Phil made a sound much like a muffled laugh.
A stretcher cruised through the front door, and Kevin waved the two medics over to the man, whose head was now in his woman’s lap. Kevin bent down to talk to him. After a cursory check, the man was strapped down and rolled out. The wife held his hand, walking by his side.
“If they sue, I’ll be your first client.”
“Your insurance has got you covered. Don’t forget to call them.” Phil held her hand up. “No more questions. When I accept an offer, I’ll let you know. Don’t worry. I won’t dump you without notice, and we can still conduct our side business.”
“What business?” Kevin stared her down, his eyes dark dots.
Phil never flinched. I waited for her middle finger to pop up, but to my disappointment, she maintained her cool.
We both ignored his question.
“No one’s dead, so I guess your work here is done.” I squinted at him. “That man under arrest?” I pointed to the door. “I’m not pressing charges, if that matters.”
“What started the fight?” Phil pushed a bottle of water across the bar top at Kevin.
“A fart,” he said with a straight face.
Fab burst out laughing. “Such a classy crowd.”
I shook my head, certain I had lint in my ears and wasn’t hearing correctly. “You’re not funny.” I didn’t bother to point out that he didn’t have a sense of humor – why start now?
“Bob and Wanda are the couple on the way to the hospital. Bob will need his nose straightened unless he prefers a crook in it. The woman who made a run for it out the back, dragging her man by the arm, passed gas on Wanda, or near enough, and that started a war of words.” Kevin was enjoying the retelling of events.
“You’re making that up.” I frowned at him.
Kevin clasped his hands over his heart. “You w
ant to hear the rest?”
“Show of hands,” Phil intervened, raising hers slightly.
Fab raised her hand.
“Proceed, officer,” Phil said. “The hell yeses have it.”
“Another water?” He handed back the empty bottle. “Where was I?”
I glanced at him, shaking my head.
“Bob tried to intervene between the two women, telling them to ‘shut it.’ Most men don’t need to be told that’s a bad idea.” He grabbed up the new water bottle, nodding at Phil. “The man who beat it out the back threw the first punch, tackled him to the ground, and the fight was on. The shotgun blast put an end to the fun.” He glowered at Fab, who returned it, eyes narrowing.
“It’s an effective way to end disagreements,” she said.
“According to witnesses, no one could ID either couple. They’re not regulars, which surprised me. Did get a partial plate. Told Bob and Wanda not to get behind the wheel of their car until they sober up. And when they do, the road out of town goes north. Until then, this town has cabs and they should use them.”
“I’m trying to picture your farfetched scenario in my mind, but I’m coming up short. How did the woman actually… on her…” I trailed off, not sure how to phrase what I wanted to say. My mother would die if she heard that I used the other F-word in public. “How is that possible?”
Fab’s face clearly communicated that I didn’t need the answer.
Kevin coughed a laugh, screwed the top back on his water bottle, and slam-dunked it into the trash. “I’d guess, judging by the smell emanating from the victim, it was fart spray. Comes in a can, in case you didn’t know.”
I lowered my head, my shoulders shaking with laughter. Phil poked me in the side, laughing. Fab looked disgusted.
“You’re lucky; the culprit must have been a first-time user,” Kevin said to me, eyes full of amusement. “She only got off a short shot. If she’d sprayed the joint, your bar would be empty and you’d have to get the crime scene cleaner that you’re so friendly with over here to fumigate the place. It ought to be illegal to shoot the stuff off. This isn’t the first time it’s started a fight.”
Lottery in Paradise (Florida Keys Mystery Series Book 11) Page 3