The Corpse in the Cabana

by Shéa MacLeod

  “It wasn’t my idea,” Greta all but shouted. “You’re the one who got me into this. I won’t go down for—.”

  “Shut up, you fool,” Yvonne snapped. “Do you want everyone to know about...” she trailed off. Her small, muddy brown eyes darted around the Flying Fish while everyone else pretended to be engrossed in their drinks. “Come on. We’ll continue this conversation elsewhere.” She stood up and tossed a few bills on the table before storming out, Greta followed along in her wake. Both of the women were flushed, eyes snapping with anger.

  I leaned closer to Cheryl. “Come on, let’s follow them.”

  Before either of us could budge from our seats, a new player arrived. “Hello, ladies. Is this seat taken?”

  Cheryl beamed up at Lucas Salvatore. “Of course not. Please sit down.”

  I all but growled in frustration. Yvonne and Greta had disappeared from sight. I had no idea what direction they’d gone, and now I’d never know what they were arguing about. What if it was something important?

  “I hope I’m not interrupting something,” Lucas said smoothly, taking a seat across from me. It was obvious from his expression he knew very well he’d interrupted.

  I found myself suddenly ensnared in his gray eyes and barely refrained from shaking my head. What was wrong with me? I did not have time to moon over some writer dude. I had a mystery to solve.

  I opened my mouth to tell him that he was, indeed, interrupting something when Cheryl barged in. “Oh, no, not at all, Lucas. It’s so good to see you again.” Good grief, the girl could gush.

  After placing his drink order with the waiter, he leaned back, fingers laced behind his head. “So how goes the investigation?”

  I glared at him. “Why don’t you announce it to the entire bar?”

  He laughed. “I wouldn’t worry. Everyone else is more interested in speculating about Yvonne and Greta’s argument.”

  “You heard that?” Cheryl asked.

  “Naturally.”

  I leaned forward eagerly. “Do you know what it was about?”

  A slow grin spread across his handsome face. “Perhaps. What is it worth to you?”

  My eyes narrowed. “Stop messing around and tell me, or else...” I had no idea what to threaten him with, but hopefully he’d get the message.

  He held out his hands in supplication. “Mercy.” I swear he was laughing at me. “Now, keep in mind, this is all second- and third-hand information, but what I heard is that Natasha was being courted by a new acquisitions editor at a competing publishing house.”

  My eyes widened. “Natasha is leaving Romantic Press?”

  “I don’t know for sure,” Lucas admitted, “but that’s the rumor. Yvonne had some kind of deal going with Greta, and apparently Greta failed to deliver.”

  Cheryl leaned forward, buzzing with excitement. She did love a good piece of gossip. I could relate. “What kind of deal? Like spying on Natasha or something?”

  “I honestly don’t know, but that would make sense, wouldn’t it?”

  Now it was me buzzing with excitement. What if Greta had been spying on Natasha for Yvonne, and Natasha had found out? Confronted Greta. If she fired Piper over sleeping with Jason, she’d for sure fire Greta over spying, and from what I understood, Natasha was Greta’s only client. Natasha could easily make sure Greta never got hired again. It would totally give Greta a motive for murdering Natasha.

  Or maybe it was Yvonne. Maybe she got so angry with Natasha about leaving her and Romantic Press that she confronted Natasha on the beach. They argued and blamo! Natasha ends up dead. Yes, I could definitely see it going either way.

  “Forget about Yvonne and Greta for a minute,” Cheryl said, interrupting my thoughts. “What about the bracelet?”

  “Bracelet?” Lucas perked up.

  I explained where and how I found the bracelet and my plan for it. Then I told them both about how I’d shown it to Kyle. “I’m certain he recognized it, but he’s a cagey one. He pretended not to recognize it.”

  “Why would he do that?” Cheryl asked.

  I shrugged. “Who knows?”

  “Can I see it?” Lucas asked.

  I pulled the silver bracelet from my handbag and gave it to him. “There’s an etching on the back, but it’s hard to see.”

  He held it up to the light, frowning slightly as he inspected the inside of the jewelry. “Yes, I see it. It’s well worn, but I am fairly certain the first letter is an ‘A.’ The second is almost impossible to make out. ‘C’ maybe? I can’t really tell.”

  He handed the bracelet back. It was my turn to hold it up to the light and squint at it. He was right. It was impossible to make out the second letter. Not that the initials would help much. There must be a hundred women at the Fairwinds Resort whose names began with the letter “A.”

  Still, it was interesting. I needed to find out if Kyle knew a woman with an “A” name. I was still certain he’d recognized it. I’d half expected it to be Natasha’s, but there was no way she’d have worn something with another woman’s initials. She just didn’t roll that way.

  Lucas leaned forward. “Penny for your thoughts.”

  I smiled smugly. “Oh, believe me, they’re worth a whole lot more than that.”

  He raised one black eyebrow. “A dollar?”

  I snorted with amusement as I waved the waiter over to pay. I started to pull out my keycard to charge my room when Lucas waved me off. “My treat.”

  “Thank you.”

  He nodded graciously.

  I smirked. “But I’m still not telling you.”

  Chapter 8

  The Mysterious Newcomer

  THE NEXT MORNING I put in a call for Detective Costa. Reluctantly, mind you. Costa’s suspiciousness freaked me out, and I’d yet to find any proof to clear my and Cheryl’s names. But I’d seen crime shows on TV. I knew what happened when you withheld important information from the police, and I did not want to end up on the six o’clock news wearing handcuffs. I’d be getting a call from my mother for sure.

  The desk sergeant put me through to Costa’s cell phone, which surprised me. I wasn’t sure that was a good thing. More like “this chick is a suspect and I’m waiting for her to confess” sort of thing.

  “Go for Costa.” His voice boomed through the tiny speaker.

  Rather brusque way to answer the phone, don’t you think? “Uh, this is Viola Roberts.”

  The pause was a little lengthier than I would have liked. “How can I help you, Ms. Roberts?”

  Oh, so smooth. I cleared my throat. “I have some information you might find interesting.”

  Another brief pause. “I’m on my way.”

  “Wait—” But he’d already hung up. Doggonnit. Where was I supposed to meet him? Was he coming to my room? I stared down at myself. I was still in pajamas, no makeup, and my hair was a mess. I hadn’t had a shower either. I sniffed my armpit. Ew.

  It wasn’t unusual for me to skip a day of showering when on a deadline, but this was not such a time. Exposing the world, or even Costa, to my unwashed self was not on the agenda.

  There wasn’t time for a proper shower, so I did a spit-bath thing, swiped on some deodorant, and ran a comb through my hair before smushing in some pomade. Not much of an improvement, but there was no help for it. I was debating my outfit for the day when someone banged on the door. My stomach heaved with dread. Sure enough, standing on the other side of the peephole was Detective Hottie, and he looked good enough to eat. Naturally, I looked like I’d been caught in a tornado.

  “Give me a second,” I called through the closed door.

  “Make it snappy.”

  I rolled my eyes, but did as he ordered. I whipped off my pajamas and threw on a pair of navy blue capris and a hot-pink t-shirt.

  With a sigh, I threw open the door and forced a cheery smile. “Detective. How nice to see you. Come in.”

  He was wearing the same rumpled suit he’d worn the first time I met him. At least I assumed it was the
same one. It looked the same. He followed me past the messy bedroom and into the living area. “Would you like some coffee?” Cops drink coffee, right? That isn’t just a movie thing?

  “Thank you. No.”

  “Well, I need some,” I said, busying myself with preparing my morning beverage. Actually, what I needed was some hard liquor, but it was way too early for that. “Have a seat.” I waved to the couch.

  “Thanks, but I’ll stand.”

  “Suit yourself. How can I help you?”

  “You called me, remember?”

  Oh, right. “Of course.” I grabbed the French vanilla creamer from the fridge and poured a generous dollop into a mug. “I overheard a conversation last night I thought you’d find of interest.”

  One black eyebrow went up, but he remained silent. Great. He wasn’t going to make this easy on me.

  “I was at the Flying Fish Grill with some friends last night, and I saw two of your suspects arguing with each other.”

  “How do you know they’re my suspects?” he asked, giving me a bland look.

  I barely refrained from giving him an eye roll. “Because if they’re not, you’re not very good at your job.” It came out a little more snarky than I intended.

  His lips quirked. Hopefully in amusement. I could use some goodwill right about now. “Go on.”

  “I assume you’ve questioned Natasha’s editor, Yvonne Kitterage? And her current personal assistant, Greta?”

  He didn’t give any indication he’d done so. Just stared at me with gimlet eyes. Man, he was disconcerting.

  “Well,” I tried not to squirm, instead splashing dark liquid into my mug. I took a long swallow. Nirvana. “They were at the Flying Fish, and they were arguing about something.”

  “What were they arguing about?”

  “Er, well, it wasn’t very clear. First Greta said, ‘It wasn’t my idea.’ And then she said something about Yvonne being the one who got her into ‘this’ —whatever ‘this’ was—and that she wasn’t going down for it. Then Yvonne got really mad and told her to shut up and did Greta want everyone to know about...whatever it was they were up to. Then they went elsewhere to finish the conversation. I was going to follow them to find out what it was all about, but, well, I got waylaid.”

  Detective Costa’s eyes narrowed. “And you thought this was important enough to have me come all the way out here?”

  I gritted my teeth hard enough to make my jaw hurt. “Well, don’t you? Two major suspects arguing right after the murder? I mean it’s obvious it had something to do with all this.”

  “Is it?” He seemed unimpressed.

  I was irritated. Was he purposely being dense? I decided to spell it out for him. “Look, what if Yvonne and Greta were in on it? The murder, I mean. They both had motive. What if they decided to off Natasha, and that’s what they were talking about?”

  “That’s a lot of supposition, Ms. Roberts. I don’t deal in guesswork. I deal in facts.”

  I hated when he called me “Ms. Roberts.” It sounded so stuffy. I ground my teeth, barely resisting the urge to call him an idiot. “But they are suspects, aren’t they? And you’ve got to admit that them having an argument like that is suspicious.”

  He leaned forward, his blue eyes icy. “No. I don’t have to admit any such thing. Listen to me very carefully, Ms. Roberts. I’m only going to say this once. Stay out of my investigation.”

  “Or what?” I heard myself blurt.

  “Or I will lock you up and throw away the key.”

  “WOW. WHAT A JERK,” Cheryl said indignantly over breakfast later that morning. “How dare he threaten you!”

  I knew I could count on Cheryl to be on my side. “I know. But I did what I could, and he can’t accuse me of withholding information. Unless you count the bracelet, but he doesn’t know about that.” All I needed was a rap sheet. Although maybe a little scandal would be good for sales. You never knew.

  She nodded, stabbing her fork into a syrup drenched waffle. “So, you’re going to stop investigating now, right?”

  “No way,” I said, digging into my own Eggs Benedict. “Not until I clear our names.”

  She groaned and opened her mouth, surely to tell me all the horrible reasons my investigation was a bad idea, when we were interrupted once again by Lucas Salvatore. He looked particularly delicious in worn jeans and a snug, black t-shirt.

  “Good morning, ladies.”

  I mumbled a greeting. Cheryl was much friendlier.

  He sank into the chair next to me without asking. “Are you ladies planning to attend the tour?”

  I gave him a blank stare.

  “What tour?” Cheryl piped up around a mouthful of waffle.

  “The tour of the haunted mansion, of course.” He grinned, showing off his perfect pearly whites. He really did have a nice smile. Darn him.

  I started to ask what haunted mansion he was talking about when Cheryl spoke up. “Oh, you mean the pink hotel down the road?” At his nod, she turned to me. “Remember? The cab driver said it was the second most haunted building in all of Florida. Oh, we have to go. Don’t you think it would be fun?”

  I, for one, did not believe in ghosts. Mostly I considered what people thought of as spirits from the Great Beyond to be nothing more than a result of overactive imaginations. But Cheryl was so excited, and Lucas was grinning in that sexy way of his. How could I say no? Besides, historical buildings were always of interest to me. You never knew when they would fit into a story, though I doubted a Florida hotel would work in a bodice-ripping Western. Still, I agreed to join the tour which pretty much made Cheryl’s day. Lucas looked happy about it, too, though I was betting it was more for Cheryl’s sake than mine. Sure he’d been very personable over drinks that first night, but Cheryl seemed more his type. They had a lot in common. Both thriller writers. Both athletic and good looking. Not that I’m not an attractive woman, but generally men gravitate toward Cheryl. Believe me, I’m fine with it. I like being single. Nobody to steal the remote from me or leave the toilet seat up.

  Maybe in addition to solving Natasha’s murder, I could play matchmaker. Now there was a thought. I bet I’d be good at it, too. Not to sound smug, but I write romance for a living, after all.

  The tour group had rented a van for the trip, and we climbed aboard—some of us less gracefully than others. There was just no graceful way to squeeze oneself between a van wall and a bench seat, especially when one had an ample backside. By the time I was in my seat, the combination of the afternoon heat, humidity, and exertion had wilted my hair, melted my makeup, and turned my face the color of a cherry tomato.

  Cheryl looked cool as a cucumber. Well, maybe there was a little bit of a “glow” about her, but she still looked great even sweaty. Lucas looked fantastic, as though the heat didn’t even bother him. The big jerk.

  I sighed. It wasn’t fair.

  Also on the mini bus were a couple of older ladies, perhaps in their sixties. Both were on the plump side with white hair and flowy, bright-colored clothing. One had red-framed cat’s eye glasses. They looked vaguely familiar. I introduced myself and Cheryl.

  The one with the glasses leaned across the seat and shook my hand vigorously. “Nice to meet you, Viola. Cheryl,” she boomed. “Maggie Vane. Mysteries. Cozy.” She clipped each word like it was its own sentence. “This here is Louisa Lee Lambert. Contemporary romances. Just call her Lu.”

  Lu beamed at me, but didn’t say a word. I noticed she was wearing hot-pink, heart-shaped earrings that dangled from her earlobes. Every time she turned her head, they sparkled in the sunlight. Apparently Lu was fond of glitter.

  Maggie slapped Lucas on the back. “And who are you, handsome?”

  I swear Lucas blushed as he shook Maggie’s hand. “Lucas. Thrillers.”

  Maggie raised one white eyebrow, a knowing look crossing her creased face. “Are you that Salvatore fellow everyone is going on about?”

  “One and the same,” he admitted. Yep. Definitely blushing.r />
  “Splendid.” She sat back with satisfaction. “We should compare notes later. Cozy versus thriller. Writing. Marketing. Those kind of shenanigans.” She punctuated her words with gusto in a broad, slightly nasally East Coast accent.

  “I would enjoy that,” he said graciously.

  I noted that, other than the driver, Lucas was the only man in the vehicle. Apparently haunted mansions didn’t appeal to as many gentleman writers as one might have thought. Interesting since ghost-hunting shows tended to lean heavily to the male arena. “All at the bar,” Maggie barked.

  “Huh?” I glanced at her, confused by her non-sequitur.

  “The men. All at the bar. Why they come to these things mostly. Conferences, I mean.”

  “Ah. I see.” I didn’t really, but then I’d been single for a long time, and my previous relationships had proven I understood little about the opposite gender. Or rather, I understood too much, which was probably worse.

  Just as the driver started the engine, a figure dashed toward the van, waving a floppy white sunhat. A large green and white striped bag banged wildly against her side as her silver flip-flops slapped against the hot asphalt.

  “Oh my word,” Cheryl whispered, leaning forward to squint through the window. “That’s Piper.”

  I peered around her shoulder. Sure enough, the red hair was unmistakable. The woman running toward us was none other than Piper Ross, Natasha’s former assistant. The woman at least partially responsible for the breakup of Natasha’s marriage, although I held Jason equally responsible since he couldn’t keep it in his pants. It took two to tango and all that.

  I smiled widely, excited about the prospect of more sleuthing. “Oh, this is going to be an interesting adventure.”

  I ignored Cheryl’s groan.

  Chapter 9

  A Suspicious Event

  PIPER ROSS PAUSED IN front of the open van door, holding her floppy hat up to shade her eyes. I noticed there was a giant red poppy glued to one side. Very colorful. “Is this the van to the haunted place?” She blinked big, pretty, green eyes rimmed with thick, dark lashes. They looked fake, but I had a feeling they were real. Darn her.