Coastal Corpse Read online

  “Did you say Bucky McGuire might’ve been killed?” she exclaimed, and the voices on her end turned silent.

  “It’s possible. He went down in the fish tank at the town hall from a blow to the back of his head, but I can’t tell anybody else that except our newspaper staff.” I paused and paced around the empty office, cell phone plastered to my ear. “The last part is kind of lame: I’ve had to enlist Pop Pop to go undercover at the Tropical Tilapia farm to check out a lead—”

  “What?”

  “ ’Fraid so.”

  “On payroll?”

  “Guess so.” I slumped into my desk chair. “I had no choice. My front-page story depends on it. It’s only two days away from the Observer deadline, and I need more info about what might’ve led to Bucky’s demise.”

  “You’re turning into Anita! Next thing, you’ll be raiding old folks’ homes for freelancers.” The cannon fired on Sandy’s end with a loud boom. I snapped the phone shut and threw it down.

  Me? Anita?

  Never.

  Ever.

  “I am not my crusty, conniving boss. I’m just trying to get a job done,” I pronounced to the empty office, then I proceeded to buckle down with renewed vigor on this week’s edition to distract myself. I couldn’t contemplate the implications of becoming an Anita clone just because I asked my geriatric handyman for help. What did Sandy know, anyway? She was a newlywed with her perceptions altered by a love-drenched, cannon-shelled honeymoon.

  After working on the layout for two hours, I had a decent mock-up between the local events, community meetings, and letters to the editor. Nothing earthshaking, but at least enough to fill the back pages. I left the above-the-fold headline blank, though I sketched out the story on Bucky’s death that I could edit the next morning. I said a quick prayer for inspiration to finish the story to St. Paul, patron saint of journalists, then added a quickie to Michael, Gabriel, and Raphael, the worker-bee angels of communication, that I wouldn’t lose my temporary reporters (and I use that term loosely).

  Front page, below the fold, would have to be the bicycle-bandit story or the Abe Lincoln violin feature.

  Just then, my cell phone dinged. Thinking it might be a message from Pop Pop, I snatched it off my desk with lightning speed.

  But it wasn’t him.

  Tagline: Liz Ellis.

  Mallie: If you want to interview me about the plant killer, I might reconsider—if I receive a formal apology from you about the harassment outside the bank today.

  Otherwise I’ll have no choice, other than to proceed with my lawsuit.

  You Know Who—Liz.

  Groaning, I e-mailed her back. “I’ll call you.”

  Okay, I didn’t want to interview her, or be within twenty miles of the woman, for that matter. But I also didn’t relish having to tell Anita on her first day back that someone was suing the paper—and me.

  I sighed.

  “Hard day?”

  Raising my head, I savored the image of Nick Billie leaning against the front doorframe with his arms crossed against his chest.

  “You have no idea,” I mumbled. Though it just got a little better.

  “Let me see if I can take a guess. You’re still desperately trying to get a front-page story, Pop Pop caused a ruckus at the Island Diner and sent an old lady to the ER, and then you badgered Travis about Bucky’s death to the point he called me and complained that you were harassing him.” He paused with one raised brow. “Am I tracking the day’s misadventures?”

  “Like a NASCAR racer.” I leaned back in my chair and smiled, deciding that he did not need to know about Pop Pop’s recent assignment. “Who would’ve thought being in charge would be such a hassle? I never thought I’d say this, but I’m starting to sympathize with Anita and her mean-assed ways. Getting out the newspaper every week is such a huge responsibility, no matter who is here to help. Of course, all I’ve got is Madame Geri and her haunted violin and Bernice with her bicycle bandit.”

  “Sorry to make your day worse, but I think we caught the thief.” He walked in my direction, causing my heart to beat a little faster.

  I immediately straightened, causing the recently fixed wooden chair—and me—to tip forward.

  Nick instantly was there, catching the arms of my chair to steady it. As I straightened and flipped my curls back, his face was inches from mine.

  “Who . . . did it? I mean, who’s the bandit?” My mouth had turned dry as a piece of cotton.

  His face moved closer. “Just some high-school kid who was playing pranks on his neighbors.”

  Damn. “No above-the-fold, front-page story there.”

  “Nope.”

  I could feel the movement of his breathing, heavy and warm.

  “My deadline is . . . looming and that leaves me the Abe Lincoln violin.”

  “Guess so.”

  He touched his mouth to mine, a mere brush, tantalizing me to push it further.

  Could I? Should I give in?

  Oscar Wilde’s delightfully naughty quote flitted through my mind: The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it.

  At the last minute, I pulled back and squared my shoulders with determined resolve. Oscar Wilde be damned. Everyone knows he ended up in prison. Meeting Nick’s gaze directly, I stammered, “I . . . thought things were over between us.”

  “Not by a long shot.” He dropped a short, hard kiss on my lips. “My head says to walk away, but my heart won’t let me.”

  “Just give me a little time.”

  He didn’t respond for a few long moments, then stepped back and sat on the corner of my desk. “Fair enough. Just don’t take too long, okay?”

  I stretched out my hand. “It’s a deal.” We shook on it, and he held my hand a little longer than necessary, but I didn’t protest. “Not to be all business again, but can you give me the latest scoop on Bucky’s case?”

  “What did Destiny and Travis tell you?” he countered.

  “You first,” I prompted, picking up my notebook and pen. Anita would be proud.

  “We found a possible murder weapon, for the record.”

  “Already?” I said, barely able to control my gasp of surprise.

  “My deputies have been searching outside the town hall the last twenty-four hours, and they turned up something interesting. We’re doing the testing now to see if the blood type matches Bucky’s, and if the object conforms to the wound.”

  I was scribbling madly. “When will you know for sure?”

  “A couple of days.”

  “Oh, come on. You can fast-track those results. Don’t hold out on me now, Nick.” I fastened a pleading glance on him, eyes wide and hopeful.

  He fiddled with his silver and turquoise belt buckle. “Maybe I’ll have something in twenty-four hours, but I can’t guarantee it.”

  “Fair enough.”

  He still didn’t look up, and I sensed his reluctance held something else that I didn’t want to hear. “What are you not telling me?”

  “I gave you my official update.”

  Raising my brows, I continued, “Off the record?”

  He shoved a hand through his straight, black hair, his face taking on a pained expression. “The possible weapon is . . . a frying pan.”

  I dropped my pen.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “Whoa. Time out.” I made the T motion with my hands. “You’re not suggesting that Wanda Sue—”

  “I haven’t given you any information for the record beyond the fact that we might’ve found a possible murder weapon. That’s it.”

  “And you’re certain there was blood on it?”

  He nodded.

  “Va Fa Napoli!”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s a sanitized curse from Joey on Friends. I must’ve fallen sleep with the TV on a repeat last night and flashed back in shock.” I was babbling, but nothing concrete surfaced as my mind raced about looking for reasons why a bloody frying pan was found near the town hall. “Maybe that guy who
cooks for the town-hall chicken dinners cut his hand while he was stir-frying. He’s got arthritis pretty bad and could’ve lost his grip.”

  “Unlikely. The blood was on the base of the pan, not the handle.” His features shuttered down, and the window of our connection closed. Now it was all business between us, and he was back to the island cop and I was back to the Observer Senior Reporter.

  But I couldn’t pretend to be an objective journalist; this was Wanda Sue’s life at stake.

  Nick pushed himself upright again. “Mallie, I’ve got no choice; I have to bring Wanda Sue in for questioning.”

  “Don’t you think the frying pan turning up outside the town hall is just a bit too convenient? Everyone on the island knew that Wanda Sue threatened Bucky with a frying pan when their relationship had soured, so to think that she decided to kill him with the same type of weapon is just plain caca.” I stood up, as well. “It’s a frame.”

  “I don’t like it either, but she’s now a person of interest.”

  I bit my lip and shook my head.

  “I’m sorry, Mallie.” He started to say something else, but apparently thought better of it, and left without another word.

  My mind blanked out for a few moments in an empty, gray space as I tried to take in the fact that my oldest and dearest island BFF might be arrested for murder.

  No way would I let that happen. I couldn’t. And as a Senior Reporter, I had my share of resources.

  First, I had to redeploy my crackerjack team with our new objective: find Bucky’s killer to clear Wanda Sue. Grabbing my cell phone, I called Bernice, left her a message about the bicyclebandit’s arrest, and asked her to come in tomorrow morning to help with this investigative story instead. Maybe she could tail Destiny Ransford; there was more to Miss-Grieving-Bank-Manager than met the eye.

  After that, I called Madame Geri, who picked up on the first ring. “Wanda Sue is in deep trouble, isn’t she?” said Madame Geri.

  “Up to her neck.” That damned spirit world was faster than the speed of light. “Put the Abe Lincoln-violin piece on the back burner. I need help on the Bucky McGuire story. I’ve got someone watching Travis, and I’m going to ask Bernice to follow Destiny. I want you to get with Joe Earl—he’s already checking into Travis’s finances—and see what the two of you can find out about Liz Ellis. She’s one of Bucky’s disgruntled customers.”

  “Will do. The Abe story is almost finished, but tip number four from the Dummy’s Guide says to be flexible. I’m on board.”

  “Thanks.”

  “One last thing. I keep getting the image of an omelet skillet as the murder weapon.”

  “Frying pan. Off the record.”

  “Ouch.” Madame Geri clicked off.

  I texted Joe Earl with his additional assignment and then speed dialed Pop Pop. After about a dozen rings and no voice mail, I was ready to forget it when he finally picked up.

  “Pop Pop, did you get hired?” I asked in a loud voice, hoping he could hear me.

  “No need to shout, missy. I’ve got my hearing aids on high volume.” He coughed a few times and inhaled audibly (I presumed he had the oxygen tank nearby). “I aced the interview. You’re now talking to Mr. Travis’s new Fish Operations Foreman.”

  “Perfect!”

  “Easy breezy, for those of us who know how to present ourselves in an interview.” He lowered his voice. “And I can already tell there’s something rotten going on here.”

  “Fish killing?”

  “Worse. I’ve been talking with Jose and Pepe and found out Travis is paying them less than minimum wage. He calls it the gray-hair scale. Can you believe it? I can’t let my fellow seniors be exploited like that.”

  “Pop Pop, I need you to stay focused on your assignment: gleaning information about the tilapia farm.”

  “I am, but first I’ve got to take care of the elder abuse going on here.”

  My fingers tightened around the phone. “I repeat—stay focused. I’m on a tight deadline here with my edition.”

  “Ten-four, missy.” Pop Pop cackled. “Listen, here’s what I intend to do. I’m going to unionize the workers. Jose, Pepe, and I are going to form the United Tilapia Farm Workers. Senior brothers unite!”

  “What?”

  “Don’t worry, Mallie, it won’t take long to file the paperwork, and I can nose around the fish tanks at the same time. I already called someone with the AFL-CIO.”

  I hung up. Okay, that one was turning out to be a bust. Luckily, I still had Bernice, Joe Earl, and Madame Geri.

  “Coming through!” a familiar voice sang out. I ran to the open office area just in time to see Bernice whirling through the door on a unicycle with tiny training wheels. “Hey, Mallie, thanks for the call about the bike bandit, but I already knew it. I was there when Nick and his deputy lectured that neighbor kid for stealing bicycles, and he had quite a stockpile of purloined bikes, let me tell you. Anyway, no one was pressing charges, so he didn’t get arrested, just community service. Sad that it turned out to be a ho-hum kind of story after all.” She gave a faux yawn. “But lookee what I found at his house.”

  My eyes widened as I spied about six inches of latex-encased, droopy buttocks on either side of the seat, precariously balanced over a single, thin tire. Bernice slowed down as she took the corner around my desk. “Nick couldn’t fit all the stolen bikes in his truck, so he said I could take the unicycle to the police station. Cool, huh? I couldn’t resist popping it out of my car for a little tour around the newspaper office to show you.” She backpedaled and twirled to the right, then left.

  I had to admit that her sense of balance seemed impressive.

  Then she spun the wheel in a circle and aimed for the back of the office.

  “All right, that’s enough,” I ordered. “Get off that thing. You’re heading right for the coffeepot!”

  She jerked her right foot down but didn’t slow down. “Damn that little weasel thief. The brakes don’t work. I can’t stop.” A stream of expletives emitted from her until the unicycle rammed into the small table, causing Bernice to flip over and—even worse—take the coffeepot with her.

  The glass carafe shattered upon impact.

  “I broke my arm,” Bernice shouted. By the time I got over to her, she was on the floor, clutching her right elbow and kicking the bike tire. “Call 9-1-1, you dummy.”

  Great.

  Now I was down to Joe Earl and Madame Geri.

  After calling the paramedics for the second time in two days, waving Bernice off to the ER (she grumbled the entire time about having broken her “fighting arm,” whatever that meant), and mourning my coffee pot, I finally climbed, exhausted and weary, into my truck and headed out.

  Well . . . maybe I’d taken one more peek in my desk drawer for the diamond engagement ring. Still nada.

  As I slowly drove along Cypress Drive, I found myself staring at the road with a numb, almost unseeing gaze. Between Wanda Sue’s woes and this whole editor thing, I was ready for Anita to return. Okay. I’d admitted it. It was time for her to come back and pick up the reins again, so I could take a vacation. In the meantime, I needed a heavy-duty dose of clear-my-head, forget-about-the-world zone-out in my Airstream.

  When I reached the Twin Palms RV Park, my mouth spread into a tired, but happy smile. The sight of the sturdy trailers, RVs, and fifth-wheels lined up along the small strip of sand had a lovely, secure feel. Home. I parked my truck, then glanced at Cole’s van—dark and quiet—and my neighbor on the other side—outside lights on, with the song “Love, Love, Love” playing from a boom box.

  Was Lenny Kravitz next door?

  Who cared at this point?

  Stumbling out of Rusty, I yawned and stretched my arms overhead.

  “Miss Mallie?” a voice said from behind.

  Startled, I spun around to see Coop standing under my awning in jeans with a splashy, tropical shirt and black, cotton doo-rag. Evening garb.

  “I saw you at the Tropical Tilapia today and re
membered you said to call if I had any information about Bucky.” He held out my business card. “I forgot to pin the number to my shirt, but found the card right here when I was going to do my laundry this morning.” He tapped his shirt pocket. “I called the newspaper earlier today—at least I think I did—and some woman named Jerry told me you lived at the Twin Palms.”

  “Madame Geri. She’s the island freelance psychic who writes our Astrology Now! column.” Nice to know that she’s just handing out my home address to anyone who calls the Observer. No raise for her—one year.

  His features crumpled into a puzzled frown. “I don’t remember any psychic stuff, but then again that memory thing makes it hard for me to recall . . .” He spread his hands in helpless appeal.

  “Do you want to sit down?” I gestured toward my picnic table and pulled my sweater tighter. Though my Airstream blocked the wind coming in off the Gulf, the temperature was dropping fast, and all I had on under the sweater was a thin, cotton t-shirt.

  “Nah, I think I’ll stand.” He shifted from one foot to the other, rubbing his hands together.

  “Okay.” Why was he so nervous?

  My awning flapped in the breeze, and the tide rolled in with a soft, rhythmic swell.

  I waited, detecting Kong’s scratching the inside of the Airstream door. He wouldn’t be able to wait much longer to take a business break. “I hate to sound impatient, but I’m going to need to walk my dog in a minute. What’s up?”

  He placed his hands on his waist and drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly (very slowly). “I’m not sure if this means anything or not, ’cause I’m still in shock about Bucky. And I’m a loyal employee, as I told you.”

  “I don’t think anyone would question that.” Kong’s scratching grew louder. “Is it connected to the tilapia farm?”

  “Sort of.”

  Kong gave a little yelp.

  “And Travis Harper?”

  “Yep.”

  “Could you be a little more specific?” Shivering, I realized that I was now officially doing twenty questions outside my Airstream in a blustering wind with a desperate dog inside. A Senior Reporter would know how to elicit the info a little faster, even with a guy who had a questionable memory.