Music from the tiki bar wafted down the beach, accompanying the pounding of the surf as the tide rolled in. I flipped onto my stomach and buried my head in my arms, my skin absorbing the late-day heat. Good thing I was on my own this afternoon. Bill would have dragged me off the sand an hour ago. I idly watched the young lifeguards as they wrapped up their shift, collecting equipment, toppling the stand to prevent kids from climbing aboard. Their chiseled, athletic bodies reminded me of Jackson seven or eight years ago, before a beer belly aged him. The only remnant remaining of those long-ago summers was his brown, curly mane.
What had Jackson and Vinnie been arguing about earlier? Never mind; it wasn’t my concern.
I drifted off…images from back in time surfacing unbidden. Jackson and I partying on his charter boat when he should have been working. Double dating with Vinnie C and a series of girlfriends. Grody teaching Jackson the basics of surfing. Bill and Jackson were about the same age but worlds apart. Responsible Bill with a professional career and a ton of law enforcement proficiency versus Jackson, apparently jobless and broke, the irresponsible beach bum who’d crashed with an old girlfriend. His unreliability was part of the reason we split up. Bill was pretty predictable. But that was fine by me. I had had enough excitement in my life these last years, and I appreciated the fact that he was steady and reliable. Of course, breakfast this morning was a surprising change of pace for Jackson.
Thinking of food made my stomach growl. The sun was slipping lower in the sky, and windy gusts had kicked up. I debated dropping in to the Bottom Feeder for a Creamsicle Crush and some fried shrimp balls, but then I had an image of Bill strolling in the door with a string of fish. Tired, hungry, and wanting a little TLC.
I needed to get home.
* * * *
Nothing like a cool shower after a day of sunbathing. I relished the feel of the water cascading off my shoulders and back, soothing my warm skin and relaxing my muscles. I shampooed my hair, removing the stickiness of sand and suntan oil. I switched off the shower, stepped onto a fuzzy bath mat and into a fluffy towel. I could hear activity in the kitchen. Bill! No doubt beginning the preparations for tonight’s seafood dinner. My mouth was already watering…
I ran a comb through my tangled tresses, wrapped my towel sexily around my body, and opened the bathroom door, inviting a gush of cooler air. “How’s my fisherman? Something sure smells delicious out there,” I called out and moved into the hallway posing by the doorjamb. “Honey…”
“Thanks, babe!” Jackson poked his head out of the kitchen.
“Arggh! What are you doing here?” I screamed. I tore back into the bathroom, retrieved my robe, and yanked it around me. “Jackson!”
“Now don’t go all crazy on me. I’m doin’ happy hour. ’Cuz you’re a great host.”
Also an unwilling one. I peeked out of the bathroom. Jackson was wrapped in a chef’s apron, spatula in hand.
“What are you making?” I asked darkly.
“Fried oysters wrapped in bacon and lobster wontons,” he said proudly. “Didn’t think I had it in me, didja?”
Sheesh. “Jackson, you do understand you’re not living here, right? You said you’d be gone today. That you’d have your financial…situation worked out. Cash flow, remember?”
“About that…”
Uh-oh.
“Fisherman’s home,” sang out Bill as he opened the screen door. “Not exactly what I intended to cook tonight, but you won’t be disappointed.”
“Yo, my man,” said Jackson from the kitchen.
Bill, a bag of groceries in hand, removed his Buffalo Bills ball cap, his eyes bulging. “Jackson? Dodie?” Then, “What’s that smell?”
“Lobster wontons.” I surrendered. “Jackson’s doing happy hour.”
* * * *
“I have to admit, these are delicious.” Bill speared another wonton. Once he’d gotten over the shock of seeing Jackson where he’d left him this morning—in our kitchen—and fortified by a couple of strong gin and tonics, Bill was a gracious host. He amused us with anecdotes from the day’s ocean voyage, including his inability to catch anything, and joked about a trip to the fish market to supply dinner since his fishing trip proved futile. This was a very loose Bill, not upset by his failure on the boat or my failure to dislodge Jackson from our bungalow.
“What was biting?” asked Jackson and took a swig of beer.
“Mostly mackerel and fluke. Some bluefish. Some sea bass.” Bill shook his head. “Not my day.”
“Whadidya use?”
“Swedish pimples and deadly dicks. Some of the guys were using diamond jigs,” Bill answered.
Whoa. An X-rated outing? “What are we talking about?” I asked carefully.
Bill and Jackson grinned in unison. “Fishing lures,” they said.
The sun had gone down half an hour ago, the air on the porch cooling pleasantly. I reached for the chardonnay bottle on the outdoor coffee table. “Time to get dinner going?” I said. Hopefully Jackson would take the “going” part of my hint.
“I’m on it.” Bill drained his glass and headed into the house.
“What’re you cooking?” Jackson trailed him like an eager puppy dog.
“Flounder,” said Bill.
“Jackson? Can I talk with you?” I asked pointedly.
“Sure, just as soon as Bill and I have a little discussion. Flounder is one of my specialties.”
“Specialties? You don’t have specialties.” I lowered my voice. “So you cooked a lovely breakfast. And the appetizers were delicious—”
“Told you you’d be surprised,” he said.
“But now it’s dinnertime.” I let the implication hang in the air.
“And I’m going to make Bill’s day. I’ve got the best flounder recipe,” he said.
“Jackson?” I gave up and settled into the chaise lounge. It was going to take more than implications to extricate Jackson from our lives. Their voices floated outside.
“Usually I do a simple recipe. Parmesan cheese, lemon juice, green onions, butter. Nothing fancy,” said Bill.
“Uh-huh. That’s okay, dude.”
Bill took the bait. No fishing pun intended. “What do you do with it?”
“Sometimes I bake it with panko and Parmesan…”
“Me too.”
“But my specialty…”
There he went again.
“…is dill and horseradish sauce,” Jackson said triumphantly.
In the kitchen both cooks were silent. Bill must have been absorbing this latest bit of culinary confidence. “Now, that would be interesting. Let’s try it.”
OMG. The two of them cooking partners? This could be an act of daring without a safety net. I emptied the bottle into my glass.
* * * *
“See what I mean?” Jackson said as he scraped the last morsel of flounder off his plate.
“Got it, bro.” Was Bill being sarcastic or had he yielded to Jackson’s worldview?
“Since you two ‘dudes’ cooked, I’ll clean up.” I collected plates and silverware and loaded the dishwasher.
“Awesome cooking with you, Bill. Think I’ll hit the sack. Later,” Jackson said and flashed a peace sign.
Not yet. Not if I had anything to say about it. “Jackson, give me a hand in the kitchen first.”
“Sure.”
Bill yawned and stretched. “I’m going to watch the Yankees in the bedroom.” Our bungalow was well-equipped with televisions in both bedrooms as well as the living room. “Fishing takes it out of you.”
I smiled sweetly. “I’ll be there shortly.” As soon as the bedroom door closed, I turned to Jackson. “You can’t stay here.”
“It’s okay with Bill. I’m liking that dude—”
“Well, it’s not okay with me.” I paused. “How do you know it’s okay with Bill?
“I asked him. When we were cooking.”
“When he was vulnerable. Jackson, I’m sorry things are tight for you right now, but we broke up years ago and this is…awkward.”
“Not for me. Not for Bill.” He rocked back on his flip-flops. “You need to get over your past.”
“Our past. And I am over it. It’s your living in my summer rental that’s the problem,” I huffed.
“Really upset, are we?” he mocked.
“What happened at that meeting you supposedly had? Why haven’t you solved your cash flow problem?”
“I’m working on it. We’re negotiating a deal. Everything’s cool.”
“It didn’t look cool today when you stuck your finger in Vinnie’s face. It looked pretty threatening.” I slammed the dishwasher shut.
Jackson did a double-take. “You stalking me?”
“No, I was at the theater, and on the way back to the beach I stopped in the Surf Shack and happened to see you two. On the boardwalk. Arguing.” Accompanied by a shoving match. Confronting Jackson with what I witnessed might nudge the cash flow conversation forward.
If Jackson was miffed about my accusation, I didn’t see it. “We were talking over old times. Two bros who haven’t seen each other in a while.” He tugged on an earlobe.
I knew it. Jackson was lying. Years ago, whenever he was playing fast and loose with the truth, his go-to comfort gesture was that earlobe tug. So there was more to that confrontation on the beach than he was willing to admit. “You two did more than talking. You pushed him and then Vinnie pushed you back. Jackson, if you’ve got a problem and need to talk it out, I’d be willing—”
He threw up his hands in self-defense. “Not to worry, babe. Vinnie and I went down the dock and had a beer on The Bounty. That’s his new boat. Said he got the idea for the name after watching an old movie.”
“Mutiny on the Bounty.” I hoped the name hadn’t brought Vinnie bad luck.
“Helloooo! Dodie?”
A body materialized at the screen door. “Lola? The ELT’s not due here until tomorrow.” I opened the door and hugged her. “Come on in.”
“They’re not. I decided to come tonight and beat the morning traffic. Besides, I was antsy at home and wanted to see you so we could spend the morning on the beach—”
Jackson popped out of the kitchen.
“Oh…hello,” Lola said, cocking her head and swishing her blond ponytail.
“Lola, this is Jackson. He’s visiting,” I said.
“Hey there. Wassup?” he said by way of greeting.
Lola peeked sideways at me. “The Jackson…?”
“The one and only. In the flesh.” He gripped Lola’s hand, holding it a bit longer than necessary.
“Oh. And where’s Bill?” she asked brightly.
“In bed,” I said.
“Dodie, I’m sorry it’s so late. I’ll register at the hotel and come back tomorrow. I didn’t realize you’d have company.”
“Neither did I. Did you eat?” I asked.
“I stopped on the Parkway and ate a sandwich, but I could use a nip of something.” She beamed at me, then Jackson.
“I’ll get it.” He bounced away.
“The bottom shelf,” I called after him.
Lola pulled me into the living room and whispered, “What is going on?”
“You won’t believe it. I’ll fill you in tomorrow. But tonight, why don’t you stay here? We have a guest bedroom,” I said.
“What about Jackson?”
“He’s happy on the porch.”
Jackson appeared with three glasses, wine, and a plate of cheese and crackers. He winked at Lola. “At your service.”
* * * *
By midnight I was ready to pass out. Lola had kicked off her shoes, gotten comfy on the sofa, and accepted my offer of the spare bedroom. I sipped on half a glass of wine while she and Jackson consumed the rest and made quick work of the cheese plate. Jackson was completely mesmerized by Lola’s tales of the ELT, just as he’d been rapt by Bill’s stories of his fishing escapade. When had he become a skillful listener? For that matter, when had he become a skillful cook? This rehabilitated Jackson was giving me a case of whiplash.
“So you’re doing Arsenic and Old Lace at the festival this weekend?” he asked politely.
Lola ran a hand through her hair, which by now had come free of its moorings. Her white knitted top and shorts were set off by a rosy glow that spread from ear to ear. It was either the wine or Jackson’s attention. Lola had been a widow for over a decade, and as long as I had known her, she’d been pursuing the dating scene. Online, at two theaters, even abroad during a European vacation. She hadn’t had much luck.
“Yes. The actress who played the ingénue for the Etonville production wasn’t available, and nobody else could fit the costume and learn the lines quickly.” She paused to consider Jackson over the rim of her wineglass. “I hope I don’t strike everyone as too old for the part.”
“What’re you…thirty?”
She tittered like a schoolgirl. Jackson was only sixteen years off. Lola was a young forty-six-year-old with a daughter in college.
“Don’t worry. You’ll crush the part.” He downed his wine.
I’d had enough. “Can’t keep my eyes open. Sorry. The bed’s made up and there’s towels in the bathroom.” I kissed Lola good night. “See you in the morning.”
Lola nodded. “Thanks.”
“Sleep tight.” Jackson waved and grinned.
I crawled into bed quietly to avoid waking Bill. He must have been exhausted and didn’t move a muscle as I climbed under the sheet. I was asleep in minutes.
* * * *
“That bikini looks hot on you,” I said to Lola as I smeared lotion on my legs.
“I did a shred emergency,” she said.
“Huh?”
“Lost five pounds in the last two weeks. Low carbs, low protein, low fat.”
“What did you eat?” I asked.
“Salads and chardonnay.”
“It worked.”
“Thanks. By the way, you’re glowing too. Must be the sun…or Bill,” Lola teased.
I frowned. “It’s been a rocky start to our vacation. First my parents were here, which was fun, but we didn’t have much private time, and then as they left Jackson showed up and, well, you can imagine that scene.”
“He’s kind of cute…”
“Lola!”
“I’m browsing,” she said quickly.
Jackson was cute. Another thing I’d liked about him.
“For an ex-boyfriend.” Lola opened a water bottle. “Not like my exes…one dead and one in jail.”
Lola was the victim of a patchy love life: One old flame turned out to be a jewel thief and another was guilty of fraud.
“I’ve got to stop dating criminals,” she said. “Speaking of which, I’m sorry I missed Bill this morning.”
“He got a call at six a.m. that he was needed at a hearing for a court case in Creston.” Etonville’s larger, next-door neighbor. “He’ll be back tomorrow. By then I am determined to be done with Jackson.”
“Hmmm.”
“What’s that mean?” I asked.
“He seems awfully interested in staying with you.”
“Awfully interested in mooching off me, you mean. He claimed he had a meeting yesterday that would take care of his money problem,” I said.
“And?”
I filled Lola in on my spying episode, Jackson’s history with Vinnie C, and the change in his old partner. “Things didn’t end amiably with the two of them. When Jackson went to Iowa after Hurricane Sandy, they dissolved the business. Maybe there were some loose financial ends. At any rate, it didn’t look as though the two of them were happy to see each other. With the shoving match and all.”
“Some kind of falling-out, I guess.”
Lola dozed and the sun rose higher in the sky. I opened the latest Cindy Collins’s mystery that had occupied my attention in recent days. Murder Most Cordial. I was addicted to murder mysteries and thrillers, and Cindy Collins’s novels were among my favorites. I stared at the cover page. A sassy redhead with a million-dollar grin plastered on her mouth. In my experience—and unfortunately there had been a significant amount of it since I’d arrived in Etonville—murder was never cordial. Gruesome, scary, shocking, violent…but never friendly. I’d begun to garner a bit of a reputation as a freelance sleuth investigating a series of deaths in Etonville and its environs. Bill’s initial misgivings about my detection had segued into a grudging acceptance of my skills tempered by a dash of caution.
By noon we were both hot and famished. I suggested a break from the sun at the tiki bar and we gathered our beach gear and trudged through the sand to the Polynesian music. We were halfway through our bucket of steamed clams when an elderly twosome at a table next to ours gasped in shock. We couldn’t help noticing.
“Is everything okay?” I asked gently.
The woman’s head bobbled, and her wide-brimmed sun hat swung from side to side. She picked up the newspaper she’d been reading, the Candle Beach Courier, a local rag, and shoved the front page at us. “He was such a nice boy. We knew his parents years ago.”
I smiled sympathetically and scanned the sheet. Then I gasped.
“Dodie, what’s the matter?” Lola said.
“Were you acquainted with him too?” the woman asked.
I nodded numbly. Was I ever. The headline read “LOCAL MAN DEAD.” Underneath was a photo of the victim: It was Vinnie C. I rotated the paper so Lola could see the front page. “It’s him,” I said hoarsely.
Lola blinked. “Vincent Carcherelli,” she read.
I scanned the story. Apparently his body had washed up on the beach sometime overnight and was discovered by a jogger early today in time to make the mid-morning edition. The police were calling it a drowning and speculating that he’d fallen off his boat, The Bounty, which had drifted half a mile off the shoreline. No foul play suspected at the moment, but the investigation was ongoing.
I offered to return the newspaper, but the couple refused to accept it, saying the story was too upsetting. They picked up their bill and left.
“Wow. What a coincidence. We were talking about how Jackson saw him yesterday…” Lola stopped. A light bulb went on. “The police will want to speak with Jackson. He might have been one of the last people to see Vinnie alive.”
It was Lola’s last word that brought me up short: alive. Jackson had been steamed during that meeting on the boardwalk. Did he know anything about Vinnie’s last hours? If Bill was here, he’d tell me to mind my own business, let Jackson alone, let the police determine the actual cause of death. Bill was right, of course. But something about the whole event didn’t sit right with me. Why did Jackson lie about what happened when he met Vinnie?
“Hate to be selfish, but I hope this doesn’t put a damper on the theater festival. Local guy dying and all.” She sucked on her Creamsicle straw, slurping up the last remains of the drink. Her cell pinged. “The party’s over. The ELT is at the theater trying to load-in. Walter and Penny creating havoc, no doubt.”
“I think they’ll meet their match with Sam and Maddy,” I said.
“Who?”
* * * *
Lola and I finished our lunch. She left to check in to her hotel, the Windward, and connect with the rest of the ELT gang: Walter, Penny, Abby, Edna, and Romeo. I went back to my bungalow to shower and to find Jackson and get the truth out of him. On the way I would call Grody. I’d gotten so distracted yesterday that I’d neglected to update him on the NJCTF reception that he was catering.
It was a workable plan until I exited the boardwalk and entered my street. Ahead a Candle Beach police cruiser was parked in front of my rental property. So soon? Had they found out about Vinnie and Jackson already? I wished Bill was here.
I tapped Grody’s number in my contacts. His cell rang twice, then he picked up.
“Sandbar.”
“Grody, it’s me. I wanted to fill you in.” I relayed Sam Baldwin’s message that Grody was free to choose the menu and set up anywhere he wanted in the town park.
“A free hand, huh?”
“Yep.”
“Hey, any suggestions on the theme thing? ’Cause I only have a few days to get this catered.”
“I saw the play list. Everything from old chestnuts to Shakespeare to The Sound of Music and Cinderella. I’ll give it a think today and stop in tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Red. Talk later.”
“Grody, wait a minute. Did you see the paper?” I asked.
“About Vinnie? Yeah. Rotten luck. He probably had one too many and fell overboard. Poor guy,” Grody said.
I was skeptical. “You think? Vinnie was a seasoned sailor.”
“If he was three sheets to the wind, it wouldn’t have mattered how skilled he was.”
Huh. “So…you have reason to think Vinnie might have been intoxicated?”
Grody’s voice lowered as though he had cupped the phone in his palm. “Listen, don’t quote me, but word around town is that Vinnie has been on an extended toot for the last month or so.”
Was Jackson aware of this? I told Grody I’d be in touch and clicked off.
I reached my bungalow and slowly ascended the steps. The door from the porch to the interior of the house was open, and beyond the entrance I could see two uniformed officers. Jackson was out of sight. I walked into the house. “Hello?”
“Hey, Dodie.” Jackson sat on the living room couch. He was a mess. Hair tousled, T-shirt dirty, Hawaiian shorts frayed on the edges. Where the hell had he been? “These dudes are Candle Beach cops.” He grinned as though they were simply two more bros he’d picked up on the beach. The cops did not reciprocate.
“Hi,” I said patiently. In case Jackson had neglected to mention it, I added, “This is my rental.”
“So we hear. Were you also an acquaintance of Vincent Carcherelli?” asked the older of the two officers. Unsmiling, tall, and whippet-thin, edgy, bouncing on his feet.
“I knew him a number of years ago. Before Hurricane Sandy.” Why was I being hesitant?
“See him lately?”
“Two days ago in the tiki bar. The Bottom Feeder.”
“Did you speak with him?” asked the younger cop. He was the opposite of his partner: undersized, pudgy, and sympathetic.
“Very briefly. I don’t think he remembered me. I had to tell him who I was,” I said. “We only talked for a minute or two.”
The older cop glanced at me, writing something down. Then he closed a notepad and stuffed it in his pocket. He shifted his focus to Jackson. “Thanks for your cooperation. If we need to speak to you again, we can find you here?”
Before I could scream “No!” Jackson nodded. “Sure thing.” Then he shook their hands and escorted them out as if they were houseguests.
I counted to ten to compose myself, then gave up, grabbed a sofa pillow, and threw it at Jackson. It caught him off guard.
“Hey! Wassup?”
I grabbed another pillow and whacked his midsection.
He ducked his head. “Ouch!”
I couldn’t remember when I’d last been this angry. “What is the matter with you? These cops are not some surfer dudes. They are not your bros. They are investigating a death that may be suspicious, and you are most likely one of the last people to see Vinnie alive. And you had a fight with him hours before his body was found!” Out of breath, I collapsed on an easy chair.
“Didn’t know you cared.” Jackson sprawled on the sofa.
“Jackson…you look like crap. Where have you been?”
He shrugged. “Here and there. On the beach.”
I was almost afraid to ask. “What did the police have to say?”
“They’re groovy guys looking into Vinnie’s death. He fell overboard.” Jackson shook his head sadly.
“How did they find you here?”
“Vin had my number in his cell phone. I left him a message that I was camping out on your porch,” he said.
“What about your argument with him yesterday? That got so physical someone had to get between you two? Did you tell the police about that?” I asked.
“I told you. It was an old issue. Some bookkeeping stuff.” He stopped. “Vinnie owed me some money.”
Aha. The cash flow problem. “Jackson?”
He yawned. “I said I’d seen him around noon and we discussed our former working relationship.”
I hoped I wasn’t boring him. “You may need a lawyer,” I said, suddenly uneasy.
“What for? I didn’t do anything illegal. Anyway, hiring a lawyer’s not in my financial game plan.”
Neither was a hotel room, apparently. My cell buzzed. Lola: Walter panicking…need to rehearse tonight…but theater off-limits…any way we could use your place??
I sighed. Rehearsing scenes for the NJCTF was not how I imagined I’d spend this night. But neither did I think I’d have to babysit Jackson. I texted okay. Then added: did J go to sleep on porch when you went to bed? Lola replied: THANKS! not sure…went to bed first about 12:30. Oh…what does that mean??
What did it mean? Demanding answers from Jackson now was pointless. He was snoring on the sofa. I jumped in the shower and took out my frustration with my loofah! My skin did not thank me…