The river runs deep, p.30
Ambushed in Paradise (Florida Keys Mystery Series Book 12), page 30
AMBUSHED
IN
PARADISE
PARADISE SERIES
BOOK 12
DEBORAH BROWN
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all materials in this book.
This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
AMBUSHED IN PARADISE
All Rights Reserved
Copyright © 2017 Deborah Brown
Kindle Edition
Cover: Natasha Brown
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
This book is dedicated to Dr. Gwen Richardson, for being the best Doctor ever.
Thank you for saving my life.
Contents
AMBUSHED IN PARADISE
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty- Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
PARADISE SERIES NOVELS
About the Author
AMBUSHED IN PARADISE
Chapter One
“He’s dead.”
The man’s voice continued, “Shot in the line of duty.”
“Nooo…” I heard a woman scream.
Was it me? I couldn’t be sure. The world went dark.
The first time I laid eyes on Creole, he came up the driveway at The Cottages, lean and lethal, his dark hair pulled into a ponytail. Too bad he didn’t stay around long enough to exchange a word of conversation.
“Creole,” I murmured.
He pushed me up against the wall and kicked the front door closed. Tracing a trail with the tip of his tongue down my chin, down my neck, nibbling lightly, sending shivers through my body. Our first kiss. Taking me by surprise, he backed me against the door, pushing my hands above my head, holding them in place while devouring my lips.
I threw my hands out, struggling to ward off…what exactly?
* * *
In the early afternoon, dark clouds had rolled in, bringing a noisy, pounding storm that covered the town of Tarpon Cove at the top of the Florida Keys in fat water drops that beat against the roofs and windows. At one point, the clouds were so low, I was certain I could reach up and touch them, just to see how full they were. Eventually, the rain rolled out over the Gulf, leaving rising temperatures and a taste of humidity hanging in the air.
I glanced sideways as Fabiana Merceau, my best friend and roommate, wiggled out of the house in a black string bikini, setting a tray of drinks at the end of the patio table.
“Stay down there.” I pointed and put the finishing touches on the table settings for four.
The two of us had planned a dinner for our boyfriends—our favorite Mexican foods—and I’d picked up an assortment of beers for the guys.
“We could eat off paper plates.” Fab smirked, handing me a margarita.
“And deprive me of the chance to drag out my collection of dishes? I don’t think so.” I’d chosen the mismatched Fiestaware in assorted beachy colors for tonight’s dinner.
I had inherited the two-story Key West-style house from my aunt Elizabeth. One of my biggest projects had been turning the outdoor patio space that overlooked the pool into an entertainment area for family and friends. Any excuse to eat outside.
Fab clinked the edge of her martini glass against mine. “To friends.”
“You’re up to something.” I narrowed my eyes in an intense stare meant to suck the information out of her brain without having to ask.
“I hate it when you do that. Stop it.” Her lips quirked, so I knew she was on the verge of laughter.
“Cherie.” Didier appeared in the French doors that separated the patio from the living room.
Fab’s boyfriend—Didier, just the one name—was tall, dark, and deliciously naughty. He’d charmed the entire family and was the love of Fab’s life, and he felt the same way. He was also a roommate; the three of us made it work, as we often kept different hours.
Both Fab and I looked up.
He looked straight at me. “Help is coming up the driveway.”
The undercover detective’s name was supposedly Stephan, although Fab and I had never been able to verify that; his attitude about it was “mind your own business.” The moniker of “Help” was one that Fab and I had given him.
Right on cue, the doorbell rang.
“What does that cretin want?” Fab turned up her nose.
“Fabiana,” Didier chastised.
I pushed off the side of the table.
“Stop at the junk drawer and grab your Beretta,” Fab called out.
I shook my head and hurried through the house, opening the door.
“You should be asking who’s there before opening the door,” Help grumped. He appeared disheveled and worn around the edges, as though it had been a tiring few days.
“I already knew it was you.” I motioned. “Come in.”
“Do you mind if we talk out here?” He led me a foot away from the entry, stopping in front of my latest acquisition, a two-tone pink hibiscus.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you this,” he said with a solemn air.
I zeroed in on his face, his words filling me with dread, nausea creeping into my stomach. I couldn’t bring myself to snap, “get to the point.” Instead, I stared.
“Creole’s dead.”
* * *
“Madison Westin, open your damn eyes!” a familiar voice yelled.
I tried to jerk away from a foul odor, but to no avail; the last thing I expected to see was Fab leaning over me, waving a small bottle, her troubled eyes expecting something from me. I didn’t have the energy to ask what.
It took me a moment to realize that I was lying on the daybed. How did I get here? Was I out cold?
Fab threw her arms around me, hugging me tight. “Thank God.”
“What happened?” I tried to shove a pillow under my head. I vaguely remembered the last thing that happened…words…dead and shot. Then understanding… Creole wasn’t going to walk through the door and hold me in his lap and kiss me ever again.
I rolled onto my side, tears coursed down my cheeks. “He promised,” I sobbed. “He promised.”
It was early morning. Creole picked his jeans up off the floor, whispering, “I’ll be back in a couple of days. You behave yourself.” He leaned down and brushed my lips with his.
“And you?”
“No getting hurt,” he promised.
We hooked pinkies.
He zipped up his pants, wiggling his hips, then sat on the bed and pulled me into his arms and kissed me, a kiss that was rough and sweet and possessive. A hungry kiss. It lasted longer than usual, and when his lips pulled away, I moaned.
“Where’s Creole?” I wiped furiously at my face. Fab helped me to a sitting position. “I need to go to him.”
Help stood on the other side of the room. He fidgeted from one foot to the other, briefly making eye contact. “The funeral’s tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” I shook my head, certain I hadn’t heard correctly. “That’s not possible.” Water dripped off the end of my nose. “Why wasn’t I called to handle the arrangements?”
“You’re not his wife or a blood relative. Since Creole didn’t have a next of kin, the department made the arrangements. He was cremated,” Help said to the floor.
Didier crossed the room, sitting down and putting his arm around me. Fab sat on the other side, handing me a tissue.
“Where the hell is the chief?” Didier growled. “Why didn’t he show up for the notification? Do you think this is the way Creole would’ve wanted the woman he loved to find out about his death?”
The Chief of Police in Miami was Creol
“I don’t know all the details,” Help said, an inscrutable expression on his face. “Three days ago, Creole’s cover was blown. His partner’s too. A shootout ensued, and they both died at the scene.”
“Three days!” Fab shrieked.
“What took so long?” Didier asked. “I’m surprised you showed at all. You draw the short straw?”
“I volunteered.” Help shot Didier a withering glare, but no one believed him. “I thought it would be better coming from someone Madison knows.”
I sniffed and blew my nose, head pounding. My mind filled with thoughts of what Creole would want done. Anger seeped in. I’d rather have heard the news from a stranger. “Creole’s murderer…arrested? Dead? That would be better.”
“This case is being kept under wraps, need-to-know basis, and I’m not on that list,” Help said.
“Where’s the funeral? The time?” I hugged myself for comfort. “I can get there early and take care of any last-minute details.”
“Don’t have the information on me.” Help had one eye on the door, taking a step in that direction. “I’ll…uh…call you.”
“You get the damn information,” Fab exploded. “It better be tonight.”
Didier nodded in agreement.
“I loved him beyond reason,” I whispered, mostly to myself. Tears filled my eyes again; I couldn’t hold them back and didn’t try very hard to keep them from streaming down my face. “I want the funeral information before you step foot off my property,” I choked out, then gulped in some air and continued. “Screw me, and I’ll make the biggest scene at Miami PD headquarters that they’ve ever seen. They can arrest me; I’ll go to court, demand a jury trial, and invite the media.”
I scooted into the space Fab had vacated and curled up in a ball as she followed Help out the door. She wouldn’t let him out of her sight until she got the information. My hundred-year-old, long-haired black cat, Jazz, jumped up next to me. I laid my head on his side. “Dead.” The tears came in a torrent.
Chapter Two
Mother commandeered a waterfront table at the family’s favorite restaurant, The Crab Shack. I’d wanted to go home after the dreadful excuse for a funeral and sleep for a week. Questions floated through my mind, one after the other, with no answers and hardly a second to think. I was under the watchful stares of everyone in the family…waiting for me to do what, I wondered.
The day had dawned sunny and bright, the sky a brilliant blue offset by white, fluffy clouds. The extended Westin family had gathered graveside around an empty hole. It was a bleak scene, unlike the one a few rows south, which had chairs, strips of carpet, and an awning to block out the scorching heat of late morning.
Four men and two women stood off to one side of Creole’s grave, not a one of them in uniform to mark the loss of one of their own. They talked quietly amongst themselves, and I didn’t recognize a single face. None of them made eye contact or showed any curiosity about what our connection to Creole might be. We might have stood there all day if it hadn’t been for Fab, who stormed off to get answers. She returned riding in the front of a hearse, a backhoe not far behind.
Fab got out, urn in hand, looked around, approached the mound of dirt, and set it down. She moved to stand between me and Didier and whispered, “The older lady in the office apologized but said no service had been arranged. They planned to fill in the plot later.”
“This is the damndest…” Mother started sadly.
Brad stepped forward, patting Mother on the shoulder. “I can think of something nice to say.” He walked over and stood next to the urn. When he cleared his throat, the small group went silent, and he related a story about his friendship with Creole.
I mentally planned a memorial service on our favorite beach. What would Creole want? He’d want drinking, laughter, and not a sad eye. I could do that.
Didier came forward, talking about his and Creole’s love of the two women in their lives. He ended, “We’ll all miss him.”
Two of the other men stepped forward, one after the other, and mumbled a few words, nothing personal; it sounded as though neither man knew Creole. Either that or a few words of attempted tribute wasn’t their area of expertise.
The server came around for drink orders. “Margarita, rocks, with salt. Bring a pitcher,” I said.
Mother cleared her throat. “Just bring her one.”
That’s just the sort of thing a grown woman didn’t appreciate: her mother telling her how much she could drink. A repeat of this morning, when I’d wanted to drive myself to the funeral and was directed to get in the back seat of my own vehicle, carpooling with Fab, Didier, and Brad. I leaned my head against the window, closing my eyes and shutting out the small talk.
Fab turned her head so no one else could hear her order. “I’ll take two martinis and a margarita.”
“Love you,” I mouthed across the table.
When the drinks arrived, Mother frowned at the three glasses sitting in front of Fab. I downed half of mine and broached the subject that had been on my mind. “Spoon, I’d like to ask a favor.”
“Anything,” he responded.
Mother clutched his arm. “I’m trying to get him to wait until he hears what someone wants before just agreeing.”
“I don’t think you need to worry; the big guy isn’t in the habit of waving his magic wand.” I winked. “Besides, I’m not just any person.” This wasn’t going to be easy. I downed the rest of my margarita. “I want to know what happened to Creole.” ‘Shot dead’ wasn’t enough to put this behind me. At least, not anytime soon. “Would you hit up your connections, find out exactly what went down? The murderer – what happened to him?”
“That’s a terrible idea,” Mother said. “Creole wouldn’t want you involved.”
“I agree with your mother,” Spoon said.
“Me too,” Brad said.
I gritted my teeth, determined not to blurt out something hurtful. I looked around the table. “I’d hope that, if any of you were in my shoes, and I sincerely hope you never are, I’d be more sympathetic.”
Fab nudged my leg under the table.
Didier murmured something in French. His hand covered mine and gently squeezed.
“You’ll have to translate later.” I eyed the second margarita and reached out, fingers hooking around the stem of the glass and dragging it across the table.
To fill the awkward silence, Brad changed the subject. “Liam called this morning. He’s sorry he couldn’t make it, but he had his first final and couldn’t reschedule.”
Liam was an unofficially adopted member of the family. His mother and Brad used to date, and when she got her big acting break, sending her to California, Liam had stayed with Mother to finish his senior year in high school, then got accepted to the University of Miami.
“We talked.” Liam had made me laugh with stories of college-boy pranks, but I wasn’t in the mood to share. “He’s coming this weekend. I’m looking forward to him staying with me. We’re going to the beach.”
“A better idea would be for the two of you to stay at our house.” Mother patted Spoon’s arm. “We have plenty of room,” she insisted.
When Liam lived with her, she’d watched him like a hawk. She didn’t share well—actually, at all—and apparently that wasn’t going to change anytime soon.
I looked at Brad, whose face telegraphed, “She does the same thing to me.”
I was pretty much on my way to getting sauced, having finished my second glass. I turned the glass upside down, eyeing the inside. Nothing came out.
Fab giggled.
The server had delivered menus, which I barely gave a glance. The thought of food didn’t appeal. Not even taking home leftovers held interest, and I constantly took any food left on my plate to-go for breakfast the next morning.
The ringing of my phone saved me from having to order, and I fished it out of my purse. Mac Lane’s smiling face popped up on the screen. If I were sober, I’d have groaned and maybe hit the ignore button. I tried to remember whether I’d ever done that – probably not. I’d inherited the property on the beach from my aunt and hired Mac shortly after; as a manager, the woman was calm under chaos.
“Yeah, what now?” I answered, a touch surly.
“Big plumbing problem… Water can shoot a decent distance into the air, did you know that?”
