Murder Hooks a Mermaid (5 page)

“Drugs?” Shock made Karen shout. She stopped and stared at Riley. A drug charge would definitely mean the forfeit of
Ocean Breeze
and the end of Riley’s business.

But Riley shook his head. “Bobby didn’t know exactly what they were supposed to be smuggling, but he was adamant that they weren’t running drugs. I guess I believe him.” He laughed harshly. “If he’s wrong, I am so screwed…” His voice trailed off as he turned to unlock his truck.

Before he climbed into the cab, Riley turned around and hugged me, then Karen. “Thanks for waiting with me.” He looked at Karen, his expression somber. “But you’ve always been there for me, haven’t you? And for Bobby.”

“You’re still family, Riley,” she said softly. “You always will be.”

She pulled away abruptly. “It’s late, and I have an early call. Better get going.”

“Keep us posted,” I called to Riley as I trailed along in the wake of Karen’s sudden retreat. “And let us know if there’s anything else we can do.”

The interior lights of Karen’s SUV faded as I belted myself in, but not before I saw a suspicious damp shimmer in Karen’s eyes. I knew she still had a soft spot where Riley was concerned, but she refused to discuss it.

Whatever had happened between the two of them remained between the two of them. I’d always been grateful that they had avoided pulling me into their disputes; as a friend to both, I never wanted to know the gory details. But now, watching Karen struggling to keep her emotions in check, I wished I knew a little more.

Though she wouldn’t admit it, I was pretty sure Riley was unfinished business.

When we pulled into Karen’s driveway, she offered to reheat our pizza, but exhaustion slowed her step and lowered her voice as we climbed out of the SUV.

“You’re beat,” I said. “How about we have it for lunch tomorrow? You just have the early broadcast, right? So you’re off the rest of the day, and Julie’s working for me. I think I can leave her alone in the store for the day. Then I can come and help you get ready for dinner, since tonight’s plans got scuttled.”

She didn’t argue.

Driving home along the deserted main drag of Keyhole Bay came automatically. It left my mind free to turn over the events of the night, and to ponder the complex relationship between Karen and her ex-husband. And her ex-brother-in-law.

She said they were still family. Not many people truly felt that way about a former spouse. Although I believed Karen, I had to question just what that might mean down the road, because I didn’t believe it was over between them.

Not after what I had just seen.

I parked the Civic behind my store and let myself in the back door.

Dim night-lights turned the storage shelves into shadowy giants, looming overhead. I recalled with a shudder the day I’d come home to find the place in a shambles and the door hanging off its hinges. It had been several weeks before I could leave the main lights off, and tonight I wished I’d left them on.

I made a quick tour of the first floor, checking the locks and tugging the door of the ancient safe, reassuring myself the place was secure.

Spending the evening in the police station brought back all my paranoia, and I tried unsuccessfully to shrug off the feeling of dread that had settled over me during the slow hours in those cold plastic chairs.

It didn’t help when Bluebeard stuck his head out of his cage and gave me a bleary-eyed stare. “Stop borrowing trouble,” he said in the clear voice I had finally accepted was my great-uncle’s.

Then he squawked, ruffled his feathers, and spat a string of profanities before retreating back into the darkened cage.

“Trying to sleep here!”

I took the hint and headed upstairs.

EXHAUSTED, I SLEPT SOUNDLY, UNTIL ABOUT FIVE
a.m. But the instant I woke up, the events of the previous night came flooding back, and more sleep was impossible.

I crawled out of bed, wrapped myself in a thick robe, and made coffee. The rich aroma of the freshly ground beans filled my small apartment, and I sipped my first cup while watching the early morning fog lift from the tiny bay that gave my hometown its name.

The apartment over my shop was small, but it was all mine, and the view was my own little treasure. Looking over the houses on the side streets, I could see the bay beyond and the boats at anchor.

The docks were quiet, empty of the predawn bustle and purpose they held during the fishing season. A purpose Riley Freed wouldn’t have if he didn’t get
Ocean Breeze
back from impound.

Shaking off the melancholy that settled over me, I carried a fresh cup of coffee into the bathroom and started the shower. It was time to face the day.

Bluebeard hadn’t come out of his cage by the time I brought the rest of the coffee downstairs, but he soon poked his head out.

“Coffee?” he said hopefully.

“Not for you,” I answered, following our morning ritual. “Parrots don’t drink coffee.”

Instead I gave him a couple pieces of banana, another of his favorite treats, and some fresh water. It didn’t really
satisfy his craving for coffee, but it was as good a substitute as he was going to get.

The early morning passed quickly as I tended to the mundane details that made a business run. No matter how much I did, there were always checks to write, shelves to stock and dust, or merchandise to price and catalog.

When Julie arrived at ten, I gave her an abbreviated version of the previous night’s events and left her in charge of the shop. “Just lock up at five,” I told her. “And call if you need anything in the meantime. I’m just over at Karen’s, and I can come back if you need me.”

She flashed me her perfect-teeth cheerleader smile. “We’ll be fine,” she said, her arm draped protectively over her protruding stomach. “Now the doctor says two weeks, maybe a bit more. Mama says she’ll come when she’s ready, just like me.” She grinned, and I remembered her telling me she had been two weeks early, much to her mother’s surprise.

I hoped her daughter was a bit more cooperative.

KAREN, HER HAIR PULLED BACK INTO A DISHEV
eled ponytail, met me at the door. A streak of flour dusted one cheek, and her flustered expression told me she was already deep into dinner preparations.

“I got cut-up chicken,” she said without preamble. “But from there…” Her voice trailed off, and she turned and led me back into the kitchen.

“Hello to you, too,” I said, following in her wake. I took in the living room as we passed through, noting that the majority of the clutter had been removed.

I made a mental note not to open the door to the spare bedroom that served as Karen’s office. I had a strong suspicion I would find the missing piles of paper and half-finished projects stashed alongside the hyper-organized file cabinets that held her work life. The dichotomy was just one of the contradictions that characterized my best friend.

The kitchen, predictably, was in a state of chaos. Somehow the organizational skill that allowed Karen-the-reporter to instantly locate contact information for a source she quoted once five years ago didn’t translate to cooking. Or any other domestic chore—some months she couldn’t be sure she’d paid her electric bill.

The source of the flour smudge was obvious. A bowl of dry ingredients sat on the counter, a can of cocoa powder next to it. Taped to the cupboard door over the bowl was a copy of a recipe for red velvet cake.

A handwritten note was taped next to the cake recipe. I read over the list for tonight’s dinner: chicken and dumplings, glazed carrots, green beans, biscuits, sweet tea, and red velvet cake.

Ingredients lined the counter on the opposite side of the sink, and a pot of water waited on the stove for the chicken. Beneath the seeming chaos lay a hint of organization after all.

“Looks like you have it under control,” I said, nodding at the array of canisters and spices. “You don’t need me. I can just go home and get back to work.”

“Not a chance.” Karen shot out a hand and grabbed the sleeve of my jacket, leaving a line of floury fingerprints. “I need all the help I can get! Have you
seen
this place?”

Panic pushed her voice into an upper register. I imagined dogs all over the neighborhood perking up their ears.

“Joking, Freed! Just joking.” I slipped out of my jacket and slung it over the padded vinyl back of a kitchen chair.

The vintage dinette set, decades older than we were and complete with faux marble plastic surface and curved chrome legs, was Karen’s pride and joy. Although the style was at odds with her 1970s ranch house, she didn’t care.

I watched while Karen added the cocoa powder to the bowl and set it aside. While she went to the refrigerator for buttermilk and eggs, I put the cocoa away. The fewer things left on the counter, the less chance of a disaster.

Mindful of her need to concentrate, I maintained a respectful silence while she measured the buttermilk, oil, food color, vinegar, and vanilla into a bowl with the eggs.

“Have you heard from Riley?” I shouted over the roar of her superpowered mixer as she added the dry mixture to the bowl of liquids.

She shook her head. “Not yet,” she said through tight lips. “I expect he’ll call when he knows something.”

She didn’t say it, but I could see in her expression the rest of her thought:
Or when he needs something.

I mentally corrected myself:
When
Bobby
needs something.

I let the subject drop, moving to the safer topic of the evening’s menu. “Carrots and green beans?”

“Yep.” She stopped the mixer, checked the cake batter, and nodded in satisfaction. “I looked at a bunch of recipes for chicken and dumplings. Some of them had vegetables and some didn’t.” She thought for a minute. “I’ve had it both ways, and I kind of prefer it without. I mean, if you put vegetables in it, it’s just chicken pot pie without the crust.”

“What’s wrong with that? Sound good to me.”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s just one of those choices.
I didn’t even know I had a preference until I started looking for a recipe.”

The oven beeped, alerting us it had reached the proper temperature for the cake, and Karen poured the batter into the pans, then carefully slid them onto the center rack. She set the timer for fifteen minutes. “It says to rotate the pans halfway through,” she explained, double-checking the baking time on the recipe.

With the cake safely in the oven and time to spare, we turned our attention to the living room. Karen had already moved most of the clutter, and it didn’t take long to have the room ready for company. Not that we spent a lot of time in there. Mostly we hung out in the kitchen, and we ate at the dinette, rather than in the actual dining area.

The buzzer sounded in the kitchen. Karen bustled back in to turn the cake just as someone knocked at the front door.

“Would you get that?” she called from the kitchen.

“Sure.”

I opened the front door to find Riley on Karen’s porch. And, if anything, he looked worse than he had the night before.

Chapter 6

RILEY WAS HALFWAY ACROSS THE ROOM BY THE
time Karen emerged from the kitchen, her face flushed from the heat of the oven. When she caught sight of Riley’s face, though, she went white.

Judging by Riley’s demeanor, however bad we thought Bobby’s situation was, we were wrong. It was much, much worse.

“They charged him with smuggling, drug trafficking, and operating a commercial vessel without a license,” he blurted out. “He’s got a public defender who talked to him for about five minutes, and bail is set at two hundred thousand dollars.” He stopped, as though in awe of the number. “Two hundred thousand! Where am I going to come up with that kind of money?
Ocean Breeze
and her gear are worth twice that, but the public defender says I can’t pledge her because she’s impounded. He’s in
a meeting with the judge and the prosecutor now, trying to get that changed. But what if he can’t? What then?”

“Then we figure out another way,” Karen answered. I could see her sizing up the situation. “But first we wait and see if the lawyer can get the bail reduced. If he can, we raise the money and bail him out.”

I already knew where the money would come from.

Bobby was family after all.

“In the meantime,” she continued, “do you have anything you need to do? You can’t spend your day stewing about something you can’t control.”

“You’re right,” he muttered. “I can’t. But this thing has me tied up in knots.” He stopped and looked from Karen to me. “You don’t think they could be right, do you?”

The room was silent as we each sat awhile with our thoughts—as my memaw used to say—but it was clear that none of us believed what they were saying about Bobby was true.

“No way,” I said, as Karen and Riley nodded in agreement.

Bobby Freed might be a lot of things, but he was what you might call “risk averse.” He didn’t take big chances. Never had, never will.

Sure, Riley had to bail him out plenty of times, and he couldn’t be trusted not to do some damned fool thing. But it was always relatively petty stuff. The risks of getting involved with a drug ring in Florida were huge. Get into a disagreement with your associates, and you could end up dead, or wishing you were.

Bobby didn’t take those kinds of risks.

“They’re wrong,” Karen said with finality. “He wouldn’t go near anything that dangerous.”

Riley relaxed, as though reassured that someone else had said exactly what he were thinking.

By the time Riley left ten minutes later, he was back to his usual, in-charge self. He had places to go and things to do. He promised to call Karen as soon as he heard anything.

The oven buzzer sounded, reminding us that there was still a meal to prepare. I followed Karen to the kitchen. She checked the cake layers and pronounced them done. With a deftness that belied the chaos in her kitchen, she loosened the layers and turned each one out onto a plate and then onto the waiting cooling racks.

When she was finished, she looked up at me. “Not a word, Martine. Not. One. Word. I know what you’re thinking; it’s written all over your face.”