Trouble in Paradise (6 page)

“Murdering a pastor’s son; doesn’t that guarantee a speedy
trip to hell?” Fab asked.

“It soothes me to help others in need.” Tolbert looked at
Fab. “Maybe we’ll see you one Sunday.”

“Probably not. The nuns cured me of church,” Fab said. “Once
I escaped an all-girls Catholic education, I never looked back.”

“How did the nuns survive you?” I asked.

Fab looked embarrassed. “For the most part as much as I
hated the rules, I followed them. They did a good job of scaring any notion of
disobedience from one’s mind. I did tell Sister Marie once, if she hit me with
her damn ruler one more time I’d break her arm.”

“Did you now?” Tolbert smiled.

“Sister Marie ran to the principal, my parents sentenced me
to two long weeks in my room, but she never touched me again.”

Just when I thought Fab couldn’t surprise me.  She never
said one word about her life before landing in The Cove, especially her family.
Any attempt to ask questions was met with stony silence. “We went to the
Catholic church for a while,” I said. “My mother loved religion so we sampled
almost all of them with few exceptions.”

“And now?” Tolbert asked.

“Mother smokes, drinks and terrorizes her children.”

Tolbert threw his back and laughed. “I like you two.”

“We’ve got better connections than the sheriff,” Fab told
him. “People love to talk to Madison; they’re afraid of me.”

“We can ask around about Cosmo but you’d have to promise not
to tell anyone,” I said.

“Why is that?” Tolbert asked.

“It’s better when everyone in town doesn’t know when
questions are being asked.” I pulled out my wallet and handed him a business
card. “Call this number anytime and leave a message, and either Fab or I will
return your call.”

“Hmm… maybe we should let the sheriff…” Tolbert looked at
the card.

“You think about it, but we have to leave,” I told Tolbert,
looking at my watch. “I’ll let you know if we hear anything about Cosmo. I’m
going to miss you, Grover.” I put my arms around the dog’s neck.

“Grover’s lucky you found him.” Tolbert extended his hand.
“You can come see him anytime. Thank you both so much.”

Fab surprised Tolbert by stepping in front of me and shaking
his hand. “Madison doesn’t shake hands or hug.”

Grover sat by Tolbert’s side, and made no attempt to jump in
when the SUV door opened. He’d made his feelings clear on his homecoming. I was
teary eyed when we pulled out of the driveway.

“We have a business card?” Fab looked at me as if I’d lost
my mind.

“What we have is a phone number. Client calls, leaves a
message, we both get notification rings on our cell phones. You return all
calls.”

“I’d be terrible at that job.”

“Hmm, really. Guess I’ll do it.” We looked at each other and
laughed.

“When do I get to meet your
family?” I asked.

“Not anytime soon. My family lives
in France and I’m what’s known as the black sheep.”

“Can I ask why?”

“Like you, I have crap taste in
husbands but Gabriel was a real criminal. My parent’s disapproval made me want
him all the more. He promised me a life of excitement, no rules, so we ran off
and got married, barefoot on the beach.”

“Your parents didn’t have a change
of heart when you got divorced?” My marriage had created distance with my
family but they never gave up on me.

“That might have happened if I
hadn’t embraced Gabriel’s lifestyle so whole-heartedly. His idea of excitement
was everything illegal. He taught me to pick locks and pockets, break into
houses, and parachute in a tight get away. In the beginning, we stole from
wealthy friends in my parents’ social circles, sometimes breaking in, most
times as invited guests.”

“Where is Gabriel now?”

“Tucked away in a Paris prison.
The news dubbed us as ‘Sexy Cat Burglars,’ after a security camera had captured
me in a skin tight, black head to toe cat suit. Thankfully, my face was
covered.”

“I bet you looked hot.” While Fab
talked about her life, she drove like a sane person. I wasn’t about to point
that out.

“On our last job, we snuck past
the security guards and walked into this ten thousand square foot mansion.
Unknowingly Gabriel tripped the alarm when he took a painting off the wall. The
guards spotted him jumping out the library window, and they chased him down a
few miles away. He got convicted of art theft, but the painting, interestingly
enough, has never been recovered.” Fab pulled into my driveway.

“Where were you?”

“In the master bedroom, which was
located at the opposite end of the house, rifling through the jewels. In the
guard’s zeal to track down Gabriel, I slipped out unnoticed and got away.” She
pulled quickly into my driveway and we got out of the car. She continued, “When
I got word the local police were looking to interview me, I left France and
never looked back. A jail cell wasn’t in my future.” Fab tossed me my keys,
walking across the courtyard.

“When does he get out?” I unlocked
the front door.

Fab went into the kitchen grabbing
a bottle of water. “A few months. Toxic love would be a good description. He’d
say let’s jump off the cliff and we’d race to see which one of us would fly off
first. Gabriel was beautiful to look at but everything a mother warns you to
stay away from: lethal, wicked-smart, and amoral.”

I opened the French doors before
settling in my favorite oversized chair, the pool extending an invitation.
“Can’t you mend the relationship with your parents?” I felt overwhelmingly sad
for my friend.

“My parents would’ve forgiven me
if I had stepped back into the mold they created. But Gabriel taught me to love
living on the edge. I couldn’t go back to the rigidity of my old life, and
suffocate slowly.” Fab picked up Jazz and lay on the couch. “They’d never
approve of my current lifestyle any more than they did my previous one; the
guns, picking locks, scaling sides of buildings. I reinvented myself when I
moved here. I don’t steal. I skirt illegal, but always for a good reason.”

“You’re a part of the Westin
family as long as you’ll have us,” I said. “Teach me to climb the side of a
building.”

Fab laughed. “Only if you get
permission from your mother.”

My phone rang, waking me from a nap. “How you doing?” Brick
asked. “I’ve got a case for you. You need to retrieve a stolen or lost item or
whatever and return it to the client. Send the bill to me.”

“I could use some more details.”

“The client’s name is Kettle. Take Rock Harbor exit, go to
the end of the road, gate will be open. Can’t miss it, only house out there.
She’s expecting you.” He hung up. Brick liked to snap his fingers, expecting
you to jump; the higher the better.

Brick failed to mention that the pavement ended fifty feet
off the main highway. These bumpy back roads with major size potholes every few
feet gave me a headache. Once inside the fence, a shack that could loosely be
called a house sat an easy half-mile off the road. In reality, it was a large,
run down, dry rotted dump. The steps to the front door lay in a pile in the
dirt. Two Airstream trailers, ‘Happy Endings 1’ and ‘Happy Endings 2’ in bold
script on the side of each, were parked on one side of the lot. Under an old
swap meet canopy, someone had ginned up an outdoor dining area, with metal
forties furniture, barbeque and pots planted with plastic flowers. Behind the
house, an aluminium roof structure protected an interesting assortment of cars:
an SUV that seated ten, a Mercedes sedan, both limo tinted, a Harley Fat Boy,
and a half-dozen beater cars and pickup trucks. A category four or five
hurricane would rip that cheap roof to shreds and send those autos airborne
into the swamp that ran along the back of the property.

I listened for barking and growling, expecting a pack of
wild dogs to come running from the back of the house. I unholstered my Glock,
but decided it wouldn’t appear friendly or business-like to beat on the door
holding it in my hand.

An ample-sized black woman stood in the doorway on the side
of the house. “Who are you?” She looked like she just blew in from a tropical
island, in an  electric hot turquoise mid-calf dress, and bracelets running up
her left arm.

“I’m Madison Westin. Brick Famosa called and asked me to
come speak with Miss Kettle.”

“Kettle Q,” she said. “Come in, this is my sister Watusi.”
She pointed to a smaller island version of herself. This one wasn’t afraid of
color, her wild hair half-pink, with a hot pink dress to match, assorted bracelets
up both arms and an assortment of necklaces.

“Wow.” I looked around, my mouth dropped open. They had
completely gutted the kitchen and redone it in top of the line materials:
travertine floors, granite countertops and stainless steel appliances and, my
personal favorite, the starfish knobs on the solid wood cabinets.

Kettle laughed. “We get the same reaction from everyone. The
dirt poor look works for us. We never have any trouble back here. Have a seat.”
She pointed to the kitchen table.

I screamed and jumped. A skeleton, dressed in a suit and
fedora had been propped in the chair next to the window. “I’ll stand.”

“That’s Dad, he’s been dead for ten years. That’s why it’s
important that you find Mom-Mom.”

I moved away from the table, settling on a barstool at the
island. “Brick didn’t give any details. You need to start from the beginning.”

“Mom-Mom died about a month ago, we had her cremated, and
brought her home, put her next to Dad. I’m positive one of our rat-ass half
siblings, Mom-Mom’s side, third marriage, took her because they’re trying to
force me to bury her and Dad together.” Kettle handed me a list with three
names on it. “If one of these asses say they don’t have the ashes then they
know who does.”

No wonder Brick hadn’t given any details.
I turned
slightly, gauging the distance to the door; ten steps and I’d be free and
clear. “I’ll need a description of the urn.”

“You look like a deer right before the bullet leaves the
chamber,” Kettle said. “You sure you know what you’re doing?” She handed me a
photo of her and Watusi posing with the missing urn.

“If one of the people on this list has your urn, I’ll get it
back,” I said with confidence I didn’t feel.

“How long is this going to take?” Kettle asked.

“Give me a couple of days. How was your mother able to bring
a dead body home?”

“Mom-Mom was friends with Nunzio, the first owner of
Tropical Slumber, now owned by Raul and Richard. Nunzio embalmed Dad, to keep
the smell down, and then delivered him after the service. Dad did eventually
smell, so we put him in the bathtub and filled it with kitty litter. Read that
on the internet. It didn’t work very well so we moved him to the garage and the
stink eventually went away. Only family knew that Dad wasn’t buried in the plot
at the cemetery,” Kettle said.

Watusi stood in the corner, wringing her hands, not uttering
a word. If she barfed, I’d run, not caring if I ever worked for Brick again.

“If you need a better description of the urn, contact Raul
at Tropical Slumber. We deal only with him. The other one is a piece of
weirdness.”

Dickie preferred to be called Richard but Kettle was the
only one I ever heard call him that. “For all his eccentricities, Dickie is a
good guy. If you ever have a regular burial, he prides himself on his artistry
skills,” I said, defending Dickie as best I could. Dead with makeup still
looked dead in my opinion.

“I’ll walk you out to your car,” Watusi said. “I’ll lock the
gates and let the dogs out.”

“I’ll be in touch,” I said to Kettle.

Once outside, Watusi grabbed my arm, pulling me across the
driveway. “I wanted a moment alone,” she said, her voice low. “Promise not to
breathe one word of what I tell you.”

Why me? If my leg were long enough, I’d kick my own butt for
not running when I had the opportunity. “Okay.”

“Forget that stupid list. If one of those nit-brains finds
out Mom-Mom is missing, it’ll be war. This is my fault and you’re not to
breathe one word to Kettle or anyone else and don’t blame anyone.” She loosened
her grip on my arm.

“Do you know where the ashes are?”

“I hurriedly put boxes out for a charity pickup and picked
up the box by mistake. I didn’t write down who picked up that day and worse yet
it was trash day. If you can’t find Mom-Mom, you go buy a new urn from those
friends of yours. I’m sure Dickie must have leftover ashes.”

A startled laugh-choke snuck out. “Why not just tell
Kettle?”

“Not one word to Kettle or anyone else. Find the ashes or
get new ones.” Watusi started to cry.

“Calm down.” I got in my SUV, rolling down the window. “Either
way, this will be over in a couple of days.” I gave her a friendly wave and
refrained from jamming my foot on the accelerator.

A few feet from the main road, a loud popping noise startled
me. The steering wheel jerked, the driver’s side back end dropped, and I
coasted onto the pavement. My back tire was officially flat.

Rock Harbor, a small stretch of land, population ten, ranked
high on the list of places one didn’t want to get a flat. No gas station for
miles and when was the last time they offered anything more than soda and
cigarettes?

The sound of an approaching motorcycle took me by surprise.
I jumped back in my SUV and hit the door locks. A large, bald man, dressed head
to toe in black, rode up on a black and silver Harley roadster. He pulled up
and parked.

I watched him through the windshield as he got off his bike.
He approached my closed window and yelled, “I can change your tire for you!”