Marvels, Mochas, and Murder Read online

  “Oh, you’ll understand some day. Some things are easy to remember—or hard to forget. Others, you learn to toss away with the garbage. Speaking of, do you mind taking mine out when you leave? I don’t want the salmon to sit there overnight.”

  “It’d be my honor.” I winked.

  Sky Bar was down on the harbor by The Fish Camp. It had the same style parking lot, laden with oyster shells. The lot was already brimming with cars. But my old Volkswagen Golf slid easily between two crookedly parked trucks. I was probably the only one of the three drivers who’d know that all three of them ran on diesel. I'd also probably be the only one of the three driving home sober that night.

  It wasn’t like I’d never tried alcohol. But enlisted in the Air Force, I’d seen too many kids ruin lives and careers because of the stuff. A single beer would do me for the entire evening.

  Instead of the smell of good seafood and salt air, like The Fish Camp, when I stepped out of the car my nostrils were greeted with a stale urine-like vibe. Hints of vomit wafted through the air—coming here already felt like a mistake.

  Would I be welcome? After all, Ryan was my best friend. And I knew I didn’t have a single thing to do with his death. But his brother… Ryan had never liked his older brother all that much. I’d only ever met him once. Oddly enough, it was in a similar circumstance—when Ryan’s father died. When his mother died a few years later, I wasn’t able to get back to Niilhaasi. But I did send flowers.

  I passed the bouncer with ease. I’d been here enough times with Ryan to be a familiar face—no need for I.D. Inside, it wasn’t as somber an affair as I’d imagined in my head. There were many faces from high school. A crew of about six were doing shots at the bar while others surrounded the pool tables. They took turns regaling each other with their personal favorite Ryan adventure.

  “Remember that time he lost one flip-flop and stumbled home for two miles?” I heard one of them ask.

  Marc was locked in a conversation with Ryan’s brother, Cody. And when he saw me, Marc motioned me over. I was going to find out sooner rather than later whether Cody approved of my being here.

  “You need a beer?” Marc asked.

  “I’ll get one in a minute,” I answered.

  “Nah, man. I’m buying. The usual?”

  “Sure.” I shrugged, half wondering if he really knew my usual drink but also thinking he was a jerk for leaving me here with Cody.

  I turned toward Cody to gauge his reaction, realizing only too late that Cody was closer than close. His face was in my face, and he grappled his arms around me, wrapping me in the tightest of bear hugs.

  “I just can’t believe he’s gone…” Cody sobbed into my ear.

  “I know. Me, too.” I returned the gesture, patting the older man on the back. Cody was over ten years Ryan and my senior. Taller than me, round in the middle, his hair was sprinkled with gray.

  He released me, finally, and took a long pull from the Bud Light he was drinking. About that same time, Marc returned with a pint glass full of amber liquid. He either did know my usual drink, or he’d made an awfully good guess. “The red, right?”

  I nodded, taking it. Our local brewery, McGoons, made an Irish red ale. It was one of the few craft style beers that Sky Bar had on draft. I took a sip as the foam on top settled.

  “To Ryan,” Marc offered his own bottle up for us to toast. My glass clinked awkwardly against their bottles.

  Marc and I played a game of darts while Cody did the rounds. He didn’t know anyone here, so he just barged into the middle of conversations and asked people how they knew Ryan. Most everyone welcomed the drunken man into their conversations with sympathy—losing a brother is difficult even when you’re not close.

  Tim Grayson, in his usual blue shirt, stopped over to chat with Marc. Inevitably, their conversation turned to D&D, claiming Ryan was one of the best dungeon masters around.

  “You know he made his own campaigns?” Tim asked me. “We weren’t using the books—not always.”

  I inferred from their conversation that Damian wasn’t old enough to attend tonight. How convenient, I thought sourly.

  A short while later, I bid Marc and Cody farewell. The night was still plenty young, but not for the Saturday morning barista - i.e. me.

  I stepped outside onto the boardwalk. The smell of the ocean was distinctively penetrating, salt and brackish water, in stark contrast to the stale beer and smoke of the bar.

  I noticed a small figure walking down near the boats on the marina side away from the bar, away from the parking. It was dimly lit with only the occasional white lamp. Her stature and straight blonde hair gave her away; I knew exactly who that figure was. She stumbled, not drunkenly, but shocked to see me up on the walkway looking down on her.

  Then Jill Thompson, or rather, Jill Adams, waved.

  9

  “I was sort of wondering if you’d be here.” Jill pulled me in for a hug. This one was more guarded than the one Cody had offered.

  “I wondered the same,” I admitted. I took a step back. The faint sound of a boat motor cutting off disrupted the repeated splashing of water lapping against the boats docked in each slip. There was all variety here, fishing boats, small bowriders meant for a few hours of family enjoyment, and the occasional yacht, though the yachts here couldn’t match those on the other side of the bay.

  “I couldn’t go in,” Jill said, sniffling and pointing up at the bar. “Everyone thinks I did it—or I’m part of it somehow.”

  “Funny. They think that about me, too.”

  Even in the dim light, I saw her eyes narrow. “Kirby Jackson! No, they most definitely do not. That’s not how people see you. You were a boy scout in high school, and even more of one now.”

  “I only made it to cub scout…”

  “You know what I mean.” She punched my arm. Again, I was taken aback by how easy it was to find familiar rhythms with someone I hadn’t spoken with in ages.

  “You really think people would think so badly of you? Homecoming queen, varsity cheerleader, senior class president, I’m sure the list goes on…”

  “The list does go on,” she said with emphasis, “divorcee, batshit crazy—and those’re the nice ones.”

  “Yeah,” I replied, “I guess guano crazy doesn’t have the same ring to it. And speaking of crazy, were you really seeing Ryan?”

  She sighed, throwing her head back toward the star-filled sky. “It was a mistake. Listen, I’ve only had a couple of relationships since my divorce. The last one was an utter train wreck. I thought why not give Ryan a chance, you know? He came over with his cute little dog who I swear he has trained to remove girls’ clothing. I had to fight to keep my shirt on, he kept nipping at my sleeve.”

  She sighed again. “We drank some wine. But he was the same ol’ Ryan, you know? He wanted to stay over, but I sent him on his merry way… Kirby, you have to know I never thought it would end like this.”

  Her eyes went back toward the bar.

  “It’s not your fault,” I responded instinctively. “Unless… you know something?”

  “I told your gal pal and that other cop everything I know.”

  “My gal pal?” I rolled my eyes. “It’s not like Felicia’s telling me anything. I just saw her for the first time in over ten years. If you think of anything else—anyone else you think could’ve done it? Or if you just need someone to talk to, I’m all ears. I want to see this thing get solved. And fast.”

  “Same here.” She stared down at the boardwalk. “Let me get your number, and I’ll definitely let you know.”

  She plugged my cell number into her phone carefully, one digit at a time.

  “You want any help back up to the parking lot?” I offered my elbow.

  Jill smiled halfheartedly. “No, that’s okay. I like it here by the water. It calms me. Plus, they say salt’s a cure-all. What’s that saying? The cure for anything’s sweat, tears, and saltwater?”

  I shrugged, not having heard that saying. />
  “I may go up and get a drink here in a few,” she told me. “Have a good night, Kirby.”

  One last hug.

  “Yeah, you, too.”

  I strolled back up the ramp to the parking lot, and found the Golf still wedged between the more massive trucks. Marc had failed in his attempts to persuade me into having two beers, so even the mild effects of the one I’d consumed had worn off completely. I headed for the shop.

  The flat shoreline and the bay were to my left, and the moon was high, reflecting on the almost still water. Moon Bay, I thought, smiling—perhaps my first genuine smile in days.

  To the right of the road was a small nature preserve, a small brackish bayou that eventually led into the bay. But at this spot, it was used as a nature walk. Memaw and a few other ladies met there on Saturday mornings to get their steps in.

  The buzz of a text vibrated in my pocket. But again, from years of Air Force training, I didn’t answer it. One ticket on base was enough to instill that in my head. I’d lost my driving privileges for a whole month. The text could wait.

  But the idiot driver behind me could not.

  What had been distant headlights only a minute before were now racing toward me. The jerk turned his high beams on. I inched over in my side of the lane in hopes this high school kid, or whoever it was, would pass.

  They didn’t.

  The car barreled toward mine. Its left high beam blinded my driver’s side mirror. I accelerated to prevent an impact. My eyes scanned the road—was there anyone else watching this? Where are all the cops when you need them? I wanted this jackass pulled over.

  Despite the bit of torque the diesel engine allowed, it was still no match for the car behind me. Its front bumper made impact with my rear, and the Golf skidded out of my control. It headed straight for the shallow estuary.

  I slammed my foot on the brake and the clutch, begging the car not to roll over. Somehow, the two bumpers were free, and the other car sped off around me. I came to a stop, the wheels sinking in muck, but luckily not yet in the water. I tried to back out, but it only dug the wheels in deeper.

  Cursing, I got out of the car.

  What the— I tried to piece together what had just happened.

  Both the rear lights of the vehicle who’d hit me, and its purring engine, became lost in the distance. I climbed out of the brackish mud and toward the road.

  That’s when it all clicked. A piece of yellow bumper and broken headlight glass lay scattered across the lane. A vision of Corey Ottley’s yellow Corvette popped into my brain.

  Another car passed by slowly but didn’t stop to help.

  I dialed two numbers. The first was Felicia Strong, and the second was for a tow truck.

  About five to ten minutes later, a uniformed cop arrived and took my statement. I explained it was a yellow Corvette, and who I thought drove it. He just nodded along, not saying much. But at one point, he asked if I’d been drinking, to which I responded ‘yes’ but only one beer, to which he responded by asking me to submit to a field sobriety test.

  The officer was quite astounded by my ability to recite the ABC’s backwards. It was something my Pawpaw had bet me I couldn’t do. So, of course, I set out to prove him wrong. And funny enough, after all those years, I hadn’t lost it. Not a single letter.

  Tommy King, the son of Owen King who owned the only auto collision center in town, showed up with a flatbed tow truck. I knew Tommy. He graduated a grade ahead of us. But like almost everyone in Niilhaasi, he was familiar enough to also know my name on sight. He began the process of pulling the Golf onto the bed of the truck.

  The fender had wedged itself into the right front tire. The car was undriveable. Luckily, Felicia pulled up around that time, and she offered me a ride back into town. I explained to her, in more detail than I’d given the first cop, what had happened to cause the crash.

  “So, you really think Corey did this?” she asked.

  “It makes sense, doesn’t it? He was always into Jill. And he came into the shop the other day and gave Ryan grief. Maybe he found out Ryan was dating her… And he just went off.”

  “Right…” She sounded skeptical. “And then he tries to run you off the road when he’s essentially got away scot-free? I don’t think I’m buying it.”

  “I didn’t say he’s the smartest—”

  “But Kirby, he is smart. He wrote that app and sold it to Facebook or Google or whatever, right?”

  “I don’t know,” I shrugged, “did he? I guess that explains the Corvette…”

  “Do you know how many Corvettes there are over there on the island?”

  “A lot,” she said before I could answer. “We’ll investigate it, but I highly doubt Corey did this. Probably some kid with daddy issues out to wreck his father’s car.”

  “Yeah? You ever do that?”

  “It never went that far.” She smirked.

  Felicia was a unicorn—one of the few students at Niilhaasi High who lived across the bay. Her parents were rich and lived on the island full time, which was rare. But she had rebelled. In fact, I couldn’t say I’d ever been to her house. She’d always come over to mine or we’d met somewhere else in town.

  “How are your folks?” I asked.

  “They’re all right,” she said. “My mom keeps Neena while I’m at work. Or, rather, the housekeeper, Rose, does.”

  She pulled along the angled parking in front of the shop. I made no attempt to get out. I was still anxious and a little on edge, still wondering what would happen with Corey.

  Felicia didn’t seem in any hurry either. She sighed and said, “Only a couple more hours of work tonight.”

  I could see where this was headed.

  “You want another coffee?” I pointed at the shop.

  “I would love one. Half-caff, though.”

  “You got it.”

  In my haste, leaving for Memaw’s and the wake, I’d forgotten to put on the shop’s outside light, so I pulled out my phone to shine on the door and unlock it. That’s when I remembered the text I’d let sit for so long, choosing to make phone calls after the accident instead.

  It was from Jill. It read: “I just thought of something. I’ll come by your coffee shop in the morning. We need to talk.”

  Felicia waited as I walked Gambit outside. His bladder was full, and he made sure to mark every lamppost, sidewalk bench, and sign post within the quadrant of shops next to Kapow Koffee.

  He greeted her affectionately, and she threw the ball for him as I prepared to make her drink.

  Making Felicia’s coffee, I wondered if I should say anything about the text. Would she rush over to Jill’s now to find out the information? It seemed like something a cop on TV would do. But withholding the information, that seemed more like something someone in the wrong would do. And that wasn’t me.

  Frothing milk is a loud process, so I waited for that to be done before telling her anything.

  “I talked to Jill tonight at the wake.”

  “Is she still a suspect?” Felicia responded mockingly.

  “No,” I rolled my eyes. “Seriously, why are you giving me so much grief? I just want Ryan’s killer found.”

  “Sorry,” she said guiltily. “I’m just getting this from all sides. My mom’s given me a new theory, daily. And Ross is still on about you… Not you as a suspect. He just thinks it’s funny we’re old friends.”

  “Anyway,” I continued, “Jill just texted me. She said she thought of something, and she’s going to come by tomorrow to talk to me about it.”

  “Interesting,” Felicia said slowly. “Let me know how that goes.”

  “You don’t have to, uh, be here? Or go speak to her first?” I asked.

  “No.” Felicia took a sip of her mocha. She grinned with satisfaction. “I have Jill’s statement. If she wants to make another one, or if she tells you anything you think I need to hear, then that’s a different story. But remember, I have another lead to follow up on.”

  “Cor
ey,” I suggested.

  “Yeah, Corey… I’ll let you know if anything comes of it.”

  “Thanks.”

  Felicia bent down, petted Gambit one last time, and walked out of the shop.

  10

  On Saturdays, the shop opened a little later—the residents of Niilhaasi feel less rushed to get out of bed, me included. I thought I’d sleep in, at least a little after the late night. Gambit ensured those plans unraveled.

  The dog was up and in my face early and not-so-bright. The sun wasn’t yet shining. The sky was a faded blue. A mountainous white cloud was building out over the Gulf, meaning a summer thunderstorm would greet us later that afternoon.

  Rather than take Gambit on his usual walk around downtown, I opted instead to drag his leash in the direction of Bay Park. A largish park as parks go, it was mostly a shady area for kids to play with a frisbee golf course surrounding it. There were already some players on the links. Gambit barked as a red frisbee streaked over our heads and out of play.

  His temperament proved that the dachshund was a creature of habit. I found myself talking to him once again, reassuring the dog that he would have fun. He disagreed but eventually saw things my way, following after me, huffing after the collar had choked him. I was ninety percent sure the huffing was actually a show put on for my benefit. And it did teach me a lesson—never trust a dachshund.

  A small, fenced in area beside the playground was reserved for dogs to bark and sniff each other’s bottoms. My intentions were good. We were off to a great start. I threw the ball, Gambit chased after it. It was all going so well… until it wasn’t. Gambit’s inner Napoleon reared his head, deciding a German Shepard didn’t meet with his approval. I had to whisk the dog away, back to the shop, before he was killed by the larger animal.

  Once there, we found our typical routine, Gambit in his bed while I filled the metallic containers with half and half, cream, and almond milk. I ground and made coffee. And before we knew it, the shop was again full of customers, with the line at the register not dwindling until early afternoon.