A Farewell to Murder Read online

  A Farewell To Murder

  David Berens

  Kimberly Griggs

  Contents

  Get more of my books FREE!

  1. Courage

  2. The Open Gate

  3. Party Time. Excellent

  4. Elementary, Watson

  5. Down On Duval

  6. Margeaux’s Bar

  7. Chum Happens

  8. Meeting Of The Minds

  9. Role Play

  10. Big Buddha

  11. Herding Cats

  12. Whaddaya Know, Joe

  13. Red Haired Devil

  14. A Pirate’s Life For Me

  15. Check It, Beckett

  16. Running With The Bulls

  17. There’s A Light

  18. A Room With A View

  19. Out Of The Fog

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Also by David Berens

  Get more of my books FREE!

  As a thank you for buying this book, I’d like to invite you to join my Beachbum Brigade Reader Group. You can get 4 FREE BOOKS for joining absolutely FREE.

  To join, click tropicalthrillers.com/readergroup and your free stuff will be sent immediately. It will never cost you anything, ever!

  For more information, visit tropicalthrillers.com

  Dedication

  To my content inspiration, my wife, my daughter, and my son. And for the lovers of great writers and to

  the great Ernest Hemingway. And who can forget Key West, an inspiration on its own. We hope we’ve done your legacy and character justice here. Finally, thanks to Kimberly for taking my vision and making it something so much better!

  —David Berens

  To the love of my life, you inspire me to be better, to reach for my dreams, to achieve the impossible. I love you!

  To my boys, you make life so much fun. To J’nell, my plotting wizard—what would I do without you? Thanks to Will for Chesty Diver! And a huge thank you to David Berens for taking a chance on me!

  —Kimberly Griggs

  1

  Courage

  "Courage is grace under pressure." —Ernest Hemingway

  Courage was my middle name. Or so I liked to tell myself.

  It took courage to stand up to Nikki Hobbs in fourth grade the day she accused me of stealing her necklace during recess. She'd handed it to me for safekeeping while she'd joined hips with the dreamy Jake Albright for a three-legged race. I was never sure why she chose me to hold on to her most prized possession, since we weren't exactly friends—even less so since she'd apparently put the moves on Jake.

  It might have been the way I held her trinket with the very tips of my fingers, trying not to get her ick on me, or it might have been the upturned crinkle of my nose that changed her mind. Whichever it was, she had promptly taken the necklace from me and given it to another girl to hold. Fresh from a controversial second-place finish in the aforementioned race, she came looking for her jewelry.

  "Mallory, my necklace please," she'd said, flipping her blonde ringlets over her shoulder with an air of self-importance usually reserved for Kennedys and Rockefellers.

  "I don't have it," I'd responded, feeling new butterflies form in my stomach at the anger in her eyes.

  "Yes, you do. I gave it to you to hold. Didn't I, Tiffany?" She'd turned to the mousy, subservient Tiffany Hansen who now had the necklace in her pocket, but had conveniently forgotten about it during all the commotion over who had actually won the three-legged race.

  In fourth grade, I topped out at about sixty-five pounds with red, curly—okay, okay, frizzy—hair and a smattering of unfortunate freckles across the bridge of my nose. It was the same collection of beauty marks that more than one college frat guy would go gaga over once I made it past puberty. But, in the fourth grade it was all Annie—as in Little Orphan Annie. Tomorrow, anyone?

  Nikki on the other hand was a hundred and twenty pounds of fully developed female, standing at about five feet six inches—roughly three inches taller than Jake Albright. It had made for a comical sight when they were bound together trying to run faster than the other contestants. She was easily a D-cup, and her fists were the size of my head.

  While she was promising to pummel me with those same fists until the necklace fell out of my pocket, the bell had rung, ending round one, and we'd made our way inside. Nikki promised with a whisper that I would get what was coming to me when I least expected it. An hour later, I’d mostly forgotten the episode as I strolled between the tilting stacks of books at the school reading fair. But while I was browsing the crisp, clean pages of a new Penguin edition of Ernest Hemingway’s, The Old Man and The Sea, Nikki had snuck in a sucker punch to my upper arm. I’d dropped the beautiful, swordfish adorned copy of the classic as the funny bone shock flew through my fingertips. I felt like I’d slept on my aching arm all night, pushing the blood out, leaving me with a stranger’s limb.

  I worried through the numbness and pins and needles, that my arm would never work right again. Writing—a favorite pastime of mine that my classmates never understood—was going to be difficult with my left hand. And then I saw red. You know that saying about not messing with redheads and their tempers? Yeah, it's all true.

  With the hand of my uninjured arm balled tightly in a fist, I marched my tiny self up to Nikki Hobbs and swung. The other kids nearby gasped as the arc of my arm sailed toward Nikki in slow motion. It was only at the last nanosecond that I realized I had made a fatal error in judgement.

  I totally miscalculated just how much taller she was than me and hadn’t accounted for the near uselessness of my left arm— brushing my teeth properly with my non-dominant hand was impossible. My fist, intent on smacking her cheek, did not find its target. No, my five-fingered weapon of rage hit her squarely in the left boob. A pile of books tumbled off the nearest table as the tall girl stumbled backward. I couldn’t tell if it was embarrassment or pain that caused her to double over, clutching at her fuzzy-sweater wrapped bosom. She fled the book fair in tears and told the principal a tale of the unprovoked and quite brutal assault on her and her boobs. Maybe if she had been a Kennedy or Rockefeller, she might have gotten more sympathy. As it was, the black and blue bruise on my arm told a different story. Nikki earned a two-week suspension. I got a grape popsicle—yeah, I’m kind of obsessed with grape. It’s the flavor of the gods.

  That was my first memory of being courageous.

  My second was in high school when I'd been convinced that I was in love with the captain of the football team Brad Stonewall. I’d always loved that name and promised myself when I wrote my Great American Novel that I would name the main character after him. Brad had been a late bloomer and poor Jake Albright never caught up.

  I'd finally grown into my frizzy bouffant hair, trading the crazy curls for sleek waves that fell to the middle of my back. The same freckles that made me all Pippi Longstocking as a kid, were now Sports Illustrated hot thanks to Elle MacPherson. And during summer break when no one was watching, all my curves had started to pop out in all the right places.

  Brad and I had been talking and texting for several weeks before prom tickets went on sale, but he'd yet to ask me to go. When the final few days to purchase tickets were approaching, I gathered up my courage and met him at the Tastee Freeze where he worked.

  I remembered the pounding of my heart and the blood rushing in my ears as I stumbled over the words, "Brad, would you go to prom with me?"

  Those few seconds as I waited for him to consider my request were the longest of my life. He'd finally agreed, and we'd had a rip-roaring time at prom even if I had caught him later that night with his tongue halfway down Tiffany Hansen's throat. To the best of my kno
wledge, she had never given the necklace back to Nikki Hobbs who was still dating the perpetually short Jake Albright.

  But I'd never been as brave as I was when I packed all my belongings into a borrowed VW Minibus and drove myself down the coast from Atlanta, Georgia to Key West, Florida. Why Key West? We’ll get to that. Don’t get ahead of me.

  "Earth to Mallory." My new best friend, Juniper "Juni" Jones waved her hand in front of my face. I snapped out of memory lane to find her blinking rapidly at me, eyes wide with concern.

  "What?"

  "I said, 'I have your birthday gift.'"

  "My birthday isn't until next month." I scrunched my nose up in confusion. Juni was always surprising me. She had traveled the country with a Jerry Garcia-less Grateful Dead tour, hurtled herself off fifty-foot cliffs in Hawaii wearing only her signature puka shell necklace, and flung butyric acid and packages of slippery methyl cellulose powder at a Japanese whaling vessel called the Nisshin Maru. She was pure Key West and lived a legit hippy lifestyle keeping me on my toes and wondering what new patchouli-laced crusade she’d be off to next.

  "Duh, I know that. But it's the middle of summer, and I want to make sure you get the most out of your gift. Here," she said, thrusting an envelope into my hands.

  I dropped it immediately as if it were on fire. For some reason, I had a bad feeling about this so-called gift. Juni's tinkling laughter floated through Sloppy Joes, the world-famous bar we'd claimed as our own. She picked up the envelope and shoved it into my hands.

  "Just open the damn thing!"

  A sigh heaved out of my chest as I slowly peeled open the envelope and pulled out the piece of paper inside. My jaw dropped as I read the contents. Then I stared at Juni, watching as the smile tilted sideways on her face.

  "You don't like it?" she asked, sticking out her bottom lip in a full pout.

  "I hate water."

  "I know, but I thought you were facing your fears head on and all that," she said calmly. “Damn the torpedoes and Captain Courageous and stuff. Right?”

  "Sure. Facing them. Not freaking diving into them. Scuba diving? Seriously, Juni. Do you have any idea how much that idea absolutely terrifies me?"

  Juni's head nodded like a bobble head doll as she rushed to convince me of the merits of the worst gift ever. "Yes. I do. But for crying out loud, you live on an island, Mallory Hemingway. And if you're ever going to go on a dive with me you need to know how to scuba."

  "Who said anything about going on a dive with you?" I squeaked, my voice taking on a high-pitched quality that might make a dog wince.

  "I did. Diving is one of the most exhilarating experiences of life. You haven't lived until you've dived into the deep, feeling the pressure of the water close around you as you breathe through a contraption attached to your face, your air flowing from a tank strapped to your back."

  I didn't respond. I simply stared at my friend, my jaw hanging open, and my eyes bugging out of my head. I could feel them trying to pop out and roll onto the table like two frightened Pangolins.

  "That is the absolute worst description of diving I've ever heard. Why would you say any of those things to me?"

  "What?" It was her turn for her nose to scrunch in confusion. I'd noticed we had the same habit, and somehow, though I was still dealing with the shock of her gift, it made me like her even more.

  "The picture you just painted is the stuff nightmares are made of. Water crushing the life out of you, no air but what's fastened to your back. This all sounds absolutely horrifying to me."

  I hated water. A near death experience at the bottom of a summer camp swimming pool had left me petrified of drowning. So, being submerged in the middle of the ocean, being buried alive by water did not sound like a good time.

  "I just meant that there's a sense of power you get diving, as well as a sense of smallness. You see how big the ocean is and how insignificant you really are. It's life-altering."

  "It sounds like it's life-ending to me."

  Juni giggled—an infectious thing for sure. "Come on, Mallory. You won't start with deep dives at first anyway. Just get your feet wet. For me."

  "I thought the gift was for me?"

  Juni shrugged. "It's a gift for us both." Then she winked, and I realized why she had men falling at her feet left and right. The girl was absolutely adorable. Long, wavy, dark blonde hair, big, brown eyes, and legs for miles. With her 1960's flair, she reminded me of Lily James in the sequel to Mama Mia or maybe Kate Hudson in Fool’s Gold.

  "Fine. I'll go. But I'm not making any promises."

  Juni jumped up from her chair and rounded the table, throwing her arms around my shoulders and squeezing tight. "Thank you, Mal! I'm so excited for you!"

  "Yeah, yeah. Keep your pants on, girl."

  "We can go diving together, and I can take you on digs, and you can help me uncover lost treasure, and—"

  "Seriously Juni, slow your roll. I'm not agreeing to any of that. I'm agreeing to the beginner's class, and I'll take that one day at a time."

  She dropped her arms from around my neck and went back to her side of the table.

  "Okay. Have it your way. But I’m convinced you're going to love it. And Huck is pretty dreamy too.”

  "Who's Huck?"

  Juni must not have noticed the arch in my eyebrow or the tilt of my head, because she continued nonplussed.

  "The instructor. Former Marine. Owns his own boat and business. He's a real catch." Juni pulled a lime wedge out of her beer and sucked it loudly.

  "Soooo, why haven't you tried catching him?"

  "Not my type." She shrugged and twisted her hair up into a perfect messy bun.

  "Handsome. Loves diving. Independent and responsible. That's not your type?"

  Juni threw her head back in laughter.

  "Nah, I like tatted-up, motorcycle guys who live with their mamas."

  I didn't say anything to that. I just stared.

  Juni took a sip of her beer then caught my expression and snorted, spraying beer all over the table.

  "I was kidding, Mal. It was a joke."

  Right. A joke. Surely I knew what that was.

  Mopping up the table, Juni's laughter finally caught on, and I chuckled. "Right. I knew that."

  As a band made up of aging rockers began unpacking their gear on the stage and tourists started to crowd in for the nightly murdering of Jimmy Buffet and Bob Marley, we paid our tab and left Sloppy Joes. Legend calls it a favorite of my very distant cousin, Ernest Hemingway. Since we shared the same last name and since I was also an aspiring writer, I felt a connection to him that many people thought was odd. But hey man, this is Key West. Cayo Hueso. The Conch Republic. If it ain’t odd, or eccentric, or outlandishly quirky, you’re not doing it right.

  When I'd told my mom that I was moving to Key West to live in Hemingway’s old home as the evening caretaker, she had thought I was crazy.

  "You have an English degree," she'd said, her face blank of emotion.

  "I do."

  "So, do something else related to English. Or for heaven's sake, get married and have babies instead. Why are you moving there to be a janitor?" My mom's solution to everything was get married and have babies and take my rightful place in high society in our small North Georgia town. It was why we'd barely talked in the few weeks I'd lived in Key West. She had yet to forgive me for breaking things off with my ex-boyfriend, Atlanta’s Golden Boy, Andrew Mercer. Never mind that he was a jerk of epic proportions.

  "I’m not a janitor, mom. I'll be the caretaker. Making sure the place is secure at night, being a presence on property so people will be deterred from breaking in. A point of contact for overnight emergencies. There's an apartment included above the garage, fully furnished with antiques that Hemingway and his wife Pauline picked out themselves. Not the priceless ones, mind you, but still."

  It hadn’t mattered to her. In her mind, I’d failed her as a daughter. Good thing my dad was the sane one in the family. At least he understood my need t
o make it on my own. And in such a fabulous place!

  I still couldn't get over the fact that I lounged on a couch Hemingway sat on at one time. That I spent every night on a bed Pauline had picked out for the guest apartment over the garage. I was definitely infatuated with the legendary writer.

  It was almost mystic, this connection I had with him. I knew all the facts: He was a philandering womanizer, a chauvinist pig, possessed a raging temper, and made some sketchy decisions later in life in Cuba. However, he was also a fascinating man, a talented author, and one of the most fun people to ever live. Wasn't that what life was all about? Taking the good with the bad?

  Duval Street at night came alive with the rush of people in all states of inebriation dancing in the streets to the music floating out from the hundred or so bars lining the way. Cigar smoke swirled in the air, its pungent smell a jarring reminder of our proximity to Cuba, while costumed vendors peddled pictures with them or their exotic, and even not so exotic, pets for a moderate fee. The street was a character in its own story, with a colorful, brash, and ostentatious personality.

  "Who's that?" I pointed to a man dressed in full pirate regalia, a multicolored parrot sitting on his shoulder.

  "That's Pirate Pete." Juni looped her arm with mine as we strolled towards the pirate.

  "Pirate Pete is his name?"

  "That's what we call him. He's a staple around here. Dressed like a pirate day and night. Makes his money charging twenty bucks to hold his parrot."