Deborah Brown - Madison Westin 07 - Kidnapped in Paradise (3 page)

I pointed to the tall cylindrical building with the red rooftop.

“
Surprise!
” Fab cried. “That
’
s my new office.” She noticed my look of complete shock and added, “You said I could have that empty space for my office.”

“How did it get here?” This wasn’t the small house converted into office space I had imagined.

“It arrived on the back of a flat-bed late yesterday afternoon.” She ran around and opened my door, tapping her foot impatiently as I slowly got out of the car.

I was rarely rendered speechless, but this was one of those moments. Fab took my hand and dragged me over to the structure.

“There are three levels,” Fab explained as she unlocked the door. “I’ll make the top space the office because it
’
s all windows.”

I had one foot over the threshold and jumped back.

“Who died in here?” A strong stench permeated the air around us. “The body
’
s not still in there, is it?”

I pinched my nostrils and walked backward, not wanting the stink on my clothes.

“I’ll give you the number of the crime scene cleaner.” I frowned as I thought of the
weird
business owner who’d told me once I was his only repeat, non-law enforcement customer. “Mention my name, tell him you
’
re family, and you might get a discount.”

“Older buildings sometimes have scents,” Fab sniffed.

The sound of a motorcycle roared up. I turned, happy to get away.

“What’s he doing here?”

Gunz hefted his large body off his Harley, wearing his signature tropical shorts and boat shoes. Big and bald, he had a fondness for spray-on hair when the mood suited him. He
’
d built his reputation on supplying forged paperwork for a price, having started out with phony identities and then branching out to complete packages.

“
More surprises,
” Fab whispered. “
Be nice, he’
s painting his hair on again.”

He waved, big sunglasses covering his face, making his arrogance less noticeable. “I got a guy coming over to see about hooking us up to plumbing and electrical. Already hired a crew to do the repairs, power wash, and paint. We should be ready to move-in in about a week. I made it clear, no excuses.”

Due to his illegal entrepreneurial spirit, Gunz kept a very low profile. His only weakness was dating certifiable, crazy girlfriends who enjoyed “
jungle sex,
” as I’d once heard him call it. That was one of the few times I minded my own business and didn’t ask for him to elaborate.

“I hate to be the party crasher here, but are you two going into business together?” I wagged my finger between the two of them. “You
’re a criminal,
” I hissed at Gunz before turning on Fab. “You assured me you
’
d only be taking jobs on the up and up.”

Gunz cleared his throat and glared at me. “I
’
m reformed.”

If he didn’t look so sincere, I would
’ve laughed.

He pulled himself up to his full height of six and a half feet tall. “I sold off the lucrative paper business. I only kept my police department account. I
’
m now a banker. I arrange loans and repayment plans,” he smiled with a flash of teeth.

“So you
’
re a loan shark,”
I huffed.

He growled and started to speak, but I cut him off.

“Listen you two: you both are now under my two-sheriff call limit. The second time you
’
re under investigation or arrest, you
’
re both out. And a second rule: if there is even a whiff of a maimed or dead body––out,” I pointed to the street. “The lighthouse stays and becomes a seashell store.”

Fab scowled at me. She hated my shell obsession. I brought buckets full home from the beach and occasionally forced her to stop at the Beach Shack so I could snag a bag. I used them for mulch in my potted plants, as they didn’t attract families of bugs.

“Now that we
’
re agreed,” Fab said, as she glared at Gunz.

Gunz’
s phone rang and he went out of earshot to answer it.

Fab turned to me, saying, “I’ve got my first corporate account and I need you for back-up tonight.”

“What
’
s the job?” I asked.

“Nice neighborhood, which will satisfy your boyfriend. You stay in the car, wait for me to come back. Like the old days. Anything goes wrong, you drive away.”

Creole and Didier were both adamant that we not take jobs in criminal neighborhoods. Creole had gone so far as to place a tracking device in the Hummer, though Fab regularly disconnected it and always chalked it up to faulty equipment. Recently he
’
d found a way to affix the offending device so that she could no longer remove it, pound the hell out of it, and toss it in the back of his truck. Nor could she expect to avoid the wrath of Didier.

“I would never leave you, and you know that.” I looked at the lighthouse in a new light now that I
’
d gotten over the shock. “I love it. Is it stolen?”

“Who in the heck steals something that big?” she sniffed.

Most people wouldn’t notice that she didn’t answer the question, but I did.

“I wouldn’t get too comfortable until big brother Brad okays this unholy twosome of yours. He put hours of sweat turning the run-down dump of a trailer park into a tourist destination, and he
’
s not going to allow anything to mess it up,” I warned her.

Chapter 3

I heard a shrill whistle and turned to find my brother Brad, and hopefully soon-to-be step-son Liam, waving from the entrance to the Trailer Court.

Brad was getting serious these days with Liam’s mother, Julie. They were talking about buying a house. That level of commitment would be a first for my brother. It surprised me that our mother hadn’t ambushed the two of them with a surprise wedding, a fact which I bet had more to do with her boyfriend putting his foot down, rather than her exercising patience. Brad spent a lot of time with teenaged Liam; he somehow mastered that fine line of adult good influence and friend. When I hung out with Liam, it made me think that maybe I wouldn’t suck at motherhood… someday.

Gunz grunted something to Fab that only she could understand. Before jumping back on his bike, he nodded to me, which I interpreted as, ‘See ya
’
. I walked across the driveway to Jake
’
s, leaving Fab behind in an animated conversation with the big man.
      

“Why do you two look so shifty?” I asked Brad and Liam.

“We just stopped cleaning up for a cigarette and a beer before the reporter gets here,” Liam told me with a straight face.

I kissed Brad on the cheek.

“You two get in trouble and it will be my fault, you know. Then I’ll blame Mother. And what reporter? Please don’t tell me someone died and it made the news.”

Brad, muscled and tan from all the time he spent on the water with his commercial fishing business, leaned his six-foot frame against the picket fence. While his boat had been docked for repairs, he’d personally undertaken the renovation of the Trailer Court. It sat at the back of the property I owned, adjacent to Jake’s and barely visible behind a row of trees.

He bulldozed the old trailer park, once a crumbling eyesore, and it was now fast becoming a favorite place to stay. I had to admit that the genius of his plan escaped me at first. Brad was enthusiastic, so I went along with his ideas. It sounded better than an empty lot, and I had no intention of selling it to condo-building vultures.

Brad rescued a handful of Airstreams from the property, and he
’
d found a place on the Atlantic coast to help restore the dirt pile into a 1950
’
s-style tourist destination. Each vintage aluminum travel trailer was restored with all of the comforts of home and available for overnight stays, by the day or week.

He had each Airstream shell expanded in length and rebuilt from the chassis up, complete
custom floor plan
s, each with a fully-equipped kitchen, bedroom, living space, and small but luxurious bathrooms.

The interiors were done in rich woods and highly-polished aluminum, mimicking the original 1950s design. Outside, each trailer had its own faux-grass lawn, which didn’t look bad but had an odd feel under one
’
s feet.

It had been my job to scour South Florida for authentic decor and accessories, or as close as I could get. All the old picnic tables I found were termite infested, so I settled for new ones and had them painted in a variety of art deco colors. The chaise lounges were also new, comfortable seating for visitors to enjoy the warm, balmy breezes of the Florida Keys. Fab had done her part by haggling every flea market vendor and antiques dealer down to the last nickel.

Every trailer had a theme and era-appropriate pieces—televisions, radios, and books. I had a hard time ferreting out original kitchen appliances that actually worked. I lucked out and located a man out of state who specialized in replica appliances––all shiny and new and working perfectly. Each trailer came fully furnished with dishes and linens. I cheated a little by going to a factory outlet, where I spent an afternoon mixing and matching dinnerware.

“We
’
re getting a mention in a national travel magazine. We
’ve
jumped from local news to the big time,” Brad said. He and Liam high-fived.

Fab snuck up on Brad from behind.

“Notice my lighthouse?” She tugged on Liam
’
s hair and they did a secret handshake. I’d watched their convoluted hand routine several times, and I
still didn’t
get it.

“Hard to miss,” he chuckled. “I made sure that the paperwork was legal before it got off-loaded. I saw hair-in-a-can guy hanging around earlier. I told Gunz his reputation preceded him, and given the slightest provocation I
’
d toss his ass in the Gulf. He took it well. Reassured me of his all-legal status.”

“I told Gunz no screwing this up,” Fab said. “He needs office space to project his new corporate image.”

I took a breath and kept my mouth shut about what I thought of his chances for success. Even if he could sustain legality, he
’
d get bored. He reveled in life on the edge.

I pulled on the end of Fab
’
s hair to get her attention.

“When you
’
re out there on the curb,” I pointed to the road, “that lighthouse is all mine. I
’
d like it if you could get rid of the smell first.”

“Could you be anymore unsupportive?” Fab sniffed.

“Probably.”

Liam and I laughed.

“Where
’
s Crum?” I asked. “He
’
s usually hanging around, eager to eavesdrop.”

Liam spoke up
.

“He left here throwing around the ‘F
’
word, looking uncomfortable in a pair of long pants for his appearance in court.”

“
Pants? I’
m surprised he owns a pair.”

The retired college professor wandered around in his tighty whities and rubber boots; for dress-up, he preferred boxers.

Liam continued to laugh.

“The pants were a half-foot too short.”