Sex in a Sidecar (4 page)

The swinging door from the kitchen crashed against the wall. Miguel stopped halfway through, a cooler in each hand and said, “Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you.” He laughed. “From the looks on your faces you were expecting that Jason dude.” I took a cooler from him and said, “It's the weather.” “Yeah, it's really picking up out there. Blowing like hell. I don't like it.” Short and solid, Miguel had a black fringe of hair cut straight across his forehead. That, and his proud hawklike nose set in a dark face, gave him the look of his Aztec ancestors. “This Myrna is one strange and dangerous lady.”

“I thought that's how you liked your women, Miguel.” I slid the cooler under the bar and Miguel set the other one on top of it. I pushed the coolers deeper behind the bar with my foot. No use giving Chris something more to get on me about.

“This one's too wild even for me.” He leaned on the bar and watched me add vodka to the blender filled with the pureed melon.

I pulsed the blender and said, “Cigarettes and whiskey and wild, wild women.” I poured carefully from each of the blenders. “My daddy sings a song about that combination.” I handed the glass to Miguel. “A little drink to toast this wild woman.” He sipped delicately like the connoisseur he was. “What do you think?” Miguel is my harshest critic, hard to please but spot on about what's needed to make an ordinary drink truly awesome.

“It may take me a few more glasses to decide,” he said, grinning broadly. “I'll take this with me and consider it.”

When he left I turned back to Gina, planted my hands on the bar and said, “Now, who's the murderer?” She shook her head. “Not yet, I have to be sure.” “Not yet, not yet. That's all I'm hearing from you.” Her obsession was growing old. Besides, how did I know any of it was real? Oh, the dead woman on the beach was real enough but how did I know that Gina had a murdered sister named Sam? Maybe Gina was trying to get attention, another thing that happened in bars. Not all the stories I heard were true and most of the time it wasn't worth the effort to figure out which was which.

Excited voices, loud and infused with the energy from the storm, came from the vestibule. We turned to the door to see who had entered. I patted my hair and squared my shoulders with a bright smile on my face for Clay. The noise faded away as the people entered the restaurant. The last tourists, feeling heroic and already practicing the story they'd tell back home, were coming in for lunch before they fled ahead of the storm. The palms scratching against the storm shutters and the whistling wind would hurry them along.

My phone rang and I scrambled to answer it, heart racing. “Where are you?” Ruth Ann asked.

“On the freeway. Can't really talk, I'll call from Orlando.” I hit disconnect. “My mother,” I told Gina.

“You lied.”

I picked my purse up and put it on the counter. “She expects it. Reality scares the shit out of her.” I dumped the cell phone in my purse. I wasn't expecting any more calls. “Now what a bout you? When are you going to bust a move and get out of here?”

“Soon, maybe I'll just have a bite first so I don't have to stop on the road.”

“What do you want?” I asked, not at my most gracious; disappointment does that to me.

She turned up her hands and shrugged, saying, “Just a ham sandwich.”

I went off to the kitchen. I didn't worry about leaving my purse right there on the bar. Why would I? She was rich; she didn't need to steal from me. Besides I knew her, didn't I?

“How many murders have you had in Jacaranda?” she asked when I got back and set the sandwich down in front of her. She didn't wait for my answer. “Maybe every couple of years some fool gets drunk and kills his wife or best friend.” She turned her palms up and lifted her shoulders. “No mystery. So the police here have no experience. Useless.”

“Don't bet on it.” She'd hit my reactor button, another Northerner saying the South just doesn't measure up, saying everything is better up North. Well maybe everything except the weather. Even the snowbirds had to admit we excel at weather or we wouldn't get so many of them down here where the only windchill they have to worry about is the one they get off their ice cubes. But they're quick to point out that nothing else lives up to their expectations, so on pickups all over Florida you see bumper stickers saying “We don't care how you do it up North.”

“The man in charge of the investigation is named Styles,” Gina said. “I don't think he's very good. He'll never solve anything.”

I leaned on the bar and said, “Take it from me, Styles could find fly shit in pepper. Don't underestimate him just because he's as bland as Melba toast.”

“You and I have this one thing in common, well two things maybe,” Gina said. “We both love golf and we've both been touched by murder.”

Everyone in town knew about Jimmy, Jacaranda's golden boy, so they were bound to talk about it; it was common knowledge, but it wasn't something I talked about. Most things about me are boring or embarrassing, except for this part, the shocking horrible bit. Gina hadn't been hanging out long at the Sunset when she first brought Jimmy's murder up.

A soft pinging at the cash register told me that someone had put in a bar order. I turned away. My hands went about their work while my heart fought down the ache. I could go days without thinking about it, weeks even, and then my treacherous mind would veer into dark corners and my wonky emotions would betray me. Jimmy Travis, my god-awful husband, had been murdered and I'd been the chief suspect in his death.

Not that I'd believed Jimmy was dead, not for a moment. I'd just thought the huge orange ball of flame that consumed his boat was one more of Jimmy's little scams. It wasn't until the police showed me the wedding ring, removed from his severed hand that the cops found in the mangroves, that I believed Jimmy was dead. Not until that moment did I finally understand that Jimmy wasn't going to come through the door and order a beer. Who wants to remember that kind of shit?

Gwen Morrison, our glamorous blond waitress, sauntered through from the restaurant. “Customers at last. They're complaining about the shutters being down. Want to watch the storm blow in.” She gave a huff of disgust. “I bet no one else comes in today. Everyone's either getting ready to evacuate or already gone.”

I added a martini to the half-carafe of house red. “We're as stupid as Chris for hanging in.”

Gwen said, “I'm only here 'cause Bobby is home hammering up plywood like a maniac. By the time I get back, the fool will have everything but the dining-room table nailed down.” Gwen grinned, “And I'm not too sure about that.” Not even a hurricane could dampen Gwen's spirits.

“Heading over towards Jacksonville?” Gina asked.

“Naw, five miles inland, east of the Tamiami, we'll be okay. As long as it doesn't actually hit here, and it won't, we're safe. 'Sides, Bobby would never leave the place to looters, although why he thinks anyone would want our junk is beyond me.” She hefted the heavy tray onto her shoulder. “I'll serve these guys then I'm out of here. I want to get off this damn island before the weather gets really nasty.”

“Take care.”

“You too, Sherri. See you in a few days.”

I pointed to Gwen's retreating back. “You should follow her example,” I told Gina.

“I'll go when you go. Now what about Clay? Why aren't you heading out to meet him?”

“Clay asked me to come up to Cedar Key but I wanted him to come here so we could evacuate together. But he said he's too busy securing his job site.”

“I thought he owned a real estate company.”

“He does but he's branched out and started this condo development and marina up in Cedar Key. They've just began construction.”

“A construction site must be a very bad scene in a storm. All that lumber turning into missiles.”

“Yeah, but they took care of that yesterday. He could have come here last night.”

“Or you could have gone there.” Her voice was soft and gentle.

I sighed. “He did ask me to come…but only once.”

She raised her shoulders and palms. “And?”

I poured the rest of the coffee into a thermos and screwed the top on. “If he'd really wanted me with him he would have asked again, wouldn't he? Insisted even.” I wiped up drops of coffee. “He would have come down here and got me.” I threw the cleaning cloth at the sink.

“Maybe.” Her voice said she wasn't entirely agreeing with me.

“His job site is more important.”

“Hmm,” she said. “ I guess he's scared of losing his investment.”

“That's not all he's losing. I think he's relieved I'm going to Orlando.”

She gave a little girlish giggle. “What?”

“He's only a man.” She smiled her sweet smile. “And before you set a test for a man he needs to know what's happening, what's expected of him. Maybe your guy just doesn't know how you want him to react…doesn't know how many times he's supposed to ask.”

I smiled at her. “Why don't we just have affairs with each other? Forget men. At least we'd know how the game was played.”

“I tried it once,” she said. “Didn't like it much.” Her blue eyes sparkled. “Now I've shocked you.”

“Well, this is the South. Baptists do not do those kind of things!”

She blew air out her lips in a most unladylike way. “People are pretty much the same everywhere.” She pointed a finger at me. “And evil exists everywhere.” The wind howled and rattled the doors to the bar. I leaned towards her. There was a nasty little suspicion gnawing into my brain. “Gina, this person you think killed your sister…well, he doesn't have anything to do with the Sunset does he?”

Something crashed into the building and I stopped caring.

When I got to the restaurant foyer the wind filled it with a low moan, like a woman mourning a lost love. Chris was holding onto the reservation dais as though he feared he might be sucked out into a void if he wasn't anchored.

“What was it?” he whispered. “What hit us?” He was already terrified and Myrna was nowhere near us. I couldn't wait to see how he reacted when things got serious.

“Let's see.”

Together we shoved open the outside door although the wind had backed off. It's crazy like that. The winds can go from hurricane force one minute to a blustery day the next. And just when you think everything is goin' to be fine, you get slammed on your ass. Hee haw, you gotta love this place! What do Northerners do for fun?

It had grown darker, like we should be thinking about dinner and not lunch, but it wasn't raining yet. “I don't see anything,” Chris said.

As we stood, looking about, the strength of the wind changed. The stiff breeze turned furious. Balls of seafoam blew across the blacktop, and a trashcan, chained to the guardrail separating the road from the sand, broke free and flew across the road. It hit the condo next door with a noise like a bomb going off.

We dragged the door open and fought our way inside. “That must have been what hit the building,” I panted. “A garbage can. Damn, I hope nothing hits my truck.”

I stared out the window, trying to judge the wind. How much time did we have left? There was only one main road off the island, this road. Beach Road runs north and south and all other roads feed into it. The trouble was, it's just that, a beach road running along the edge of the gulf and a victim of whatever nature throw sat us. Sand would have already drifted over the road in places, making driving difficult and today there wouldn't be any graders out winging it back. It would be even worse farther south on the island. There the beach curves in even closer to join the road, within twenty feet. Waves would soon be swamping the blacktop. But I wasn't going out that way. I was going north. Only a fool would take the long way off the island and god help you if you got stuck in the sand. There'd be no way out. It didn't bear thinking about.

But the Sunset was only a five-minute run north to the bridge and safety. We had time yet. “Give it another half-hour, max,” I told myself. The door shuddered and trembled under my hand, as though the wind was tugging on the outside, demanding entrance. The sound of it changed. It went up an octave to an eerie whine, grating and insistent. I shivered.

Grandma Jenkins would say someone just walked over my grave.

Chris, his round shoulders slumping further into his caved in chest, said, “I didn't expect it to be like this.”

“Cheer up,” I told him. “Myrna will make you a veteran. A true Floridian.”

“I don't think I want to be,” he said.

Good news. We hadn't taken real strong to him either. Behind us the elevator pinged softly. My heart beat faster as I swung around to watch the doors slide open.

Four strangers. He wasn't coming. I turned away.

The lights flickered as I entered the bar. I stopped and looked up, waiting to see if the electricity would last. Miguel stuck his head into the bar, “Not good.”

“Not good at all.” I headed for the bar. “It's the wind.” I dug out two emergency flashlights from under the counter and tested them.

“See if you can find batteries for this one, Miguel.” I set the flashlight on the counter. “If you do, take it through to the restaurant, just in case.”

“Sure,” he said. “But I'll need a little more of this very fine drink.” He held his glass for me to fill. “I think you've created a winner,” he said and picked up the flashlight.

The storm grew louder announcing newcomers before the doors to the bar blew open. Two of the regulars catapulted into the bar.

“What kept you?” I said.

Brian Spears and Peter Bryant should have been headed for shelter, with their thirty-five-foot Island Packet Cat with the twin diesels, not heading out to a bar. I was guessing most people had already taken their boats out of the intercoastal waterways to safety.

“I expected you an hour ago,” I told them.

Peter shrugged out of his foul-weather jacket and flung it onto a barstool. “Hate to leave too soon,” he said. A gambler to the end and always playing the odds, Peter was a restaurant owner and entrepreneur who flew close to the wind with his business deals and he took pride in being among the last off Cypress Island in an evacuation.

“Being careful is no fun,” Brian added. Brian was a lawyer, crusty and growing more bitter with each day. He was more cautious by training and nature but followed Peter's lead. They made a strange pair, these friends of mine. The only thing they really had in common was this bar, their boat
Risky Business
and loneliness.

I took down four Margarita glasses. “Something new for your delight, gentlemen.” I picked up a blender full of mint green liquid in one hand and in the other a blender full of soft pink liquid.

“The trick is in the pouring,” I told them, watching as the pink hit the mint green.

Chris scuttled into the bar. We ignored him, which wasn't difficult.

“You don't want them to mix. Pouring at exactly the same speed means they'll stay on their own sides of the glass.” I filled the last glass and set the blenders down triumphantly. “Perfect.” With a toothpick I made a gentle swirl in the center of each. “The eye of the hurricane.” I added a short white straw and set each glass on a paper coaster.

“You should call it a Sunset Hurricane in honor of the day,” Brian suggested, lifting his glass carefully and respectfully as befitted a work of art. Too much weight and too much alcohol had taken the definition out of Brian's features that were now distinguished by the age spots freckling fair skin. In his early sixties, time and bad luck had turned a sharp wit sour and at times he could be difficult to take but, I knew from experience, when you were in a bad place there was no one better to have beside you.

He lifted his glass and sniffed delicately. Then he tasted it carefully. “Vodka?” A true connoisseur.

“Exactly. On one side, honeydew melon and vodka, with a splash of kiwi syrup; on the other side, strawberry daiquiri.” I lifted my glass in salute. “This is my finest moment,” I told them proudly.

“We should serve it in the restaurant as one of those fancy chilled soups. It'd be great for business,” Chris said. “I'd eat here every night,” Peter agreed.

Chilled soup was exactly where my idea had come from. Trust Chris to foul my moment of triumph.

“Everything has already been done,” I moaned. “I was born too late.”

“Shouldn't you guys be on your boat?” Chris asked.

“No problem,” Peter assured him.

Peter sipped his drink and added, “Still time.” Six foot four and our resident Romeo, Peter is a big favorite with the barracudas, in his late forties, tanned and handsome, his features are just beginning to show heaviness around the jowls and pouching under his golden brown eyes. Peter wears his sandy hair long and it grows in silken ringlets at the nape of his neck. Brian said it's a skullet rather than a mullet since Peter had a little more skull than hair. But it worked for Peter. More than once I'd heard a barracuda offering compliments on the curls.

Exuding smooth self-confidence, Peter was dressed in a pink polo shirt and jeans with a crease ironed in them.

“Clay is worried about you,” Peter told me.

“How do you know?”

“He called. Asked me to stop by.” The boyish grin, the one that women were suckers for spread across his face. “As if I needed a reason to see you.” “Or stop by a bar.”

The grin didn't fade. “Want to come with Brian and me?”

“Do I look crazy? It'll be the trip from hell.”

“Then I think you should head for Cedar Key,” Peter advised. “Myrna is going to hit east of there now. The key will be on the back side and safe.”

He read my face and lifted his palms. “Okay, I'll stay out of it.” “Good. Let's have another drink.” I was already on the way to the blenders.

“I thought there would be rain.” Chris sounded like he was affronted.

“That will come,” Brian assured him. “First we get the wind and then the rain.”

“Don't forget the tornadoes,” Peter added.

“Tornadoes?” Chris sailed past outrage straight to shock and fear.

“Hurricanes spawn tornadoes,” Peter explained. “We get it all down here,” Peter told him proudly. “Great place,” he added, clapping Chris on the back. “You're going to love it.”

“But we don't get earthquakes,” Brian said, crestfallen at this shortcoming in our geology.

Gwen came through from the restaurant. “They just left. I'm out of here.” She went out through the kitchen to a chorus of our goodbyes.

I did my trick with the jugs. “I remember my grandma talking about all the water being sucked up out of Lemon Bay,” I told them. “Just picked it all up in a funnel. All that was left behind was a big expanse of mud. Then that old funnel just dropped all the fish and water and stuff right back down again. I've always wondered what those fish made of their ride.”

“They were probably telling each other they had to start backing down on the amount of juice they were drinking,” Peter said. “I bet more than a few signed up for AA the next day.”

“More than a few people think Grandma should when she tells that story. Only thing is, she's a nondrinker.”

“Damn!” Brian said. “I'd hate having nothing to blame stuff on.”

Chris's face turned puce. “Is that likely to happen now, could all the water get disappeared like that?” I finished filling the glasses. “Stick around and see.” “I hope you're paying for this,” Chris squeaked.

The weather station announced a bulletin and everyone went silent as I turned up the volume.