Destined for Trouble (A Jules Cannon Mystery Book 1)

  “No one’s getting railroaded. She’s just a person of interest, that’s all.”

  “If you say so.”

  His gorgeous chocolate browns narrowed, as if he were going to say something in response, but he quickly changed his mind. “So how’s the bureau? You like it there?” Justin asked, changing the subject.

  “It’s all right.” No need to mention that my boyfriend left me and my half-starved supervisor made the fifty-plus hours per week I worked a living nightmare. It wasn’t as bad as working at Palmetto Pink, but it was a close second.

  “Is this how it’s going to be?”

  “Pretty much.” I felt bad about my behavior, but I was still mad at him.

  I gave Justin credit, though; he wouldn’t let up. He seemed bound and determined to have a normal conversation. “You seeing anyone?”

  That was a question I wasn’t expecting. I certainly didn’t want to rehash my failed relationship, least of all with Justin. “Nope. Still single.”

  “I see.”

  Eventually he gave up on having a decent conversation, and we spent the remainder of our lunch eating our sandwiches and staring at everything but each other. So much for getting the inside scoop on his investigation. It was wishful thinking on my part to think he would willingly let me in on the case, considering my behavior and how I’d basically told him what a crappy job he was doing. It certainly wasn’t how I had imagined spending time with my former high school sweetheart, but that was the story of my life—nothing in real life happened the way it did in my fantasies.

  “How was lunch?” Aunt Lula asked the second I entered the store.

  “Fine, but I imagine Justin is regretting his choice in lunch dates right about now.”

  “Jules! You didn’t antagonize the poor man, did you?”

  I already felt bad enough about how Justin and I left things at the diner; I didn’t need to be reminded again by Aunt Lula, but I still felt justified. “I hadn’t planned on it. And why do you care? He’s not doing anything to stop Chief Poteet from placing Abby Lee as their number-one suspect or searching for the real killer.”

  Sometimes my aunt made me feel like she was constantly losing her patience with me. Today was no exception. “Yes, dear, but he is still a man,” she chided. “You can’t go around making them feel any less.”

  I snorted in response. “He had it coming.”

  “When this is all over, you are going to regret treating him that way, you mark my words.”

  I didn’t bother to remind her that by the time all this blew over I would be back at headquarters helping agents solve other crimes.

  Since arriving in Trouble, I’d gotten to the point where I stopped obsessing about my breakup with James. My heartache had dulled enough that I only thought of him right before settling in for the night. That was bad enough by my estimation, but, hey, a girl had to take her victories when she could, no matter how small.

  My thoughts were replaced by another member of the male persuasion—Justin. Sure, I talked a good game in front of him, and I felt justified in my reaction over the way the police were handling the case, but I couldn’t help but wonder “what if?” I could be mad and still lust after him, right?

  Was a fling even worth having, knowing full well I was only here for a couple of months? Hell, was it worth dealing with Heather once she found out? And believe me, she’d figure it out fast on her own. No need to involve the gossip circle.

  No, I ultimately decided as I tossed and turned in my sleep. I would keep my relationship with Justin strictly platonic—no matter how much his gorgeous smile invaded my dreams.

  It was a fitful night’s sleep to say the least, but I was pleased to have come to a decision.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  If I thought being employed by the FBI would give me a leg up in tracking down Harvey’s killer, I was sorely mistaken. I had gotten no closer to getting some solid leads, even after meeting with Harvey’s nephew. This was going to be a long summer if I didn’t come up with something soon. Working at Palmetto Pink wasn’t the kind of summer hiatus I had envisioned.

  Same routine, different day. I had another shift at Palmetto Pink, and I was getting restless. No sooner had I imagined having to work the rest of the summer for my aunt than another customer walked into the store with her daughter in tow. The customer carried one of the store’s signature shopping bags. I groaned—she was here to make a return.

  “I’d like to make a return,” she said, holding a dress without the tag.

  Gee, really? I smiled at my deductive-reasoning skills. Maybe I shouldn’t discount a career in private investigation after all. “Sure, do you have the receipt?”

  The lady’s face puckered up like she’d just sucked on a lemon. I was all too familiar with that look. She didn’t have a receipt and was going to try to talk her way out of it.

  “My husband bought it for me, but he threw away the receipt. He’s standing right outside the store,” she explained, as if his mere presence could be substituted for a sales receipt.

  I knew it! “I’m sorry, but without a receipt you can only get store credit or make an exchange.” I didn’t even bother to point out that even if she had the receipt, the dress was missing the price tag.

  “But he just bought it last week! My daughter was with him. Right, Mary?”

  The little girl, who couldn’t have been more than ten, nodded vigorously at this. It didn’t take a genius—or an experienced mom—to realize that the little girl would agree to just about anything her mother said.

  “Do you know if you’re in our system?” I asked. Aunt Lula had a system that captured all customer purchases, including their contact information, so she could send out mailers for promotional events.

  She pretended to think. “My husband said he was, right, Mary?”

  Again, the daughter nodded.

  My fingers rested on the keyboard, ready to type. “OK, what’s the name?”

  “Michael Harris,” the woman said slowly, pronouncing every syllable as if I were daft. Clearly she didn’t appreciate me calling her out on the return.

  My sixth sense told me I wouldn’t find his name in the system, but I typed in the name anyway. And just as I expected, nothing popped up. “Well, it looks like he isn’t in the system.”

  “But he gave his name. My daughter was there.” She continued to argue as Little Darling Snowflake continued to nod.

  I really wanted to ask the lady how her daughter could possibly remember a sales transaction from a week ago, but instead I said, “Ma’am, we ask all our customers their name. If they don’t appear in our system, they are then asked if they’d like to be entered. Since his name isn’t listed, your husband probably declined. Unfortunately, because he did, I can’t pull up his purchase history.”

  She dropped the hostility and went the sympathetic route. “He was so sure I would love the dress he threw away the receipt.”

  Seriously? What man buys a gift for his wife and throws out the receipt? Better yet, who buys a gift and doesn’t ask for a gift receipt?

  There was also the issue of the missing price tag. My bet was she wore the dress, then decided to return it.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but the best I can do is store credit or an exchange. If you don’t like the dress, you’re welcome to try on a different style or size for an exchange.”

  “Oh, forget it,” she said, finally giving up. She made a big show of snatching the dress and shopping bag from the counter and pulled Little Darling Snowflake along as they abruptly made their way out of the store.

  This was yet another reminder of why I wasn’t cut out for retail. I just had to tell myself that this job was only temporary until I went back to Virginia.

  After a stressful day at the store, I was in dire need of a drink. I immediately thought of Abby Lee. She was spending all her time at the res
taurant lately. Personally, I think she spent all her waking hours there to avoid being alone. Not that I blamed her. Fortunately, the restaurant patrons didn’t let a minor thing like her being a suspect in a homicide investigation get in the way of their two-for-one crab special. Everyone, except for the Trouble Island Police Department, knew she was innocent.

  I looked up the main number for The Poop Deck and gave her a call.

  “You read my mind,” she said after I asked her to meet me for drinks after work. “We’re a little swamped, but nothing Pete can’t handle, so I’m game. Meet you at the Gator in ten?”

  “I’ll grab us a table,” I said, pleased she was able to take off at a moment’s notice. That, I reminded myself, is the marking of a true friend. Someone who’ll drop everything for happy hour. I had to make it a point not to let our friendship fall through the cracks again after I left.

  While most of the island believed in Abby Lee’s innocence, she wasn’t exactly the most favored person in Trouble—she was still a murder suspect after all—and could probably stand to stay away from the limelight until her good name was restored. I knew the folks over at The Crooked Gator wouldn’t give her any grief, though. It was the closest thing we had to a dive bar on the island. They had an open-door policy, which even extended to murder suspects. Their unofficial motto was, “Everybody gets service, unless you can’t pay.” Plus, it would be good for her to get out, away from the restaurant.

  She found me at the corner table by the bar ten minutes later, waving excitedly as she approached. “I’m so glad you called. I could use a drink myself.”

  “I bet.”

  “So, what are we having?” Abby Lee asked.

  I didn’t have to think twice. “A Gatorita,” I said. “On the rocks, salt.” Ever since I came back to Trouble, I’d been craving one of the Gator’s legendary margaritas. They were legendary because they were so good you didn’t realize how much tequila you’d actually consumed until the next morning.

  “Two Gatoritas coming right up,” Abby Lee said as she made her way to the bar to place our drink order.

  Five minutes later, we were both savoring our margaritas. I had yet to find a bar anywhere in the DC metro area that could make tequila taste so good.

  “Now spill—what’s the real reason you’re here?” Abby Lee asked.

  I marveled at her ability to forget about her troubles for a while and focus on someone other than herself. I could read between the lines. I knew what she was really asking—why, after all these years, did I decide to come back home for almost the entire summer?

  “I got dumped,” I finally admitted. After what Abby Lee had been through the last week, she deserved to know the truth, even if the truth paled in comparison to her own problems.

  She offered me an apologetic smile and raised her glass. “Nothing like a few margaritas to mend a broken heart.”

  Or being unofficially accused of murder.

  “You got that right,” I said.

  “So what happened? Was he cheating on you?”

  I sighed into my almost-empty margarita glass. I watched as Abby Lee signaled to the bartender for another round. “Nothing as dramatic as that. Although I almost wish that were the case. No, he just decided I wasn’t the one.”

  “Ouch. That had to hurt.”

  “No kidding. I think I could handle another woman, just not a woman that doesn’t exist,” I said.

  Abby Lee sat, thoughtful for a moment. “What about Justin?”

  “What about him?”

  “Any interest now that you’re back?”

  I was taken aback by her question. “Seriously? You’re talking about the guy who’s basically accusing you of murder. How much tequila did they put in these?” I asked, pointing to our mugs.

  “He’s just doing his job, Jules.”

  Ugh. The job. There was that ugly three-letter word again.

  I was always amazed at Abby Lee’s forgiving disposition. Here she was worried she’d be formally charged any day now, yet she was cutting the future arresting officer some slack.

  “There’ll always be something between us, but I don’t think that’s enough to build a new relationship on, especially since I’ll be going back home soon,” I said, thinking the margarita was making me more open and honest about the subject.

  “Too bad. You two were a great couple,” she mused.

  “Hmm . . . way back when perhaps,” I said. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re all grown up now, with big, real-world problems, not hot and heavy teens.”

  She shrugged and polished off the rest of her margarita as the bartender placed a new one in her direction. Abby Lee raised up her fresh margarita for a toast. “To Harvey.”

  “To Harvey,” I said.

  “So really, no old sparks?”

  She couldn’t let sleeping dogs lie. It was about time to put the kibosh on the tequila. What more could I say about a relationship that ended a decade ago? Sure, every time I ran into Justin I wanted to hit him. But I wouldn’t necessarily call it sparks.

  “None,” I lied.

  She nodded. “Probably for the best. ’Cuz look who’s making her way over.”

  I turned around and saw Heather Clegg heading straight in our direction. Didn’t she have better things to do?

  Heather didn’t waste time exchanging pleasantries. “They say you can tell a lot about the company you keep,” she said, pointing her head toward Abby Lee, the implication clear. She was now standing right next to me and bent down low enough to whisper in my ear. Her damp breath made me squirm, and I could smell the beer on her breath. “Just remember, you had your chance—he’s mine now.”

  Abby Lee couldn’t help herself, especially not after the jab at her expense. “You know, I’ve always wondered, was it Justin who dumped you, or the other way around?”

  I giggled in my margarita.

  Heather’s face turned ten shades of red. “We’re still dating,” Heather insisted. She stood up from her crouched position and looked down over me. “Just see to it that you stay out of the way.”

  Justin had said they were over, but Heather seemed so convinced they were still together it was hard not to believe that there was some truth to it. Maybe he was embarrassed to admit he was still dating her. Though how he could stand to be with her this long was a mystery to me. The ratio of eligible women to men may have dwindled over the years, but I still refused to believe Justin was so hard up that he had to settle for someone like Heather.

  Abby Lee laughed. “You just keep telling yourself that.”

  Just as Heather sashayed back to her seat at the bar, her hip bumped our table, spilling my margarita onto my lap. I tried to tell myself that it was an accident, but something told me it wasn’t. Thankfully, the glass was only half full.

  “She did that on purpose,” Abby Lee said, almost half out of her seat, ready to confront her. It was nice to see the semblance of her old self, but we both knew it was a waste of energy to go after Heather.

  “It’s OK, Abby Lee. The last thing you need is to get into a bar brawl with Heather. You know as well as I do she doesn’t fight fair.”

  “You’re right. She’s more slippery than a pocketful of pudding,” she agreed. “Did you know she got that dispatcher job at the department just so she could be closer to Justin?”

  Good employment opportunities were slim on an island this small, so most folks commuted to work over on the mainland. I was sure Heather working as a dispatcher was just a coincidence. I didn’t condone dipping her pen in the company ink, a lesson I’d learned firsthand, but to each her own. “I’m sure she doesn’t have many job prospects.”

  Abby Lee shook her head. “No way. She got that job to keep tabs on him.”

  “As much as I hate to admit it, I almost feel sorry for her,” I said. Heather was either insecure or crazy. Either way,
it was sad.

  My best friend lifted her margarita, signaling another toast. I followed her lead. “To renewed friendships, psychotic girlfriends, and Gatoritas,” she said, clinking her glass to my now-empty glass.

  “To tequila!” I added and quickly ordered another round.

  By the next morning, I was cursing Jose Cuervo.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The fact that I was hungover was compounded by the ringing doorbell. It rang once, then twice, and then, when I thought the obnoxious sound had finally stopped, it chimed again.

  Where in the world were my parents? It wasn’t like my mom to keep a guest waiting on the front porch. Furthermore, who in the hell came calling at such a god-awful time? My eyes were still shut, so I didn’t know the actual time, but my aching head told me it was too early to receive visitors.

  A thunderous pounding on the stairs, followed by a loud voice yelling, “Jules!” gave me my answer.

  “Jules, wake up!” Aunt Lula cried again, almost out of breath.

  “Whaaa . . . ?” I rubbed the crust out of my eyes and focused on my aunt. My always graceful and elegant aunt looked like she had just run a half marathon. “What?”

  “I just came from church. It’s Abby Lee,” she said.

  Either I hadn’t had my morning jolt of caffeine and was truly hungover, or Aunt Lula wasn’t making any sense. I opted for the latter. “What are you talking about? You saw Abby Lee at church?”

  So that’s why no one answered the door. My folks were at church. The whole town went to church on Sundays—except for yours truly. I didn’t live in Trouble anymore, so in my mind that absolved me from having to attend.

  “No. I heard they were going to arrest Abby Lee soon!”

  I sprung out of bed faster than you could say “hot skillet” and went into full-blown panic mode. “What? How do you know?”

  They couldn’t already be making an arrest. It had only been a little over a week since Harvey was killed. And I hadn’t done anything to help Abby Lee. All I’d done so far was speculate about motives and possible suspects.