Deborah Brown - Madison Westin 07 - Kidnapped in Paradise (12 page)

I leaned forward and growled back. “Don’t
fuck
with my mother.”

“Roxy
’
s just a friend. I
’
m not going to hurt either one of them,” Spoon said lamely.

Men!

“You
’
re going to have to; you don’t get both.” I turned and walked over to join Creole, putting my arms around him from behind. “I
’
m ready to blow this party. Go all cave man on me and drag me out of here. That way it
’
s your fault in case something else goes wrong.”

Fab reappeared and stood by Didier
’s side.
“See you later.” I winked at Fab.

“We
’
re right behind you, except we
’
re going out the back door.”

“Like this!” Creole scooped me up into his arms. Holding me close to his chest, he kissed me, making a one-eyed escape out the front door.

Chapter 14

One look at Fab
’
s face, and I knew she had a scheme cooking under that long brown hair of hers. I needed coffee to ask what, and maybe I could control my curiosity and sneak out to the pool.

“I can’t eavesdrop if you speak in French,” I said to Fab and Didier. They were sitting at the kitchen island, indulging in their early morning sludge. Didier had found a new blend that was thick and smelly.

Didier tsked and shook his finger at me.

“That is a bad habit the two of you should break.”

He leaned over and kissed Fab
’
s head.

I reached in the cupboard and grabbed one of my favorite mugs, white ceramic with raised seashells. I turned and laughed at him.

“You need to change into something tasteful and black,” Fab said.

I looked down at my white cotton skirt and sleeveless cobalt top and thought,
What’s she talking about?
She had on her black ankle-length pants that I coveted and a spaghetti strap top that she usually wore under a jacket.

It clicked in that she must have a job that she'd failed to inform me about, and she needed my help. The microwave dinged. I poured hot water into my mug, stirring. I would go on whatever job she had, but not without a lot of drama.

“Okay,” I gave her a straight-lipped smile. I grabbed my coffee and got three steps in the direction of the patio.

“Where are you going? We need to leave in an hour.”

“How long have you known about today
’
s job?”

“I forgot, okay! I wouldn’t have remembered either if Raul hadn’t called early this morning,”
Fab huffed.

“Why not just say so, instead of some sneaky con job?”

Didier laughed.
“Madison does have a point.”

Fab glared at him.

I never worried about these two as a couple. They fought passionately, and then the next time you saw them they were all lovey-dovey.

“Tell me this job has nothing to do with dead bodies.” The thought had me nauseated. I still walked around the back way to get in the house.

“We
’
re going to bodyguard for a funeral. The last time the Bonzai family had a final farewell, a fight broke out. So we
’
re making sure everybody behaves.”

I
’
d met a Bonzai once. He seemed fun. Translation: he drank too much and partied it up, had a couple of missing front teeth, if I had the right guy.

“Do we get to shoot them?” I asked.

“I promised we
’
d keep everything under control without shots being fired.”

“My ass-kicking skills are not on par with yours, and you know that. What am I supposed to do besides stand there and look pretty?” I looked into my empty mug. “I
’
m going to need some serious caffeine.”

They both laughed at me.

* * *

The doors of Tropical Slumber stood open, which seemed unusual. Then again, we never showed up for funerals. Not a single mourner milled around the main entrance area, and the few who arrived early were in the main viewing room. Mr. Bonzai was displayed at the front of the room, his profile poking out of the long wooden box. The entire room had been cleared of the usual church pews, replaced with long picnic tables.

Dickie came in through a side door and stood in the front next to the coffin. Well over six feet, painfully thin, and dressed all in black, Dickie's pale skin had the same pallor of the deceased. He had an unnerving persona, but once you got to know him, he had a huge heart, and he and I had become friends. I admired that he never judged anyone.

Dickie signaled to us and swept his arm out. “As you can see, this service will be a little unorthodox.”

Dickie and Raul owned the funeral home. Dickie’s talents lie in primping the deceased. He never cut a corner, striving for perfection and exacting on every detail.  Raul handled the business side. Raul put his arm around Fab. They had cemented their friendship when, at her attorney’s suggestion, she hid out at the funeral home to evade police questions.

“At least I put my foot down about the open bar,” Raul said as he kissed her cheek. “
I hope we don’t
get any more requests for a dinner-funeral. This is unseemly to me.”

Dickie
’
s sigh filled the room. He tapped the microphone at the podium.

“Service first, then food?” Fab asked.

“The older Mr. Bonzai seems to think if everyone is eating during the service, it will curtail any fighting. The last funeral we had for one of the Bonzai brothers, all nine put in an appearance. When the fight broke out, we were forced to call the sheriff, and three of them got arrested for drunk and disorderly. Dickie took a punch to the eye, bruised his eye socket,” Raul related.

I winced.

“Funny thing about the Bonzai family, the old ones keep kicking along and the younger ones die off. Of course, it doesn’t help they get drunk and do stupid stuff.” Dickie looked disgusted. “Last one fell out of a tree, trying to jump in swamp water in the middle of the night. Probably better than getting eaten by an alligator.”

“Sense apparently wasn’t passed down in the genes,”
Raul half-laughed.
“This one,” he said, cocking his thumb at the deceased, “got drunk at a bar, decided to show off. He lifted a beer keg in the air, stumbled while holding it over his head, and fell. The keg landed on his head.”

“The only way you can tell how he died is if you move his head off the pillow. The crown and back are completely bashed in.” Dickie indicated that we were free to have a look.

* * *

The mourners filed in, some orderly, some pushing one another. They were exchanging insults, a few of them already drunk. The caterers arrived to set up the buffet, and most of the guests grabbed a plate before sitting down.

“What’s the game plan?” I asked Fab.

She chewed on her lower lip. “We’ll stand in the back like a couple of hall monitors and be on the lookout for trouble.”

“And then what? We ask them to please behave or go to the principal
’
s office?” I shook my head at her.

Fab motioned Raul over. “Before the service starts, I
’
d like to say a few words.”

I groaned, knowing she
’
d do or say something outrageous.

Raul winked at me, telling me everything would be okay.

“No you will not.” I jerked on her arm. “Dickie can handle any announcements.”

The female minister took her place behind the podium and rifled through her notes.

Dickie took the microphone, telling the assembled group that security had been hired and to please behave or he
’
d have no choice but to call in law enforcement.

The minister took over the microphone. “Please be seated.” It took a full minute for everyone to stop talking and for the stragglers to find seats.

The minister tried her best to make an unremarkable man sound interesting. I suspected by the way everyone ate that the word had gone out: “free food.
"
The minister was about to wind up her sermon when a man yelled some f-word-laced insults at the man sitting across from him. A couple of weather-worn women jumped in with their own colorful language. From the far end of the table, a launched biscuit hit one of the bickering women in the middle of her forehead. Someone snickered or laughed, and that apparently was the sign––fight on. Food flew in every direction.

Two older women, not completely devoid of sense, ducked under the table. At first it seemed as though they split up sides, picking a team. Soon, it rapidly degenerated into an everyone-for-themselves food melee. There wasn’t a person that didn’t have some particle of food stuck in their hair or hanging off their clothing. I freaked out when I saw that one man had blood dripping down his leg, but, on second glance, it was only ketchup.

Fab made her way to the front, pulled her Walther, and discharged the gun into the ceiling. The sound ricocheted against the walls and brought the room to a stupefied calm. None of them were making eye contact. The mourners all made themselves busy picking food off their clothing, flinging it in random directions, though some ended up with more food on them. An older man poured a glass of water down the front of his shirt, picking up another glassful to wash his hands.

“Every one of you, out,” Fab ordered. The muzzle of her gun pointed to the door. “One row at a time. Don’t even think about getting out of line.”

“What the hell is wrong with this family?” one grizzled old woman asked, picking a string bean from her grey hair. “Can’t they bury anyone without a circus ensuing?”

“You
’
re all inbred!” a bottle blonde middle-aged woman retorted, her tone matter-of-fact.

“Oh shut up, Erma. At least my husband ain’t my cousin,” the woman shot back.
      

It didn’t take long for the thirty or so people to file out, continuing to trade insults, threats, and angry gestures. The sound of engines starting could be heard through the doorway, followed by squealing tires.

Chapter 15

I
stopped speaking to Fab when I realized we were headed to Famosa Motors, and was more than a little annoyed when she pulled into the driveway. No wonder she
’
d been vague as to our destination, mumbling about a client. Wait until she found out that I had no plans to get out of the Hummer. I still hadn’t recovered from the last Brick job.

Fab came around to the passenger side and unlocked the door. “Brick would like an audience. Get out or I’ll drag you.”

“
Is
there
any
chance
this
job
is
going
to end in a
hostage
situation or
shootout
?
” I stuck one leg out the door, against my better judgment.

“You
’
re going to make me go out on a job by myself?” she frowned. “You know these jobs take two people––probably another car retrieval.”

She really had no skill at making a person feel guilty. She needed to call Mother and go take a lesson or six.

I moved to get out and, instead, pulled my legs back in, slammed the door, and hit the locks. I made a face at Fab. It never got old to act like a grade-schooler. I wish we
’
d grown up together; we
’
d have been best friends from the start and had fun times.