Three Shots to the Wind

Book 3: Chloe Jackson Sea Glass Saloon Mystery

by Sherry Harris

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery

Synopsis

Series Featured in Buzzfeed Books!
 
Chloe’s Windy City ex-fiancé gets blown away in the Florida panhandle . . .
 
DEAD EXES TELL NO TALES
 
Saloon owner Chloe Jackson appears to have a secret admirer. She’s pouring drinks at the Sea Glass Saloon in Emerald Cove when an airplane flies by above the beach with a banner reading I LOVE YOU CHLOE JACKSON. She immediately rules out Rip Barnett. They are in the early stages of dating and no one has said the L word. Then a bouquet of lilacs—her favorite flower—is delivered to the bar, followed by an expensive bottle of her favorite sparkling wine. It couldn’t be . . .
 
Sure enough, her ex-fiancé from Chicago has flown down to Florida for an accountants’ convention. But is he trying to mix business with pleasure and win her back? Unfortunately he’s not in a hotel conference room, he’s floating facedown in the lake next to her house, clutching a photo of Chloe. Who murders an accountant on a business trip—it just doesn’t add up. When Rip becomes the prime suspect, Chloe is determined to find the secret murderer. But if she isn’t careful, it may be closing time and lights out for her . . .
 
“Entertaining . . . a pleasantly appealing debut series.”
—Dru’s Books Musings
 

Release date: March 29, 2022

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

The whine of a plane’s engine had become part of the music of my life working at the Sea Glass Saloon. They flew over day after day, pulling banners advertising happy hours, restaurant specials, and amusements such as water parks and minigolf.

“Chloe, you’ve got to get out here,” Joaquín Diaz yelled. He stood out on the deck of the Sea Glass, gesturing wildly for me.

It was ten thirty and we’d just opened. I grabbed the three beers I’d poured, dropped them to patrons sitting on tall stools at a high-top table, and ran to Joaquín’s side.

“What?” I asked, looking across the expanse of white sand to the Gulf of Mexico. Snowbirds, the flock of people who abandoned their cold, wintery states and provinces for the warmer climes of the Florida Panhandle, walked and sunbathed on the beach. No local would sunbathe in January. I scanned for something more interesting. Something that would make Joaquín sound so urgent. Last October a sailboat had run aground not far from here, but I saw no such boat now.

Joaquín pointed up. I shaded my eyes with my hand and squinted into the bright January sun. A small plane was flying over the beach with a banner. It read: “I love you Chloe Jackson.” What the haymaker? My eyes went wide as I tried to sort through why such a sign would be flying over the beaches of Emerald Cove, Florida.

“Oh, Chloe,” Joaquín said, “somebody loves you, girl.” His eyes were the same aquamarine color as the Gulf on its showiest days. Dark hair tumbled over his forehead. “Do you think it’s Rip?”

He gave me a hip nudge and did a little dance with his hands clasped over his heart. Joaquín was a former professional backup dancer for the likes of Beyoncé, Ricky Martin, and Jennifer Lopez. Now he was a fisherman in the early morning and a bartender the rest of the day, but, boy, he still had moves.

I’d been dating Rip Barnett on and off for the past few months. His real name was Rhett, but he’d gotten a nickname in the fall and it stuck. We were solidly in the like zone, with a touch of lust thrown in. But we definitely weren’t in the love zone, and Rip didn’t seem like the kind of man who went for wild public gestures like this. No man I could think of would do this. Although the proof otherwise was flying right over my head.

“It’s not from Rip,” I said, my voice sounding crosser than Joaquín deserved.

Joaquín whipped out his phone and started snapping pictures.

“Stop that, Joaquín,” I said, making a grab for his phone.

He held it out of my reach, which wasn’t hard because he was a lot taller than I was at my five four.

“You’re going to want to remember this, Chloe.”

I had a terrible feeling he was wrong, and that I wouldn’t forget this no matter how much I wanted to.

“What’s going on?” Vivi Slidell asked. She came out and stood beside us. “We have a business to run and thirsty customers.”

Vivi Slidell was my boss, even though I owned a quarter of the Sea Glass. She was tall, slender, worked out regularly, and had a sleek silver bob. As far as I was concerned, she was the poster child or woman, as the case may be, for how to live your best seventy-year-old life.

Joaquín pointed up. Vivi went through the same routine I had of squinting, looking up, and eyes widening.

“Is this from Rip?” Vivi asked. Exasperation poured through her voice like beer through a broken tap.

Vivi and Rip’s grandmother had a long-running feud that had started with a boy when they were in high school and had continued on from there. It had made dating Rip awkward and sometimes secretive. I often wondered if the rebellious part of me enjoyed the sneaking-around aspect of our relationship. Although you’d think at twenty-eight I would have matured beyond such actions. And I guess the sneaking was unnecessary if Vivi was asking if the banner was from Rip. Our jig was up.

“No. It couldn’t be.” I almost shuddered at the thought. “He knows I’d hate something like that. Something that would make everyone gawk at me. Maybe it’s my brothers.” They loved to tease me, and this stunt seemed right up their alley except for the fact they wouldn’t want to spend the money to prank me. Plus, it would take a lot of work to do this and they had busy lives, wives, kids, and plumbing jobs back in Chicago, where I’d grown up. They’d taken over my father’s plumbing business when my parents packed up, bought an RV, and hit the road.

My phone buzzed in the back pocket of my leggings. Normally, I didn’t pull it out at work, but right now I needed answers. I had five texts. The first four were from heritage business owners—local people whose families, like Vivi’s, had opened their businesses when Emerald Cove was barely on the map, hence the heritage designation. The heritage businesses had been in Emerald Cove since the nineteen fifties or longer. The Sea Glass was one of the heritage businesses, and often a gathering place for the other owners, which included the Hickle Glass Bottom Boat, the Redneck Rollercoaster, which was a trolley, Russo’s Grocery Store, the Briny Pirate restaurant, and the Emerald Cove Fishing Charters. They all wanted to know who loved me. The fifth one was from Rip. Great.

Is there something you need to tell me?

I clapped my hand to my forehead and then shoved my phone back into my pocket. As Vivi said, there were thirsty customers inside. I would deal with the rest of this later.

An hour later, during a lull, Joaquín, Vivi, and I stood behind the bar speculating who could be behind the “I love you Chloe Jackson” banner. The Sea Glass was more tiki hut than saloon, with its wooden walls decorated with lots of historic pictures and its concrete floors, which made it easy to clean up the sand our customers dragged in.

“What about that guy, Smoke?” Joaquín asked. “He’s been in here a lot lately.”

Smoke was one of the few full-time employees of the Emerald Cove Fire Department. He was a good-looking man and a transplant like me. He’d moved down here from Minneapolis a couple of years ago.

“Ewww, no. We’re just friends.” We’d gone water-skiing a couple of times before the weather got too cold, and he’d been over to my house to watch football with some of the other volunteer firefighters. But that was it. There’d been the occasional friendly hug. It didn’t mean we weren’t just friends.

“I don’t know,” Vivi said, “you know what they say. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.” Her eyes sparkled as she said it. She’d be happy if I had a boyfriend as long as it wasn’t Rip.

A woman came staggering in from the deck, which wasn’t entirely unusual. Only this woman wasn’t drunk, she was carrying an enormous bouquet of flowers in a ceramic pot almost as big as she was. Purple lilacs. My favorite flower. I had the same sinking feeling I had when I saw the banner.

“Is there a Chloe Jackson here?” she asked.

I wanted to run out the back door. “That’s me.” The lilacs’ perfumey scent was already competing with the smell of salt air, beer, and the lemon cleaner we used. I hustled over to help her. Together we managed to get the arrangement on the bar top.

“Ooohhh, Chloe, your favorite flowers,” Joaquín said.

“They are beautiful,” the florist said. “And hard to come by this time of year.”

“Thank you,” I said. I gave her a tip.

She started to turn, but then snapped back around. “Are you the Chloe Jackson that the ‘I love you’ banner was referencing?”

Hey! Maybe there was another Chloe Jackson in town. “I’m sure it must be some other Chloe Jackson.”

The woman started shaking her head. “I’ve lived here all my life and our family floral business opened in the seventies. I don’t recall anyone else named Chloe Jackson.”

“Have you ever had amnesia or a concussion?” I asked hopefully. Not that I wished her harm, just a temporary memory lapse so maybe she’d forgotten all the other Chloe Jacksons who lived in Emerald Cove.

“Sorry, honey. I’m known for my recall.”

She left. I stared at the lilacs for a moment, but I couldn’t resist their charm, so I put my face near one, breathing in their delicious scent. I fingered one of the soft flowers, while I stared at the card, trying to work up the courage to open it.

“Want me to look?” Joaquín asked.

“No. I’ll do it.”

Joaquín plucked the card from its clear, plastic holder that looked like a cheap, mini version of Triton’s trident. “Here you go.”

I opened the envelope, pulled it out, and stared down. I love you, Chloe Jackson. No signature. I handed it over to Joaquín, who handed it to Vivi. They both laughed. I’m glad someone found this situation was funny.

“Wait,” I said. “The florist must know who bought these.”

“Go,” Vivi said.

I raced out the back door, ran along the harbor to the parking lot, and caught the woman as she started her van.

“Who bought these?” I asked. “The card wasn’t signed.”

She frowned. “He paid cash.”

Of course he did. “What did he look like?”

“He asked me not to say. Said he wanted to surprise you.”

“Trust me, I’m surprised. Please, tell me?” There was a little whine to my voice that I didn’t usually have.

“Honey, the florist-client relationship is sacred. If I started giving away all the secrets I know, it would ruin my business.”

Oh, good grief. It wasn’t like she was a psychiatrist or a lawyer. There were no oaths. “Please?”

She shook her head and drove off.

Thank heavens we were having a busy day, so 90 percent of the time I could keep my mind off the banner and the flowers. Although the flowers were hard to avoid. Even though we moved them to the other end of the bar, they scented the air. Also, my phone kept buzzing away and I kept ignoring it.

At one forty-five there was a knock on the back door. I went to answer it, but no one was there. I started to step out, looked down, and froze.

I’d almost tripped over a magnum bottle of wine. I backed away from it like it was going to explode. It had a big white bow around the neck and a small card attached. My name was written on the card, but I didn’t recognize the handwriting. A cold wind coming from the north had whipped up and cooled my face, which was heating up in frustration. Vivi came up behind me.

“Why are you backing away? What’s out there? Please tell me it’s not a dead body,” she said.

There’d been a dead body behind the bar last June, so it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility. I pointed down. Vivi stepped around me, spotted the bottle of wine, and let out a relieved laugh. Vivi picked up the wine.

“It looks like you have another gift,” Vivi said as she handed me the bottle. “Your favorite sparkling blanc de blanc, and a magnum no less.”

“Normally, I love being showered with gifts,” I said as I carried the bottle into the bar. Although, really, had anyone ever showered me with gifts before? The answer was a resounding no. Until today, I’d always thought of myself as someone who would love an extravagant gesture, but this was creepy.

Joaquín hustled over when he saw us. “What is it now?”

“Wine,” Vivi said.

“Getting all these gifts is weird.” I opened the card and, as with the others, it just read, “I love you Chloe Jackson.” I showed it to Vivi and Joaquín.

“This is so exciting and romantic,” Joaquín said. “One time, before we were married, I sent Michael a gift every hour for twelve hours. The last gift was dinner at our favorite restaurant.”

“Somehow this doesn’t feel exciting or romantic to me,” I said.

“Who knows you well enough to do this?” Joaquín asked.

“Good point,” Vivi said. They both looked at me expectantly.

“Anyone,” I said. “Well, almost anyone. Joaquín knows my favorite flower. Vivi, you know my favorite sparkling wine. All anyone would have to do is look through my social media. It wouldn’t be hard to figure out.”

“Have you said anything to your family lately that would make them think you’re lonely?” Vivi asked.

“No.” I hadn’t. Had I? “Do you think these are pity gifts?” I always told my family I missed them, and I did, but I couldn’t think of any comment that would elicit this kind of response. “They would call or send a card. They wouldn’t do anything this extravagant.”

“I’ll bet it’s Rip,” Joaquín said. He fanned himself dramatically. “It’s so romantic.” Then he did a side glance at Vivi, who bristled at the mere mention of his name and mouthed sorry to me.

I took my phone back out and scrolled through the messages. No one had taken responsibility for the gifts.

“Let’s look at the security camera recordings to see if we can figure out who dropped off the wine. Maybe it’s the mystery person,” I suggested.

We quickly checked to make sure all our customers were happy and then crowded into Vivi’s office, around her computer. A man wearing a T-shirt with a logo for the local wine shop walked up, set down the bottle, knocked, and left.

“I might as well call the wine shop to see if they know anything,” I said, although I didn’t hold out a lot of hope after the experience with the florist.

“Want me to call?” Vivi asked. “I’ve known the owner’s mother my entire life. I used to babysit her.”

“Yes, please.” Vivi could be scary at times. If it took scaring someone to find out who was behind all this, I was all for it. A local talking to a local had a better chance of getting information anyway. I’d only lived here for seven months. Folks had accepted me for the most part, but in some ways I was still the new kid on the block—or the beach, as the case may be.

Joaquín and I went back out to the bar, leaving Vivi to make the call. I took orders and studied all the customers. Could one of them being doing this? But no one paid any extra attention to me. They just wanted their drinks. Vivi came out of her office a few minutes later. After I delivered the drinks Vivi, Joaquín, and I gathered together again.

“A woman placed the order. Someone around your age, Chloe. She paid cash and gave them the delivery instructions.”

“A woman?” I said.

“Oh, and the plot thickens.” Joaquín rubbed his hands together like he was an evil overlord.

He was enjoying this way too much.

“Yes. But she got into a car with someone parked out front. So she may have placed the order for someone else.”

I looked from Vivi to Joaquín. Thought about how they knew my favorite things. Thought about how much Joaquín was enjoying this. “It’s you two, right?”

Eyebrows rose. Faces looked shocked.

“I do love you, Chloe,” Joaquín said.

Vivi nodded. I wasn’t quite sure what that meant. Was she agreeing that Joaquín loved me or indicating she loved me too?

“But I love you in a why-don’t-you-come-over-for-dinner or let-me-make-you-a-happy-drink way. Not an I’m-spending-all-my-hard-earned-money-on-you way. Not even for a great prank.”

Vivi patted my cheek. Hmmm, she didn’t say she didn’t do it. On the other hand, I couldn’t imagine her doing all this, certainly not as a joke. Had I said anything to her that would make her think I needed this kind of lavish gesture? I couldn’t think of anything that would make them think I was emotionally needy. I’d flown home a few weeks ago to spend Christmas with my family. If I recalled, I’d told Vivi and Joaquín how happy I was to be back. That Emerald Cove was really starting to feel like home.

Something else was going on here, but I had no idea what.

“Chloe, you look really pale,” Vivi said. “This is upsetting you more than I realized. Take the rest of the day off. Joaquín and I can easily handle this lot.” She gestured to the bar seating area. The crowd had thinned out. “You run on home.”

She meant that literally, as I’d taken to running back and forth to work lots of days now that the weather was cooler. For once I wasn’t even going to argue with her. I was drained. “Thank you. I’m just going to take a break and then I’ll come back.” A run was just what I needed.

I grabbed the small purse I brought with me and slung it crosswise over my chest. I waved at Joaquín, went out on the deck, and onto the beach. There were still a lot of people out even though a strong, northern wind was blowing. I ran farther up on the beach than I normally did. Usually, I liked to be near the shore, but today I didn’t want to dodge around the tourists. Gulls soared and dipped riding the updrafts. The Gulf was gray-colored with white caps on the waves. I thought of that saying, “A bad day at the beach is still better than a good day anywhere else.”

The wind tugged at my short, brown hair. My house was about a twenty-minute run to the east. I passed the state beach and preserve that had once been land owned by Vivi’s family. They’d donated it to the state so it would never be developed. It was a sanctuary for pelicans and other birds to roost in. The beach was pristine.

As I ran toward the coastal dune lake that was between the preserve and my house, I spotted Deputy Biffle walking toward a man who was gesturing wildly at the coastal lake. Coastal dune lakes were unique because of their close proximity to the Gulf, their shallow depth, and because there weren’t many places in the world that had them. This area had seventeen. I heard sirens wailing. This couldn’t be good.

“What’s going on?” I asked when I got close enough to the men.

They both spun around, startled by my voice.

Deputy Biffle put up his hand for me to stop, but I stepped up beside him. As always, his uniform was pressed and his boots were polished, although bits of sand clung to them like barnacles on the underside of a boat. His hair, military short, was under his wide-brimmed, khaki-colored hat. He was thick and muscled in a way that shouted self-discipline. I knew his first name was Dan because someone had called him that last fall. I only thought of him as Deputy Biffle, though.

“Chloe—” Deputy Biffle started. His grim expression softened a little behind his ever-present mirrored aviator sunglasses.

Several beach patrol vehicles pulled up. I looked at the lake. Spotted a body floating in the rushes near the edge. I looked away.

“Chloe,” Deputy Biffle said, “he has a picture of you.”

“Me?” My voice was shrill. It hurt my ears to hear it. If fingernails on a chalkboard were an emotion instead of a sound, that’s how I felt.

“Yes, Chloe.”

“Do you know who it is?”

“No.”

That meant it probably wasn’t someone local. It made me all the more anxious. I took a step closer. Mingled with dread was a shot of curiosity about why someone, a dead someone, had a picture of me. An ambulance trundled up the beach and another sheriff’s deputy arrived. I took a couple of deep breaths, which was stupid because there was an odd scent that wasn’t pine needles or sea air. I put a hand on my stomach as it twisted.

I took a closer look. I started shaking my head and stepping back. My hands were out in front of me, as if I could push the sight away.

“Chloe, do you know him?” Deputy Biffle asked.

I tried to change the shaking of my head to a nod, but my body didn’t seem to be on board. I continued to back away as little pin dots of black swirled on the outer edges of my vision like clouds before a waterspout. I put my hands on my knees and dropped my head, trying to stop the encroaching blackness.

“Medic.” I heard Deputy Biffle. . .