Fifty is the New F-Word Read online

  The tropical jungle maze between the reception building and the beach had become familiar territory. I wound my way through it with ease. When I got to the place I’d seen the old guy in the beekeeper’s hat, I hesitated. I’d meant to ask Monty about him, but the sight of Jim’s awful toupee hanging precariously over the waffle machine had rocketed the thought clear out of my head. I looked around, but there was no sign of the fishing hat or the weirdo it belonged to. I shrugged and continued my way toward the beach.

  When I stepped out of the tropical maze, a gust of wind caught my skirt and nearly blew it over my head.

  “It’s a breezy one today!” Brad, the hunky porter said. The sight of him in nothing but a pair of shorts and a tank top made me forget all about the weather. “Nice day for a stroll,” he added.

  “Yes, it is,” I answered, pressing my skirt to my thighs with my palms. “Any place to grab breakfast around here?”

  “Our breakfast room should be open now.”

  “Yes. It is. But I was looking for something...uh...with more local flavor?”

  Brad flashed me his diamond smile. “Sure. Try Doug’s Dugout. It’s just before the pink building down there.” Brad pointed to a spot about a quarter mile south down the sandy, white beach. “They have the best Mahi breakfast burritos around.”

  “Thanks,” I said, then wondered if there was such an abundance of restaurants offering Mahi breakfast burritos that Brad could make that comparison. Does it really matter? I asked myself. Not a flip, I answered. So, I nodded and smiled at the handsome blond cabana boy, then set my sights on the shoreline and the pink spot down the beach.

  Instead of padding along in the sand, I shuffled my way, shin deep, in the gentle surf that broke just a few feet from shore. The rhythmic motion of the waves carved a small, underwater ditch in the sand parallel to the shore. Over the years, I’d learned that’s where the best shells collected. As I waded along the trough line, I wondered how many untold hours I’d spent mesmerized by the shifting water, waiting with anticipation at what the next wave would reveal....

  “Got ’cha!” I said, and plucked a sleek, smooth olive shell from the foamy, foot-deep water. The size and shape of a date, the shell was a pale, grey-green color and as shiny as glass. No sooner had I grabbed it when I spotted another. By the time I was halfway to Doug’s Dugout, my hands were full of olive shells, cat’s paws, angel wings and a nice-sized shark-eye.

  I was about to call it a day and head to breakfast when I saw it. It rolled over my toes, and came into view through a sheet of clear water formed as a wave pulled back. It was a rare Junonia Florida. Spotted like a giraffe, it was one of a handful of elusive shells I’d been searching for my whole life. And this one looked like a perfect specimen.

  I reached down for it and suddenly the world turned upside down. I tumbled into the surf, my shells raining into the sea like scattered hail. Someone had slammed into me.

  “I so sorry!” the man said in a heavy, Spanish accent.

  “Watch where you’re going!” I yelled, floundering in the surf.

  He grabbed my arm and pulled me to standing. His eyes were wild. “You!” he yelled in my face. “You get out here! Now!”

  “Get away from me!” I hissed and yanked my arm away.

  “Mira!” he yelled, and pointed to the sky behind me. “Mira! Mira!”

  I turned around. Not far off, the sky had turned a funny shade of light purple, yellow and brown, like a half-healed bruise. In the middle of it, stretching down like a witch’s finger, a funnel cloud poked its way down toward the surface of the Gulf.

  “Holy crap!” I cried.

  “Jes! Holly chit!” The man repeated, and ran off in the direction of Doug’s Dugout.

  I blinked, disbelieving. It was like something out of a bad movie. I stood, open mouthed, as the water spout took aim for the shoreline. It looked to be about the same distance from the Sunset Sail-Away Resort as I was, but on the opposite end of the beach. I thought about the little thatched hut Cold Cuts and I were staying in.

  That place can’t withstand a direct hit! I have to warn her!

  A sudden gust of wind swirled sand in my eyes. I steeled myself and ran headlong back toward the resort.

  THE BOAT WE’D SAILED in last night was bobbing madly in the water as I ran past it. The stinging sand blasted away at my arms and legs as I stumbled up to the head of the tropical trail like Dorothy at the gate in The Wizard of Oz. The foliage and bushes whipped wildly back and forth, and I turned back for a last look. The blasted tornado from hell was headed right for me! I screeched, took a step forward, and fell face-first onto the wind-eroded remains of a tourist’s sandcastle. I’d stepped in the hole excavated in the sand beside it.

  This can’t be happening!

  I scrambled to my feet. My left ankle hurt like mad as I hobbled my way down the path to the little wooden sign marked, “Cottage 22.” Through a swirl of leaves and sand and garbage set free from the beach trash bins, I could barely make out the thatched hut I shared with Cold Cuts. I fiddled with key as the tornado barreled down toward me. Open! Open! Open, would you?

  Finally, the key gave way. The door flew open as if hit by a Mack truck.

  “Cold Cuts, take cover!” I screamed, and ran to her bed. I rifled through the mound of pillows, but she wasn’t there. Suddenly, the bed covers lifted up in the air as if possessed by demons. The lamp started wobbling its way off the nightstand.

  The door! I need to close the door!

  I took a step and yelped with pain. I grabbed the bedpost for support, then hobbled toward the door. Everything that wasn’t nailed down was spinning around the room like a snow globe gone mad. A bra flapped into my face. I peeled it away, grabbed the door knob and pushed. But the force of the wind was too much for me on one foot. I gave up and stared out at the swirling, grey-green sky, until a foot came flying toward my face and everything went pitch black.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I dreamed I was swirling in a vortex, holding on for dear life to a white bird the size of a rabbit. It struggled in my arms, trying to get free. “Let go,” it screeched over and over. “Let go! Let go!”

  The sharp cry of a seagull stirred me to consciousness. I cracked open a wary eye. I was lying on my side on the floor of the thatched cottage, facing the wide-open front entryway. A large, white bird took a tentative, pigeon-toed step toward me on its clownish, yellow feet. From my perspective on the floor, it looked huge and menacing.

  “Shoo!” I coughed, and flailed my free arm at it. It screeched, hopped twice and flew out the door. Only then did I realize I was hugging someone’s detached leg like a teddy bear.

  “Aaarghh!”

  I shoved the horrid leg away from me. It tumbled halfway across the room and came to rest with a light, hollow thud on the buff-colored tile. I nearly fainted with relief. It was plastic. Somewhere in town, a manikin was in need of ambulatory assistance.

  I sat up and looked around. The room was an absolute shambles. I’d left my suitcase open, and, apparently, Cold Cuts had neglected to secure her grocery bags. The tornado had blown our crap to kingdom come. Either that, or Cold Cuts was getting ready to hold the most poorly organized yard sale in the history of mankind. The thought of her caused my groggy mind to snap to attention.

  “Cold Cuts!” I yelled. “Where are you?”

  There was no reply.

  I tried to struggle to my feet, but the pain radiating from my swollen ankle nixed that plan. I crawled over a jumble of bras and toothbrushes and flip flops toward the phone on the nightstand. I tugged at the machine, but it held tight, fastened to the table with screws. I pulled myself up to lean with my back against the bed and grabbed for the receiver. I was surprised, and relieved, to discover there was actually a dial tone.

  I punched zero for reception. Monty picked up.

  “Thank you for calling Sunset Sail-Away Beach Resort, where all your holiday dreams –”

  “Monty!” I cut in. “It’s Val Fre
mden in hut 22.”

  “You mean cottage 22, miss?”

  “Whatever! Listen, there was a tornado. There’s a leg in my room. I can’t walk. Please send help!”

  “My word, madam. Have you lost a leg?”

  “No! There’s just a leg in my...Look. I can’t walk because –”

  “You’ve been drinking?”

  “What? No! Didn’t you see the tornado?”

  “No. Not personally. But I heard there’s been one.”

  “Well, it nearly blew me away! I fell and twisted my ankle. I need help.”

  “I see. Very good, miss. I’ll send our first-aid squad right away.”

  “Thanks.”

  I hung up the receiver and waited, feeling like just another piece of broken garbage amongst the heap of rubble in the room. A glint of movement above my head caught my eye. It was the bottom of my thong bikini. The scrap of shiny, gold material was snagged on the ornate frame of an expensive-looking portrait of the resort’s founder. I’d noticed the painting of “Sir William F. Rockbottom, III” late last night, when I’d finally been able to check into the room.

  I giggled despite the pain in my ankle. Mother Nature sure had a weird sense of humor. To think, my bikini bottom now dangled lewdly over the man’s smug, aristocratic face.

  Take that, mister high and mighty!

  “Ms. Fremden?”

  The voice belonged to Monty. “Yes. I’m here!” I called out from behind the bed.

  Monty stepped into view. Against the ruined room, he appeared as neat and clean and out of place as a butler in a landfill. “Oh my. What happened?” he asked in his understated, British way.

  “I told you. A tornado.”

  “Yes, I can see that,” he said. He snatched the bikini bottom from Sir Rockbottom’s face. “I thought you were joking.”

  “I wish I was.”

  “Right. Um...I’m sorry for the delay. I couldn’t locate our first-aid squad. I’ve already notified EMS. They should be here any moment.”

  “Thanks, Monty. Listen, have you seen my friend?”

  “Miss Foreman? No. Not since yesterday,” Monty answered. “One moment, please.” He disappeared out the door. I heard him talking on the phone. “Yes...um...we need an ambulance. Yes. No. Okay.”

  Really, Monty? You’re gonna lie about having called EMS?

  Monty reappeared, his face more pinched than usual. “May I bring you anything miss, while you’re awaiting the...ambulance?”

  “A Tanqueray and tonic wouldn’t hurt.”

  Monty appeared a bit startled, perhaps uncertain whether I was joking or not. That made two of us. “Very good, miss,” he said, and disappeared again.

  BY THE TIME THE TWO EMS techs arrived, I’d managed to drag my fat butt to where I had a view of the front door. When they stepped inside, I forgot all about my ankle. The two young men could have starred in a calendar for Sexy Techs of Sarasota.

  “Wow,” said the blond one. “Looks like you had a barroom brawl in here.”

  “Thanks. I like to do my own decorating,” I sneered.

  “Glad to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor,” he said, and knelt beside me. “Let me take a look at that ankle.”

  “Anyone else in here?” his buff, brunette colleague asked.

  “No,” I answered. “I’m here with a friend, but I haven’t been able to find her.”

  “Looks like a sprain,” the first EMT said. “Does this hurt?” He turned my ankle slightly and a blue volt of electricity seared my brain.

  “Owwww!” I cried. “Compared to what? Being trampled by an elephant?”

  “Sorry about that,” he said. “But the good news is, it’s not broken. Just a sprain. I’ll wrap it up. You’ll need to stay off it for a few days.”

  “Count yourself lucky,” said second EMT joked, and held up the manikin leg. “You’re still better off than this gal.”

  “Thankfully, that twister only tore through a small block of town,” said the blond as he wound a bandage around my ankle. “I bet that leg belongs to Betty’s Bargain Barn. Mind if I take it to her?”

  “Knock yourself out,” I said. “I already did.”

  The two men chuckled. “You’re a real joker,” the handsome brunette said. “Hey, I hate to ask, but do you mind if I use your restroom?”

  “No. That’s fine. Hopefully maid service will be here soon to clean the place up. There’s no telling what it looks like in there.”

  “No worries,” he said, and stepped over the rubble toward the bathroom behind me.

  “That ought to do it,” said the blond EMT. He fastened a metal pin on the bandage around my ankle and stood up. “Stay here. I’m going to get you a wheelchair.”

  “Uh, Charlie?” the brunette called to his friend. “You better come take a look at this.”

  Charlie walked over to the bathroom and whistled long and low.

  “Whatever’s in there, you have to blame on the tornado, not me!” I joked. But neither man laughed.

  “Better call homicide,” I heard Charlie say.

  “What?” I asked.

  The demeanor of both EMTs switched from warm to frigid like the faucets on a tap. They whispered something to each other behind my back.

  “What’s in the bathroom?” I asked again.

  “Take it easy ma’am,” Charlie said, his friendly tone nowhere to be heard. “You need to remain calm. We’ll get you into a wheelchair.”

  “I’ll make the call,” the brunette said, and shot me a disgusted look as he disappeared out the door.

  “Listen, Charlie,” I said to the EMT. “I need to find my friend.”

  “Lady,” Charlie hissed. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  My legs stuck out sideways from the wheelchair as I leaned over and strained to see inside the window of our cottage. I’d been rolled unceremoniously onto the front porch by the EMS guys and left to wait outside for an officer of the law to arrive. The blond EMT had locked the chair’s wheels before he left, and warned me to stay put. With my foot throbbing like a recently hammered thumb, it wasn’t like I had much choice. I leaned over and squinted into the glass, but the glare of the sun turned the panes to mirrors, and I couldn’t make out diddly squat inside.

  “Val Fremden?” a man’s voice sounded, catching me off guard.

  I turned around and my stomach fell to my knees. It was Jim. From the bar. Bad toupee and all.

  “Oh, it’s you,” he said. His already cold eyes hardened to frozen steel.

  “Um...yes. Hi, there. You’ve got to help me. What’s going on, Jim?”

  “The name’s Detective James Stanley, Sarasota Homicide Division,” he corrected me harshly. “And that’s what I’m here to find out.”

  “Homicide division? But...I just have a sprained ankle.”

  “Right,” Detective Stanley barked. I watched, dumbfounded, as he pulled a pair of light-blue, shower-cap looking things from a briefcase and stretched them over his shoes. He opened the door to the cottage, entered, and closed the door behind him. A bad feeling began to boil in my gut. He came back out a minute or so later, shaking his head and glaring at me.

  “Tell me, Ms. Fremden. Are you alone?”

  “Yes, but...”

  “So, why are both beds unmade?”

  “I thought you meant right now. A friend – the one you met last night – she spent the night.”

  “Hmmph,” he grunted condescendingly. “There appears to be signs of a struggle inside. Did you two have an argument?”

  “No. All that mess is because of the tornado.”

  “I see. So, then, where is this ‘friend’ of yours now?”

  “I don’t know. I went for a walk on the beach. Then the tornado came up. It chased me all the way back to the room. Then I got hit in the head with the leg and –”

  “What leg?”

  “The plastic manikin leg.”

  “I didn’t see any leg.”

  “Wh
at?” I fell into confusion for a moment. “Oh. I forgot. One of the EMTs took it. It belonged to his friend Betsy or something like that.”

  Detective Stanley eyed me dubiously. “Uh huh. Well, your head looks fine to me. Tell me, Ms. Fremden, are you on drugs of any kind?”

  “No....”

  “The EMTs said you were laughing and joking, and drinking a cocktail when they arrived.”

  “Well, yes. But that’s just –”

  “So you admit it. What exactly were you celebrating? Getting away with murder?”

  “What?”

  “Not everyone would find a blood-soaked bathroom something to laugh about,” Detective Stanley hissed.

  I suddenly felt dizzy. “Blood-soaked?”

  “Are you telling me you know nothing about it?”

  “Yes! That’s exactly what I’m saying. I...I don’t believe you!”

  I tried to get up. Detective Stanley took a huge step toward me, making me flinch.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” he barked.

  “To see for myself!”

  “Happy to oblige,” Detective Stanley snarled. He unlocked the wheelchair with a hard kick, then opened the cottage door and wheeled me to the bathroom door. “Believe me now?” he asked malevolently.

  I gasped in horror and disbelief. The bathroom walls were spattered from ceiling to floor in a dark, reddish-brown liquid. The sink was half full of what could only have been blood.

  “Cold Cuts!” I cried out.

  “So you used a knife,” Detective Stanley spat from behind me.

  “What?” I screeched. “No!”

  “Tell me, Ms. Fremden,” he demanded as he whirled the wheelchair around until I was face-to-face with him. “Where’s your friend? What have you done with her body?”

  “I didn’t! I don’t! I.... I told you already. I don’t know where she is!”