Prawn of the Dead

Cassidy

Excerpt

There was more shouting and words I couldn’t parse together, and then I heard, Leave her alone!

Both Coco and I narrowed our eyes, figuring they were headed straight for us, but that wasn’t the case at all.

They were headed straight for Fabritzia.

She was easy to pick out, tall and slender, gorgeous and doe-eyed—a beacon in the sea of average. I haven’t a clue why she’d be in Shrimpies only a day after Myron’s death, but at this moment, I didn’t care.

This particular group had cornered her near the bar, their eyes glassy from too much alcohol and too little sleep. But it was Fabritzia’s face that worried me as everyone shouted and demanded she answer questions about her conversations with the police.

She looked terrified. Absolutely panicked, and I couldn’t stand the thought. Things began to get ugly when the tide turned and the paranoia, rampant in this bunch, started to seep through the cracks in their crazy skulls.

Maybe she’s with the government, and she’s in on it! the guy who’d approached me this morning declared.

Coco and I only had to look at each other before we were sliding out of our chairs and pushing our way across the bar.

I ducked low while Coco went high, yelling an order. Out of the way, varmints!

When I reached Fabritzia, tears were streaming down her face, making me feel worse than ever. I grunted as I grabbed for her hand and instead, ended up falling into her when one of the thugs knocked against me.

Whirling around, I stood in front of her to keep them from getting any closer, for all the good that did me. I’m five foot two on a good day, maybe five three when my hair’s bent on revenge when it’s rained on. Meaning, the group of men looming around us towered over me by at least six or eight inches.

So I yelled as loud as I could over the raucous chanting and backslapping, Back off! You’re scaring her!

You’re that one from this morning! The one whose mother they’re blaming for this! a rather ragged, unkempt man seethed in my face as though he’d discovered the key to solving Myron’s murder. "Maybe you’re in on it with her!"

As he caught everyone’s attention and moved in closer, I grew more agitated. I sounded out a warning again. I’m telling you, if you don’t back away from us, I’ll sock you in the face! Now back up!

Did you hear her? Back away, goon! Coco yelled, grabbing at the back of the man’s dirty T-shirt.

In his attempt to shove Coco off, he ended up knocking her down, but all I had to hear was her grunt of pain and see his face glaring down in mine, and I swung before I gave it a single thought.

I swung hard, crashing my fist right into his nose, which in turn knocked his head back on his neck.

Of course, the second I’d knocked his block off, not only did my hand throb (because wow, his face didn’t look like concrete, but it was as hard as some for sure), I became horrified. I don’t get physical often. I usually don’t get physical ever, but my dad had taught me a little boxing here and there when I was a kid. I guess I’d retained more than I thought.

My intent was to instantly apologize, but that didn’t last as the bar erupted and Barton Winkle, who’d helped Coco up, grabbed the guy around the neck and dragged him backward, launching him to the floor with a dull thud. The lady said back up! he shouted down at him, his face an angry mask.

Both Coco and I looked at each other, her eyes filled with as much surprise as I imagine were in mine. I don’t know about Coco, but if we were to add pros to Barton’s list of already pretty great attributes, knight in shining armor had to move to the top.

After that, everything’s a little bit of a blur. I admit it got really hairy. Coco smashed a bottle over one of the zombie hunters’ heads when he went after Barton like a raging bull. The attorneys and the fishermen banded together and went into battle against the zombie hunters like gladiators.

And everything turned into a huge mess. Glass broke. Tables smashed. Food flew. Beer toppled. Shrimpie, the owner of Shrimp Cocktails, exploded from the kitchen in the back with a bat in his hands, shoving two of the waitresses behind him, only to stop dead in his tracks when he saw the brawl.

Until Justice and the rest of the Fig Harbor PD blew in the doors, and the sound of a single shot filled the air.

Prawn of The Dead

A Lemon Layne Mystery, Book 1

Dakota Cassidy

Published 2017 by Book Boutiques.

ISBN: 978-1-944003-83-8

Copyright © 2017, Dakota Cassidy.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of Book Boutiques.

This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, locales, or events is wholly coincidental. The names, characters, dialogue, and events in this book are from the author’s imagination and should not to be construed as real.

Manufactured in the USA.

Email support@bookboutiques.com with questions, or inquiries about Book Boutiques.

Blurb

"My name is Lemon Layne, and if asked to describe myself, like maybe on a dating site (which is never gonna happen), I'd have to go with best convenience store/barbecue joint owner in the Pacific Northwest. I live in the tiny tourist town of Fig Harbor, Washington with my adorably neurotic best friend, Coco Belinski, my a-little-left- of-center (read totally out there) mom, May, and my troublemaking pet monkey, Jessica Fletcher.

Oh, and last but certainly not least, I'm a dyed-in-the-wool amateur sleuth. Yep. I'm literally incapable of resisting a good mystery. No matter how great or small, I love to stick my nose into…er, help solve a crime. From the mysterious disappearance of Ho Hos in my store, to a lost piece of jewelry, I'm always ready to put on my Sherlock Holmes cap (I really do have one. Got it when I was eight).

When I find my mother's ex-boyfriend murdered in our convenience store bathroom with a piece of his skull missing, and my mom's a suspect in a murder investigation, my mystery solving goes from zero to a hundred. To really make matters worse, the town's local conspiracy theorist and official doomsday prepper, Cappie, somehow finds out the victim isn't just missing a piece of his skull—he's missing a piece of his brain!

And that's when off the wall Cappie starts spreading word the zombie apocalypse has officially arrived in our tiny burg. Total chaos ensues and I have to pick my way through everything from weekend warrior zombie hunters to medical mysteries in order to catch a killer!"

Author’s Note

Hello, all, and welcome to my fictional town of Fig Harbor, Washington, where, despite how quaint and utterly charming the backdrop of mountains and ocean can be in this small burg, dead bodies keep showing up!

First, some of you Washingtonians might find many similarities to your beloved Gig Harbor, WA, but you’ll also likely find some vast differences, too. I fell in love with the pictures of Gig Harbor, but I’ve never visited (yet!). However, I couldn’t resist the charm and vividness of the town’s spirit. Thus, Fig Harbor was born. So please note, I’ve tweaked the amazing aspects to suit my fictional needs as warranted and created a very (read: very!) loose representation of the original.

Second, thank you so much for joining Lemon Layne and her whacky gang of mystery-solving friends. I hope we’ll enjoy many murders…er, I mean mysteries to come!

Dakota XXOO

Chapter 1

"Jessica Fletcher, any idea why the door to the men’s bathroom is ajar, young lady?" I asked my monkey suspiciously as I tucked the keys to my convenience store’s lavatory back inside the pocket of my hoodie.

She, of course, looked at me as though I’d up and lost my mind on the way to do morning rounds. As though it were unseemly I’d even consider she’d tampered with the keys.

Jess is what’s known as a spider monkey. Six years old with the attention span of an American two-year-old after a date with Grandma and too much sugar.

Plainly speaking, my little rescue monkey is a mischievous, quick-footed, tiny troublemaker who’s alternately one of the great loves of my life and the bane of my very existence.

Her name is a ridiculously obvious nod in honor of Angela Lansbury, and a tip of my ball cap to my father, the late great biker, Chains Forney Layne. As a kid, after we’d set some catfish or brisket to smoke overnight for the following day, we religiously watched reruns of Murder, She Wrote over bags of salty cheese popcorn and cans of ice cold grape soda from our coolers at our family-run gas station, convenience store and, as crazy as this sounds, barbecue pit.

It was our father-and-daughter jam, and one of the countless little things I missed most about him. I know he’d laugh that hearty, deep chuckle I was sure came from his very soul if he knew about Jessica. He’d loved Angela Lansbury and a good mystery as much as I did, and still do.

Chucking her under the chin, I pointed to the bathroom door and asked her again, Is this the work of a certain primate?

JF repositioned herself on my shoulder, bracketing my face with her tiny hands and looked deep into my eyes. This was her way of sincerely assuring me she was absolutely not the guilty party.

But I know my Jess, and she’d more than once snatched the keys off the hook above the cash register the second I was even a little distracted. Despite the fact that spider monkeys have very short thumbs and long, hook-like fingers, she’s quite adept with them and uses them to her full advantage. Not to mention that prehensile tail of hers. She’s always yanking items off shelves and scooping up shiny things that catch her fancy.

So I narrowed my gaze at her and warned, I’m just saying, if I find out it was you…

JF made a dramatic plunge backward and fell along the length of my shoulders, curling her tiny head in toward my face. In typical theatrical Jess fashion, she threw her hand across her eyes and stuttered a weak chirp.

Nodding my head, I muttered a somber, That’s absolutely right. You’ll be dead meat for one hundred, JF.

Then I grinned at her. I couldn’t help it, even though she was likely the culprit, she was too darn cute to resist.

My phone rang to the tune of Beethoven, indicating my best friend, Coco Belinksi, calling for our usual early morning chat. Monday through Friday, it was a ritual for us to start our day off with a good gab. Our way of keeping in touch when I’d moved away to Seattle. A promise we kept so we’d never lose touch, and one we continued with the utmost reverence since I’d moved back.

I dug my phone out of the pocket of my sweats and clicked the accept button and leaned against the cool brick wall right beside the bathroom while Jessica fussed with her new T-shirt. Distractedly, I wrapped one of my annoying curls around my index finger and shoved it out of my face.

Morning, Coco!

Facing the thicket of tall trees across the street lining our country road, I smiled and inhaled the chilly breeze rolling in from the ocean. January was here, and it was evident in the salty tang of the air. Harbor bells rang to signify incoming fishing boats, the early morning echo music to my ears.

While the phone connection crackled, I scuffed my foot on the wide curb leading from the entry of the storefront all the way around to our connecting bathrooms on the right side of the building.

How’s Lemon Layne’s world today? Coco finally asked, coming through surprisingly loud and clear, her liquid-smooth voice far too cheerful for seven a.m.

I pictured my friend since preschool, her dark hair cut at a fashionable angle along her jaw, straight and gleaming, her right hand latched on to her left biceps as she paced the length of her office at the coroner’s in a trendy outfit complemented by a bright scarf. There was almost nothing she loved more than a scarf.

We, as a pair, are quite the opposite. While Coco’s hair and clothes are fashionable and chic, my hair is unruly and brown with highlights of auburn streaked throughout. Not intentionally, mind you. They’re just there naturally, tucked amongst a massive mess of curls I’m forever trying to tame. And as far as fashion goes? I don’t think Cosmo’s calling. But I might have a shot at Field & Stream.

Lemon? You still there?

Lemon Layne’s world is exactly the same as it was last night, when she sat up way too late yakking on the phone with her best friend about who the new boat in the harbor belongs to while they watched mindless TV.

Coco giggled, soft and melodic. That’s what I love most about you, Lemon. You’re steadfast and true. Speaking of steadfast, or dog with a bone, however you want to label it, found any new mysteries to solve today? Like who’s been stealing all the Ho Ho’s from the center aisle of the station? If anyone can figure it out, it’s you.

Coco was referring to the Smoke and Petrol which I mentioned earlier. My family-owned combination gas station/convenience store/best smoked catfish barbecue pit in Fig Harbor, Washington, that I run with my mother. Smoking meat, especially catfish, was another passion my dad handed down to me.

Every time I rubbed down a catfish with our secret recipe of spices, or when I made a batch of our sweet-and-spicy homemade barbecue sauce for our brisket, I felt my dad right there next to me, showing me the tricks of the trade he’d learned in his extensive biker travels.

I chuckled into the phone. My best friend of thirty-some odd years knew me so well. A mystery—any mystery, really, big or small—was rather like my nemesis of sorts. I couldn’t keep my nose out of it until I figured it out.

But my sleuthing also made me feel closer to my dad. It kept the memory of the twinkle in his eye alive whenever I set my mind to figuring out whodunit. Everything I’ve learned about being a nosy, amateur puzzle solver came from him.

We’d had a rash of recent petty thefts by someone who appeared to really enjoy the edgy coup of heisting a chocolate-covered spongy treat. Whoever it was, he was slicker than a vat of fry oil, because I still hadn’t caught the culprit.

Nope. Still haven’t figured out who’s desperate enough to steal Ho Ho’s in bulk. But I’m on it, I assured her with a grin, waving to one of my favorite locals, Nita Burns, as she drove by on her way to open up her floral shop.

So, how’s the new fish doing this morning?

Coco meant my new white koi fish I’d just integrated into the pond in the backyard of the house my mother and I shared. The pond and my exotic fish tank are my Zen, my monk chants, if you will. Rain or shine, when I’m overwhelmed or just need to think, that’s usually where you can find me.

I’m tickled all sorts of pink to announce Koi George is still alive and swimming.

Yay! You’ve had some tough luck with the pond fish lately. Glad to hear George is adjusting to his new environment.

The cold winter rain began to pelt my face, forcing me to take off my glasses, tuck them in my sweat’s pocket and acknowledge the task at hand. Cleaning the station’s bathroom. We didn’t just make the best barbecue catfish in town; we had the cleanest gas station bathrooms, too.

Lemon? You still there?

Still here, I said, and waited for her response. Instead, I only heard the crackle of our intermittent connection. Coco?

Dang, lost her again. Phone reception here in our small town of Fig Harbor is spotty from time to time. Surrounded by ocean and tall trees and backed by a mountain, our slice of heaven sometimes makes for a cell phone nightmare.

As I waited for Coco to call back, which as always, she’d undoubtedly do, I pushed off the wall with my foot, tucked my phone back into my pocket and used my elbow to shove the door to the bathroom open.

When the gloomy light of a typical rainy Pacific Northwest day fell across the bathroom’s tile floor, I gasped in horror. A gasp so sharp, Jessica clung to my head and buried her face in the neck of my hoodie.

I blinked my eyes—then blinked again as my throat constricted. My heart began to crash in my chest and my ears pounded with the throb of my rushing pulse.

Was there a… Was he…?

Oh for sure he was. There was no way…

Dead.

Spit and fire, there was a dead man on the floor.

Holy sweet-and-spicy catfish… I muttered.

Not that something as trivial as tender catfish and fall-off-the-bone ribs are at all important at a sensitive time like this. But in times of distress, my brain deviates to familiar comforts like barbecue and cars.

Barbecue just happens to be one of my go-tos—that, and a good wheel alignment, always sooth my unsettled inner beast.

The man’s torso was sprawled at an awkward angle just outside the stall where he lay on his belly, with his left cheek pressed to the tile floor and a dead prawn by his right shoulder. His long legs were still half inside the stall at the front of the toilet as though someone had launched him from their shoulder like a sack of potatoes. The newly painted white stall door stood wide open, hanging crookedly on its hinges.

I knelt down to see if he was breathing. Though rationally, I knew that couldn’t be possible.

And that’s when I realized who it was. I’d know that silver high school football ring with the sapphire square in it almost anywhere. He’d bragged about it at nearly every dinner I’d ever shared with him.

It was Myron Fairbanks. My mother’s ex-boyfriend.

Rising, I reached for the top of the stall door. I needed something to anchor me in order to stay upright as I stared down at him.

Blood… You would think there would be more, but Myron’s light blue Member’s Only jacket was covered in mere crimson spatters, a mesmerizing Rorschach of patterns. Somehow, in his condition, I would have expected a coppery pool surrounding his body.

Only one dark brown orthopedic shoe remained on his right foot, and the shoelace was untied, the left I thought was missing entirely until I spotted it by the corner of the wall. Yet, it wasn’t his clothes that troubled me as much as the dark splotch in his hair at the back of his head.

I clenched my eyes shut and forced them open again, unable to look away from the spot on his skull.

For a man