Playing with Bonbon Fire Page 4

  Chapter 5

  Bixby Lewis’s performance on the pier that night didn’t disappoint. He jumped onto the stage and sang his megahits as well as a few oldies from the golden age of beach music, which made the local crowd go wild with excitement.

  In his trademark black leather pants and black T-shirt, he looked every inch the sexy bad boy any woman would dream of taming. I had to cover my ears for most of the concert. The squeals of delight from the crowd were deafening. He crooned one of his more popular songs that featured a driving backbeat. The audience who came to shag screamed with even more delight. Despite the jam-packed floor, everyone started to dance the Carolina shag as if their feet had been doing those steps their entire lives.

  Before singing his last song of the set, Bixby announced that he’d return sometime during the weekend to perform with one of the local bands. The crowd went wild again, cheering louder than ever.

  I was impressed. Bixby wasn’t just a talented singer; he also knew the secret to marketing and how to create a buzz. By keeping the details of when he’d sing and which band he planned to perform with a surprise, he would boost ticket sales for every night of the festival.

  After the applause died down, Bixby stepped off the stage and signed autographs and chatted with his fans for nearly an hour. With a nod in our direction, he left the pier accompanied by several burly security guards.

  Not long after that, the bulk of the crowd shuffled down the pier’s steps, either to walk the beach or to head back to wherever they were staying—a hotel, a rented beach house, or their own comfortable home.

  As the vendors were busy shutting down their booths, I walked the length of the pier, helping the staff pick up trash that had been left behind and chatting with our sponsors, making sure everyone was happy. I noticed Congressman Ezell’s booth was empty. The box of bonbons we’d delivered sat on a chair behind a table. The lid was still taped tightly closed. My first thought was that he needed to get those into a fridge for the night.

  My second thought was to wonder why he’d insisted we get him the bonbons for tonight if he wasn’t going to give them away. Certainly it wasn’t because he was worried that Bixby’s crowd wouldn’t vote. Most of the ticket-holders were, like me, well into their thirties. This venue should be his voting public. Besides, the pretzels in the bonbons stayed fresh for only a day or two. So why hadn’t he handed out the pamphlets and chocolates?

  Was it because he had stayed with Tom in the VIP area for most of the concert? Young Tom had certainly enjoyed himself, singing along with Bixby as loudly as any of the other fans while swaying to the beat of the music.

  I planned to ask Ezell about it the next time I saw him. Nicely, of course.

  During the concert, clouds had marched across the moonless sky, making the island’s old abandoned lighthouse that sat on the far horizon appear even bleaker. Thunder still rumbled. Its deep voice had grown louder. We’d get the storm before morning.

  One thing that surprised me about living on the beach was how aware I’d become of the weather. Out here, on the edge of the continent, slight changes in the wind and humidity seemed amplified. I leaned against the pier’s railing and could feel the approaching storm’s breath brushing my cheeks.

  As I watched the white foam shining faintly in the breaching waves, a deep red light down the beach caught my eye. I squinted. Was that a bonfire? The red glow shimmered and danced.

  Someone must be enjoying a post-concert party, I thought absently as I watched the flame grow brighter. Shades of yellows swirled with the reds.

  Bonfires. Fires.

  “I will see you burn,” the threatening note had read.

  I gripped the pier’s railing tighter and tighter.

  The yellows and reds swirled as if trying to reach out toward the approaching storm.

  A security guard ambled by. I grabbed his arm and demanded, “Did Bixby make it safely home?”

  “I don’t know, ma’am.”

  “Get on the radio and find out.” I didn’t know what I’d do if something happened to Bixby. All of the sudden, I had trouble catching my breath.

  “What’s going on?” Althea asked as she came up beside me.

  “I’m … I’m not sure.” I pointed at the flames, which were now licking the black night sky. I couldn’t keep the words from Bixby’s note from dancing in my head. I will see you burn. “It’s probably nothing. But it could be one of Bixby’s crazy fans looking to make trouble.”

  Unfortunately, Police Chief Hank Byrd happened to be nearby and overheard me. “I knew it.” He yanked up his ill-fitting pants so they covered his oversized belly. “I knew you’d bring lawbreakers to our town with this filthy music festival of yours.”

  “It’s not my—” I started to say, but then stopped myself. Chief Byrd would believe whatever he wanted to believe. Nothing I said would change his mind.

  “We need to go check out the bonfire … just in case,” I said to Althea. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”

  In the pit of my stomach, I knew that was a lie.

  * * *

  Even though it was a warm night on the beach, Althea shivered as she jogged to keep up with my long-legged stride. I pumped my arms as I hurried toward the bonfire.

  She shivered again. “Can’t you feel that?”

  “Feel what?” I started to jog.

  “The spirits are strong tonight.”

  “Spirits? You mean what you’ve been drinking is strong?”

  She clucked her tongue. “No, Penn. Spirits, ghosts, fairies even. They’re rising. Can’t you feel it? Can’t you see it?”

  “Please.” I didn’t even slow my stride. She believed in nonsense and knew I didn’t. Our friendship worked mainly because she’d agreed not to discuss her crazy around me.

  “You don’t have to be afraid of the supernatural.” She jogged alongside me. “It might be the summer solstice creating ripples, although I don’t remember … Oh! Surely you saw that. A Confederate soldier just marched by.”

  “Oh, come on, Althea. I think you need to get your eyes checked. The only light I’m seeing is that bonfire.”

  As we passed people—real live, breathing people—walking along the beach, no one claimed the bonfire. Even I knew this was unusual. Groups of friends, usually men, would build the fires and stand around watching the kindling burn out while downing beers. So why would someone go to that much trouble to build a full-fledged fire and then abandon it?

  “Oh, no,” Althea whispered, pointing, as we approached the dancing flames.

  A pair of leather-clad legs jutted out from underneath the burning woodpile.

  Next to a bare foot, I spotted one of the Chocolate Box’s cellophane-wrapped bonbons tied with red, white, and blue ribbons. That’s when I remembered Congressman Ezell had only given away one of the bonbon packages.

  “Bixby,” I cried just as my knees lost all will to stand.

  Chapter 6

  I lay awake all Thursday night dreading the call I’d have to make in the morning. A famous singer had been murdered. I couldn’t let my half sister find out about his death from television news.

  The sun rose. I looked at my phone. Surely I was too busy for this. First, I had to walk Stella, my silky Papillon dog. Then I had to open the Chocolate Box. I didn’t have time to make a lengthy phone call.

  The shop had been open for less than ten minutes when Bertie stopped me from handing a man who’d ordered the double espresso a cup of plain decaf. “Go back upstairs and get some sleep, child. You’re no help to me here.”

  Instead of heading upstairs—I wouldn’t find sleep until I made this call—I stepped out the shop’s back door. A brick patio overlooked the wide grassy salt marsh and tidal river that separated the mainland from the small island town.

  Cell phone in hand, I slumped into one of the purple lawn chairs. “It’s an hour earlier in Chicago than here in Camellia Beach. If I call right now—eight o’clock her time—I might wake her up,” I said to myself in
stead of dialing.

  While the police hadn’t yet confirmed who we’d found in the bonfire, it was only a matter of time. Given the possibility that the victim was a superstar like Bixby Lewis, the coroner had probably worked through the night to identify what was left of the body.

  It was Bixby. I was sure of it. And soon the world would know they’d lost a great performer. I needed to make this call.

  So, after drawing a deep breath … and then another deep breath … and just one more deep breath for good measure, I dialed.

  “Hello?” I barely recognized the scratchy, sleepy voice answering the call as belonging to my half sister.

  “Tina, it’s Penn,” I said.

  “Penn? What time is it?” she asked.

  “A little after nine.” The rustling of sheets and a clank answered me.

  “You’re an hour ahead of me,” she said finally. “You know I love to talk to you, but why are you calling so early?” When I didn’t answer right away, her voice sharpened. “Did something happen with Bixby? You do know I sent him there hoping something would happen.”

  “H-h-h-happen?” I squeaked.

  “Ah …” Sheets shifted around on her end of the line again. “It’s just as I’d hoped. The two of you did hook up.”

  “No! Goodness, no, that’s not what happened. He …” I drew another fortifying breath. “Bixby is dead. Someone murdered him.”

  Silence answered me.

  “Are you still there?” I whispered.

  “I’ll be on the next plane out,” came her terse reply.

  “No. No, don’t come. There’s a murderer on the loose.” And Grandmother Cristobel would flay me alive if anything happened to any of her precious grandchildren because of me. “Tina, please. You don’t need to come here.”

  But Tina had already disconnected the call.

  I leaned forward, my elbows on my knees and my head cradled in my hands. My trembling fingers rubbed my suddenly throbbing temples.

  Not much on this earth scared me more than Grandmother Cristobel. I’d rather face down a murderer than try to explain the trouble I’d gotten myself into (again) to my own disapproving kin.

  “Are you okay?”

  I jerked my head up and found my upstairs neighbor, Harley Dalton, crouched beside my chair. Water clung to his slightly curly blondish-brown hair like salty gems. His damp board shorts clung to his hips, tracing every muscular plane. Not five feet away, a longboard leaned against the shop’s back wall.

  “Peachy,” I said. “You?”

  This past winter, Harley and I had grown close. Almost too close. He was Mabel’s lawyer and neighbor. Now that I was living in Mabel’s apartment with Bertie, he was my neighbor. He was also my lawyer. And yet, when the days had grown longer and the weather hotter, Harley had begun keeping his distance.

  This distance between us had started shortly after I’d returned from spending about a month back in Madison, Wisconsin. I’d used my time in the Midwest working to settle matters with my ex, the Cheese King, and to pack up and move out of the cute bungalow I’d shared with Granny Mae, who wasn’t really my grandmother. With everything I owned stuffed into every inch of my Fiat, I’d driven back to Camellia Beach to begin my new life here.

  After my return and much to my dismay, Harley had stopped dropping by our apartment for one of Bertie’s delicious breakfasts. He’d stopped coming into the Chocolate Box for a morning coffee or hot chocolate. He’d simply stopped coming around at all. What I’d thought might bloom into a beautiful romance between us had apparently died on the vine.

  I’d expected to at least see him at the previous night’s concert. It had seemed as if every resident of Camellia Beach had purchased a ticket.

  I hadn’t expected to see him now. What a time for him to show up. I’d barely combed my hair. Lack of sleep had left dark smudges under my eyes. I felt about as huggable as the prickly pear cacti that grew in the nearby dunes.

  His deep green eyes searched mine for a moment. “You’re angry with me,” he finally said, then started to move away from where I was sitting.

  “There was a murder last night.” I didn’t know why I told him that. It wasn’t as if I expected to get any comfort from him. “At my concert.”

  He swore under his breath. “I hadn’t heard. I turned in early last night and have been surfing since dawn.” He pulled a hand through his hair. “How could this happen … again?”

  I shook my head. “Despite what you or anyone else thinks, it’s not my fault.”

  “Of course it’s not your fault, Penn. I wasn’t suggesting—”

  “Tell that to Chief Byrd. He already believes I’m the fount of all evil on this island. I was the one who found him, you know. I found Bixby.” It was my turn to swear. “I should have provided him with more security. I should have—”

  Harley clasped my hands tightly between his rough palms. “Don’t play those what-if games with yourself. It’ll only make you crazy.”

  He crouched directly in front of my chair. It should have made me feel trapped, but with Harley, nearness always felt safe.

  “I’m sorry that it happened, Penn,” he whispered. “I know how much of yourself you’ve been putting into planning the festival.”

  How would he know that? He hadn’t been around. At all.

  I didn’t get a chance to ask him because he continued talking, using his reasonable, calm lawyer voice that sometimes made me want to scream. “I also know how you take personal responsibility for everything that could possibly happen. Unless you killed Bixby yourself, it’s not your fault.”

  “A man was murdered.” Ugly tears sprang to my eyes. “A man I’d invited to come here to this death trap of a town. Of course it’s my fault.”

  “Someone was murdered? When? Last night?” It was a voice I’d never expected to hear again. My head whipped toward the back door, where what had to be one of Althea’s ghosts was emerging. I was glad I was already sitting. If I hadn’t been, my butt would have hit the ground.

  “Bixby!” I shrieked.

  Chapter 7

  It couldn’t be Bixby.

  He’d burned up in that bonfire.

  But hadn’t Althea mentioned just yesterday some nonsense about how the island’s spirits and ghosts were growing more active as the summer solstice approached?

  No. No. No.

  I didn’t believe in ghosts or magic. They were cons, tricks used to deceive and swindle. Even so, I freed my hands from Harley’s comforting grasp and stumbled out of the lawn chair. I backed away from the specter until I was nearly falling into the marsh’s deep pluff mud. “S-stay away.”

  “What?” He held up his hands.

  Harley bravely put himself between me and the dead guy. “What’s going on, Penn?”

  “Yeah, Penn,” Bixby demanded, “what’s going on? Bertie screamed when I entered the shop, and not in a happy fan shriek. It took me forever to get her to tell me where I could find you. And you’re acting really weird, too. What did I do?”

  “You’re … you’re dead,” I stammered. “That’s what you did. You died.”

  He rolled his deep brown eyes. “Now why would I be dead?”

  “Because I saw your dead body in a bonfire last night.”

  He shrugged. “It wasn’t me.”

  “But the dead guy had your chocolates. You know, the ones Congressman Ezell gave you last night?”

  “Chocolates? What are you talking about? I don’t remember getting anything from … Wait. Who did you say gave me chocolates? I hope this congressman was a congresswoman. I mean, I like all my fans, but it’s the women I want giving me presents.”

  I blinked.

  My pricy leather low-heeled ankle-wrapped pink pumps sloshed through pluff mud as I took a step backward and then braved a step toward him. I blinked again and then peered around Harley to take a closer look. Again, I was struck by his appearance. Bixby was dressed like a—well, to be honest, he was dressed like a slob. His worn jeans hung low o
n his hips. His plain gray T-shirt looked as if it had been beaten against a rock and then driven over by a fleet of cars. If I’d passed him on the street, I wouldn’t have given him a second look. This was the same superstar who’d captured everyone’s attention last night? This was the megastar who had lovesick women sending him letters threatening to burn him alive?

  “Are you sure there aren’t two of you running around?” I asked, then waved the question away. “Never mind.”

  I was so thrilled to see that our star hadn’t died a horrible death because of me that I pushed Harley aside and ran to Bixby like I was one of his silly fans and tossed my arms around his middle. “You are alive!”

  “And suddenly even more alive than ever.” He planted a kiss on my lips that made the world feel as if up was down and down was up. He then framed my face in his hands and looked at me as if he’d never seen me before. “How in the world did I overlook you that first time we met?”

  “You were dating my sister at the time, remember?”

  “Still, a guy has eyes. I should have—”

  “Someone was killed in that fire last night,” Harley’s deep voice reminded us.

  With a jerk, I dropped my arms that had been tightly wrapped around Bixby’s waist and tripped over my feet in my haste to step away from him.

  Harley knew only too well the bad track record I had with men. And here I was, falling into the arms of a handsome man just because he gave me some attention, with Harley standing witness to it all.

  My cheeks burned as if they’d been kissed by the summer sun. Bixby, obviously not understanding the reason for my discomfort, tossed his arm over my shoulder and pulled me close to his side. “So, Penn, you thought that because I got a letter from one of my crazies, the dead guy had to be me?”

  “And there was the bag of chocolate at the man’s feet. The congressman didn’t hand out the other bags we’d made for him. So I figured the bonbons we found had to be the same ones he’d given you.”

  Bixby shook his head. “Honestly, people are always giving me things. I can’t keep track of who gives me what. But I can tell you that gifts of food always end up in the nearest trash bin.”