but then neither had Ted Bundy—a good-looking serial killer who had committed murders right here in the Florida Panhandle. I loved true crime in book form and on TV, which had come back to haunt me the two nights I’d slept in my car. But being involved with a real-life death I could do without. I’m sure Elwell would be the first to agree with me on that.
Biffle nodded to Vivi, skirted around her, and headed to his patrol car. I guess that meant I was free to go unless Vivi had something to say to me.
“Vivi, are you all right?” Wade Thomas rushed over to her. He owned the Briny Pirate, the restaurant next door to the Sea Glass. Not only owned it, but was the chef too, and made the best gumbo east of New Orleans—at least that’s what his menu said. I hadn’t had a chance to try it yet. Wade gripped Vivi’s arms, staring into her eyes.
“Let’s go get some coffee,” Wade said.
Vivi took another look at me before she smiled at Wade. What the heck was she looking at? Hadn’t she ever seen someone with messy hair before? I stepped back so they could go around me, worried thoughts moving like a school of fish through my mind. Vivi looked as put together as ever as she linked arms with Wade—not like she’d been standing around in the increasingly hot weather. Not at all like a woman who’d argued with and killed someone last night. Not that I’d run into a lot—or any—women who had killed someone the night before. Who was I to say what they looked like?
Was I really wondering if Vivi had killed Elwell? Boone’s beloved grandmother? The sweet old woman I’d moved down here to help? Well, that was the whole point, wasn’t it? Vivi wasn’t sweet or so old. She certainly wasn’t frail. Physically, she could have done it. But heck, so could I. Or most of the patrons I’d seen at the Sea Glass. Just because Vivi argued with someone last night, it didn’t make her a killer. I needed to clear my head. I needed to run.
CHAPTER 5
I headed to my car and drove to Destin, wanting to put some space between me and the dumpster behind the Sea Glass. I parked at the Crab Trap, a restaurant and bar at James Lee Park on a beautiful, wide stretch of beach. I switched to an old pair of running shoes and headed west on the beach. My brothers always teased me about my running. It had started as a way to get away from them when I was five, and as I grew older, I realized it was a way to get away from almost everything. This morning it was a way to try to unsee Elwell’s corpse. It didn’t take me long to figure out running wasn’t working.
My legs started aching not too long into my run. I wasn’t used to running in the sand, but I pushed on. There was some chub rub, as my brothers called it, going on with my thighs. I wasn’t one of those lanky runner types. Most people tried to cover their surprise when I said I ran regularly. I was a basset hound born to a family of whippets. Back in the family history somewhere, there must be a sturdy plowman whose genes were passed along to me. Thanks a lot, dude.
Eventually, the tang of salt air, the cries of gulls, and the grace of the pelicans skimming the surf soothed me. Colorful beach umbrellas stood at attention in front of the condos I passed. Rows of chairs sat under them, two by two. The sun smacked me like someone had a magnifying glass on a grasshopper. I wasn’t the only runner out here and I did the chin lift at people as I went by them. Fifteen minutes later, I turned around at what I’d heard the locals call the Old Pier. All that was left of it were a few wooden posts standing firm out in the water.
When I returned to the Crab Trap, I grabbed my toiletries, some clean clothes, an apple, and a bottle of water from my car. After I showered and dressed in the bathroom, I sat on a picnic table under a wooden pavilion and ate my apple.
I glanced around, taking in the people laying out beach towels and the gentle lapping water. It looked like paradise. But it didn’t feel that way to me. What was I doing here? Boone. My heart clinched again at the loss of him. I missed him. Six months ago, his unit had been attacked while they were out on patrol. Boone hadn’t been found, but they also hadn’t found his remains. A buddy in his unit had called me to give me the news. Boone had talked a lot about me to him, and when Boone was still alive, the three of us had video chatted several times. Boone’s friend had tried to reassure me. Told me maybe Boone had gotten lost in the melee and he’d turn back up. They were looking for him. But I knew in my heart at that moment Boone was dead.
I’d spent the first month after he went missing crying. Pulling it together when I was at the library with kids. Their innocent, happy faces probably saved me from a complete shutdown. With time, I realized I had to live a good life for both of us. However, being here in the Panhandle of Florida, in a place I knew Boone loved, stirred up a lot of emotions.
In some ways being here was easier, because at home everything reminded me of Boone—the bars and restaurants we’d gone to, Wrigley Field, where we watched the Cubs, the Navy Pier, where we walked and talked. At home when I had closed my eyes, I could picture him on the other end of the couch reading, chatting, watching movies with me.
Once I’d heard they’d found Boone’s remains and set the burial service, I’d packed up and headed down here to pay my respects and fulfill my promise. Any other time in my adult life, if I’d found a dead person, Boone would have been the first person I would have called. Now I wasn’t sure who to talk to. My parents would freak out. My brothers would be driving down here to pick me up. As much as they tormented me growing up, they’d also protected me even when I didn’t think I needed protecting. Trust me, Jake Hawkensbury would never forget the night he brought me home after curfew. I shuddered at that memory. It was weeks before anyone asked me out after that incident.
I dialed Rachel, my best friend and roommate in Chicago.
“Chloe!!! I was just going to call you. I have fantastic news.” Rachel sounded giddy, which was unlike her. She was a serious girl, a med student at Northwestern. It’s why we were a good team. I got Rachel out of her shell, and she tempered my I’ll-try-anything streak.
It made me smile to hear her happy voice. “What’s going on?”
“Ashar asked me to marry him last night.”
I was stunned. They’d only been dating for nine months. He was just . . . so . . . wrong for her. Too handsome. Big ego. Thought because he worked for the Cubs, he was God’s gift. But I couldn’t say any of this to her, certainly not now. “Tell me all about it. Every detail.” If Rachel was happy, I would be happy for her even if it gave me ulcers. We’d met in high school and she’d always been there for me.
“He proposed during the seventh-inning stretch. We were sitting behind the Cubs dugout. Ashar leaped up on it, grabbed my hand, and pulled me up with him. I thought he’d gone mad.” Her laugh tinkled across the phone line. “Then he got down on one knee and whipped out the biggest diamond I’ve ever seen. It was all on the jumbotron. Everyone cheered for us. And then the Cubs won. It was the perfect evening.”
“If only they showed the games down here. I would have seen it.”
“I’ll send you a link so you can watch. You’ll be my maid of honor, won’t you?”
“Absolutely! I’d be honored—forgive the pun. Did you set a date?”
“Not an exact date, but sometime next winter, before spring training starts.”
“That makes perfect sense.”
Rachel paused. “Chloe . . .”
“What?” Was she going to confess some doubt? How could she say no when Ashar had asked her in such a public way?
“Ashar
