Death at Dagger Cove: Butterfly Island Mysteries, #2

By Cheri Baker

"Welcome to Butterfly Island! Enjoy our sandy beaches, sapphire blue waters, and achingly beautiful sunsets. We can't wait to welcome you to the safest and most relaxing destination in the Caribbean…"
 
Kenzi Hicks believes every person has a calling. She's worked as a line cook, a biohazard disposal specialist, and a dozen jobs in between. So what if her family thinks she's flighty? Her dad might call her a late bloomer, but Kenzi doesn't see it that way. She'll settle down when she's good and ready, and not a moment before. Besides, her luck is already turning around in the romance department. Her new boyfriend Paxton is the sweetest guy she's ever dated, and when he invited her to join him and his buddies for a vacation on beautiful Butterfly Island, she jumped at the chance. This tropical paradise looks like the perfect place to relax, make new friends, and have fun in the sun. 
 
That is, until Pax goes missing...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Adventurous Ink LLC
• Release date: Jul 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9781952200199

Cheri Baker

Cheri spent her formative years hiding under the blankets with a flashlight, reading everything she could get her hands on, but especially books by Stephen King, Judy Blume, Agatha Christie, and Mercedes Lackey. Her experiences in management inspired her first novel, Involuntary Turnover, about an HR manager turned private investigator. Cheri lives in Seattle with her husband of 18 years. She's working on her fourth novel.

Book preview

Chapter One

OFFICER GUMBS, THIS IS DISPATCH. Come in.

Paul swam toward consciousness. He’d been floating in the peaceful darkness of his own mind, a place where it was silent and warm and where crimes were never committed. He dimly understood that someone needed him, so he propelled himself upward, toward the harsh barrier that separated sleep from wakefulness. With a groan, he rolled, swinging his arm toward the nightstand, aiming for the snooze button.

Just five more minutes, Mom.

Pain blossomed in his pinkie as his hand smacked his police radio and sent it skittering across the hardwood floor. His eyes snapped open. Right. He was on call for the Butterfly Island Municipal Police Department because Kicker, who worked nights, had fractured his ankle.

Gumbs. Answer me!

He’d never met the stern-voiced woman Yarbury referred to only as ‘dispatch,’ but at the moment, with her tinny voice shouting at him from the floorboards, he visualized her as a hostile garden gnome. The radio had bounced off the wall and flung itself beneath the bed skirt. He hung over the side of the mattress, upside-down, and felt around.

He found a shoe. A dirty sock covered in dust bunnies. Behind the sock, a tattered romance novel with a bookmark stuck inside. He quickly tossed the shoe and sock out into the bedroom for later retrieval, but he left the paperback in its hidey hole. Finally, his fingers brushed against a rubbery antenna. He almost had it!

Officer. Are you on call, or are you not? We have a 10-56 at the marina. Is your radio on? I swear, if you turned it off, I’m going straight to—

He snatched the plastic radio up to his face. Gumbs here. He rubbed his eyes. Come again?

You have a 10-56 at the marina. Are you capable? Or do I need to put on my fuzzy rabbit slippers and take care of it personally?

Hoisting himself back to an upright position, he replied, "Could you? Because that would be great."

Something between a laugh and a snort burst through the speaker.

He pressed the button one more time. Roger, dispatch. 10-56 at the marina. I’m on my way.

Paul sat on the edge of the bed and yawned. Next to him, Kameron snored contentedly. That woman could sleep through anything. She’d stolen his pillows during the night and tucked them around her pregnant body like a squirrel packs away nuts for a long winter. How he yearned for his fluffy pillows! His favorite one was sticking out from between Kameron’s legs like an airy, rectangular marshmallow.

He forced himself to stand, snatched his neatly folded uniform off the dresser, and headed for the bathroom.

He and Andrew were divvying up night calls until Kicker’s ankle healed. That made sense, as they were a small team. Only it was physically impossible to work all day and all night, and therefore night watch meant keeping the radio turned up and next to the bed. Kicker was at the precinct, but anything that required a physical presence, he couldn’t do.

Kameron believed that Commissioner Yarbury was working them to death. Normally, he’d demur, reminding her that long nights were part of any rookie cop’s job. He didn’t want to be a complainer, but eventually something would have to give.

What exactly was a 10-56? Law enforcement came with an alphabet soup of acronyms and numerical codes up the wazoo. Knowing the codes was part of the job; he had a list back in the top drawer of his desk, but his sleep-starved mind couldn’t remember. He was tempted to call dispatch back, but she might be on call too. It would be better to let the woman sleep, lest she show up at Commissioner Yarbury’s office with a scowl and a long list of grievances.

Kameron had a right to complain. At the Butterfly Island Police Department, everyone was overworked, all the time. No one wanted to add burdens to another person’s plate, so everyone tried to handle things on their own. He’d figure out the 10-56, one way or another.

Paul dressed, grabbed his keys, and quietly crept out of the bungalow. His aging olive-green Jeep protested when he turned the key in the ignition. He stroked the dash absentmindedly, soothing her like a colicky infant. This shouldn’t take long, he thought.

Streetlights shed pools of white on the rural, two-lane road. As he passed the bright spots, he imagined himself as Pacman, zooming toward the center of the maze, gobbling up dots, always mindful of danger.

A nearly full moon hung high in the inky black sky, but the lunar orb was half-hidden beneath a dark smear of clouds. Paul yawned, and the rush of crisp air refreshed him. He flexed his hands on the steering wheel. There was a liminal space that existed between the late night beach parties and the island’s slow-waking sunrise. During the day, Butterfly Island was full of roaring waves, church bells, reggae music, and noisy voices.

What had been foreign only a few months prior was quickly becoming familiar. Could this truly be his home? He loved the sight of the local schoolchildren holding hands as they walked home, so cute in their matching uniforms and short white socks. And he appreciated how the patrons of Jimbo’s bar offered him a friendly wave whenever he stopped in for date night with Kameron. They understood that when he was off duty he was just another islander, enjoying his evening. He relished the island life, the big moments and the small ones. As he sped past greenery turned blackish blue in the darkness, he felt a brief kinship with the night.

Butterfly Island surrounded him, saying hello.

He parked at Compass Point Welcome Center, a rather modern steel and glass building. Colorful banners hung down the front to the left and right of the entrance. They advertised fishing charters, guided tours, and other services for tourists. Inside, the welcome center was as dark as a crypt. Someone had looped a chain through the door handles and padlocked the chain in a bold violation of local fire codes.

One problem at a time.

A wooden boardwalk circled the welcome center and connected it to the marina. The marina was divided in half. One portion was set aside for liveaboard sailboats and pleasure craft. The other, larger docks hosted commercial vessels, including the small passenger ferries that carried visitors to and from the island, fifteen or twenty at a time.

A forest of tall white masts greeted him as he rounded the corner. Fiberglass groaned. Wood creaked. Water sloshed in a lazy rhythm. Wind blew briskly inland, and he rubbed his arms to stave off the unexpected chill.

Where was his 10-56?

Paul’s leather-soled shoes thudded dully against the wooden dock as he walked. He peered into the darkness, wishing his eyes would adjust faster. There was nothing out there but boats and the sounds of sloshing water. After he checked the liveaboards, he headed down the commercial dock, and that’s when he heard something.

A woman was crying. No, it was more than that. She was weeping into the darkness like her heart had been broken and nothing in the universe could put it together again.

Fax! she sobbed into the darkness. Faax!

If she’s looking for a fax machine, she’s on the wrong side of town. Paul felt a flutter of amusement at his own joke, but it quickly melted away when he heard a tiny hiccup between the woman’s sobs.

You poor thing.

She muttered something unintelligible, and he lengthened his stride. She sounded like she was talking around a mouthful of french fries, but the french fries were winning.

That’s when he remembered: 10-56 was the local code for an intoxicated pedestrian.

He sent silent thanks to whomever had called this in. Intoxication and open water were a deadly combination. He aimed his flashlight at the dock in front of him and lengthened his stride. Grimacing, he stepped over a coil of rope that someone had left so carelessly in the center of the path. In the darkness, and alone, drowning could be as easy as tripping. And at this time of night? No one would even hear you sink beneath the waves.

He spotted her at the end of the dock and lifted his flashlight to get a better look. His 10-56 looked to be about his age, around thirty. She’d shoved her straight brown hair up beneath a ball cap, but it was coming down in messy strings. His 10-56 was half-slumped to one side, and her legs were already in the water, dangling over the edge.

Pax! she called out toward the liveaboards, cupping her hands over her mouth to aim the sound. If she’d noticed Paul standing next to her, she hadn’t reacted.

A window scraped open somewhere nearby. Will you kindly shut up? a weary female voice demanded. Some of us have to go to work in the morning.

Paul knelt at the intoxicated woman’s side and cleared his throat. He reached for her shoulder, ready to grab her if she pitched forward. She looked up, her jaw loose, her face streaked with tears. Her gaze slipped around his face as if she couldn’t find a place to steady her eyes. Her breath was rank. It stank of tequila and seafood.

Two white objects floated in the water, down beneath the surface. Her shoes. She’d dunked her legs in, shoes and all. This lady was as drunk as a skunk, Tianna Gumbs would say.

Miss? Are you okay?

"I’m not okay. But thank you very much for asking." She flicked her fingers out, dismissing him like a weary parent shooing away a troublesome child.

It was hard not to smile.

Carefully, he lowered himself down to sit cross-legged on the dock. The boards were hard and cold, and he checked for splinters, finding none. She didn’t seem hostile. Just intoxicated and upset. That, he knew how to handle.

What’s your name? he asked.

Kenzi.

I’m Paul.

Hi.

I need you to stop yelling, okay?

For a moment, she looked like she was winding herself up to argue. Her cheeks darkened and she narrowed her eyes. But instead of fighting him, her shoulders slumped. Okay. I’m sorry.

"Are you okay? For real?"

Pax is gone! I think— She bit back her tears, turning away.

He jerked his arm up, ready to grab her shirt as she tipped sideways. You think what?

"I can’t find him anywhere! I think he’s dead! She turned and hurled herself at him like a hungry octopus, squeezing him tightly around the neck. Her legs came up out of the water, splashing them both. No one believes me!"

Extricating himself proved tricky. Every time he pulled one of her arms off, the other would reach out and grab him. Finally, he planted her hands on her thighs. She clutched the fabric of her loose denim shorts.

Who is Pax?

He’s my boyfriend.

Did he leave the island?

No. She glared at him as if he were being obtuse. "He’s gone. Something happened to him! Why won’t anyone listen to me? Angie acts like I’m crazy. She called me a Klingon! But I’m not. All Angie cares about is her condors. Kenzi held up her index finger, then swung it through the air in a slicing motion. Like we don’t know what that is about."

I’m sure you’re not crazy. Privately, he wondered if she had, in fact, left all her marbles in the bottom of a Long Island iced tea. During his years working security on a cruise ship, drunk people behaving badly had been a staple of the job, so he knew the look quite well.

Kenzi had no doubt been out partying right up until the bars had closed. Perhaps she’d gotten into an argument with her boyfriend? Contrary to popular belief, vacations tended to stress most folks out. Certainly he’d seen his share of wound-up tourists ‘living their best lives’ one inch away from an emotional meltdown. You couldn’t take a vacation from your problems, not really. Wherever you went, your anxieties tagged along, like irritating stowaways who didn’t care one whit how much money you’d spent on your trip or how much you needed a break.

Who is Angie? Is she staying with you and your boyfriend?

She’s Pax’s best friend. She held up her fingers as air quotes around the words ‘best friend.’ The motion nearly toppled her over, but she righted herself at the last moment.

Can I take you home? Where are you staying?

"No way. I’m not going back with them." Kenzi crossed her arms.

He stood, turned up his flashlight beam, and held out his hand.

That’s fine. But let’s get you somewhere warm, okay? Your feet are soaked, and you’re going to catch a cold. Holding her steady by the hand, he pulled hard, lifting her to her feet. That’s right! Upsy-daisy!

Kenzi shot him a rather sweet smile. You sound just like my dad. He’s always saying—

Before he could even process the compliment, Kenzi Hicks pitched forward and sprayed chunky vomit all over his shoes.

* * *

KENZI SNUGGLED BENEATH THE SOFT cotton blanket and pulled her legs closer to her body. The room was mercifully dark. The faint buzzing of a refrigerator coil in the kitchen was almost as soothing as a white noise machine. She hadn’t thought she was cold, but it had taken her a while to stop shivering.

Mostly, she felt embarrassed.

When that freakishly tall cop with the Jamaican accent had hauled her up to her feet, she’d figured he was about to arrest her. Instead, he’d driven her to a small orange house in a residential neighborhood. Once they were inside, he’d sat her in the living room, taken off her wet shoes and socks, and insisted that she drink a big glass of tap water. Afterward, he’d guided her to the couch and told her to get some rest. We’ll talk in the morning, he’d said.

Puking had helped with the nausea, but now her body felt dry and prickly inside, as if her intestines had been replaced with cacti. Thankfully, the soft brown couch was every bit as comfortable as it had looked. The cop’s pregnant girlfriend had taken only one look at her before going to find a pillow and blanket. After handing them over, she’d dragged her guy into the kitchen. Now they were arguing, keeping their voices low.

"I still don’t understand why you brought her here, the woman whispered. This isn’t a hotel for drunk tourists."

I know, the cop said. But her boyfriend is missing. She’s scared, and she needed a place to sleep it off. I wasn’t about to stick her in a cell, and she wouldn’t give me her address. She’s staying with a group of friends, and they had some kind of fight.

What happened to her boyfriend?

I don’t know. I questioned her on the way here but she was speaking gibberish.

I was not, Kenzi thought, squeezing her eyes shut and hugging her arms around her body. She’d spoken perfectly clearly! It wasn’t her fault that no one understood her. Her nose felt drippy, and she sniffed, refusing to give into tears. Looking for Pax hadn’t worked and crying her heart out at the bar hadn’t helped. He was still out there, somewhere, all by himself.

It wasn’t fair.

It’s not fair, the pregnant lady said. "They work you all day and all night. You can’t keep going on like this, Paul. Yarbury has to hire more help."

It’s only temporary.

And when the baby comes?

I don’t know. He sighed. I’ll talk to him. I promise.

After a while, they went into their bedroom and closed the door. Kenzi turned over, pressing her face into the couch cushions, curling up into a ball. She hadn’t meant to bother anyone. But she couldn’t go back to the rental. Not while Angie was still there.

Pax deserved better friends, for sure.

The last time she’d seen him, he’d been reading something on his phone while she dozed off in bed. She’d slid her hand across his bare chest, and he’d looked down at her with that gorgeous smile of his. Get some rest, he’d said.

Now he was gone.

Chapter Two

KENZI KEPT HERSELF BUSY WHILE she waited for her guardian angels to wake up for breakfast. The frying pan dripped with warm, soapy water as she lifted it out of the sink. Bubbles lathered her hands and forearms. She rinsed dishes she’d used in cool water and set them on the wooden rack to dry. The cop’s house was as cute as a button, but it lacked a dishwasher.

She’d always been an early riser, ever since she was little, and no matter how tired she felt after rising, sleep would be impossible until the sun went down. Sunlight streamed into the living room, where she’d left the blanket bunched together on the couch. Quickly, she hurried over and refolded it, plumping the borrowed pillow and placing it on top like a cherry on top of a sundae.

Her memories of the day before were a little blurry, but she remembered enough to feel ashamed of how she’d acted. Not only had she puked over that nice cop’s shoes, but earlier in the evening she’d given Pax’s so-called friends a rather vigorous piece of her mind before storming off. Maybe they’d had it coming, kind of, but she should have handled it better. Still, the super friends hadn’t so much as texted her when she hadn’t returned home, so apparently they didn’t care whether she lived or died.

Be nice, Kenzi.

She huffed through her nose. She was nice, and that was half her problem. Instead of addressing Angie’s rudeness up front, like a grown woman, she’d bitten her tongue until she’d finally lost her temper. She should have known better. Adults were basically toddlers with better impulse control, and it was best not to let things fester. And what had she done?

I let things fester. All because I wanted Pax’s friends to like me.

The oven timer dinged. She hurried into the kitchen to check the potatoes. The oven was ancient, and it had a real metal bell inside the timer, but it worked just fine. The whole bungalow was charmingly retro. The patterned curtains over the kitchen sink looked straight out of the seventies and there was an empty clothesline in the backyard.

I’d love to live in a place like this. Maybe it’s my imagination, but it seems life could be simpler here.

As soon as Kenzi opened the door, the steamy scent of roasted potatoes went up her nose and pinged the pleasure center of her brain. Delicious carbohydrates. You go straight to my butt, but I love you so much. She took the tray out to cool, setting it carefully on a cork trivet she’d found buried in a cabinet.

There was nothing like a mouthwatering breakfast to say you were sorry for being such a bother. And after Paul had eaten, and he was full of carbs, she’d talk him into helping her search for Pax. He knew