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  “A book signing and Long Island Iced Teas at Barnum’s Booktuary. Would you like to go with me?”

  “Who is signing books?”

  He knew very little, if anything at all, about novelists, writing, or bookstores. That didn’t mean I could label him a complete idiot, though. It simply clarified that he had other interests, which included decorating, texting, and fucking me between tall sand dunes on one of his client’s properties.

  “Margo Pagino. She has a new historical romance out today. It’s called Fire’s Blend. It’s about a mansion in Georgia being burned to the ground during the Civil War.”

  “How Margaret Mitchell of her.”

  “I’d love for you to join me.”

  I swam into his arms and let him hug me in the ocean like the prized merman that I perceived him to be, knowing that he would attend Margo’s signing with me.

  Chapter 17: Fire’s Blend

  Barnum’s Booktuary

  Aviary Road

  3:22 P.M.

  Barnum’s Booktuary operated as an independent store by Beverly and Beatrice Barnum, sisters from London who moved to the United States during the 2000 millennium scare and opened the bookshop in Hurricane Bay. The place felt cozy, clean, and sparked fame for the two murders and suicide that occurred there in 1998 by a Mr. Richard Black, when the store was previously called Black’s Bookshop. Black shot his wife in the back of the head, then his girlfriend, Madeline Madcar, and hung himself thereafter in the bookstore’s children’s section. The Barnum sisters had not fallen under the bookstore’s curse and were surviving as small business owners. Until today.

  Neither Barnum sister knew that Margo Pagino could be labeled as a controlling tyrant. To survive the author’s two-hour book signing would be a great feat for the pair. Margo had the reputation of being bitchy, snide, and charmless. Controlling, smart-mouthed, and cantankerous were just a few details that described the writer from previous book signings across the tri-county area. Margo’s villainous behavior preceded her, a fact of which the Barnum owners were unaware.

  I stood in line for ten minutes with a copy of Fire’s Blend held against my chest. Casey got bored and ended up in the science fiction section, scanning paperback titles. He held a Long Island in his right hand, sipping from its red straw. Three women and two men were in front of me with their own Long Islands, and I waited patiently behind them to see Margo again. Another five minutes passed, and I had finally made it to the front of the line with my book, happy as a clam, of course.

  “Did you find my son yet?” Margo inquired, scowling up from a walnut desk covered in crisp and hardback copies of her latest romance, Fire’s Blend.

  Other romantic paperbacks that the old bird had written were piled on the table. Saleable titles included Fire’s Mercenary, Fire’s Passion, Fire’s Indulgence, and Fire’s Shelter, among others. Each cover showcased a big-breasted redhead in compromised positions, and muscular and semi-naked men with perfect attributes and flawless torsos. To her right were three blueberry-colored markers and a coffee from The Strong Pot, a lesbian-owned coffee shop next to Barnum’s Booktuary.

  “I don’t think he’s missing,” I told her, placing my unpurchased hardback copy of her latest bestseller in front of her. Then I said, “No inscription. I only want your signature on the title page.”

  She shook her head, distraught. “I won’t sign anything for you until you find Bobby.”

  “As I said, I don’t think he’s missing.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Gregg Hofflander’s girlfriend. I believe her name is Candy.”

  “You mean his third wife,” she huffed, correcting me. “Who else told you that my son isn’t missing?”

  I wasn’t surprised that Candy and Gregg were husband and wife. Nor was I going to disclose to Margo that Candy acted promiscuous behind her husband’s back with a handsome beefhead named Mitch. Instead, I said, “Edgar Sign. He’s part of Underground Spectacle.”

  She gave me a look that stated her confusion, continued to shake her head, and said, “I don’t know who or what you’re saying. Feel free to share something, anything at all, with me that I feel is entertaining. And hurry up about it because you’re holding up my line of fans.”

  Funny thing: I didn’t know either Sign or Underground Spectacle. Both were mysteries to me. But something itched at me and wanted me to believe that they were important details in both the fire at the Flaming Flamingo and the disappearance of Bobby Pagino.

  To appease the billionaire at the table, I said, “I’m currently trying to figure out who Sign is, and what exactly is Underground Spectacle.”

  “Time is running out,” she snapped at me and handed the novel back to me, unsigned. “Go now, Axle. And don’t meet with me again until you have more details about my missing son.”

  Like a puppy dog with its tail between its legs, I turned away from the old cad and went in search of Casey, who I ran into near the horror section with three science fiction paperbacks in his left hand, ready to purchase.

  “Where’s you signed book?” he asked, looking at my empty hands.

  “She wouldn’t sign a copy for me. At least not until I have more information about Bobby’s disappearance.”

  He chuckled. “She’s a cold and calculating woman.”

  “But she’s paying me twenty grand to do a job for her.”

  He chuckled a second time. “You’ve got your hands full with her, Mr. Detective.”

  “I do,” I admitted.

  Margo Pagino resembled the redheaded mistress she wrote about: sassy, controlling of her men, and without patience.

  Chapter 18: Laura Monigal

  Turtle Bay

  Monigal Estate

  4:57 P.M.

  I respected people when they made appointments and kept them. Laura Monigal, the wealthy owner of Monigal Motels, Incorporated, knew that I held a seat with that group of people. I arrived at her estate on time, parked in front of her massive stucco mansion, and Baxter, Mrs. Monigal’s personal butler, greeted at its sky-reaching front doors.

  Baxter, a handsome old chap with pale blue eyes and a handlebar mustache, welcome me inside. His almost-white hair had made him look astute and quite intelligent.

  Like a good servant, he escorted to the mansion’s east patio, which overlooked the city of Turtle Bay and the Gulf of Mexico. The patio looked obnoxious in size and comprised of white alabaster. Steps to the far left led down to the east garden, a gazebo, and fountain of Neptune.

  Baxter then left me alone with the estate owner.

  Mrs. Monigal was seated in the shade, under an all-white umbrella. She held a crystal tumbler in her right hand. The clear liquid inside smelled like gin. I guessed she had enjoyed her alcohol and had already become bombed on the four fingers, or more, enjoying her early evening alone, waiting for my arrival. At sixty-nine years old, she seemed much spryer than her physical age. She wore white from head to tie and batted her pale brown eyes.

  “Mr. Dupree, we meet at last.”

  She didn’t stand; not that I expected her to. We shook hands, and she offered me a crystal tumbler of straight gin, which I politely declined.

  She said, sounding like sandpaper against rough wood, “Ice ruins it for me.”

  I sat across from her at the glass round table and saw a pack of camels next to a second crystal gin on the table in front of us. The pack explained the woman’s yellow fingernails, sunken cheeks, teeth, and gratingly deep voice.

  Perhaps she saw me looking at the Camels because she scolded me. “Don’t judge me, young man. A woman my age has her vices. Now mind your manners and business.”

  I shared a brief, but sincere, apology for my bad behavior.

  “Not to worry, young man. I won’t hold it against you.”

  She took a mouthful of gin down her throat and smiled. Her yellow choppers looked a bit rotten, black and covered in nicotine near her gums. She took a second swig of her drink, which reminded me of how one of my past
boyfriends used to drink, a beefy marine named Jove Pennington.

  “Is it true that you’re friends with the actress my grandson is currently sleeping with?”

  “Rebecca Rexx?” I asked, nervous as hell but unable to determine why.

  “Yes. Rebecca Rexx. I loved her in A Time to Dine.”

  “Many people did. The movie was a blockbuster. Plus, it won her a pair of awards.”

  “I used to act, young man. Are you aware of that?”

  I wasn’t, but believed her comment interesting. “Do share, Mrs. Monigal.”

  “Laura,” she corrected me. “Please call me Laura. Mrs. Monigal is so stuffy and sounds old. I may look a hundred years old, but I feel as if I’m in my roaring twenties.” A chirp of laughter exited her small frame, and she shared a polite and somewhat elegant smile with me. Her right hand wobbled a little, and drops of alcohol spiraled out of her crystal tumbler and landed on her lap, not that she cared. “I was in twelve movies back in the forties,” she said, sounding confident and unembarrassed because of her somewhat drunken state. “All of them were bombs, and Hollywood cast me out of California. Not that any of these timeless details are pertinent to your visit here today.” She took another swig from her tumbler, waved a hand at me, and added, “Tell me how I can help you today, Mr. Dupree.”

  “You have a history with arson.”

  She placed her drink down, fingered the pack of cigarettes with her right hand, and began to play with the box. She glared at me, perhaps finding the right thing to say. “I do. The trial was grueling. But, as you probably know, I was found innocent.”

  She was only declared innocent because she had allegedly paid her jurors off. The facts were rather elementary in my opinion. The fire started on May 31, 2012, the exact same day as the fire at the Flaming Flamingo. The East Hurricane Bay Inn had burned to the ground during the night. Fire Chief Darren Dawe confirmed that gasoline had been used to start the blaze. The inn sat next to the Monigal Estate, and everyone knew that Laura had hated Oliver East, the owner of the Inn, claiming him a cheat, liar, bastard, and womanizer.

  A crystal tumbler with a gasoline residue inside was uncovered at the site. The tumbler, similar to the one Laura currently used upon my visit, had her fingerprints all over it, which coincidentally matched the crystal tumbler set at her estate that night. Public knowledge clarified that Laura had had a two-year romance with Oliver, which soured after the exposure of his affair with a New York City hussy and debutante. Judged as scarred, Laura took revenge on the man by burning his inn down. The twelve jurors on her trial deemed her innocent. No one had investigated tampering with the jurors, although rumors around Hurricane Bay and Turtle Bay painted a clear picture that each one of the twelve jurors walked away with a million dollars, tax exempt, since the payments were in cash.

  I asked, “What do you know of the Hurricane Bay fire at the Flaming Flamingo?”

  “Nothing, of course. Arsonists aren’t lining up at my doorstep and purchasing advice from me, Mr. Dupree. Hindering fire bugs don’t have a club with membership fees.” She fingered the Camels, seemed calm and collected, and added, “I would advise you to investigate the person who hired you. Never overlook the basics.”

  “Peter Rotunda?”

  “The one and only,” she said, smirking. “You can never be too careful. Sometimes an arsonist can be right under your nose when you’re not looking for him or her.”

  “Of course.” I shared a drink with her before leaving.

  Chapter 19: Bruno Grigade

  Kalhoun Design

  728 Sunshine West Road

  5:21 P.M.

  I sat in my Mercedes with a pair of Bushnell Powerview binoculars and focused on the interior of Kalhoun Design. The business proved to be functional and profitable for the last six years. Casey Kalhoun had obtained his degree in design from Colossal Designing School, just as his intern, Bruno Grigade, currently attempted to achieve. Casey had obtained uppity clients with fat budgets throughout the Hurricane Bay area and had gained a rewarding reputation along the Coast as being a top-notch interior designer. A few of his clients were from Turtle Bay, but Casey wanted to gain more from the wealthy area, adding bulk to his checkbook. One of Casey’s goals was to open a second Kalhoun Design in Turtle Bay. Although I didn’t know Casey’s real age, a sore subject and unspoken, I knew that he came across as young, talented, and enjoyed his work and life.

  Kalhoun Design’s three front windows overlooked Sunshine West Road, which made it quite an easy mission to spy on my boyfriend and his intern. The far right window looked into my lover’s office, and it looked as if a hurricane had upended it. Fabric samples, a variety of stone slabs, carpet squares, and files were scattered about the room. The center window looked into a marble working area with four massive waist-high tables and designing mockups, which included steel wall tile, cement coffee tables, and silk-covered bowls. The far left window peeked into the lime green and gray foyer, which included Bruno’s desk, thimble-shaped chairs, and oil paintings by a local artist named Edwardo Cantilla. One of Bruno’s jobs entailed welcoming guests to Kalhoun Design while beaming his white smile.

  What I knew of Bruno Grigade did not humor me. He seemed irresponsible with social drug use, had been arrested for public drunkenness at seventeen, and compiled six speeding tickets in the last eight months while driving his sporty Maserati along the busy streets of Hurricane Bay. His German daddy owned Grigade Publishing Group, which accrued billions, and could pay any fine that Bruno acquired. Bruno came across as spoiled, bitchy, unaffected by laws, but pleasant to be around because of his charm, smart wit, and attractive grin. Mrs. Gertrude Grigade, Bruno’s mother, lived in Miami with her younger sister, Greta, and spent a vast amount of her husband’s wealth on frivolous items, which included handsome pool boys, tennis instructors, and the occasional electrician.

  Bruno’s daddy paid Colossal Designing School over two hundred thousand dollars for Bruno’s education, some of which went into Casey’s pocket since he mentored the young student. The contract for Bruno’s interior design internship entailed eleven months, May through April. Once the internship ended, Bruno needed to complete eighteen credits at Colossal and would then have a degree in design.

  Casey talked about Bruno all the time, which disturbed me. According to my lover, Bruno acted charming, funny, smelled good, and faked being patient. Other intriguing and strange details of the intern included his ability to work with a variety of woods, his uncanny talent of putting colors together, and somehow mixing German, American, and Floridian furniture together to appeal to a client’s needs. Also, Bruno liked to talk about the many men he slept with, the drugs he took, and white parties that he attended after hours.

  I realized that Casey had befriended Bruno, which I really didn’t have a problem with. My concern revolved around their unlimited time together, and I questioned trust for both parties. I knew Bruno had a crush on my lover because Casey had given me valuable and challenging information. And I knew the intern had very little control of his dick, using it on numerous studs along the Gulf. Mix the two concerns together, and Bruno just happened to be one tile sample away from bedding my boyfriend.

  As for Casey, since our romance flourished in its fourth month, I hadn’t determined him a faithful and devoted man to me as I had hoped, fearing infidelity. Casey hadn’t admitted to me that he had fallen for his intern, who acted as his assistant. Tales of the two blowing each other during their shared lunch hour had not surfaced as of yet, and I hoped they wouldn’t. Casey thought Bruno somewhat immature, high maintenance, and what he called quirky, which I fully didn’t understand. He did say that Bruno sometimes acted immature, which blocked his affection for the young man. That information would not, and could not, prevent Casey from banging Bruno in the office bathroom, nailing the German against one of its tiled walls. Truth being, I had to believe that Casey wouldn’t do that, solely bound to me, keeping our affair monogamous, and would deter Bruno’s sexual and heated
advances.

  Casey and Bruno stood over a four-foot square table behind the center window, shoulder to shoulder. Both were hunched over colorful drawings that pertained to a recent job. The two chatted about something, smiled, and shared off and on bouts of laughter during my hour of spying. Not once did they kiss, hug, or become unprofessional. Hand-holding did not happen. Nor did Bruno place a seductive palm on my boyfriend’s back. Bruno did not bend my man over the table in front of them and have his way with Casey’s tight bottom. Rather, the young intern remained on his best behavior, and Casey ended up staying faithful to me.

  I could not lie to myself, thinking the two in a fiery affair. Fools always lost their boyfriends because of unknown cheating, and I didn’t want to be labeled as that in the future weeks to come. I started to fall in love with Casey Kalhoun after four months with the man and was willing to do anything to keep him. If infidelity occurred in the early stages of our relationship, I needed to end my affair with the interior designer and continue my search for Mr. Right. Thus far, he came across as loyal to me, but that didn’t mean he would stay dedicated to our romance in the days to come.

  I drove away from Kalhoun Design, pleased with my uneventful findings, and traveled to Casey’s bungalow on Hurricane Bay Road. I had fallen in love with the place and felt comfortable there. I picked up Chinese on the way, had a meal ready for him when he arrived home, and hoped we could rub our bodies together for a second time that day.

  Chapter 20: Two Attractions

  Hurricane Bay Road

  Bungalow 16

  7:03 P.M.

  To my surprise, Clifton Monigal, the first attraction that balmy evening, awaited my arrival. His Ram 1500 Crew Cab truck looked like a giant fire hydrant parked in the shell drive. The handsome gentleman climbed out of the beast and walked up to me. Finally, he looked like a cowboy dressed in his Stetson, copper-colored Oklahoma state-shaped belt buckle the size of coffee can, tight jeans that outlined his bulging crotch, and tan cowboy boots. Attractive seemed an understatement, which told me why Rebecca slept with the man, among doing other naughty things. Hot and rugged ranch hand fit the gentleman better, even if he could have been a fake.