Beach Blanket Homicide (Lucy McGuffin, Psychic Amateur Detective 1)

“Who is it, boy? Not a ghost, I hope.” I giggle at my own silliness, because really? A canine ghost whisperer?

Still, I can tell that Paco (because I refuse to call him Cornelius) is an exceptional dog. He walked all the way from the animal shelter to The Bistro to find me. And he undoubtedly led me to Abby’s body. I hope that whichever one of Susan’s relatives ends up taking him appreciates just how awesome he is.

Through the large glass pane I see a Whispering Bay police cruiser parked in front and Travis Fontaine standing outside. He’s wearing his uniform, and he’s alone.

I unlock the door and swing it wide to face him. “This is twice in one day, Donut Boy. Maybe you can’t read, but we’re closed.”

If he’s offended by my hostility, he doesn’t show it. He looks at Paco and frowns. “What’s the dog doing here? I thought he was at the animal shelter.”

“He ran away.”

“And you found him?”

“More like he found me.”

He looks at my bare feet, then his gaze slowly sweeps up to take in my jeans and T-shirt. I’m sure my hair has flour in it because I’m a little messy that way when I’m baking but it’s better than a dead lizard.

I feel antsy under his perusal. “What are you doing here?”

“Your lights were on, and since I was planning on coming to talk to you first thing in the morning, I figured now was as good a time as any.” He shrugs, and for the first time, he seems uncertain. Or maybe he realizes how late it is and he’s embarrassed.

I usher him into the café. He glances at my empty coffee pot longingly, so I take pity on him and start up a fresh brew.

“Late night patrol?”

“Technically, I’m a rookie on this squad, so yeah, I’m catching all the crap hours.”

He doesn’t say anything else until the coffee is ready. I pour him a cup and make one for myself, and we migrate to a table in the front of the restaurant. Paco jumps on Travis’s lap and instead of shooing him off, he playfully scratches him behind his ear while he takes a long appreciate sip of the coffee. “You remembered I take it black.”

“I remember how all my customers like their coffee. If you’re here about Sebastian, I couldn’t get him to tell me what he was doing in the rec center with Abby.”

“That’s too bad. But that’s only one of the reasons I stopped by. We got a call from the Mexico Beach Police Department to be on the lookout for a possible scam artist. Derrick Delgado called them with a complaint about a woman impersonating a member of the law office handling his sister’s will.”

“Really? Who would do that?” I don’t even blink, I’m that good now. Who knew that lying was one of my many talents?

“He described her as mid-twenties with dark curly hair, big brown eyes, and glasses.” He looks at me over the rim of his cup. “You know anyone who might fit that description?”

“Is that all we have to go on? I mean, that could be anyone.”

“Apparently she’s also afraid of squirrels.”

“It’s called scuirophobia, and it affects over two hundred and fifty thousand Americans.”

He stares at me.

“I must have picked that up playing one of those kinky trivia games.”

He continues to stare.

“Not that I have it! No way. I love squirrels. I’d have one as a pet if it didn’t violate a health code or something.”

“Mr. Delgado was also quite impressed by the way she was able to, as he put it, fill out a pair of jeans.”

I almost choke on my coffee. “Yuck! He must be at least seventy years old!”

“Miss McGuffin, are you seriously going to tell me it wasn’t you?”

There’s no way I can fudge around this, so I confess. “Okay, it was me. And…call me Lucy.” Which is only fair since this morning he asked me to call him by his first name. Plus, Miss McGuffin sounds ridiculous.