Riptide (Sam McRae Mystery 3)

“Sure, hon.” She flounced off and returned with both. It took great restraint not to stuff the whole muffin into my mouth.

Later, as I gobbled my breakfast, Flo entertained with her running commentary. She could have done a solo Broadway show. “The Vagina Diner Monologues.” Flo was funny in the way that small-town waitresses can be. And friendly? Other than Amber at FPL, she was the nicest person I’d dealt with lately. While I harbored thoughts of asking her to run for mayor, Flo said something that snapped me from my reverie.

“Hear about that murder at Bower Farms last night?”

“Murder? You’re kidding.” A man two stools down spoke.

“Well, according to the news I heard on the radio this morning, they think the dead guy might have been smuggling illegal aliens.”

The man snorted. “Shit. Spics. The guy got killed smuggling Spics into the country? Spics who take our jobs? Serves him right, I say. Son of a bitch.”

I could feel my face grow hot and my temper rise. Spics, my ass. And whose jobs are they taking? The ones you don’t want. The ones that pay shit.

I did a long, slow count to ten. Then twenty. Forced myself to breath deeply, in and out. I had enough problems without going off on a local redneck.

“Stan, they aren’t all bad,” Flo replied. “Some of them work damned hard. They do work no one else will take. Construction, landscaping, poultry work, crab meat processing. Thankless stuff that doesn’t pay. God knows, I should know about that.”

I looked up at Flo with new appreciation. She sauntered over, her coffee-pot appendage at the ready. “More?”

I smiled. “No thanks. I think I’ve had enough.”

I settled my bill with Flo who doubled as cashier, pressing a ten-dollar tip into her hand. She looked at me as if I’d lost my mind.

“You obviously work very hard,” I said. “And you just made my morning. Thank you.”

With that, I got up and walked away. But not before catching the smile on her face.

*****

With a full stomach, I couldn’t postpone the inevitable any longer. I had to make the call to Jamila about her car. I turned on my phone, expecting messages from her. None were there.

I expected to reach an angry friend. She wasn’t. In fact, she took the news about her car with astonishing poise and grace, saying that she’d get in touch with her insurance company about securing a rental. Her comprehensive insurance would cover all of it, of course. I guess when you’re a murder suspect, having your car fucked with is pretty low on your list of concerns.

She even forgave me for hanging up on her after I told her about my lovely evening—summoned by an anonymous call to another murder scene, arriving at Conroy’s house to find him in a mysterious meeting with someone or other, fleeing God knows who in an old Chevy during a high-speed chase down Coastal Highway.

“I passed out in the car, and when I woke up, the sun was rising,” I explained.

“Don’t worry about it. Sounds like you’ve been through hell.”

Well, what about you?

“Are you all right?”

The breathy sound of a sigh. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

“Any more media calls?”

“A few.”

Shit. I wondered how long we could hold off that pack of jackals. In fact, I wondered if any of them were exploring possible connections between last night’s murder at Bower Farms and Billy Ray’s unfortunate demise.

“Sam, I should probably call the insurance company.”

Jamila’s voice snapped me back to attention.

“Right. Good idea.”

“You’ll need a car, won’t you?”