Lottery in Paradise (Florida Keys Mystery Series Book 11) Read online

  LOTTERY

  IN

  PARADISE

  PARADISE SERIES

  BOOK 11

  DEBORAH BROWN

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all materials in this book.

  This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  LOTTERY IN PARADISE

  All Rights Reserved

  Copyright © 2017 Deborah Brown

  Kindle Edition

  Cover Design: Future Impressions

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  Contents

  PARADISE SERIES NOVELS

  LOTTERY IN PARADISE

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  About the Author

  PARADISE SERIES NOVELS

  Crazy in Paradise

  Deception in Paradise

  Trouble in Paradise

  Murder in Paradise

  Greed in Paradise

  Revenge in Paradise

  Kidnapped in Paradise

  Swindled in Paradise

  Executed in Paradise

  Hurricane in Paradise

  Lottery in Paradise

  Starfish Island – A standalone romance

  Preview and purchase Deborah’s books at Amazon

  LOTTERY IN PARADISE

  Chapter One

  Another warm, sunny day dawned in the Florida Keys. Skyrocketing north on the Overseas Highway would eventually get one to Miami and beyond, and to the south, it ended in Key West. Today’s drive was marred by the woman behind the wheel hanging a sudden u-turn and slowing slightly before careening around the corner, using a little-known shortcut, then jamming on the gas again in pursuit of the flatbed that had taken her beloved Porsche into custody.

  “Fabiana Merceau, slow the heck down,” I yelled over the sound of the traffic. For once, the irate Frenchwoman, her long brown hair blowing in the wind, had her window rolled down. She’d apparently forgotten her own rule, one she’d nagged me incessantly about when I hung my head out the window, which reminded her of a dog. “Pull up alongside the truck, and I’ll get the name off the door. You can call and find out what’s going on. It’s not like you’ve missed a payment.”

  Part of the bargain Fab had struck with her best and currently former client, Brick Famosa, was that, as his private investigator, one of her perks was the latest shiny sports car. The woman changed autos like she changed her stiletto heels, but this model had lasted longer than the rest. Brick and Fab’s relationship had recently exploded over his complete lack of support. After her established track record of doing whatever it took to get a job done, even skirting the law, he’d grown complacent in the knowledge that it wasn’t his butt on the line. In the heat of the moment, she’d lied and told him she was Europe-bound for several months with her boyfriend. I suspected that Brick and she would sweep the hard feelings under the rug when the two figured out a way to say “I screwed up” without admitting fault.

  Fab hit the steering wheel with a closed fist. “I’m going to run that jerk off the road.”

  “No. You. Are. Not. And you’re not going to shoot out his tires either.” Though there was a zero chance of that happening. As talented as the hot, sexy woman was, she couldn’t steer and shoot at the same time. “We’ll act like normal people and call the police.” Normal, I laughed to myself. I hadn’t heard myself described that way in a long time. Mostly, I heard “weird” bandied about. An over-exaggeration – I’m familiar with weird, and that’s not me.

  “You better come up with something better than that.” Fab pulled up alongside the truck on the driver’s side.

  I powered the window down and hung my head out, my hand in mid-air, ready to flag the man down, even though I knew that chances were slim that he’d pull over. Pulling my head back in the window, I said, “Change of plans.” I pushed my red hair back into place, smoothing it down, certain it was a wind-whipped mess. “The fancy tow truck is one of Brick’s.”

  Brick and I had a tenuous relationship; it was hard to trust him when I knew he never put Fab’s safety first, or mine either. He opposed our relationship, knowing that several times I had convinced my daring friend to calm down and rethink her plan. As backup to Super PI Fab, there were few jobs that didn’t include flying bullets and running for our lives. I was happy for the respite. So were our boyfriends, who’d had a face-to-face with Brick, laying down the rules: no more withholding details, and if it came out after the fact that he knew there was a high chance of danger, it would be the last mistake he would make. My boyfriend followed that up with a right cross to Brick’s eye.

  Fab made an outraged sound. “I don’t believe you.”

  I put my hands over my ears. “I’m sitting right here, and I’m not hard of hearing.”

  “Why would Brick tow my car?”

  I fished my phone out of my pocket and held it up. “Ssh. I’m going to find out.”

  Brick answered on the second ring. “Madison Westin! What do you want?”

  I hit the speaker button. “Fab’s car just got towed.”

  Total silence. I could hear him breathing, so I knew he hadn’t hung up.

  “It’s not like she’s driving it, cavorting around Europe with that pretty-face boyfriend she hooked up with,” he grouched, loud enough that I pushed the phone farther away. “I didn’t want you even sitting in it.”

  I should send him a copy of my latest physical, showing me to be cootie-free. “A heads-up would have been nice. When Fab calls, I’m going to tell her you had someone sneak onto my property and steal it. You’d never do your own dirty work. I’ll leave off that you’re a lowlife; she’s probably already figur
ed that out.”

  “Tell her whatever you want,” he roared. “It’s my damn 100K sports car. I’ll do whatever the hell I please with it.” The line went dead. I looked at my best friend and wanted to give her an awkward hug over the console of the Hummer.

  The conversation was a good reminder of why I’d rejected the work/car trade deal and insisted on paying for my SUV. Instead, when Brick had come through with a good price on the Hummer, lowering it significantly below sticker, I’d snapped it up, not finding out until later that his family members fighting over it had sent the price plummeting for a fast sale.

  “You could return from Europe tomorrow,” I suggested.

  “It’s time for me to buy a car.”

  “You know my new step-daddy could get you a good deal. Just remind him you’re loved like a sister.”

  She crunched her nose.

  “Or…” I half-laughed, “You could talk to Mother first.”

  Mother had recently married her longtime badass boyfriend, Jimmy Spoon. The twosome were happy. The groom had taken his checkered past and turned himself into a pillar of the community that folks either respected or feared.

  “I can’t believe Brick would do that to me.” Fab sighed, honking at the car next to her. He honked back and waved.

  Fab powered her window up.

  “We could steal it back. The only problem is you couldn’t drive it anywhere because he would report it as stolen.”

  “It would be fun if I could see the look on his face.”

  I laughed along with her, picturing his outrage and frustration.

  * * *

  Fab drove back through Tarpon Cove to almost the end, turning down a side road, then another, and pulling into the driveway of my white, two-story Key West-style house with wraparound porch, which I had inherited from my Aunt Elizabeth. Growing up, my brother and I had spent the summer months each year playing on the beach. Aunt Elizabeth and I had scoured local nurseries with an eye out for new tropical plants. Since moving in, I’d added my own touch, filling the courtyard with brightly colored pots. The last hurricane that whirled through left broken pottery and plants in its wake that I hadn’t yet replaced. The seashells I’d scored from the beach to use as mulch had disappeared into the fierce winds, which had left me with very few unscathed pots.

  The driveway easily held two cars, and normally the Porsche would be sitting there. Fab parked, taking her half out of the middle. “I need a drink,” she said, opening the door.

  “The guys are here.” I turned and pointed across the street to where the large testosterone truck and Mercedes were parked. The family who’d bought the house as a weekend residence encouraged us to use it for extra parking when they weren’t around. They liked that the house appeared to be occupied. “You can take center stage for the car drama,” I said to Fab’s back as she headed into the house.

  I followed her inside, banging the door closed, which I normally frowned at; today, it released some frustration. I turned left to find Fab’s boyfriend, Didier, a big smile plastered on his face, holding up a pitcher of margaritas—my favorite. The one-time supermodel turned real estate investor had an impressive set of abs, revealed by his bathing trunks, his black hair damp from a swim. His blue eyes filled with concern as he set down the pitcher and crossed into the living room, holding out his arms to the woman he loved. I heard whispers in French and sighed, wishing I knew the language so I could eavesdrop.

  “We’ll be back,” Didier said, scooping Fab into his arms and heading up the stairs.

  I flung off my shoes and tossed them in the direction of the boot tray that sat inside the front door. I fist-pumped when they bounced off the wall and into the copper tray.

  I’d barely got my fingers wrapped around the stem of a salted glass when strong arms encircled me from behind. Hands grasped my waist, and in one sudden, powerful movement, I ended up against a rock-hard chest.

  “Ouch,” Creole grumbled from behind me. He lifted the back of my shirt and removed the Glock from my waistband, setting it on the counter. He turned me in his arms and laid a thorough, crushing kiss on my lips. “Why the gun? A job you failed to inform me about?” He drew his eyes together in a frown.

  His blue eyes, almost cobalt today, stared down into mine and waited for my answer. Over six feet and well-muscled himself, he was also dressed in swim trunks, his dark hair plastered back against his head. He and Didier were workout partners, often including my brother as well. When not working undercover chasing bad guys, Creole joined the guys for long runs on the beach and peddling a ridiculous number of miles on their bikes. His birth name was Luc Baptiste, but he never used it, favoring his moniker, Creole. Only a handful of people knew his real name, and no one called him anything other than Creole.

  “You know…” I shook my finger at him, which he promptly nibbled on. “Fab hates it when I leave the house without my Glock or other suitable firearm.” I leaned into him, wanting another kiss.

  “And?” he said sternly, although his eyes twinkled.

  “I owed her a shopping day without any complaining. We didn’t get far.” I went on to tell him about the shock of her repoed car whizzing past us and detailed what happened after.

  “Bastard!” Creole growled. “Didier and I have our fingers crossed that neither of you will ever work for him again.” He grabbed my hand and cut through the living room to the stairs. “Come on, let’s get you dressed for a swim.”

  Chapter Two

  It was a perfect warm night with a gentle breeze. The four of us sat around the pool in chaises, finishing off drinks after Didier’s dinner of shrimp tacos. He’d cut up an impressive array of vegetables for grilling so we could assemble the tacos to our liking.

  After moving in, I’d given the drab patio/pool area a major overhaul, making it an extension of the house. I’d also done away with the small dining room and removed one wall, opening up the living room and kitchen. The addition of the outdoor kitchen and eating area made it easy to accommodate my family and their significant others and turned it into the gathering place for most family functions. The fun part had been tracking down comfortable poolside furniture and colorful pillows.

  The sun quickly sank low on the horizon, and the darkened sky started to blink with stars ready to make an appearance. The lights clicked on via the newly installed timer. I had a passion for outdoor lighting, and no one dared to say I overdid it. White Christmas lights draped the back fence, wrapped around the trunks of the palm trees, and twisted in the potted plants that lined the pool area. Here too, the last hurricane had left its calling card, sending more pots and plants airborne, quite a few landing in the pool, requiring it to be drained and cleaned. Now the blue water sparkled, lights floated on the surface.

  My back to Creole’s chest, he leaned into my ear and whispered, “Let’s go to the beach house.”

  He owned a waterfront home in an isolated area a couple of exits out of town. As an added advantage, he shared the solitary road that dead-ended in each direction with only a handful of neighbors. He’d bought the “deal” from an investor eager to unload it and had taken his time renovating it. Open space and comfort were foremost in his mind, and he accomplished both goals. He and I were the only ones that knew its location. I had wrestled a promise out of Fab that she’d never follow me there. Creole didn’t want unannounced visitors, and in his line of work, he didn’t want to give trouble a chance to come knocking.

  Before I could answer, a scream filled the air. The four of us bolted up, almost in unison.

  “It’s coming from the neighbor’s.” Fab jumped out of Didier’s arms, landing on her feet, and pointed to the cedar fence that marked the property line before heading into the house.

  “Bring my Berretta. It’s in the junk drawer!” I yelled after her.

  She snorted a not-so-subtle reminder that she knew where everything was kept in the house better than I did. When she first moved in, she organized the garage to her liking and mine; now I could act
ually find what I was looking for, though she preferred to do it herself. I overlooked her annoying habit of rooting through the house’s closets, cupboards, and drawers. I’d tried to interest her in organizing all of them, but she only laughed.

  I’d never regretted the day I arrived home to find Fab lounging on the couch, suitcases in the foyer, boxes in the garage, announcing she’d moved in. To think the woman had initially rebuffed my invitation to be friends. It was a reminder to not give up, and I was happy I’d worn her down. Since Fab had never voiced any objections, I assumed it had worked out for her as well as it had for me.

  Creole jumped up, taking me with him, and set me on my feet. “You and Fab will stay here. Besides, I’m going to need your Berretta.”

  Fab flew out the French doors, handguns in both hands; no room in her string bikini. Without a word, she handed mine to Creole.

  I sent her a look that should’ve singed her eyebrows.

  “You can thank me later; I just saved you from a fight with your boyfriend.” Fab took a couple of steps toward the path that ran alongside the house. We used to call it the “secret path,” but too many people knew about it now.

  Didier reached out, grabbing her arm and bringing her to a halt. “You’re not going either. Let Creole handle it. Then I don’t have to worry about you getting hurt or ending up in jail.”

  Fab’s face flushed with anger. She jerked her arm out of his hold and stomped away, catching up to Creole.

  I grabbed up a wraparound skirt from a nearby chair, tying it around my waist. “Come on.” I tugged on Didier’s hand, dragging him into the house to get shoes and out through the front door. “We’re not going to miss the good stuff.” By the time we got to the curb, sirens could be heard in the distance.

  Fab came running out of the driveway of the house next door. “The neighbor is dead,” she said breathlessly. “He’s lying in the doorway.”

  Flashing lights careened around the corner, and the siren shut off. The three of us stood in silence, heads turned toward the police car.