Dead and Breakfast (4 page)

Taking a deep breath, Autumn grabbed her laptop off the squat pine nightstand. She sat on her bed, put a pillow on her thighs, and rested the computer on top of it like a makeshift desk. Everything in Autumn’s bedroom was makeshift. From the mismatched pine furniture to the squeaky brass bed to the lavender and blue walls that were the result of Uncle Duncan running out of paint. Her mother’s bedroom was just on the other side of the bathroom they shared. Way too close for Autumn’s comfort.

After six months of living there, she still hadn’t put up any posters or personal items other than a couple of framed photographs on the dresser. In the photo of Autumn and her father last October at the Apple Festival, her father’s arm was draped around her as she held a bushel full of Jonagolds. The other photo showed her and Natasha, arms linked at the Homecoming game sophomore year. They had known each other since first grade. Although, aside from a few text messages, Instagram comments, and that email she sent earlier, Tasha rarely contacted Autumn anymore.

Autumn opened up the laptop and connected to the Cayo Hueso’s spotty Wi-Fi. In addition to some trigonometry homework and an English paper, Autumn had to write her college admissions essays, although now she questioned the point of it all. She needed a sack of money to land in her lap.

Autumn had emailed the chair of the journalism department at Candlewick College, a small liberal arts school in New Jersey, for guidance. Autumn worried her lack of journalism experience would prevent her from being accepted into the program, which, according to the college website, limited the class size.

Autumn logged into her email account and exhaled when she saw the woman had responded.

Dear Ms. Abernathy,

I’m so delighted that you are interested in our award-winning journalism department, and I look forward to reviewing your application this winter. In response to your question regarding scholarship opportunities, we do have one special award—the Thomas Henderson Investigative Journalism Scholarship Award. Students must prove exceptional journalism skills in reporting and leadership either through a professional newspaper internship or via the high school editorial staff. Some of our previous winners have even conducted true crime research using police records. The scholarship application is due the same time as your college admissions packet. All materials can be found on the website.

Best of luck,

Bridget P. Crimson

Autumn’s gut twisted. Aside from some research papers in history, Autumn had no real journalism or leadership experience. Her portfolio held a few measly clippings about student government meetings and prom committee finance issues. And she left New Jersey just when the news editor position opened up at her high school paper. Autumn was as qualified for the scholarship as her Aunt Glenda. Getting out of Florida seemed hopeless.

If Evelyn hadn’t yanked Autumn away from home, she’d be the editor of her high school paper by now.

“What’s so great about New Jersey anyway?” said a voice beside her.

Autumn jumped, nearly knocking the computer to the floor. Katie’s hands were on her hips. Clearly, she had been reading over Autumn’s shoulder. Autumn snapped the laptop closed. “God, you scared me. Why aren’t you using those creepy powers on Mrs. Paulson?”

“That bloated peacock can’t see me. I’ve tried. So what’s so great about New Jersey?”

“It’s home.”

Katie swept her arms around Autumn’s bedroom as if she was showcasing it for
The Price Is Right
. “Isn’t this home now?”

Autumn shook her head. “Not to me it isn’t.”

Katie glided over to the photo of Autumn and Natasha on the dresser. “I was originally from New York. Came to Key West for Christmas break to hang out with my cousin Duncan.”

Autumn raised a brow.

“I’m from his mother’s side of the family,” Katie pointed out. “You and I are not related. Had I just stayed home, I’d probably still be alive. Instead I overdosed on Quaaludes. Although, if I were alive, I’d be old. Probably in my fifties or something.” She grinned as if the memory had been pleasant and not grisly. “And I’d never get to see Liam without a shirt on. He is totally far out.”

Autumn rose from the bed. Whenever Katie was in the room, she felt like she had to stay on guard. “I told you not to mess with him. You could’ve seriously hurt him.”

Katie flipped her long hair. “I didn’t.”

Autumn narrowed her eyes. “Come on, don’t lie to me. I saw the scratches on his face. The guy was completely freaked out.”

Again, there was that pout. “I didn’t do anything to him, let alone touch him. I’m not sure I can, although that does sound like fun. I’d love to put my hands on his—”

“If you didn’t scratch him, how did he get those marks on his cheek?” She wondered if for a moment Liam was telling the truth about the cat.

Katie waved her hand, dismissing Autumn’s question. “There’s another ghost here.”

“You mean the young mother with the baby?” Autumn thought she knew all about the spirits at Cayo Hueso, even if she hadn’t seen them all. Some ghosts were just more elusive than others. Aunt Glenda was never sure who the young mother was, but Autumn often heard the wailing of the infant. She shuddered just thinking about them.

Katie shook her head. “No. A different spirit. A darker one.”

“Who? I’ve never seen another ghost.” Aunt Glenda claimed Uncle Duncan haunted the Cayo too, but Autumn doubted it. She’d like to think her uncle would visit her—he used to entertain her with magic tricks when he was alive.

Autumn breathed out a puff of air that lifted her chestnut bangs off her forehead. “Why haven’t I seen that ghost?”

“Murdered spirits aren’t very outgoing.”

Autumn’s eyes widened. “This ghost was murdered?”

“So it seems.”

“Hm.” Autumn didn’t say it aloud, but she wondered why a spirit, who had been murdered, would be visible to Liam. Who was he to her? Autumn slid the ponytail holder out of her hair. “I don’t get it. I’ve never heard anything about a murder at the Cayo. Aunt Glenda would’ve said something.”

“Would she?” asked Katie, as if that were explanation enough.

“Huh.” Autumn stared at her lavender walls and tapped her bottom lip with her finger. “I’m going to the pool.”

“What for?”

Autumn glanced at her closed laptop.

Some of our previous winners have even conducted true crime research using police records.

A smile spread across her face. Perhaps, getting that scholarship was not hopeless after all.

“I don’t know yet,” said Autumn. “I’m going to investigate.”

#

Liam leaned against the railing at Mallory Square and squinted at the warm, turquoise water. It was the kind of day when the sun ducked in and out of the clouds as if playing hide and seek with a child. One moment, the sky was bright and as clear as the Caribbean Sea. The next, clouds darkened and threatened thunderstorms. Currently, the water sparkled like a diamond.

Liam glanced at the cruise port and watched tourists scamper down the pier. A palm tree billowed in the gentle breeze. This was home for him. Following his dad to the desolate oil fields in North Dakota had been a mistake, even if it was to make quick money. Truth was, Liam had missed Key West.

Someone clapped Liam on the shoulder.

“Dude, I’m so glad you’re back in town,” Randall said, smiling.

Randall’s light brown hair hung longer than it used to. Duct tape patched up not just the holes in the pockets of his ratty board shorts but also the splintered edges of his skateboard.

Liam gave Randall’s shoulder a playful punch. “What can I say? My blood runs warm.”

“I didn’t see you last night at the party.”

Liam pinched the bridge of his nose, hoping to subdue the pounding in his skull. “I was there. What was in that punch?”

Randall laughed. “Dude, you should know better than to sample the local brew. It’s always spiked. You’re still dry?”

Too many Breyer men relied on alcohol to manage. Liam was not going to be one of them. “Yup.”

Randall peered at Liam through dark eyes. “What’s with the shirt? You look like you should be auditioning for
Mad Men
.”

“Very funny. I kinda fell into a pool.” Randall raised his brows. Liam waved him off and glanced out at the water. “So, what’s up?”

Randall leaned against the railing and faced the square. His eyes scanned the small crowds, resting every now and then on the figure of a beautiful girl. “You know my cousin Keith with the boat?”

Liam nodded. He remembered Keith as a kid—a pudgy mess with curly blonde hair and dirt smudges on his face. Randall said he’d become a fisherman but was getting sick of being on the water.

“Yeah.”

“Well, he has a lead on a fleet of scooters we can buy at a steep discount to fix up to sell.”

Liam scratched his cheek. He wasn’t a decent scooter mechanic like Randall. He wondered why his old friend was even mentioning it.

“What kind and how many?”

“A few Kymcos, some Havanas, but mostly Mios. About fifteen bikes.”

“That’s quite the assortment. Where’d he’d find them? An auction?”

“Yeah,” Randall answered quickly. “Anyway, to get all fifteen will cost eight grand.”

Liam whistled. “That’s a lot of money.”

“Not for fifteen bikes. They’re cast-offs, but with our skills, we can make them look brand new again. We buy them cheap, fix them up, and sell them at a profit. Keith did the math, and we could walk away a few grand richer. Each.”

“You keep saying ‘we.’ I know nothing about scooters.” Liam scanned the square. He watched a street performer, a brown-haired girl who reminded him of Autumn, spin five hula-hoops at once. The swirling hoops hypnotized him.

“Once you sell the bikes, then what?” asked Liam.

Randall squinted into the sunlight. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, then what? You fix scooters. You sell them. What’s next? Is that what you want to do your whole life? Buy scooters on the cheap and sell them on Craigslist?” Liam stepped aside so a man on a unicycle could ride past. Liam knew he was being unfair to Randall. The kid was raised by his alcoholic grandfather in an RV park on Stock Island. Randall didn’t have dreams. He just needed to find a way to eat.

“I don’t know, dude. I know I can fix scooters. Except . . .”

Ah. Here’s the real reason Randall met me out here today.
“You don’t have eight grand.” Although, Randall didn’t know this yet, but neither did Liam.

“Well, we don’t need the whole eight from you. Keith will put in half and you’ll put in half. I’ll do the grunt work and then you, with your Don Draper good looks, will help sell the bikes to hot, young girls for a nice profit margin.”

“There’s a big flaw in this plan,” said Liam. “I don’t have four grand. I barely have four dollars.”

Randall groaned. “I thought you were making Rockefeller up north. What happened?”

“It’s a long story.” Even though Randall would understand Liam’s plight the most, Liam wasn’t in the mood to rehash what had happened in North Dakota. The whole story just made Liam feel worse about himself, if that was even possible. “I don’t want to get into it. All I can tell you is I don’t have the money. And my part-time job pays almost less than nothing. Besides, I don’t want to invest in repairing scooters. If I’m going to put my money toward something, I want it to last. I want to create something.”

“What? Like your own business?”

Liam’s gaze darted around the square to a middle-aged man with a yellow trucker hat that read Canton Corp in big, black letters. A young woman with long, blonde braids giggled with her friends as they listened to one of Mick Canton’s tour operators give a spiel about snorkeling. A scooter with neon green paint and the name Canton Sunshine Tours on the side was parked along the shops. The name Canton was everywhere in Key West because Mick Canton practically owned the whole island. What would that be like—to be so rich and powerful that your name was on everything?

“Yeah. Like my own business.” Liam didn’t know how to repair scooters, but he knew how to ride them. He knew all the nooks and crevices of the island. He was a Conch, a Key West native. He could show tourists parts of this island they’d never see in a Canton brochure. “Why don’t we run our own scooter tour company?”

Randall scoffed. “We missed the boat on that by thirty years. Canton figured out a way to bundle all his tour operations. You rent a scooter, book a snorkeling trip, and jump on Blazevig’s haunted city tour all for a low, low price. We can’t compete with that.”

Liam pursed his lips, impressed with Randall’s common sense. “You’re right. But we know the Keys. We could lead guided scooter tours, take the tourists to the best spots on the island. Off the beaten path, ya know?” Liam’s pulse quickened as he imagined the possibilities.

“Dude, that sounds like a ton of responsibility.”

Liam rolled his eyes. “Come on. Don’t you want to put your name on something? If we open up our own business, it’s ours, and no one can take it away from us.” Liam pointed toward a squat, bald man struggling to raise the blue umbrella on his hot dog cart. “Even that guy is his own boss.”

Randall inhaled the aroma of dirty water hot dogs and licked his lips. “I don’t want to get on Canton’s radar.”

“We won’t. He owns all of Key West. Why would he spend any time worrying about us? We’re nothing to him.”

Randall gently nudged Liam in the ribs. “We could even bundle packages with my cousin’s boat. We could do charters.”

Liam grinned. “Now, you’re thinking. Canton can’t own everything. He can’t own us.”

Randall waved his hand in a high arch. “We could call the place ‘Keys to Your Heart Scooters and Tours.’”

A girl on a Canton Corp bicycle rode past them. “Your cousin is a Bell too, right?”

Randall nodded.

“Then, let’s call it Breyer and Bell Scooter Tours.” Liam liked how that sounded. Also, every time Mick Canton drove past their shop, he’d see the Breyer name. Liam grinned and squeezed Randall’s shoulder.

“But you can’t even come up with the four grand needed to secure the bikes,” Randall said, squashing Liam’s excitement. “How are we going to fund a business?”