Shitake Happens: (A Shitake Mystery Series Prequel) (6 page)

"That will depend on the quality of the first kiss," she replied in a seductive tone.

His lips slowly spread to a smile. "Well. Let's see what I can do?"

Leaning down, his hand moving from her cheek to cup the back of her head. Wallace slanted his head as he came closer. When their lips were within an inch of touching, Mo let her eyes drift shut as she waited.

Instead of a kiss, a bang shook the window. Startled, Mo's eyes snapped open. Then another bang sounded. Mo's head jerked around to the front of the gallery. Tracy stood outside with her nose pressed against the window as she knocked on the plate glass.

"Cheater." Tracy's screech, even though muffled, echoed through the gallery as every guest went silent and came to attention. "You're a cheater, Wallace Williams."

Crêpe on a shingle!

Wallace seemed frozen with a look of wide-eyed horror on his face.

Setting her wine glass on the food table, Mo strode to Clarence. "Get her out of here."

Clarence nodded.

But before he could move, Tracy rushed inside. Panting, Tracy grasped Wallace's arm. "After all we've meant to each other, how could you do this to me?"

"All we've meant to each other?" Wallace tried to shake off her hold. "I thought I'd left you back in California."

Tracy's panting increased to hysterical sobbing. "How can you say that? We're engaged." She fell against Wallace, clutching at him. "Every day you tell me you love me. Are you denying that?"

"I'd barely met you before you started after me. When have I told you I love you?"

"You point at the camera and then you say 'that's the weather in your world'. That's our signal."

Wallace shoved her back. "Get out of here. You're a crazy lady."

Tracy rounded on Mo. "It's your fault. You were supposed to test him, but you weren't supposed to succeed. I didn't hire you to kiss him."

Realization dawned. His face flushed with rage as Wallace shouted at Mo, "You're working for my stalker?"

"Stalker?" Mo squeaked.

"Tracy is a nutty fan who's been chasing me since I worked in the San Diego market. I have a restraining order against her. I moved to Savannah to get away."

Lucianne stepped forward. "You should know that I've called 911. The police will be here any minute."

"Noooooo. They'll just take me from Wallace," Tracy screamed as she reached into her purse. She pulled out a revolver and threw the purse to the floor in one motion.

A collective gasp escaped the on-lookers. One woman even let out a scream.

Abruptly stopping her crying, Tracy—holding the gun at arm's length with two hands—pointed it at Wallace. "We're meant to be together, darling."

Wallace jumped back and held his hands up in surrender. "Don't! We can work this out."

"You don't mean it." Tracy sniffed.

Something had to be done. It was against agency policy for a client to kill the target of an investigation. Or if that wasn't an actual policy, it should have been.

Mo sprang forward and grabbed Tracy's arms, pushing the gun toward the ceiling. The two women struggled together, wrestling against one another for a few moments. Finally, Mo got a hand on the gun's muzzle and twisted the revolver out of Tracy's grasp.

"Agggggggggghhhhhhhh," Tracy screamed with outraged fury. Her eyes darted around wildly as if scanning for another weapon. Her gaze settled on the bar area of the table. Tracy then grabbed a bottle of whiskey and held it up with a weird smile twisting her lips. "Aha!"

What was she going to do with that?
Mo wondered.
Break it? Use the jagged end to stab someone with?

Instead, Tracy pulled off the top and tossed it away. She then poured the contents over her head. The golden liquid splashed over her face, down her neck and over her ample chest. Tracy's wild eyes turned to the candelabra on the table. Plucking up a lit taper, she screamed, "I'll do it. I'll light myself on fire."

"Go ahead," Wallace yelled back. "I'd be happy if you did, you nutcase."

Clarence came up behind Mo. "Don't do it, Tracy. Please, honey. You don't need him."

"Yes, I do," she sobbed. "I can't live without Wallace."

Before Mo could move to grab the candle, Tracy pressed the flame to her chest and...the flame snuffed out.

"Aghhhhhhhh. No," Tracy screeched.

"Dammit," Lucianne shouted at the bartender. "I ordered good quality liquor for this party, not watered down crap that won't even burn."

When Tracy made a grab for another taper, Clarence locked his arms around her from behind. She struggled against him for a moment before turning in his arms to cry against his shoulder.

Aw. Clarence isn't such a bad guy, after all.

At that moment, a police officer burst in and soon took control of Tracy.

Once Clarence had been relieved of his charge, he wandered over to Mo with a weary smile on his face.

She put a hand on his shoulder and gave it a pat. "Good work."

Wallace shot them both a glare and then marched over. He pointed a finger in Mo's face. "Don't think I've forgotten you. I'll be seeing my lawyer tomorrow. You're going to be added to my restraining order, Miss Angelina Jolie."

"Borscht," Mo muttered as Wallace stomped away.

"Look on the bright side." Clarence patted Mo's shoulder as she had done for him just a few moments before.

"What bright side?" she grumbled.

"At least Tracy pre-paid her bill. I'll still get my finder's fee even though she's in the loony bin."

Mo pulled back a fist and punched him as hard as she could in the upper arm. "Clarence. You are such a spotted dick!"

# # #

Prologue:

Two plumages, both alike in dignity.

In fair Tybee Isle, where we lay our scene.

One bravely breaks bias in mutiny.

For star-crossed love, by his desire made keen.

Act I

Flying o'er the sparkling beach one mellow summer's day, with a bird's-eye view so true, a beauteous sight did catch Joe Seagull's notice. He marked the moment: "But soft," Joe said. "What pink through yonder treetops break? 'Tis a green lawn and she its jewel."

He landed beside the flamingo basking in the sparkling Tybee sun. She was positioned atop the lawn in front of a human abode called by its signage The Breezy Inn. Garbed all in pink, with the green as her canvas, her beauty could not be compared.

 
"Beauty too rich for grass, for beach too dear," Joe noted. But though the look of her first drew him and sparked his desire, 'twas her personality that secured his good opinion and deep affection.

"Speak fair beauty," he said to her. "Tell me thy name."

She did not reply.

"Silence that be maidenly shy, yet not cold," he would report to his friends later. "At fetching conflict with her black-eyed stare so bold."

Circling her, he saw the chain she wore about her neck, which spelled out the word Florence. Happy necklace for it told him the flamingo's name. By mental liberty he shortened it to Flo.

"Did I love 'til now?" he asked himself. "Oh no, not so. For I ne'er saw beauty 'til I saw Flo."

Joe's friends decried the match, saying she was not meant for him.

"She is not our kind," Sam said. "She's of the grass and land, and you of the sand and sea."

"You cannot nest with such a creature who is not one of your clan, your kith, your kind," agreed Albert.

"She seems plastic and fake," Sam added.

"She is garish," Albert squawked.

True the garb of Joe and his fellows was elegant white, decorated only with soft gray wings tastefully dipped in black at their tips. Their modest plumage was ever in stark contrast to Flo's color. And while their beaks and legs were short in length and utilitarian in their purpose, the curve of Flo's beak and the length of her leg both bespoke the luxury of exotic climes. But where others might think she flaunted herself, Joe saw only innocent flirtation in the bend of her shapely leg.

To every of their biased arguments, Joe made clear his rejection, replying, "I am but fortune's fool. I cannot change where my heart does beat."

Finally, Joe pronounced enough debate.

"Though you would disagree, I vow to fate. To woo and win dear Flo for my life's mate."

Act II

Joe's quest began with conviction made steely by strong action. In furtherance of the mating ritual, he flew about Flo's head the very next day. Making daring swoops and falls, he dove deeply before sharp climbs as he cawed. By his strength she would know him for a most worthy potential husband.

Yet these mighty feats moved Flo not.

By day's end, the realization of his mistake dawned upon an exhausted Joe. His Flo did not wish for empty buffoonery to prove his metal. He must be more practical in application to his love. With course of action decided, he bid her farewell.

"Good night, good night. Parting is sorrow so sweet," he told Flo. "That I shall say good night and tomorrow bring you a treat."

The next morning he arrived at dawn.

Approaching with his most elegant preening, he laid the first selection on the grass before her: a shred of bread from a bag he'd scavenged from the dumpster of the IGA grocery store. Flo neither recoiled nor did she jump for the morsel.

"Not grand enough for my goddess so fair. How could I think such trash would thee ensnare?"

Next, Joe approached with a kernel of popcorn stolen from 'neath the beak of Albert during their hunt under the pier. Still and silent as the grave, Flo regarded it.

"Is that a glint of distain in her eyes?" he wondered. "Drat the meager morsel if she decries."

What if his final offering should be as coldly rejected?

But nay,
he thought.
I shall not doubt my success
. And so with exaggerated flourish, he brought forth a bit of raw oyster and laid it upon the grass before Flo.

Her sharp reproof was in every line of her stiff pink body.

Crestfallen, Joe flew away without further discourse with her. But since Flo had not importuned him to cease his wooing, he would return on the morrow to build for her a nest of such fine construction that she could not help but succumb to his suit for her wing in matrimony.

Later that night, Joe perched atop a beam beneath the pavilion boardwalk. As he drifted on the verge of sleep, he contemplated his love: Flo.
How dear was that name to him for her sake. Never was there a name so sweet as his Flo
, he thought. "Yet what is in a name? My flamingo by any other name would surely be as pink if not Flo called."

Act III

The next day started much as any other, with bright sunshine o'er the fair Tybee Isle. Little did our Joe know, as he labored about the business of gathering building supplies, that by night's falling, he would have marked the day as dark indeed.