Totally Fishy (A Miller Sisters Mystery) (3 page)

"I am taking samples, Dr. Evo."

"We have enough samples. Come on. We're behind schedule as it is."

"Dr. Evo, I know if you were not so angry you would have found live fish and taken samples. I am only doing what you trained me to do."

Evo stopped. "Live–"

"See?" Luis held up his net, and Evo saw four wriggling bodies in the net. Luis dropped the fish into the container and dipped the net back into the water. "You can see there are very few, and they might not make it, but it is worth a try, you always say. It is the way of science."

Evo gazed into the sample container. Some of the little fish perked up in their new environment, while others struggled to hold on to life. He placed the container in the rack and joined Luis in a quest for any survivors. "I'm sorry, Luis. I let my temper overshadow my priorities. I'll mark the samples. You keep searching."

Luis sighed and continued the careful back-and-forth motion of the net, lost in thought. It was very discouraging for him to watch this beautiful habitat destroyed under the guise of progress, or global competition, or whatever excuses the OPEC idiots used these days. No matter what they called it, it all came down to big money. Billions worth of oil and mining, and everyone wanted in on the big bucks.

The Americans screamed about prices, but sold their oil to other countries. South America was rich in oil, but slow in production and no competition for the big guns in the Middle East. With the government and private corporations fighting for control, everyone loses. At this rate, South America would never produce enough to meet world demands. In the race for billions an "anything goes" attitude prevailed. Shortcuts were taken and as a result, the environment suffered. With that kind of money talking, no one listened as the environmentalists cried out. At least Maldonado didn't clear-cut and burn thousands of acres each day like some large corporations. Luis and his brother took these jobs because they believed they could make a difference. Like Evo, they'd had about all they could stomach of progress.

Luis looked at the container in his hands and watched another Endler give up its fight for life. "No one cares about you, but us," he said softly. "Unlike cute baby seals or the great leatherbacks who have world-wide funding and media attention, you have only us." He gently packed the doomed fish away. "That means you are in big trouble, my little friend."

Evo looked up and saw Luis talking softly to the fish in a bag. He hefted his mountain pack over one shoulder. "Sorry, Luis, but we have to wind this up. Any time you're ready."

Luis looked up. "Oh, no, Dr. Evo, go ahead and yell some more, I have found more live bodies, so will catch up with–"

Something plopped in the sand at his feet. Luis looked down. "What was that?"

Evo looked over as the sand sprang up at his feet. "What the heck?"

He bent to look and a blast of heat surged past his ear. In a split second he registered, "Bullet!" At that moment, the tree behind him exploded, sending shards of blasted bark in all directions.

Evo hit the ground rolling "Luis–
down
!" Luis hit the sand and gunfire sent sand flying up in small tufts all around him. A test kit exploded and Luis' canteen jumped when it was hit, draining their precious fresh water into the sand.

"Get out! Get Out!" Evo hoped Luis could hear him above the rapid tattoo of the automatic fire. Grabbing his pack by the strap, Evo belly-crawled into the jungle. Sand kicked up around him as he scrambled for cover. He lurched into the weeds and ducked behind a wide tree. Ripping open a cargo pocket, Evo pulled out the .45 he carried in the field. He checked the clip and slammed it home. Flopping onto his stomach, he took a bead on where the gunfire came from and emptied the clip. Luis scrambled into the weeds next to him as Evo loaded a second clip.

Evo gasped. "Luis, how many are there?"

Cool headed, Luis leveled a look at Evo. "I think only two, but cannot be sure. Do not worry, I will find out and take care of them." Grabbing the shotgun from the side strap on his pack, Luis disappeared into the jungle.
That's what I love most about you guys.

Evo looked around the trunk and about jumped out of his skin when the blast from Luis' shotgun went off very close to his position. "Luis?"

"One down, Dr. Evo," Luis quietly replied. "That means there are at least three–the other shots came from the other side of the lagoon. Take care and do not move from here."

Evo heaved a sigh as the bark above his head splintered. He backed off and rolled to the other side of the trunk and yelled, "Hey. Who are you?"

No answer.

"We mean no harm. I'm Dr. Evo Castillo from Lima. Why are you shooting at us?"

No answer.

Evo wondered where Luis was. He thought he'd give it one more try. He picked up his ball cap and waved it in the air. "Anyone there? Hey, can we talk? You've got the wrong guy."

Bullets flew past his hand, grazing a knuckle. Evo sucked in air between his gritted teeth and grabbed a rag out of his pack. He tore it up with his teeth and wrapped his bleeding hand. He picked up his ball cap and his eyes grew wide. He stuck a finger through the still smoking hole in the bill. "Shit, my favorite hat. Now I'm pissed."

Shotgun fire had him scrambling again, hoping to find Luis in one piece. Evo waited, sweat dripping into his eyes. Keeping the gun trained on the spot where he thought the ambusher was, Evo held still while he anxiously waited to see or hear movement in the jungle. Seconds ticked by and his patience grew thin.

A rustling to his left had him swinging around, bringing up his weapon, Heart in his throat, finger on the trigger he paused one split second.

"Dr. Evo, I got the other one too."

Evo flopped on his belly, squeezed his eyes shut, and breathed hard. "Are you sure, Luis? There could be more."

"I am sure, Dr. Evo. I walked along the beach to make sure the shooter was dead. There is no one else. No I.D. on the shooter, but he's wearing the same military uniform worn by the old rebels and shooting at us with an American M-16." He scratched his bald head. "So they must not be very well funded guerillas, yes?"

"Probably got the M-16 from his grandmother's garage sale. Seriously, good job, Luis. That could be significant later. For right now, let's get the hell out of here."

"We are not turning back?"

"Not on your life. We're going ahead as planned. I want to know who those guys are. No one knew we were here, so why were they at the lagoon? Coincidence? Or worse? Who wants us dead?" Evo hefted his backpack and trudged on.

Luis picked up his pack and the specimens. Watching Evo forge ahead, he sighed. "Dead fish, dead doctor, dead Luis. I wonder if we will ever get home." Threading his arms through the straps, he hoisted his pack and followed.

Somewhere in Southeastern Wisconsin

The late fall afternoon warmed our skin as we sat around in camp chairs in my mother's back yard. The lazy afternoon, in addition to the copious amounts of beer we had consumed, added to the comfortable feeling of being among close friends and family. Our particular circle of chairs includes me, Buzz Miller, retired detective, and number one of four daughters. On my left is FBI Bob, who we worked with last month capturing a murderer.

Bob joined our little community recently, and is doing a great job of pretending to ignore my pain-in-the-ass youngest sister, Al. The funny thing about Bob (aside from his lack of taste in women) is he could pass as a younger clone of our local Sheriff, J.J. Green. It drives some of the older gossipers of our town crazy–as if they aren't crazy enough already.

J.J. sits to my right. Now J.J. is a story unto himself. I feel a little soft and mushy looking at him now, must be all that beer I drank. Anyway, when the women in town describe J.J., they say he looks like Tom Selleck and has that easy-going Andy Griffith type of personality. That combination makes him perfect for the job of Sheriff and irresistible to any female between the ages of nine and ninety. My sisters and I have known J.J. since we were kids, and believe me when I say that underneath his easy-going and handsome exterior lurks an evil mind. He might have everyone else fooled with those adorable dimples and "aww shucks" persona, but we know the real James J. Green. He always ran off before getting caught. He wasn't smarter. He could just run faster.

If the older generation knew half the stuff he pulled when we were younger, they'd have never elected him sheriff. Heck, he'd have spent more time in jail than he does now.

Oh, but how the women love that man. Young or old, they turn to mush when he walks into a room.

One look from those crinkly, humor-filled eyes, or a glimpse of those deep dimples on his Marlboro Man face would make one of those high-powered corporate chicks from the city start knitting baby booties.

It was a sad day when J.J. went off the market and up and married June Tabbot thirty years ago. Some major loser knocked her up and J.J. came to her rescue. He gave her his name, a good home, and he gave her son legitimacy and a great father. All June ever gave him was a hard time. She ran off with a water softener salesman three years later, leaving Adam with J.J. with no one ever hearing from her again. Bitch–good riddance.

The fact is, the day J.J. became single, every breathing female within a 40-mile radius came into heat, and the local gossips (and we've got some
professional
gossip mongers in our town) claimed they wouldn't leave J.J. alone until they found him the perfect woman. A feat that turned out to be harder than it sounded, because J.J. has remained single since the day June ran off.

Joanie, at the Post Office, claimed she would sort mail wearing latex gloves because of the nasty perfume on some of J.J.'s mail. She claimed that one day she walked into Sal's Diner for lunch, and Joy Broussard told her she smelled like a French whore, while my mother wanted the name of her new perfume. Mom cinched it for Joanie, because everyone knows my mother has almost no sense of smell. When she
does
claim to smell something, there's either some summer visitor wearing nasty perfume that would gag a maggot, or eau-de-dog-crap on her shoes.

Lately, the geriatric crowd has again taken up the "find J.J. a nice girl" cause. Granddaughters, nieces, family, friends-of-cousins-twice-removed-daughters-in-law's-step-children–you name it; they're lined up and ready to say, "I do."

The scuttlebutt down at Sal's Diner is that up until a month or so ago, the "Mrs. J.J. Green Wannabes" took to staking out J.J.'s house. I heard the poor guy has to recon the neighborhood before he feels safe enough to go home at night. Hah! Made me almost feel sorry for him–please note I said
almost
.

I mentioned Green's devious mind. I should have guessed something was up when on more than one occasion he had me pick him up on the next block while his squad car sat in his driveway. I saw him sneaking out from behind Mrs. Kelly's Hydrangea bush, but when I asked him about it, he said he'd lost his wallet. I might have commented that I thought it more likely he'd lost his marbles. He claimed he had none left from hanging out with us–smart ass.

I've also noticed lately, I've come under fire by some–actually most of the eligible women in town. Leigh Swanson, the buxom beauty who owns the local beauty parlor,
Ready, Set, Blow,
pretended not to see me at the drug store last week, then she
accidentally
cut a large chunk of hair off the back of my head three days ago. Peggy Weller pretended not to see me when I tried to say hi to her at the grocery store, and Ellen Madsen (whom everyone in town considered the frontrunner in the "Go for the Green" stakes)
accidentally
dropped a large rock on my foot at the hardware store's garden center last week. Coincidence? Even in my worst state of paranoia, I think not.

A curious person might ask what happened to account for the recent assaults on my poor person. Considering I'm at least ten years older than most of them and about one (alright, two) sizes wider across the butt, I should never have figured into the equation. Being the crack detective I am, however, I finally figured out that the blame falls squarely upon James Joseph Green's shoulders. That is, my mom told me the women in town blame me for sneaking through the back door and stealing J.J. off the shelf.

As untrue as the story might be, the little rat-bastard Green must have planned the whole thing from the start, and being the unsuspecting dupe, I waltzed right into the trap.

It began when J.J. asked me to help with the investigation into the murder of my mother's neighbor last month. I did, and noticed somewhere along the way J.J. became a little more playful, as well as a little more attentive to me than usual, especially in public. I admit I ate it up, never stopping to wonder what the most gorgeous man this side of Lake Michigan was doing with an average-looking, newly inducted member of the AARP, with flyaway reddish-brown hair and a family full of crazy people. I mean, we've hung out all our lives, and the most romantic we'd ever been happened playing Tarzan in the old barn with a rope on the old hay pulley between the lofts. One day, he ruffled my hair one time too many times and made fun of my Tarzan yodel. I shoved him out of the hayloft and the pansy broke his arm when he landed–as if it was my fault he couldn't have landed on his butt instead of his arm.

Back to my story, it all culminated one afternoon right here at Mom's, out in back of the barn. Okay, I know what everyone is thinking, but honestly, we had a dead horse, a dead man, and half the town as chaperones, so let's all keep our minds out of the gutter, shall we? Anyway, in front of half the town plus the news media, J.J. grabbed me, pulled me close, and whispered in my ear. The fact he was talking about murder didn't matter, the damage was done.