Free Murder in Paradise (Paradise Series) by Deborah Brown

business,” Gus added. “I hired the Poppins siblings to run my car wash, two doors down from Jake’s bar. I did a little checking on you, heard you might be opening up the poker room. Still a ten percent buy-in? Give me a call. I can keep my mouth shut. I don’t have any friends except Tolbert; the rest are dead.”
    The poker room was the worst kept secret; he’s the fourth person who had mentioned it to me and asked why wasn’t it open for play yet? He’d have to check out before getting an invitation.
    “The car wash? Clean Bubbles?” That property had caught my interest since taking over Jake’s. Transform that two-block strip and it wouldn’t be a haven for late night entrepreneurs.         
    “Before Quirky took over, Clean Bubbles had never been what you’d call a money-maker, but it paid for itself and was all cash. Now it only makes him money. I have a soft spot for the property; it’s my first investment. Now I own the block. In addition to the occasional wash and wax, Quirk-ass and Vanilla sell fresh raccoon meat out of coolers and the occasional assortment of other road kill.” He downed his iced tea, pouring another glass.
    “People actually eat that?” I suddenly felt nauseous. “Is that legal?”
    “None of it is legal, including the home-grown hydro; Munger bragged he’d been supplying them for a hefty cut.”
    Munger, an old curmudgeon, lived in a shack in a woodsy area off the Overseas with a much younger hard-as-nails wife. He was one of the handfuls who boasted that their weed kicked ass. Someone should sponsor a weed-off so they could crown the true champion.
    Tolbert spoke up. “Gus got word today from a friend in the sheriff’s office that they started staking the place out, waiting for a new shipment of evidence, and then they’ll raid the place. Supposed to happen soon.”
    “I want Clean Bubbles cleaned out today; this week anyway. If you don’t have the nuts to do the job, tell me now.” Gus banged his glass on the table. “You get this done, I’ll sweeten the pot.”
    I bribed Grover with another cookie to jump down. I stood, taking a business card out of my pocket. “I’ll go check this out now.”
    “This is a cheesy business card.” Gus stared at me.
    “It’s got the pertinent information you need to get a hold of me. Leave a message; I’ll get back to you.” I waved to them both. “Call you tomorrow. I’m on my way to get my car washed.”
    “Be careful!” Gus yelled. “Quirky Poppins is a mean bastard and Vanilla does what her brother tells her. My guess is that some inbreeding went on there.”
    “Miss Madison, if you think you’re in danger, walk away. This old fart can hire someone else,” Tolbert said.
    Grover walked me to the Hummer. “Would you eat raccoon?” He sat patiently while I scratched his neck. “No, me neither.”
    * * *
    I scanned the street before pulling into Clean Bubbles and spotted Johnson and Kevin doing a stakeout half a block down. Two skinny, pale, six-foot bookends approached the Hummer. I’d bet money I was staring into the sullen faces of the Poppins siblings, Quirky and Vanilla.
    “What do you want?” Quirky demanded. He’d written his name in black marker on the pocket of his dress shirt, rolled up his sleeves, and was wearing boxer shorts and flops.
    Vanilla checked me over, yawned—running her fingers through her knotted hair—and disappeared inside the far stall.
    “That’s not very friendly.” I stepped behind my Hummer, not wanting to be seen by the local sheriff. “I’m here with a friendly request for you to pack up and get the hell out tonight.”
    “Get out of here before I call the cops.” Quirky stepped forward.
    I whipped my Glock from my thigh holster. “Don’t move or I’ll shoot you. Just listen and then I’ll leave,” I hissed. “Put your hands down.”
    “I’m not going to forget this.” Quirky glared.
    “Sheriffs are across the street staking you out as we speak.