Free Slay it with Flowers by Kate Collins

her way here. She has a terrible sense of direction.”
    “That’s vat you said about Flip,” Ursula reminded her.
    “This way,” Claymore called, heading across the parking lot.
    “Where are we going?” Jillian asked, hurrying to keep up with him.
    “To the bird blind. Punch said Flip’s camera was missing from the hotel room, so my hunch is that he went there to do some photography.”
    “If something happened to him, I’m sure the park rangers would have found him,” I said. “They check these trails regularly.”
    “They’d never spot him in the blind,” Bertie said in his charming lilt, falling into step with me, “unless they knew to look there.”
    “You’ve been to the blind?”
    “With Clay and Flip.”
    We passed a ranger station and crossed a sandy beach area where a lone couple lay on a blanket, necking. Six people tramped past them and they never broke lip-lock. Now that’s concentration.
    We followed the signs for trail number three and headed into the woods single file—Claymore first, then Bertie, me, Ursula, Jillian, and Sabina—our flashlight beams throwing circles of light in front of us so we could avoid low-hanging branches and the occasional gopher hole, not to mention snakes that might be slithering across the path. Ten minutes into the walk, Claymore turned off the trail and pushed through heavy brush to the left. Like a unit of soldiers we dutifully followed, fighting the thorn-covered branches that snagged our hair and tore at our clothing.
    “Punch!” he called, his hands cupped around his mouth. “Flip! Can you hear me?”
    I hoped they were the only ones who could hear him. Anyone else would think he was calling out acrobatic exercises.
    We all began to call, following Claymore up a scrubby dune to the top, where through the tree branches I could just make out the glittering surface of the lake as the moon reflected silver on the ripples. It was a beautiful spot, well hidden and filled with the heavy fragrance of jasmine. It was a perfect meeting place for lovers.
    “The blind is over here,” Claymore said, shining his light on a semicircle of thick shrubby plants in front of him. He circled around behind it and came to a sudden stop, staring down with mouth agape.
    Bertie stepped up for a look and crossed himself.
    I pushed between them. In front of me lay a man sprawled in the sand, his face turned toward the ground as if he’d fallen straight forward. The back of his head and the sides of his face were covered in blood, as was a blanket next to him, where he’d obviously bled out.
    As Bertie crouched down to check the wrist for a pulse, I reached for my cell phone to call an ambulance.
    “He’s dead,” Bertie said, looking up at us in disbelief.
    “Who’s dead?” Sabina asked, coming up from behind, her voice rising steadily toward hysteria.
    “Is it Flip?” Ursula asked, peering over my shoulder for a look.
    “I knew something terrible had happened to Flip,” Jillian cried. “I knew it!”
    Bertie moved the beam up to the face. “It’s not Flip,” he said. “It’s Punch.”

CHAPTER FIVE

    “T hat can’t be Punch,” Jillian said adamantly as I opened my cell phone and dialed 911. She shined her light on the man’s bloody right ear, where a hole in the lobe was visible. “See? No punching-bag earring.”
    “Oh, God! Someone bashed in his skull,” Claymore said, then clutched his stomach and staggered to a bush about two yards away, where I could hear him retching.
    “Maybe it’s someone who looks like Punch,” Sabina offered hopefully.
    “It’s him,” Bertie said. “Take a look at his hands.”
    Five beams focused on his hands, thick meaty slabs with heavy fingers, three of which wore heavy gold rings that could very well have served as brass knuckles. “It’s Punch,” several voices said together.
    “I’d like to report a murder,” I said to the dispatcher, turning away from the gruesome sight. I gave directions, then turned back