Kendel Lynn - Elliott Lisbon 02 - Whack Job by Kendel Lynn Read Free Book Online

purposely setting out to nose around the investigation, but come on, some guy almost shot me. Or would’ve if he wasn’t aiming straight at Gilbert.
    I drove down Cabana to Washburn Lane, a short dead end street right before the Palmetto Bridge. I wasn’t halfway down before the street got crowded. Cars were parked on both dirt shoulders all the way to the water’s edge. I squeezed into the drive to Fisher’s Landing, and putt-putted the Mini around to the little lot which housed the trailer park’s entertainment complex: a squat park office with a miniature laundry mat slash game room, one tennis court, a swimming pool with a bbq pit, and Tug Boat Slim’s restaurant, located above the office.
    The upside to having a car no larger than a go cart: the ability to park anywhere. I wiggled into a small area, half on the grass, half on the sidewalk. The line to Tug’s started at the base of the steps, wound through the bar, and ended on the back patio, where I found Tug setting up additional tables and plastic chairs.
    “Hey Elli, you didn’t have to come back,” he said.
    “I owe you twenty bucks.”
    Tug rushed across the back deck and grabbed a stack of tablecloths. “Keep your money. I should pay you. We haven’t been this busy since we opened ten years ago.”
    “Word travels fast.” I grabbed a handful of napkin-wrapped silverware setups and placed them on the tables.
    “Oh yeah. A guy from the Islander Post came by, took a ton of pictures. He said he’s running a full page in Sunday’s paper.”
    Tate Keating gets around. His story would dominate the Post ’s front page and probably half the inside. I made a mental note to call him in the morning with a quote.
    I arranged a pair of setups on a two-seater table near the deck’s railing. “Did you recognize the guy who shot Gilbert Goodsen? Maybe he’s been in before?”
    “Nah. Not really. I’d been in the kitchen most of the morning. We signed up for a booth at the regatta tomorrow. We’re preparing our famous shrimp and grits. The shooter? He’s a guy in a cap to me. We get a dozen of them a week.”
    I helped him layout the last additional table. “I hear you. Look, I better let you go. Even the marina is filled. Your take-out delivery guy may need roller skates.” Every slip was taken. Folks spilled out from the decks to the docks, eating, drinking, celebrating. Except one boat in the prime center spot. The Tiger Shark .
    “Isn’t that Gilbert Goodsen’s boat?”
    “Yeah. I let him take my slip. I went to the hospital to see how he was doing, we got to talking. My boat’s already in Key West, my winter dock. So I thought it’s the least I can do, let the guy take this slip for a while.” Tug gave a nod goodbye, then started seating guests.
    I trotted down the back steps to the dock. The smoky smells of beef on the grill made my stomach growl in the most unladylike way, but I had one quick stop to make before I could head home for take-out.
    I followed the dirt path that stretched from the office to the main road of the trailer section of Fisher’s Landing Trailer Park and Yacht Club. Down two spots to number three. Lola Carmichael sat out front of a long silver Airstream circa 1952. Actually, everything about Lola was circa 1952. She wore her dyed black hair in a beehive, a pair of rhinestone reading glasses, and more Bakelite accessories than a dime store jewelry department.
    She was painting her nails when I walked up. Actually, I think she may have been gluing them on. “Hey Sugar, I need two shakes to finish this pinkie. This little sucker’s been giving me trouble for a half hour now.”
    I sank into the aluminum beach chair next to her table. The stringent scents of nail glue and polish remover nearly made my eyes water.
    Lola held her hand two feet from her face and squinted her eyes. “Perfect. Or perfect for now. Party at Tug’s and I’m puttin’ on the glitz. Can I getcha a cocktail? I made a fresh batch of Singapore