The Lobster Trap: A Cassie Wynn Mystery, #4

Table of Contents

Copyright

Acknowledgments

Title

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

The Cassie Wynn Mystery series

About the Author

The Lobster Trap

Copyright © June 2018 by Laurel Richards

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Cover design by Laurel Richards

Images used under license from Shutterstock.com.

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All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. This copy is intended for the original purchaser only. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, resold, or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review. If you would like to share this book, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Please support authors by not committing or promoting piracy of copyrighted works.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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First e-book edition publication: June 2018

First print edition publication: June 2018

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Blurb

After their honeymoon, private investigators Mitch and Cassie take on a new case on Florida’s Gulf Coast. Rudy Cannelli was run over by a boat while diving for a giant lobster, and now he’s convinced someone is trying to kill him. He hires Chase Investigations to track down his would-be killer, but unfortunately, everyone from his ex-wife to his lawn man has a reason to want him dead. Can Cassie and Mitch identify the culprit in time to save their client? Will they get a nice dinner out of the bargain, or is the promise of lobster a trap to get them to take this case? Join Cassie and Mitch as they expand their PI business into new territory and try to find justice for a victim who isn’t dead...yet.

Acknowledgments

Many different people help inspire my stories and characters, most of them without even realizing it. For this book, I’d like to thank Stuart M. for his descriptions of building PVC condos for lobsters; Donna H., who really was the victim of a cereal swap; Bill and Shelly K. for the story about cleaning a hotel room and then getting moved to another room; Kathy W. and Rob O. for taking me out to dinner and giving me the inspiration behind Hans Hoang’s; my father for his input on the murder weapon; my mom, who suggested I look up the pirate Gasparilla; Kenneth H., the private chef from Ft. Myers who gave me an earful about the local gossip; and the several neighbors who collectively inspired the characters of Louis Lewis and the short-term residents of Carambola Street. Thanks for the inspiration!

The Lobster Trap

(A Cassie Wynn Mystery, Book 4)

by

Laurel Richards

Chapter 1

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A honeymoon could put a guy into an excellent mood, which probably explained why Mitchell Chase was wearing a small grin as he followed his new wife down crowded Golfo Beach. He carried a cooler, while Cassie carted their umbrella, towels, and blanket in a wheeled golf bag she’d commandeered for the purpose. So far, she hadn’t rolled over anyone today. Considering the number of people stretched almost elbow to elbow on the white sand, he considered that a small miracle.

I feel like a Bedouin, Cassie announced over her shoulder. All I need is a camel instead of a golf bag. Of course, I bet Bedouins can walk without flipping sand up the backs of their legs. I wish I could master that skill.

I don’t think desert nomads wear flip-flops, Mitch informed her.

Or thongs of any variety. Cassie gave a pointed glance at one of the sunbathers. The woman was lying on her stomach and was—for lack of a better description—toasting her buns. I’m sorry, but I only wear something like that when the elastic stretches out on my panties, and then it’s time to get new underwear.

He chuckled. With her tan skin, wheat-blonde hair, and twinkling gray-brown eyes, Cassie was plenty sexy in her own way. He had no worries that he’d ever get bored with her, with or without functioning elastic.

Mitch had met Cassie in Fatmire—a small town on the east coast of Florida that he was pretty sure was the crazy capital of the world. He ran the only PI firm in town, and Cassie worked part-time as his partner while continuing her career as a mystery writer. Now that Miss Cassie Wynn was Mrs. Chase, she liked to tell everyone she was the second Chase in Chase Investigations. In fact, this summer they’d gone to the Fatmire Clam Festival to celebrate the anniversary of the murder case that had brought them together.

The water looks beautiful today, she remarked as she brought the golf bag to a halt.

The Gulf of Mexico was calm, and the sky overhead was clear blue.

She spread out the blanket and then opened the umbrella. You know, I wish I’d found chairs that look like plastic cups. Then when we put the umbrella up, we’d look like we were sitting in giant mai tais.

I’d rather drink the mai tai. Mitch set down the cooler and pulled out a couple of cold cans. As it is, we’ll have to settle for sodas, since that’s what we packed. Besides, we already had an enormous cake sculpted out of sand for our wedding ceremony. Let’s not overdo it.

Good point, Cassie agreed. Too many pictures with oversize objects and people will start to think we’re smaller than we are. I don’t think we’re in danger of overdoing it, though. Not by today’s standards. Do you know, when I was planning the wedding, I found an article about llama rentals? Apparently, it’s a new craze to have therapy llamas attend your wedding in formal dress. I don’t know how they keep the white one from eating her veil, but she does look quite fetching. Llamas must be good at wearing costumes. My friend e-mailed me photos after she attended a llama costume competition in Texas. One was dressed as a dinosaur and another as a lobster. She frowned. Do you think they spit at the wedding?

Mitch was glad he hadn’t drunk his soda yet, or else he might have been the one spitting. As it was, he only sputtered for a moment.

The llamas wouldn’t mean anything offensive by it, she continued, but I’m pretty sure they spit when stressed. That’s why the article said they’re not allowed to travel at rush hour. Bumper-to-bumper traffic is enough to stress anyone.

I could use a mai tai, he muttered.

She reached over and patted his hand. Don’t worry. I think I’ve got one more drink coupon left.

That made him smile again. Cassie was creative when it came to saving money, and he’d come to realize she hunted bargains the way big-game hunters went after Cape buffalo. She had sat through a time-share spiel and an investment seminar in order to get free hotel accommodations for this trip. They’d then gotten a free gas card by visiting a car dealership, although they hadn’t won a new sedan.

Since they already lived in a vacation state, both of them had agreed it didn’t make sense to travel across the country for their honeymoon. Mitch had suggested the Florida Keys, but Cassie had rejected the idea.

It’s too weird down there, she’d insisted. And that dolphin Sleazy might still be on the loose and making unwanted advances on divers. You’re my husband now, Mitch. I’m not sharing you, not even with another species.

So they had settled on a trip to the west coast of Florida. They had gone kayaking in the nearby springs and toured some historic sites. Now they were spending the last day of their vacation here at the beach a couple of blocks from their hotel.

Feel like hopping in the water? he asked.

Her smile was blinding. You just want to see me in my bikini again.

Always. He was quite fond of the sight of her in a bathing suit. Or out of it. You can give me another reason to want to cool off.

She looked delighted as she slipped out of her shoes and pulled her cover-up dress over her head. When he ditched his own shirt and shoes, she cast him a sultry look over her shoulder. With a seductive sway of her hips, she stepped off the beach blanket.

Her eyes flared wide. Hot! Hot sand!

She jumped around and lifted her feet in a sort of tribal dance. Then she started to dart forward, but she seemed to notice the obstacle course of sunbathers in between her and the water. He caught her when she leapt back onto the blanket.

It’s like walking on the sun, she announced.

I think you’re hotter than the sun. Mitch scooped her up and began carrying her toward the shoreline. He had to travel a zigzag path to get to the surf.

Cassie beamed at him and cuddled closer. My hero. You’re always so protective of me.

It was all he could do not to puff out his chest. She made him feel like the dashing hero from one of her books, which was only one of the things he loved about the crazy woman. He forced a smile, though it probably came across as more of a grimace. Was that a sizzling sound he heard coming from his bare feet?

Your firewalking skills have finally come in handy, she pointed out.

I’ve never firewalked, he said through gritted teeth. Until now. He was pretty sure steam rose up between his toes when he finally reached the wet sand.

She gave him a kiss before he set her down. You’re very thoughtful. Just look at your savvy choice in rings. She held out her left hand so her engagement ring and wedding band caught the sunlight.

I was worried you might want a bigger diamond, he admitted. While he certainly hadn’t bought the cheapest jewelry he could find, he had been on a budget. After all, that hairless cat in our last big case had a diamond collar.

She made a musing sound. Miss Whiskers had expensive taste. I would never want anything that flashy, though. You got exactly the perfect size. It’s big enough to be ‘blingtastic,’ but it’s not so large I have to worry about being mugged or attacked by barracuda. The big ones can take the whole hand. I mean the large barracudas, although I’m sure a big mugger could too.

Mitch raised his eyebrows. Blingtastic?

She nodded. It’s a term I learned from that woman who works as an underwater mermaid for big Hollywood parties. That’s Hollywood, California, not Hollywood, Florida. I think she also does music videos. Anyway, she called her sparkly mermaid tail ‘blingtastic,’ and it’s not even made of diamonds, even if it does cost more than my car.

I promise not to let a barracuda attack you, he said, fighting to keep a straight face. Just like I swore I’d wrestle any alligator that tried to eat you when we took that kayaking trip. But they have to actually be attacking, not just giving you a dirty look.

You’re so levelheaded.

He took her hand and waded into the surf. The water was cool but not too cold, and the soft sand felt good on his abused feet. I have to say, aside from divers, you’re the only one I know who worries about being attacked by a barracuda. Most people are scared of sharks.

That’s silly, she told him. "Most shark attacks are just test bites, where the shark takes a nip and then decides humans aren’t on its menu. Unfortunately, their teeth are so sharp they do a lot of damage. Wouldn’t it be better if the sharks just licked us? It would be disturbing to have a bunch of sharks licking me in the water, but at least I wouldn’t suffer any lasting damage. Of course, then my book Goodbye, Old Chum wouldn’t have worked. Did you read that one? About the old friends who had a falling out and one disposed of the other by feeding him to the sharks?"

His lips twitched. I haven’t gotten to that one yet.

I think you’ll like it. Although during that fishing tournament case, we learned that a shark can be subdued by a bottle of rum. You just have to get it in the boat first.

Fatmire certainly isn’t a boring town, he remarked. Neither were the cases there, though he was hoping to expand his PI business.

Speaking of home, she said, I want to be sure to take a few more photos before we leave. I didn’t tell Bubba, because I want it to be a surprise, but I bought a digital picture frame for him. I’m going to load our beach pictures and put the frame by his tank. Hopefully that will cheer him up about not being able to come with us on this trip. She frowned. You don’t suppose that’s like plopping a toddler in front of a TV do you?

No. For one thing, Bubba isn’t our kid. He’s your pet shrimp.

"Our shrimp. Cassie squeezed his hand. You’re a pet parent now too, Mitch. It’s a serious responsibility."

We’ll limit his screen time to a couple hours a day, he promised her.

Good thinking. She sank into the water until it lapped at her shoulders. We’re already doing well leaving Bubba with a responsible pet sitter. I know your grandfather will take very good care of him. Not like that guy with the turtle who made the news. You remember the one? He wanted to take his pet reptile with him on an airplane, so he strapped a sesame-seed bun to the poor fellow to disguise him as a hamburger. When the fast-food bag went through the X-Ray machine, the attendants noticed the legs and head sticking out. The turtle made international news and had his picture splashed all over the Internet. Can you imagine the trauma that animal went through? Not only the humiliation and the fear of being eaten but the resulting identity crisis? That would be like me piling Bubba under the bodies of his dead kin and trying to pass him off as scampi. It’s downright macabre, don’t you think?

Horrifying.

Hey, wait a second. Do you think that’s where sliders get their names? Maybe the red-eared slider turtles were named after the small burgers, or the sandwiches were named after their resemblance to the turtles.

Mitch was starting to get a stitch in his side, and it had nothing to do with swimming. No, I suspect the turtles got the name because they slide into the water. I have no idea how the burgers got that name. You should ask your mom. If anyone would know the answer, she would.

Jenna Wynn was as unique as her daughter and had a head for odd bits of history.

Cassie hummed in agreement and settled back to float in the water.

By the time they got out, Mitch was relieved his feet no longer hurt. He didn’t have to do the same firewalk back to their beach blanket, though he did hurry the last few steps. He could hear his cell phone ringing.

Not a golfer himself, he couldn’t understand why the golf bag needed so many compartments. The number of zippers on the thing made it look like Frankenstein’s monster. It took him several rings before he finally found the pocket with his phone.

He caught the name of the caller before he connected. Hi, Pops. How are you?

His grandfather was in his eighties but still as spry as they came. In fact, Pops had a seemingly inexhaustible supply of lady friends around the retirement village back in Fatmire.

Not too bad, Pops answered gruffly. No need to ask how you’re doing. I’ve been watching the weather on TV. No storms mucking up your trip.

We lucked out. Everything has been great. We— Mitch was distracted by the sight of Cassie making guppy faces at him. Then he realized she was mouthing the word Bubba. He coughed to clear the tickle from his throat. Cassie wants me to ask how Bubba is doing.

I’m not holding the phone up to his tank, Pops retorted.

Trust me, he said drily, I’m not asking you to. Consider this a welfare check.

The shrimp is fine. He’s been watching television with me.

Mitch flashed back to his conversation about limiting their pet’s screen time and had to stifle a groan.

The dumb shrimp gave me a scare yesterday, though, Pops continued.

Oh?

He flipped out of his tank when I wasn’t looking. I found him on the couch. He was lucky I got him back in the water in time. His grandfather chuckled. I showed him some cocktail sauce to scare him straight.

Mitch did groan this time. Pops, you need to get out of town once in a while. I think Fatmire is affecting your brain.

Nothing wrong with my mind, his grandfather said defensively. I finished the crossword puzzle in record time this morning. And I’m sharp enough to land a new case for my smart-mouthed grandson.

Now he was curious. What kind of case?

Attempted murder, Pops told him. I don’t know the details. It’s Mrs. Morris’s sister’s son, Rudy Cannelli, who wants to hire you. He’s supposed to own a lot of properties over there on the west coast, but Mrs. Morris says she’ll pay the bill if he can’t. If you ask me, she and her husband have too much money for their own good. Always playing golf in the middle of the afternoon, just asking for heatstroke, and I swear they have a new cart and clubs every other month.

He ignored his grandfather’s grousing and focused on the salient points. This case is here on the west coast of Florida?

In a small town called Punta Flaca. You can drive there right from where you are. You’ll get your usual fee, plus Cannelli will cover hotel and food. Play this right, and it will almost be like extending your honeymoon.

Mitch had to admit that sounded like a really good deal. He turned to Cassie. Do you want to take on a case here on the west coast? One of Pops’s neighbors has a family member who wants to hire us.

Can Pops keep pet sitting Bubba for us?