You are not going to believe this, but Tyler wants his money back. Says he needs it for his recovery because he’s going to be out of work for a while. What are we going to do?
Chapter Eighteen
Multiple thoughts came to mind. The first, and most visceral, involved Tyler.
He wasn’t only a jerk, but a scammer too. Why would he be out of work after a reaction to a bite of a spicy chicken wing? Why would he loan her money and then demand it back within a month?
He was clearly playing games with my sister, and I didn’t appreciate it.
I tapped out a quick text to Vera.Don’t worry. We’ll work it out. I’ll be over after the funeral.
I slipped the phone into my bag and tuned out the guy who was still telling the story of Gene’s heroic capture of a python. Eventually, he ended his monologue, and the funeral home director took the lectern.
“It’s clear that Gene was quite the colorful character. We should all be comforted to know that he’s in a better place now. It was destiny.”
An audible sob went up, and all heads swiveled toward Barbie, who stood and turned to look at the crowd. Her face was stained with mascara and tears. I wondered if she was drunk and emotional, or just putting on a show.
“It wasn’t destiny. It was murder. And the police better find the person who did it,” she cried.
I couldn’t help but notice that she stared straight at me while saying that. A shiver flowed through me as a couple of people glanced over. Why was she acting this way, when she’d said the other day that she didn’t think my sister or I had anything to do with Gene’s death?
An awkward silence overtook the room, and then the funeral home employees ushered Barbie outside. Everyone else began to file out slowly. Jack, Alex, and I stood. The two men nodded at each other.
I turned to Alex and tried to appear cheery. “Good seeing you.”
“I’ll definitely be in touch with you and Vera.” He walked off, without even a goodbye.
I leaned into Jack. “Let’s go find that producer,” I whispered. Even though my sister needed me, I couldn’t pass up an opportunity to gather more information. There was also the matter of Diego and his clandestine video. I couldn’t see him anywhere, but I figured we’d catch up with him later since we knew where he lived.
We made our way through the crowd. The producer was nowhere to be found, and I’d lost track of him when everyone cleared the room.
“I don’t see him,” Jack said.
“Maybe he’s outside?”
We pushed through the double glass doors, into the muggy Florida winter. Immediately we were greeted with the smell of marijuana. Five of Gene’s buddies were smoking pot. One called out to me and gestured to the joint in his hand.
“I’m good, thanks.” Jack and I quickly passed the group and headed into the parking lot. I instantly started sweating. It was midday, and by the moisture in the air and the blooming thunderclouds on the horizon, a storm was brewing.
I gently jabbed Jack in the side with my elbow. “Over there.”
The producer, who wore a black jacket, black T-shirt, and jeans, was in the parking lot.
We took off at a fast-paced walk. The producer reached a red car at the far end of the lot and opened the driver’s side door. Jack and I broke out into a run.
“Hey,” I shouted, not caring if anyone heard me.
The guy, who was in his fifties, looked around, startled. Probably he was trying to get out of town with his wallet and dignity intact.
A few seconds later, we reached him. Sweat beaded on my forehead, and Jack’s face was also shiny with perspiration.
“We wanted to ask you some questions,” I wheezed.
“Who are you?” He lowered his black Ray-Ban sunglasses and looked at us with gray-blue eyes.
I swept a lock of hair off my sticky neck. “We’re—”
“Podcasters,” Jack said smoothly. “True-crime podcasters.”
