Villa del Death: Who Killed Don?
Who Killed Don? The nosiest of the neighbors, priding herself on her deduction skills is in jail for the murder. it's up to you to solve the case!
The Villa del Mer something Mermaids perhaps-or whatever it had been called before the sign lost half its letters-slumped at the edge of the Gulf like something that had given up. Plywood covered two of the ground-floor windows. Where the hot tubs had been, concrete pads sat sun-bleached and cracked, drain holes open to the sky. A fire alarm panel by the stairwell hung off the wall by a single screw, its wires cut or just fallen loose, nobody could say when.Peeling paint and the faint smell of mildew kept the nightly rates low enough for college kids to split four ways and for young families to afford a week by the sea. The sagging mattresses and rust-streaked bathroom sinks were just part of the charm.
The beach, the pools, and the parking lot filled up fast once the weekend heat settled in. Coolers scraped across concrete. Car doors slammed. Music collided from every direction-bass from the upper floors, something tinny from a Bluetooth speaker by the pool, somebody's car stereo left running. The smell of marijuana drifted through it all, thick and unhurried, mixing with sunscreen and cigarettes and the low salt rot of the Gulf.
Late nighters began exploring. On the first roof, a boom box thumped while silhouettes danced against the palm trees and star-pricked sky. The second roof hosted a drunken volleyball game, the ball thudding against forearms and occasionally skittering over the edge into the bushes below. On the third and highest roof, someone had rigged a zip line from the satellite dish mount to a leaning power pole, sending shrieking figures sailing out over the parking lot. Then came the sudden pop and sizzle of a firework show, Roman candles shooting colored stars over the dark water.
By eight the sun was already mean. Bodies stirred on the pool deck and in the sand, some face down, some folded into chairs at angles that looked painful. A girl in a bikini top sat up and immediately put her head back between her knees. Crushed cans and bottle caps and a single flip-flop were spread across the concrete. Three raccoons worked the perimeter of an overturned cooler with the focused patience of professionals, pulling out hot dog wrappers and an intact bag of chips.
One man remained on the sand, face-up at the waterline, his feet in the shallows where small waves broke and receded around his ankles without moving him. His shirt had ridden up. A seagull landed near his head, considered him, and left. The joggers curved wide without breaking stride.
Mid-morning, as the heat began to press down, she made her rounds. A frayed legal pad was clutched in one hand, her phone in the other snapping photos of every violation-peeling paint, overflowing dumpsters, the zip line still rigged to the power pole. She was compiling evidence for her daily missives to code enforcement, the health department, even the tourism board. That's when she saw him: Don, laid out on the sand like another piece of washed-up debris, his feet in the water, shirt riding up to show pale skin. Her former love interest, dead to the world.
She stood over him a moment, legal pad at her side. His mouth was open. A thin crust of salt had dried along his hairline, and his stomach, where the shirt had ridden up. She thought of every email she had sent that had gone unanswered, every meeting she had requested and been denied. She moved her foot toward him.
She pressed her foot into his groin. Nothing. Not a flinch, not a groan. She took a few steps back, looked around once, and then ran and came down on his midsection with both feet. A seagull startled off a nearby partially full container of french fries. Don did not move.
Now she's trending on the internet thanks to those bratty kids and hoping her public defender can get her out of this mess.
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