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  TREVAR’S TEAM: 1

  Scarlet Clover Publishers, LLC

  Littleton, Colorado

  Copyright © 2015 Kieran York

  Trevar’s Team: 1

  By Kieran York

  Published October 2015

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher. This includes electronic or mechanical, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, except for the quotations or brief quotations used in critical articles or reviews, without prior permission from Scarlet Clover Publishers.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, locales, and events either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Literary Editor / Interior Design

  Rogena Mitchell-Jones

  www.rogenamitchell.com

  Cover Design Director—Karen Badger

  Cover Art—Kelly Jo Stevens

  Published by Scarlet Clover Publishers LLC

  www.kieranyork.com and www.scarletcloverpublishers.com

  P.O. Box 621002, Littleton, Colorado 80162

  Printed and bound in the United States of America, UK, and Europe

  TREVAR’S TEAM: 1

  The author of the Royce Madison Mystery Series creates an exhilarating new detective trio!

  An Investigator’s Team in Palm Beach!

  A Yacht with Three Sapphics!

  Each Woman with a Beretta and a Smile.

  Look out World!

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Other Books by Kieran York

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  Coming Attractions

  About the Author

  OTHER BOOKS BY KIERAN YORK

  Within Our Celebration (Short Stories)

  Touring Kelly’s Poem

  Loitering on the Frontier

  Night Without Time

  Earthen Trinkets

  Careful Flowers

  Appointment with a Smile

  Sugar with Spice (Short Fiction)

  Blushing Aspen (Poetry)

  Realm of Belonging (Poetry)

  Shinney Forest Cloaks: Book 3 (A Royce Madison Mystery)

  Crystal Mountain Veils: Book 2 (A Royce Madison Mystery)

  Timber City Masks: Book 1 (A Royce Madison Mystery)

  Poetry Contributor to Sappho’s Corner Poetry Series:

  Wet Violets, Volume 2

  Roses Read, Volume 3

  Delectable Daisies, Volume 4

  Forthcoming

  Ballad of Raindrops

  Primrose

  Astray

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Beth Mitchum, Rogena Mitchell-Jones, Karen D. Badger, and Martha Ryan – I’ll be forever appreciative for all you’ve done to help me launch and continue Scarlet Clover Publishers. I can’t imagine a finer team, anywhere or anytime. I couldn’t hope for better friends. Thank you all.

  My family is so extraordinary. All of my many friends say that they are the best family anyone could hope to have. I give thanks each moment of my life, not only that they are part of my life, but because knowing them makes me better.

  I’m surrounded by friends that enhance my life. Ladybugs, butterflies, and floral elegance grace my life because of them. The music of my life is sung through them. Thank you for the happiness you bring to me.

  Happiness. My mother always told me that I was a happy baby. She also taught that I should stay that way. I’ve learned that my circle of family and friends provides happiness! If my life is a no-moan zone, it is the great fortune of being surrounded by the people I’ve mentioned above. I thank those in my life.

  DEDICATION

  Dedicated to my Florida pal, Lana Turner.

  We go way back—she edited my first book of poetry when we were pups. I wrote some poetry for her. And a song (or several) for her.

  We’ve remained friends throughout the years.

  I’m proud to be her friend.

  1

  THE SOLAR SYSTEM didn’t feel fine-tuned. Something about this case was way too shadowy and jittery for my liking. I’m not sure if there was a weird disconnect from my guardian goddess, but my inside voice had become a bell. An alarm bell.

  Our firm, Trevar Investigators, consisted of a trio of Beretta packing, savvy, strong, sexy women. One of them nearly always called me by my name—Beryl and the other one nearly always called me Trev.

  “This is actually exciting. I’m meeting her in person. Hey, her PR drug messages helped me clean up. If she could do it, so could I,” Summer confided. “Meeting her is a big deal to me. I can’t wait.

  “I can always wait when it comes to these kinds of deals, “I muttered tensely. I found the limousine’s enormous backseats uncomfortable. And the waiting was unsettling.

  “Trev, these kinds of deals! Sure, it’s only another bodyguard gig. Except we don’t usually have this big of a brand name. This is big time important.”

  “They’re all important. Our detective agency agrees to take the first hit. Famous client or not.”

  “So why are you so concerned about this case?”

  “My trouble meter is blinking red lights. My inside alarm is going off. I can’t wait to see the back of this assignment.”

  “Beryl Trevar, you can’t tell me you’re not excited about meeting her.” Excitement charged from Summer’s words. She’d been waiting all day for this. Our detective firm had provided bodyguard services for politicians, for wealthy clients, and numerous other celebrities—but it never fazed Summer. This impressed her.

  “I just hope everything goes securely. Life is a lottery.”

  “Meaning?”

  “If someone wants to off Sylvia Grant, this is one of their sweetest opportunities.” My comment was nearly swallowed away with anxiety. This kind of intrigue demanded a cool demeanor. Yet without taut nerves as one approaches the edge, there might not be the brace for a shotgun’s lethal spray of pellets. A perfectly aimed bullet could express an assassin’s message. So anxiety was a fine friend tonight, I acknowledged. Too much theatrical bravery seemed grotesquely out of place. “It’s a challenge.”

  “Yeah,” Summer Wade agreed. Summer had hung onto the nickname I’d made up for her. She’d always claim she couldn’t give up her dubious occupation of drug sales because summer was her high traffic time. I always believed excitement was her reason for littering the streets with drugs.

  When I’d first met her five years ago, I’d told her she was quoting her summer trade so much that I was planning to call her Summer. Since she was rapidly changing aliases, she agreed to be called Summer permanently so her name would be recognizable. Naturally, I continued calling her Summer as a way of developing a friendship.

  After a rocky beginning, our friendship blossomed. It then converted into a business partnership comprising of Summer, a third partner, and myself. Our private investigation firm—Trevar Investigators, Inc.—solidified our friendship. And satisfied Summer’s need for excitement.

  Summer’s eyebrows arched as she spoke, “With all the haters out, conditions for a murder or two are good.”

  “Our immediate problem is being on time.” My voice filled with impatience. Words mixed with annoyance. “The limousine was late before we even got to Royal Park Bridge.”

  This drawbridge linked the small island of Palm Beach with the continental West Palm Beach. Waiting at the bridge was ofte
n my personal penalty box. For when it lifted its arms to allow floating vessels passage through Florida’s Intracoastal Waterway, it never failed to be the blockade keeping me from appointments.

  And I didn’t want to be late picking up the singing legend, Silvia Grant. She and her lovely Latina sweetheart of seven years, Lilia Franco, expected precision. Tonight, they were slotted to perform at the annual AIDS benefit held at the Center for Performing Arts in West Palm Beach.

  Summer defended, “I told you we didn’t have time to drop Rachel off before we pick up our clients.”

  “Summer,” I argued, “Rach needs to be in place. Remember the enemy’s list. There’s a distressed, probably boozed up, Jeremy Howell. Sylvia’s ex-husband, slash, soon to be ex-manager, is armed and dangerous. We also have protestors waiting to have their anti-gay placards read and memorized. The godly haters are Sylvia’s detractors. There’s always going to be those who hate what they don’t approve of or understand, for no other reason than it isn’t them.”

  According to plan, the third member of our team was to be awaiting our arrival at the auditorium. The glamorous Rachel Rosen would be at her post, diligently ready to pounce on agitated detractors. She would execute her former profession as a law enforcer with due speed. She blended in the crowd better than when she was a uniformed member of Palm Beach’s finest. Her analytical mind made her a natural for bodyguard assignments. But Summer was the fiercest crowd control specialist. With Amazonian stature and strength, she was our firm’s solution to countering any violence that might erupt.

  Summer ruffled her muscular arms. “Nobody’s getting in Sylvia’s face.” Her upper lip curled. “Unless it’s her Argentine beauty.”

  “Yes.” My abbreviated response interested Summer. I added, “Lilia Franco is lovely. In the best sense of all words relating to love.”

  I’d first seen her while jostling the TV remote. Lilia was the ingénue on a telenovela, Spanish-speaking soap opera. I’d whistled through my teeth and commented that she was the loveliest woman I’d ever seen. She’d also been in movies. I had the DVDs and made it a point to watch them each several times. Admittedly, I watched with heart palpitations.

  Not that I carried a lesbian shopping list, but she seemed to possess every quality of passion I required. Sylvia Grant must have had the same reaction. Rumor had it that when they met, Sylvia immediately fell in love with the much younger love goddess.

  I was interested in the famous pair, and especially in the stunning Lilia Franco. When a promo announced she was to sing on a Latin American TV entertainment program, I watched with great attention. It was commonly known among the Sapphic Palm Beach community that Sylvia and Lilia were lovers. Although the tabloid TV shows issued a few rumors hinting at Sylvia Grant’s sexual orientation, it was mostly very hush-hush. Lilia was assumed by many to be a young singer learning from a world-famous mentor. The public seemed satisfied to buy into that explanation.

  A glance at my wristwatch created a frown. Making it to our appointed destination before the tardy bell rang weighed heavily on my sense of impeccable timing. The trio’s firm contributed our services, and we stressed that we were always punctual for an assignment. Obviously, the show would wait for the star, but I had no intention of making the legendary singer await our arrival.

  “See, we have time to spare,” Summer repeated as the drawbridge lowered. “Sure you don’t want me riding in the backseat?”

  “You ride with the driver so you can open the doors. I want you in front. I’ll follow with the women. Our primary concern is getting them through a crushing throng of fans and protesters.”

  Summer flexed her pectorals as she gave the tail curl at the base of her short, sable hair a twist. Her dark faux-hawk added to her appeal. When the limousine pulled into the gated estate’s circular driveway, Summer whistled. “Even by Palm Beach standards, this is over the top.”

  “Very impressive digs,” I commented.

  A maid ushered us through the main hall of the Grant home. We were led back to the terrace garden. It was surrounded by jasmine-scented exotic flowers. There were hot pink hibiscus, burgundy bougainvillea, and an array of sweet blossoms growing in front of swaying palms.

  I then viewed the lushness of the garden behind us. When my glance lifted, there was the opalescent ocean against a tropical sunset. I realized I was indulging myself in a great view. Possibly, I considered, I needed that moment to tame my concern about the countdown to danger. I reached for some odd mythological courage. ‘I am woman; hear me roar,’ the song’s lyrics said. I knew we were about to assault the waves of danger directly ahead of us.

  The horizon light flamed with a huge setting sun. I turned. Before catching my breath, Lilia Franco came through the doorway.

  Lilia’s sensual body was wrapped in a full-length sapphire gown. The gown sparkled. The woman sparkled. And her captivating dark eyes also sparkled with an enigmatic polish of intelligence and intrigue. Their color was that of melted Le Cordon Bleu Chocolat Noir. Her long curls matched the shade of her eyes. Her thick hair fanned back from her face, then draped down on her bare shoulders. Those shoulders, as was her face, were lightly tanned beige with a pink tinge. When her coral-colored lips moved to greet us, they seemed to kiss the words. Her voice was just as lilting as I recalled it when watching her on TV. She was cordial, yet brief. She went to the doorway to encourage her lover to hurry.

  “Whew!” Summer exclaimed with a slightly melodramatic whisper. “She’s hot.”

  “Back in your cage,” I cautioned. “No need to antagonize the star by ogling her incredibly luscious lover.”

  “A Sapphic goddess.”

  “Sylvia Grant’s goddess,” I reminded her. “Brain on business.”

  “Ease up, Trev. We’ve never lost a client yet,” Summer boasted. “We’re tough enough and we’re packing.” She reached to pat her side. Her jade-colored t-shirt was haphazardly tucked into oversized denim slacks. Beneath the wide gathering of her elastic waistband rested a belt holster. It wrapped a gleaming 9mm pistol.

  The Beretta was our selected agency pistols. They matched our mood. And often they went perfectly with our fashion.

  My own blue-sheened automatic was strapped to my body in a shoulder holster. It was beneath my rose-colored loosely fitting jacket. My wardrobe had been purchased with my arsenal in mind. I generally wore clothing that concealed the fact that I was armed. An extra magazine of ammunition was tucked into the pockets of my ivory slacks. A matching shirt pocket held a smartphone with recorder capabilities. My legal background made the trait of note-keeping essential.

  Sylvia Grant made her entrance. Her hand extended toward mine. I took its warmth. “Beryl Trevar,” she murmured. “I’m Silvia.”

  My smile gave me away. As if I needed an introduction to the face that the entire world knew by heart. Her grin was filled with bursting energy. Her diminutive form was tapped into that energy. Sylvia’s pansy face, flashing dark eyes, and short, rusty-hued hair were celebrated. There was an animated vigor adding a dimension to her gusto. Dressed in a bright, multicolored evening dress, she sashayed.

  I motioned toward Summer. “And this is Summer Wade, one of my partners. Rachel, the third member of our firm is waiting for us at the auditorium.”

  “You’re a trio, I read. I’ve got protection in triplicate.” Sylvia spoke with the same kind of enchanted punch as she delivered in her songs. “They call you Trevar’s Team and you live on a yacht called the Radclyffe Hull, right?”

  “Right. When we began the firm three years ago, I’d just finished reading Radclyffe Hall’s famous Well of Loneliness. I had just dissolved my law practice. I’d sold my estate, my swank office space, and my Lamborghini. With the proceeds, I purchased a yacht. The remaining funds provided startup money for our newly formed private investigation firm. We christened the yacht The Radclyffe Hull.”

  “And is your third partner as adorable as the two of you?” Sylvia questioned.

  “She’s an ex
-cop,” Summer reported. “I’m the ex-offender. And Beryl is the attorney.”

  Sylvia’s raunchy, melodic giggle exploded. “So we’ll be in good hands. An ex-cop, ex-criminal, and ex-shyster,” she teased.

  “I’m still technically a shyster. I’m just not practicing law at this time,” I said with a good-natured laugh. I reminded them with a point to my watch. “We should be on our way to the auditorium.”

  “And on the way, I want to know more about the three of you,” Sylvia said. She lifted my hand as we strolled toward the limousine. I retrieved a quick glance at Lilia Franco. She was obviously unhappy over Sylvia’s display of affection. Lilia’s thick, dark lashes blinked sparks. I was uncomfortable, but Sylvia continued clutching my hand until we reached the vehicle. I instructed the two women to sit on one side. I sat opposite them in the huge back seat. Summer dutifully took her station in front with the driver.

  “I hope you don’t mind my asking,” Sylvia quizzed, “but why did you dissolve your law practice?”

  “I tired of charging enormous fees to spring the sleazy underworld drug lords.”

  Sylvia inquired, “So why did you become an attorney if not to pillage and plunder?”

  “Childhood poverty made me think money was a requirement of happiness.”

  “You got religion?” Sylvia asked with a laugh.

  “I got a jurisprudential conscience,” I answered. My smile then turned to a bashful laugh. “I realized my mistake three years ago.”

  “I’ve done the mistakes.” Sylvia sighed heavily. “You already are aware of one of my major mistakes. Jeremy Howell.”

  “I know he’s threatened you recently. We’ve got a background on him.” With confidence I pledged, “If he tries anything, we’ll be waiting for him.”

  “He called last week. Completely sloshed. As usual, he was being unreasonable. I have no idea why I’ve put up with him.” Disgust covered her face. Sylvia shifted in her seat to look out the window as we rolled across the drawbridge. “He must have forgotten I’d fired him. He called to warn me not to do the AIDS benefit. Said it was going to hurt my career to be associated with a gay disease. Then he mentioned the tabloid fodder concerning my lesbianism might surface. I sensed his usual blackmail threat. He wants to expose Lilia and my affair. Until now, he’s been on the payroll and has been quiet. I told him to screw off. That’s when he told me I’d never live to make the appearance tonight.”