The Corpse in the Cabana

Where... Who... Ack!” That last one was shrieked as I hit the floor with a resounding thump.
I grimaced. Maybe I shouldn’t use the word “dead” quite so freely. There was way too much of that going on already.
From my position on the floor between the two beds, I squinted at the clock. Three a.m. Who on earth would be banging on the door at this hour? Grabbing my robe off the other bed, I staggered to my feet and wobbled my way to the door. Peeking through the peephole, it was hard to make out the other person in the dim light, but I recognized her form immediately: Cheryl. Whatever was going on, it couldn’t be any good to drag Cheryl out of bed at this ungodly hour.
Flipping back the deadbolt, I threw open the door. “What on earth...?”
Cheryl didn’t give me a chance to say another word. She launched herself at me, nearly taking both of us to the floor. I staggered back, letting the door slam shut. She was babbling incoherently and sobbing so hard, I was half afraid she’d break a rib. Mine or hers. Could go either way.
Cheryl is a slender woman. Tiny even. Not at all like my robust self. It would take quite a bit to snap anything of mine.
I patted her back. She was wearing a fuschia silk robe with giant blue flowers, and it was slippery under my fingers. “There, there.” I felt like an idiot, but wasn’t that what people said to comfort the distraught? “The big, bad bogeyman is gone. You’re safe.”
She pulled back, giving me a wide-eyed stare. She’d obviously fallen asleep with her makeup on because the remnants of mascara gave her raccoon eyes. On her, it was kind of adorable. “No, he’s not!” she gasped.
“What?”
“The bogeyman is in my room.”
I gave her a look. “Did you have another nightmare?”
Like most writers, Cheryl was prone to some rather creative dreaming. One time she’d dreamed that it was Thanksgiving and she’d forgotten to bake pie. So, she got up at four in the morning and started baking a pumpkin pie. Frankly, it’d been a win for me since I got to eat it. Another time she called me scared to death that she’d been kidnapped by aliens. In her defense, she was still half asleep when she called. She was embarrassed to death when she finally woke up fully and realized what she’d done.
“No. I swear. His name is Detective Coaster.” She frowned. “No, that’s not right.”
“Costa?” I asked suspiciously.
“Oh, yes. That’s it. How’d you know?”
“Come sit down. Tell me about it.” I dragged her into the living room and pushed her onto the couch. Normally I would never buy anything from the mini bar, but these were extenuating circumstances. I snagged a mini bottle of tequila for Cheryl and a whiskey for me. I prefer bourbon or brandy, but desperate times...
I twisted off the cap and handed her the tequila. “Drink.”
She frowned. “Don’t you have any fruit juice?”
“Fresh out. Down it fast. That’s my motto.”
She tossed it back in one gulp, making faces at the burn, while I joined her on the couch, sipping a little more delicately. “Okay, tell me what happened,” I demanded.
Cheryl took a shuddering breath. “I was asleep. You know, totally out of it. And there was this knock at the door. It was the police.” Her eyes were a little too wide. I handed her the remaining half of my whiskey, which she downed like a champ. “Like the actual police. With badges and guns and everything.”
“Yes. I’m familiar,” I said dryly.
“This detective was there. Costas.”
“Costa. What did he want?”
“I don’t know!” she wailed, fingers twisting around the empty whiskey bottle. “He just kept asking me all these questions about Natasha Winters and our kerfuffle.” Only Cheryl would call a knock-down, drag-out catfight a kerfuffle.
“Go on.”
“He was acting really weird. Like he thought I did something bad. Then he told me not to leave town or he’d arrest me,” she wailed.
My eyes really narrowed at that. “Did he tell you Natasha is dead?”
Cheryl tried to take another drink from the bottle and frowned when she realized it was empty. “What?” she asked, only half listening.
“Natasha is dead, Cheryl.”
She turned white. “Dead?” she whispered. “How did she die?”
“Knife in the back. Literally.”
“It was murder? N-no. He didn’t say anything about that. Oh my goodness. He thinks I did it, doesn’t he?” Cheryl was no dummy, which was one of the reasons we were friends.
I nodded. “I’m thinking he’s definitely got you on his suspect list. You’re in good company. I’m on there, too.”
“Why? You didn’t get in a fight with her.”
“Nope. I found her body.”
Cheryl’s mouth dropped open. She forgot her upset in the face of such scintillating gossip. “What? Tell me everything!”
I gave her a quick rundown on my rather grisly discovery, followed by my equally grisly interrogation by Detective Costa. “I’m right at the top of his suspect list. Along with Jason, of course.”
“And me,” Cheryl said mournfully. “I can’t believe you discovered her body. How awful.”
“It wasn’t that bad.”
She gave me a look.
“Okay, it was bad, but I didn’t see much. Touching her was the worst.”
“Ew! Why on earth did you touch her?”
“To check for a pulse, of course.” I then told her about the bracelet.
“You didn’t turn it over? Isn’t that withholding evidence?” she asked.
“Only if it is evidence. It could be nothing. Don’t worry. I’m going to do a little digging and if it turns out it’s important, I’ll fork it over.”
Cheryl sat back with a sad look. “You’re so much braver than I am, Viola. I don’t know what I’m going to do. How am I going to tell my mother I’m a murder suspect?”
“Don’t worry.” I patted her knee. “I’m going to prove once and for all that neither of us murdered Natasha Winters.”
“How are you going to do that?”
I smiled. “I’m going to find the real killer.”
“I CAN’T BELIEVE WE’RE doing this,” Cheryl hissed