Second Honeymoon, Page 4

  “It’s very possible,” he said. “They cater to a high-class clientele, people in the know, and are very sensitive about respecting the privacy of their guests.”

  It suddenly dawned on me what Eldridge was doing. He was actually trying to tell me something, only not in so many words. This was off the record. Between the lines. Code.

  So long as I was smart enough to figure it out.

  “Yes, I see what you mean,” I said. “I’d hate to put you on the spot with something as frivolous as a trespassing charge. You’d have to arrest me, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid I would,” he said. “Without hesitation.”

  I stood up and shook his hand. “Then I’ll do my best to save you the trouble.”

  Chapter 14

  I FELT A little like a kid with a secret decoder ring from a box of Cracker Jack. Quite cleverly, Eldridge had managed to tell me that he had no leads and would appreciate my help, although I’d have to help him on the sly. The management of the Governor’s Club had apparently been uncooperative, and while they couldn’t block his access to the staff, the guests at the resort—people in the know—were another story.

  As for that talk about my being arrested for trespassing, that was just Eldridge advising me to check into the resort as a guest. They could get wise to me and kick me off the property, but it wouldn’t be for trespassing. They couldn’t press charges.

  So after only an hour on Turks and Caicos, my plans were changing yet again.

  “Would you like smoking or nonsmoking, Mr. O’Hara? We have both types of rooms available.”

  The polite and pretty brunette behind the check-in desk at the Governor’s Club didn’t let on, but it didn’t take a rocket scientist or even a suspended FBI agent to figure out that in the wake of two guests being murdered at the resort there’d be, oh, maybe just a few cancellations. How else to explain my walking in without a reservation in June—peak honeymoon season—and getting a room?

  “Nonsmoking, please,” I said.

  “Very good, Mr. O’Hara.”

  I was staying in a garden-view bungalow, the cheapest they had—or, more accurately, the least expensive. It was still seven hundred and fifty dollars a night. What a bargain! Good thing Breslow was covering all my expenses.

  I cooled off with a quick shower in the room before changing into my blending-in clothes for the afternoon: a bathing suit, T-shirt, and some SPF 30. I was now just another registered guest, heading off to the pool and ready to mingle. Discreetly, of course.

  Did anyone witness anything strange before Ethan and Abigail Breslow were murdered?

  Unfortunately, if anyone did, he or she wasn’t hanging out at the pool. Talk about discreet: the place was just about deserted. One empty chaise lounge after another.

  My next stop was the beach, a beautiful strip of white sand sloping gently down into what was called Grace Bay.

  I saw some guests sunning themselves, but they were spread out, literally few and far between. Not exactly conducive to striking up a conversation.

  Plan D. When all else fails, start drinking.

  I sidled up to the resort’s beach bar, a small hut with a half dozen empty stools and a lone bartender, who looked bored. I ordered a Turk’s Head, the local beer, and considered my next move.

  It turned out I didn’t have to move at all.

  Five minutes later, a man who looked to be in his midsixties approached the bar and ordered a rum punch. While exchanging friendly nods, I noticed that his sunburn was just beginning to turn into a tan.

  In other words, he’d probably been at the resort for more than a few days.

  I took a sip of my Turk’s Head, turning to him. I had my opening line all planned out. “Boy, it’s dead around here, isn’t it?” I said.

  The man suppressed a chuckle. “So to speak.”

  I smacked my head, as if to say, “I could’ve had a V8!”

  “Jesus, that’s right. Poor choice of words,” I said. “I just got here today, but I heard all about it. Scary, huh? I guess that explains why the place is so empty.”

  “Yeah. A lot of people skedaddled right after it happened. I suppose I can’t blame them.”

  The man had remnants of a Western drawl. Texas, or maybe Oklahoma. Business owner, maybe a lawyer. Not a doctor, though. Doctors usually don’t wear gold Rolexes.

  I smiled, pointing at him. “But you decided to stick around, huh? How’s that?”

  “It’s like that movie,” he said. He thought for a second, his forehead scrunching as he came up with the title. “The World According to Garp. You know, when the plane flies into the house and Robin Williams still buys it?”

  “Oh, yeah, I remember,” I said. “What are the odds that it’s going to happen again, right?”

  “Exactly.”

  “My name’s John, by the way.”

  “Carter,” he said, shaking my hand.

  “Of course, I’m sure everyone would feel a lot better if they caught the killer. Have you heard anything?” I asked.

  The bartender placed a rum punch in front of Carter, who immediately removed the slice of orange and tiny umbrella from the rim of the glass as if they threatened his manhood.

  “I haven’t heard boo,” he said between two quick sips. “It’s all been very hush-hush. Obviously, the hotel—make that the entire island—doesn’t want any more publicity.”

  “What about before the murder?”

  “How do you mean?” asked Carter.

  “I don’t know,” I said with a shrug. Nice and easy now, O’Hara. “Did you notice the couple talking to anyone in particular?”

  “No,” he said. “I only saw them one time. They were having a late dinner at the restaurant here. Very lovey-dovey, keeping to themselves.”

  Swing and a miss with my new buddy Carter, I thought. But then I watched as his forehead scrunched up again. This time real tight.

  “What are you thinking?” I asked.

  “I just remembered something,” he said.

  Chapter 15

  SPEAK TO ME, Carter.

  “I actually did see them one other time,” he said. “Now that I think about it.”

  Carter put down his rum punch, the glass sweating from the heat, and described how he saw Ethan and Abigail Breslow taking a sunset walk on the beach. He thought it was a day or so before they were murdered. A man walking in the opposite direction had stopped to talk to them.

  “You hear the conversation?” I asked, still trying to sound casual and chatty.

  “No. They were down by the water and I was right here having a cocktail with my wife. All three of them were smiling, but I sensed that Breslow and his new bride were uncomfortable.” He leaned in a bit. “And not just because the other guy was wearing one of those skimpy Speedo bathing suits.”

  “How could you tell they were uncomfortable?”

  “Body language,” he answered. “I’m good at reading people.”

  “You a poker player?”

  “Yeah, poker and craps, that’s what I play. In fact, that’s why I’m so surprised I forgot about this guy they were talking to. I’d seen him before…at the casino,” he said. “Shit, I should tell the police about this, shouldn’t I?”

  I didn’t say anything. At least I thought I didn’t. But Carter wasn’t kidding; he was fluent in body language.

  He leaned in again, this time even closer. “Wait a minute. You’re a cop, aren’t you?”

  “Something like that,” I said.

  I was hoping I wouldn’t have to elaborate. Maybe it was how fast I bought Carter another rum punch—“Hold the fruit, please”—but he didn’t pursue it. I asked him to describe this guy he saw with the Breslows.

  “Dark hair, decent-looking,” he said. “Probably in his late thirties.”

  “Tall? Short?”

  “Average height, I think. Around the same height as the Breslow boy. He looked to be in pretty good shape, too.”

  “Do you think he’s a guest h
ere?”

  “I don’t know. Like I said, the only other time I saw him was at the casino.”

  “Which one?” I knew there were a couple on the island.

  “The Casablanca,” he said. “Speedo and I were at the same craps table, only he was playing the don’t pass line. He was betting a lot. Winning a lot, too.”

  “Did he seem to know the dealers?”

  “You mean, like, maybe he was cheating?”

  “No…like maybe he was a regular, someone who lives on the island.”

  “Yeah, now that you mention it, the dealers did seem to know him,” he said. “That’s good, right? Chances are you can find him there.”

  Down went my last sip of the Turk’s Head beer. Pretty good for an island brew.

  I thanked Carter for his time and help. As I was about to push off my stool, though, I saw his eyes go wide.

  “I don’t effin’ believe it,” he said, looking over my shoulder.

  I turned. “What is it?”

  “That’s him…the guy! Coming in on the Jet Ski. See him? Right there.”

  I cupped my eyes to cut out the sun’s glare. The guy certainly fit Carter’s description, right down to the Speedo—or, as Susan used to call it, the banana hammock. “Are you sure it’s him?” I asked.

  “As sure as sugar,” he said.

  I took that for a yes.

  Chapter 16

  I WALKED QUICKLY across the white sand of Grace Bay beach, the various studies and statistics I’d read over the years about criminals returning to the scene of the crime running through my head.

  Burglars? About 12 percent of the time.

  Murderers? Nearly 20 percent. Kick it up to 27 percent if there was a sexual component to the killing.

  I didn’t want this guy to think I was making a beeline for him, so I stopped first to dip my toes in the water. From about twenty feet away, I watched as he began to pull his Jet Ski up on the sand so the waves wouldn’t take it.

  “Need a hand?” I asked, meandering over.

  “No, thanks, I’m good,” he said without even looking at me. “I’m good” was an American expression, but his accent wasn’t American. Mr. Speedo was Monsieur Speedo. A Frenchman.

  There were two other Jet Skis—Yamaha WaveRunners, actually—that belonged to the resort sitting side by side a little farther down the beach.

  “Hey, I was thinking about going out for a spin tomorrow. What do they charge you here for renting these things?” I asked.

  Speedo, however, wasn’t riding a Yamaha. His was a royal-blue Kawasaki, a beat-up one at that. It may or may not have been his, but it almost certainly didn’t belong to the Governor’s Club.

  In other words, I was playing dumb. My real question was, Are you a guest here, Speedo?

  “I’m visiting,” he said curtly. “Don’t know what they charge.”

  “I guess I’ll have to ask the guy,” I said, looking at a water activities hut next to the bar. The guy sitting in front of it, taking care of zero customers, looked even more bored than the bartender. It was the same theme all around. There was nothing like a couple of murders at a high-priced resort to kill off business.

  Speedo turned and walked away from me, the clichéd reputation of the French attitude toward strangers fully intact.

  Wait a minute, mon frère, I wasn’t done with you yet. In fact, I was just getting started.

  He was heading toward the pathway that led back to the pool. I caught up to him about halfway there.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “There was one other thing I wanted to ask you.”

  He couldn’t have looked more incredulous when he turned to me.

  Sacré bleu! What does this stupid American tourist want now?

  “I’m kind of busy,” he said.

  “Me, too,” I shot back. “I’m trying to solve a murder.”

  I was hoping to see him flinch. He didn’t. Cool as could be, he simply nodded. “Yes, the Breslows,” he said.

  “You know about it, huh?”

  “Of course. It’s the talk of the island.”

  “Funny you should say that word. Talk, that is. From what I understand, you were talking to the Breslows here on this beach about a day or two before they were murdered.”

  “So?”

  “Did you know them?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “What were you discussing?”

  He shifted his feet. “Who exactly are you?” he asked.

  “Will it change your answer if I tell you?”

  Speedo eyed me for a moment and I eyed him straight back.

  “Snorkeling,” he said, finally.

  “Snorkeling?”

  “Yes. They asked me about Dead Man’s Reef,” he said, pointing over my shoulder.

  But the second I turned to look I knew I’d made a mistake.

  Chapter 17

  AS SUCKER PUNCHES go it was a pretty good one. Straight to my gut, hard and fast. Kind of like how I went down.

  Breathe, O’Hara! Breathe!

  Fat chance. I was on my knees, hunched over in a helpless ball, my arms and legs resting on the sand.

  Meanwhile, Speedo looked like the start of a one-man triathlon, dashing across the beach and heading straight for the water. Except I knew he wasn’t about to start swimming. Shit!

  I pushed myself up, took one look at him dragging his Jet Ski into the surf, and immediately started running…in the opposite direction.

  The guy manning the water activities hut barely had time to blink.

  “I’ll be back,” I said to him, swiping the set of keys off his counter. With any luck he’d simply wave and tell me, “Have fun!”

  Yeah, right.

  “Hey, man!” I heard over my shoulder as I sprinted back down the beach. Now we had it going on. I was chasing Speedo, and Water Activities Dude was chasing me. “Hey, hey, you! Stop right there!”

  Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw my southern cavalry. Carter was up from his bar stool, blazing across the beach like General Sherman through Georgia. For an older man, he sure could run.

  As I dragged one of the resort’s two WaveRunners into the water as fast as I could, I looked up to see Carter nearly tackle the activities guy. Jesus, what a sight. This beach had never seen such action.

  While Carter was quickly trying to explain the situation, I was trying to give myself a quick refresher course on the finer points of riding a Jet Ski. It had easily been more than twenty years since I’d last been on one.

  Just like riding a bike, right?

  I turned the key, punched the Start button, and jammed the throttle. Then I held on for dear life. Speedo had a head start, but he hadn’t lost me yet.

  “Go get ’em!” I heard Carter yell.

  For the love of James Bond, how do I get myself in these situations?

  Chapter 18

  I WAS STRADDLING the seat, bouncing up and down with the waves, catching far more air than I cared to. Every time I jumped over a whitecap, the water would splash my face, the salt stinging my eyes. The engine had hit the redline. My hands and feet were shaking to the point of numbness from all the vibration.

  Hey, who’s having fun yet? Definitely not me. Maybe Speedo was having a blast.

  Speeding after the Frenchman, I wondered where he was leading me—or whether he had even thought that far ahead. About a hundred yards separated us, and I was desperately trying to close the gap.

  It wasn’t happening.

  If anything, I was losing ground. But as long as I could still see him, I had a shot. He couldn’t drive his vehicle forever; eventually he’d have to head to shore. I saw a footrace in my future.

  Then I saw something else.

  Off in the distance there was a series of rock formations jutting up from the water. They looked like little black chess pieces in a game that was about half over.

  Speedo was heading right for them.

  Before I knew it, he’d disappeared.

  He was using his home fiel
d advantage, and suddenly I felt like I was being played. But there was no time to slow down and think things over.

  I kept the throttle cranked and stayed on his tail, swerving left, right, then left again through the maze. I was drenched, exhausted, and coming way too close to these rocks. Jet Skis don’t come with air bags, do they?

  Finally, I was out in the clear again. To my amazement, I’d even made up some ground.

  Speedo was only about fifty yards ahead now, and looking nervously over his shoulder at me. For the first time, I actually took one hand off the handlebars.

  And waved.

  I was starting to get the hang of things, using the swells to propel me even faster. Keeping up? Hell, no, I was catching up!

  Then Speedo made a sharp right.

  He was aiming toward shore. I looked ahead and saw a stretch of beach in front of another resort. Which way would he run?

  Soon I saw that running wasn’t part of his plan.

  Suddenly I saw a series of red markers in the water spread out in a large circle. All around the perimeter were the heads of snorkelers, their neon-colored breathing tubes bobbing up and down. But no one was in the circle.

  Except Speedo.

  And then me.

  Immediately, he started swerving again, as though we were back among those jutting rocks, only I didn’t see any rocks.

  Until it was too late.

  Thump! Bam!

  I came flying off a swell only to see the water disappear beneath me, a jagged patch of rock and coral taking its place. That explained the markers.

  My knees buckled as I landed, the vehicle careening hard to the right as I tried to hold on.

  I couldn’t. I flew over the handlebars, somersaulting through the air, head over heels, like Charlie Brown trying to kick the football.

  That’s all I remember.

  Chapter 19

  THE GOOD NEWS was that I wasn’t dead.

  “Now do you want the bad news?” asked Joe Eldridge. “Because I do have some bad news.”

  He was standing at the foot of my bed, his expression teetering somewhere between pity and annoyance. Surely the police commissioner didn’t expect to see me again so soon, let alone laid up in the Grace Bay Medical Centre with a couple of cracked ribs and a mild concussion.