Second Honeymoon

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.