Second Honeymoon

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.