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I pushed Jason to the back of my mind and thought about what the staff had been talking about.
Diana Harden had left without packing her belongings. That suggested that she didn’t plan to leave, to run away with a sexy chef or even have a family emergency—she would have called the resort, let them know. She left the island for St. John—perhaps to meet Mr.—or Ms.—Two-Face, and she never came back. There were now two things I wanted to do: go through her belongings and talk to the ferry captain who took her to St. John. Maybe she met someone on the dock. Maybe she said something to staff.
I just had to figure out how to do both without arousing suspicion.
Chapter Seven
“Some things in life are out of your control. You can make it a party or a tragedy.”
—Nora Roberts,Vision in White
After uploading my book review and changing into jeans and a T-shirt, I studied the island map. The lagoon was a half-mile walk down the Luz Luna Bahia trail. Though it was after ten, I was too wound up to sleep, tipsy but not drunk, so figured a little exploration would clear my mind.
I stepped out on my patio. Faint music came from the main lodge. I loved the lights wound among the trees and the peace of the starry night, stars I couldn’t see living in the city. I’d been a bit rough on Jason when I told him I hadn’t wanted to come to the island. Now I was glad to be here.
I headed down the beach and was about to turn toward Luz Luna Bahia when I smelled the distinct foul aroma of a cigar.
A man with a mop of white hair and a long white beard against brown skin lounged against a palm tree, framed by subdued ground lights fifty feet beyond my patio. His eyes were closed and he had a half smile on his face, as if listening to good music or reliving a happy memory.
I didn’t want to disturb him, so walked as quietly as I could past him, toward the path.
He opened his eyes.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hi. I’m sorry to disturb you.”
He smiled. He looked like Hispanic Santa Claus with his white, white hair. “You’re new here.”
“Yes. My first time. You?”
“I live here.” He puffed on his cigar, blew out rings of smoke.
“You do? That must be nice. It’s beautiful.” Beautiful. Why couldn’t I think of another word?
He kept smiling. “I keep an eye on things. It’s the least I can do.”
Odd comment.
“Oh. Well, I’m Mia. I’m just going for a walk.”
“Mia, Mia,” he murmured. He looked at least eighty.
He might be older than eighty. Was he all there? Maybe I should find someone to help him.
“Do you need help getting back to your room?”
“Oh, no. I’m fine. They don’t let me smoke in there, but I can sit here every night and have my cigar.”
Anyone who made it past life expectancy should be entitled to do whatever they wanted. At least, that’s what Grams told me every time I questioned her decisions.
“I’m Luis,” he continued. “Nice to meet you, Mia. I hope to see you later.”
“That would be nice,” I said and meant it. I had a soft spot for old people. They had wonderful stories, sometimes humorous, sometimes sad. Grams’s friend Minnie rambled but always made me smile with her tales of working in a factory during World War II when she was sixteen. Or Hank, Grams’s neighbor, who embellished his Vietnam War stories. He’d served, I knew, but what was truth and what was fiction? In the end, all they wanted was someone to listen, someone to care.
Someone to remember.
Luis closed his eyes again and smiled as he inhaled his cigar.