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The redhead sized me up and, deciding I was no threat to her status as Queen Bee, smiled warmly as she lifted a flute from the silver tray, ignored the server, and introduced herself. “I’m Amber Jones.”
She spoke in a tone that suggested she expected me to recognize her name. I smiled right back and extended my hand. “Mia Crawford.”
Amber looked at my hand as if I had germs. I dropped it, self-conscious. My clients expected formalities like shaking hands and general politeness, but clearly that wasn’t going to be the case here.
“Have you been to St. Claire before?” I asked, trying to minimize the awkwardness as I discreetly glanced around the cabin, looking for a place to hide to finish my book.
“No.” She, too, looked around the room, overtly people-watching. “I wonder how long Nelson will keep his newest acquisition around,” she whispered snidely.
At first, I didn’t know what she meant, but I followed her eyes to where Nelson Stockton, one of the first black owners of an NFL team, stood drinking a beer while his much younger wife sipped her bubbly. Was Amber referring to the wife as anacquisition? I was all for being catty when having drinks with a girlfriend, but the comment seemed cruel when spoken to a stranger.
Assessing Nelson and his wife, I thought they made an attractive power couple. He was a large, fit, sixty-something former athlete who now co-owned the team he used to play for. Mrs. Stockton was as beautiful as Amber but in a completely different way. Amber was tall, rail-thin, lush red hair, hazel eyes, smooth translucent skin. Mrs. Stockton was voluptuous, with catlike eyes and light brown skin so perfect I couldn’t even tell if she was wearing makeup. Her golden-brown hair was wrapped around her head in braids, and her jewelry, though a bit overdone, was classy. Thirty? Forty? Fifty with an amazing plastic surgeon?
Another server came over with more champagne. I exchanged my empty glass for a full one and tried to make an escape before I was roped into another conversation. I turned and headed out the back, where I nearly collided with two men.
“Hello!” they said in unison with smiles bearing equally gorgeous straight white teeth. The taller man said, “I’m David, this is my husband, Doug.”
“Hi,” I said. “Mia Crawford.”
“You were on the plane in Miami. First time at St. Claire?”
“Yes. You?”
They laughed as if I’d said something hilarious when it really was just a polite question.
“Oh, no! It’s our fifth anniversary. We’ve come here every year since our honeymoon.” Doug kissed his husband on the cheek and grinned. “We’re meeting up with friends who were celebratingtheirfifth anniversary duringourhoneymoon. They arrived earlier, but David here is adoctor,” he said with pride, and to instill a bit of envy, I thought. “Works far too hard if you ask me, so we couldn’t fly out until this morning.”
“What kind of doctor?” I asked.
“Orthopedic surgeon,” David said. “Not as glamorous as Doug would have you believe.”
“David has saved the careers of more than a dozen baseball pitchers. Including Andrew Locke, who’s also here this week.”
“Stop,” David said with a shy grin. “Are you here with your boyfriend? Girlfriend? We should meet up and have drinks later.”
“Actually, I’m alone.”
They glanced at each other, and I felt doubly self-conscious. Two happily married men feeling sorry for me because I was (possibly) the only single woman on a beautiful island. I should have thought about that before I agreed to come here with hopes of finding a boyfriend for the week.
“Be careful,” Doug said with what sounded eerily like genuine concern.
“I think a private island in the middle of nowhere should be safe.”
“You would think that, wouldn’t you?” Doug said.
“Don’t scare her,” David said.
Now super curious, I asked, “What shouldn’t I be scared about?”
David gave Doug a disapproving look, then said, “A woman went missing a couple days ago. We heard someone talking aboutit while waiting for the ferry. She took the ferry to St. John but never returned.”
“Do you know who she was? Did she have a husband or something?” For the first time in years, I thought about my mother. She hadn’t disappeared into thin air, exactly, but I’d never forget the day she walked out on my dad and me. I don’t know what she said to Dad in private, but to me?“Honey, I’m just not happy. It’s not you, sweetheart, but this is the best thing for all of us.”
I had been six. I never saw her again.
Doug shrugged. “We don’t know anything about her. People were talking about it while we were waiting to board, and the redhead over there—” he made a loose gesture toward Amber Jones “—was asking about her. She’d read something in the paper. The woman’s name was Diane...”
“Diana,” David corrected him.