Page 45

I jumped, completely lost in my work. “Oh. Sorry. Thank you.” I gave her a smile that felt lopsided.
She looked at the book and frowned, then left with her partner, whispering something in her ear. Had she seen this book before? Was she suspicious of me?
I was readingwaytoo much into one glance. Still, I watched through the glass wall until they were gone before turning back to the book.
112. It had to be a room number. Not a cottage, because cottages were letters—I was in K. But the main building had rooms. I went inside and picked up the phone, read the instructions for calling a room. Dialed.
“St. Claire desk. How may I help you, Ms. Crawford?”
“Uh—I was trying to reach room 112.”
“There is no room 112, so your call was routed to the main desk. Who are you trying to reach?”
I was at a loss. I needed to lie. I was an awful liar.
“Luis Caruso? We had breakfast this morning. I had a question for him. I might have gotten his room wrong.”
“I can get a message to Mr. Caruso,” the clerk said.
Oh, God, I was at a complete loss. “It, um, is sort of personal? We had a long conversation, and I... well, just, uh, tell him I called and I’ll look for him.” That sounded so lame. I thanked the clerk and hung up.
So much for being a private investigator. In one of my favorite series, PI Elvis Cole lied so smoothly whenever he was investigating. Why couldn’t I lie like Elvis Cole?
So 112 wasn’t a room. I went back outside and picked up the book. I was only a few chapters from the spot where Diana had left the business card as a bookmark. I turned the page and frowned.
Chapter Twenty-Nine.
The pages must have been stuck together. I rolled them in my fingers, trying to separate them, but they weren’t stuck together.
The last page of chapter twenty-eight was missing.
Why would Diana have torn out a page? She was reading the book as well as writing in it, which was clear from some of her comments about the characters and plot.
Had one of the maids done it? Doubtful, but possible.
Then I remembered what happened yesterday.
After I jumped in the ocean to “save” the honeymooners, I’d seen someone squatting next to my lounge chair. I closed my eyes and tried to picture him—I think it was a him, that was my impression, but I couldn’t be sure. My sight had been blurry from the water (and my deep embarrassment), and I had been at least a hundred yards away. Just a sense that it was a guy, but I couldn’t even say with certainty what race. He’d worn a lightweight jacket and shorts. I hadn’t noticed the torn page then, but I hadn’t read that far.
Could the stranger have torn out the page?
That seemed more likely than the maids, no matter how far-fetched it sounded.
“Mia! The tea!”
I yelped and jumped up, knocking both the chair and table over. Diana’s book and my notebook slid across the tiles as I fell to my ass.
It was Brie, in jean shorts and a bikini top, coming up from the beach to my cottage.
“Dammit,” I said, picking up the furniture.
“Sorry,” Brie said, not sounding sorry. She picked up the book. I tried to grab it from her hand at the same time I was picking up my notebook. She pulled back and I fell on my ass again as I overcompensated.
“Whatcha reading?” Brie asked. She sat in the chair I hadn’t knocked over and opened the book.
“That’s mine,” I said. I righted my chair and reached out for her to hand it to me, but she didn’t.
“This book has seen better days,” she said, shaking sand out from the pages.