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I’m not confrontational. In fact, I go out of my way to avoid confrontation. Growing up, my dad and Grams would argue about everything—my dad was too stingy, Grams a spendthrift; my dad too judgmental, Grams too irresponsible. They argued about me, too. I hated when they argued about me. I would make myself as small as possible and hope they didn’t ask for my opinion; hence, I was stuck here with a hat in my face and no recourse other than pushing Amber overboard.
It was a thought, but I didn’t act on it.
“Oh. My!” The exclamation came from Mrs. Stockton.
“Is that him?”
“What is he doing?”
I couldn’t see anything through Amber’s hat, then realized the group was gawking at something behind the boat, out over the ocean. Standing on my tippy toes, I turned my head and saw the glider’s wide wing coming straight for the boat. The jerk swooped right over us, banked right, then flew over the water only feet above the surface. He headed to shore, using the water to slow down as he unzipped the bag that his legs were encased in. As he descended, his legs touched the sand, and he ran along the beach, pulling his wing down as he slowed to a jog, then a fast walk. A rod protruded from the glider; he stuck that into the sand and stopped.
“Amazing!” a woman gasped. She sounded as if she’d just had an orgasm.
A man I presumed was her husband kissed her on the cheek. “We can do that,” he said.
Right.Just jump off a cliff and hope that flimsy wing brings you back to the beach in one piece. Good luck with that.
No one—and I meanno one—would convince me to strap myself into one of those insane contraptions. I’ll fly the way God intended: in a plane with an engine, trained pilots, and ten-dollar mini-bottles of vodka.
“Whowasthat?” Mrs. Stockton asked no one in particular.
The captain of the boat smiled as he approached us. “That, Mrs. Stockton, is Jason Mallory, our head bartender and part-time entertainment.” He chuckled. “Your bags are on their way to the resort, where they will be taken to your rooms. If you’d like to follow me to the shuttle, the driver is ready.”
I half expected him to bow and chirp,Your chariot awaits.
“I hope there’s a backup bartender,” Mr. Stockton said. “Mr. Mallory is itching to break his neck.”
“He hasn’t broken a bone yet,” the captain said with a hint of pride.
There’s a first for everything.
I could just picture it now, Jason Mallory stuck in a wheelchair with a broken leg à la Jimmy Stewart inRear Window, resigned to watching the world from his apartment. I supposed if he lived full-time on the island, the view wouldn’t be so bad, but the boredom might kill him just the same.
The passengers started down the dock. I was about to sayexcuse meto Amber again when I noticed she was looking in a completely different direction. Instead of the beach where Jason Mallory was packing up his hang glider, her gaze went south.
At first, I didn’t see anything, only cliffs and a trail that went up the mountain. Then something moved—a man in khaki pants and a blue short-sleeved collared shirt. He was standing at the edge of the trail on an overlook watching the boat—or watching the people on the boat. I shivered, remembering what Doug and David told me about the missing woman—and my thoughts about a serial killer.
For my own peace of mind, I needed to find out exactly what happened to Diana. I really hoped she was having a lovely affair with a cabana boy and just lost track of time.
A laugh bubbled up in my throat and escaped. I slapped my hand over my mouth. Where had that come from? Amber shot me a dirty look, then followed the rest of the passengers.
I glanced back up to the trail; the man was gone. I counted to five before I followed Amber. I didn’t want to be stuck sitting next to her, but I might not have a choice—only other single woman and all.
Suddenly, the sheer beauty of the island hit me. The bay with gently rolling waves, the staggering mountain that seemed to erupt from the water, the sprawling resort with buildings that practically disappeared into the lush green trees and flowering plants. I couldn’t see the swimming pool from here, but from the brochure, knew it rolled right up to the sand.
As I started to follow the group, a folded newspaper tuckedpartly under a seat cushion caught my eye. It was the same newspaper that Amber had had in her bag, but now I could read the headline.
American Woman Still Missing
Last Seen Leaving St. Claire
I picked up the paper. A photo accompanied the article: a stylish blonde with light-colored eyes and flawless skin.
Diana Harden, 32, of New Orleans, missing since Sunday morning.
Today was Tuesday.
I started to read the article.