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Chapter Nineteen
“The problem with putting two and two together is that sometimes you get four, and sometimes you get twenty-two.”
—Dashiell Hammett,The Thin Man
I wasn’t the only person on the ferry.
Sherry Morrison was drinking a mimosa in the cabin. She stared out the opposite porthole, preoccupied. Our conversation—or, ratherherconversation—yesterday at the spa disturbed me. As I was carefully walking around the deck to avoid Sherry seeing me, CeeCee ran up the dock, her oversized bag bouncing against her hip. “Wait for me!” She was breathless and collapsed on a deck chair.
I quickly slipped to the front of the boat and hoped neither of them saw me. The last thing I wanted was to get trapped into a social group. Fortunately, there was another couple on board, and CeeCee talked to them.
The ride to St. John was less than thirty minutes over the open sea, and when we docked, I let everyone else depart before I took the short, steep hill to the main police station.
First things first. Find out what the St. John police knew about Diana’s death.
I quickly learned that crime fiction wasn’t always accurate.
How many books had I read where the heroine goes into a police station and sweet-talks her way into information? Orwaits until the desk sergeant steps away and quickly scans the computer for all the answers.
I was polite. Friendly. Iflirted.
I got nothing. Nada.Zilch.
The police chief, who was in charge of the investigation, wasn’t in the office. The cop sitting behind the desk—who looked younger than Brie—wouldn’t even admit that Dianahadbeen murdered.
“If you need information, talk to the security chief on St. Claire, Mr. Garmon. Would you like contact information?” he said in broken English.
No, I wouldnotlike his contact information.But I didn’t say that. I smiled, thanked him for his time, and left.
The St. John police angle was a bust.
But I wasn’t deterred. What did Diana do on St. John? She must have had a purpose here. Who did she talk to? Someone had to have seen her.
I went back to the dock and showed Diana’s photo around to people who worked at the stands. Everyone was friendly—well, everyone wanted to sell me something. I politely declined, asked again. When no one admitted to having seen Diana in any of the shops or restaurants, I asked about private water taxies. Had the police already done this on Monday and Tuesday, after she first disappeared? Were they suspicious that someone like me was asking questions?
I’d been certain I’d find answers here on St. John, but after two hours of talking to damn near everyone in the commercial district, I had nothing. I was exhausted. The hills were killing my calves, and all I wanted was sit in my hot tub with a large bottle of wine.
I was alone on my birthday focused on the last day in the life of a dead woman. What happened to my resolve last night to put everything aside for the week except my own pleasure and happiness?
Someone broke into your room and stole your book, I reminded myself.
I walked down the narrow street feeling sorry for myself at the same time I was wondering what my next step should be.Someonehad to have seen Diana on this island. She was a pretty blonde American. She would stand out.
I paused at the corner and caught sight of a restaurant on the hill with an amazing view of the bay. I was famished. I started up the hill but hesitated when I saw a familiar woman sitting on the deck of the restaurant.
CeeCee. Though I only saw her in profile, there was no mistaking her lush, thick bleached blond hair—pulled back into a high, bouncing ponytail—and large boobs framed by the tight sundress. She and an older woman were eating lunch under a wide umbrella. This restaurant was quite a distance from the dock and outside the main tourist area.
Maybe she had a friend who lived here? Or spontaneously invited a stranger to lunch. That seemed on point. Yet... CeeCee’s demeanor seemed different. She wasn’t using her hands in the flamboyant way she usually communicated. As I watched, she leaned back with a glass of wine and a relaxed smile. The other woman was in her fifties with a short gray-blond bob and a long, narrow face, dressed in a chic sundress. She looked like money.
I took out my phone and snapped a picture because I thought she looked familiar, but I didn’t recall seeing her on St. Claire.
CeeCee turned toward the street as if she sensed someone watching her. I immediately ducked into a small, crowded shop to avoid being seen.
“Most private water taxis don’t work out of the dock area,” said a deep, feminine voice in heavily accented English.
I jumped, not expecting to see the large woman sitting on a bench on the balcony of the souvenir shop. She was in her sixties with wrinkled, tan skin.
“I’m sorry?”