Page 11 of Beach Reads and Deadly Deeds

Movement near the lounger where I’d been reading caught my attention, and I put my hand on my forehead and squinted against the bright sun.

Someone was next to my chair. Between the sun and the salt water and the umbrella partially obscuring the person, I couldn’t see anything other than a blur.

Were they going through my things? I called out as loud as I could, “Hey! That’s my stuff!

” then swam to shore. By the time I walked up from the water, no one was there.

But my book wasn’t on the chair where I had dropped it; it was now on the table next to my drink. Why would someone have moved

it?

“Mia, you’re making a mountain out of a molehill,” I muttered. A staff member might have been cleaning up. They didn’t take

anything—my book was here, my bag, my nearly empty drink.

After what I’d interrupted in the ocean, I needed another drink. But it was getting late and I should shower and get ready

for dinner at the Sky Bar—and maybe take a few minutes to lament one of the most embarrassing moments of my life.

As I stuffed the book back into my beach bag, the newspaper fell out. I picked it up and glanced at the caption.

New Orleans.

I unfolded the newspaper, sat on the edge of the lounger, and reread the article.

Diana Harden, the missing woman, was from New Orleans. The article didn’t say what she did there, where she worked, if she

worked, but it couldn’t be a coincidence that the book I now held contained a business card with a New Orleans address.

Had the owner of this tattered book known the missing woman? Maybe they met on the ferry. Or had a drink together. Had something

in common — reading, antiques, two single women traveling alone? I really wanted to find the book owner now. She might have an idea what happened to Diana. It could be as simple as her mother having

a medical emergency. Maybe Diana didn’t tell the resort she was leaving.

Or maybe... could Diana Harden, the missing woman, have left the book herself? Could she be the one who wrote these notes? Was she my Harriet the Spy?

A thrill ran through me. I would find out exactly who had this book before me, and I knew where to start. Trina at the gift shop. I might even have time to talk to her before I went to dinner.

“May I see that?”

I jumped up, hit my head on the umbrella, stumbled backward, tripped over the table, and knocked over my near-empty drink,

leaving a trail of fruit in the sand as I fell heavily on my ass.

“Shit,” I muttered.

“I shouldn’t have snuck up on you.”

The man smiled and offered his hand to help me up.

Flushed and embarrassed, I took the hand because it would have been more awkward to ignore it.

He pulled me up quickly, as if I weighed nothing, then grabbed my elbow to steady me. “Thank you,” I managed to say.

“I’m Gino Garmon, head of security.”

“Oh. Hi. I’m Mia. Mia Crawford. I just arrived today.” I saw my reflection in his mirrored sunglasses.

He dressed like all the other staff at St. Claire, but then I saw that instead of his name, Security was embroidered under the logo.

“It was quite heroic of you to risk your life to save that couple,” he said, motioning to the water.

He sounded like he was mocking me, but I couldn’t tell because his eyes were hidden behind his shades.

“I heard a scream—I was wrong.”

“Too many people don’t pay any attention to others.” Now he didn’t sound insulting, but I was certain he was laughing at me

on the inside. “I saw the headline you were reading. We don’t get the St. John paper here. May I?”

He extended his hand, and I reluctantly gave him the paper.

Gino read quickly, and I tried not to stare. Tall? Check. Dark? Check. Handsome? Double-check. Broad shoulders with a tapered waist and well-defined muscles. I swallowed and wished I had another drink.

Gino shook his head and made a tsk-tsk sound. “Tragic.” He folded the paper and handed it back. “I can assure you, St. Claire is a safe island.”

“Did she disappear here or on St. John?”

“I couldn’t say.”

“But the article said she boarded the ferry, right?”

He smiled. “Curious, aren’t you?”

“When a single woman traveling alone disappears, it makes other single women traveling alone curious as to why.”

“Do you feel unsafe?”

“No, but I’d still like to know if she disappeared from St. Claire or if she disappeared from St. John.”

“The St. John police chief has been keeping me informed. She left St. Claire early Sunday morning, was seen exiting the ferry

on St. John, told our captain that she’d hire her own boat for the return trip because she didn’t know how long she’d be.

And no one has seen her since. The private taxis have all been questioned, and none brought her back to the island.”

“So she was traveling alone? The newspaper didn’t say either way, but that’s what I’d gathered.”

“She didn’t check in with another party.”

That was an odd way of phrasing the answer. “Did she meet someone here?”

He wasn’t smiling now. He looked like a stern, no-nonsense cop more than a resort security guard. A bit intimidating. “If

I was privy to any information that would assist the police in their investigation, I would have told them, and them alone.

St. Claire prides itself on our privacy policy, which means no discussing the lives of our guests—on or off the island.”

I would not be deterred. “What do you think happened?”

“I don’t have enough information to make an educated guess.”

“People don’t just disappear.”

“I’m confident that the police will find out what happened. Do not worry about it, Ms. Crawford. Enjoy your vacation.”

Gino smiled and walked down the beach, greeted each guest he passed, then stopped at the poolside bar. He glanced back at

me; I quickly averted my eyes.

No, I wouldn’t worry my pretty little head about it, Mr. Security Chief. He might be eye-candy, but his attitude ruled him off my one-night stand list.

At least Jason the bartender wasn’t a jerk.

Hungry and frustrated, I stuffed the newspaper into my book bag and headed for my cottage, taking the beach path instead of

cutting through the lodge.

As I passed the bar, I heard a brusque male voice that I immediately recognized as the man who had been arguing with Amber.

I stopped, partially blocked by a trellis. He was standing just outside the ring of tables, his back to the bar, phone to

his ear, and clearly angry. Bermuda shorts, sky-blue polo shirt, designer sunglasses. The shirt—the man on the cliff when

we were getting off the boat had been wearing the same color. One and the same?

His tone grated on me—the whiny, arrogant lilt of someone who always expected to get his way. If he was in a romance novel,

he’d be the heroine’s emotionally abusive ex-husband. The type of guy a girl fell for because of his good looks (and maybe

ability in bed), who later made her question her judgment. The manipulative jerk who made the heroine swear off men entirely,

until the right guy came along and convinced her that not all men were assholes.

I couldn’t get to my cottage without passing him, unless I wanted to go the long way through the lodge. Which I didn’t, because

I really didn’t want to see the honeymooners for the rest of my life—or at least for the rest of today.

“You can’t make up something?” the jerk was saying. “Tell him you can’t reach me? Fine! Put him on, but next time, you’d better

come up with a good excuse or you’ll be looking for a new job.”

A second later, his voice completely changed. “Dad? Hey! Yeah, reception isn’t great, but I wanted to talk to you... Spontaneous,

I know, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before that I was going to St. Claire, but Amber and I are trying to make it work...

Of course I’ll be at the meeting on Monday... Sure. Anything you need, let me know. Love ya, Dad.”

Silence. I peered through the trellis. He was standing there, looking at the ocean. I couldn’t leave without being seen. Damn. Just do it.

I plastered a half smile on my face and walked briskly from the edge of the bar, down the path that led to my cabin.

“Hello,” I said cheerfully as I passed by.

He whirled around, his face rigid and angry. “Hello.” Gruff, but he relaxed a bit when he saw me.

“You weren’t on the ferry this afternoon,” I said. “Have you been here long?”

“Yesterday,” he said, his voice clipped.

“It’s so beautiful.” I waved my hand toward the ocean on one side, the lush mountain on the other. “I don’t think I ever want

to leave, though my boss probably won’t like that.” I laughed while cringing inside. Why had I said that? I wanted a rewrite,

but that was the problem when you said the first thing that came to your mind. Sometimes it was smart... sometimes not.

“Oh. Yes. Pretty,” he said vaguely. Then he looked around as if he hadn’t really noticed much of anything.

“I’m Mia Crawford. From New Jersey.” I extended my hand out of habit and wished I could pull it back.

He pumped my hand once, dropped it. “Parker Briggs.”

“Nice to meet you, Parker. See you around.”

I walked away and immediately breathed easier. Okay, at least I knew who he was. He wasn’t just Mr. Asshole. He was Mr. Parker

Briggs, Asshole.

I thought about Parker’s conversation with his father. He’d been talking about Amber, about wanting to “make it work.” Did

that mean they were together? Like, together together? If he wanted to make it work, why had he been yelling at her? I was nonconfrontational, sure, but if a man yelled

at me like that, I wouldn’t be wanting to get back together with him. I had one boyfriend years ago who snapped at everyone—me,

servers, his staff. I was so tense and stressed waiting for him to snap some order to get him this or that or do some such

thing that I called it quits.

Some people seemed to thrive in those kinds of relationships, the big blowout fight followed by the great make-up sex. Or so I’ve heard. And read. Just not experienced. And honestly? It sounded exhausting, never knowing where you stood with someone.

What had Amber said?

“I said I’d get everything back!”

That didn’t sound like a relationship, but what did I know? Every man I’d dated was not The One . I had the urge to tell Amber to run far, far away... but it wasn’t my place. Besides, Amber had been rude, certainly

no shrinking violet. If she were in a romance novel, she’d be the stalker ex-girlfriend of the hero. Maybe she and Parker Briggs were made for each other.

Still... I wanted to know what was going on between Amber and Parker, and not just because I’m naturally curious. They

were arguing about documents, not their love life. Why? What made these two people tick? What split them up? I might not like them, but I wanted to understand how their relationship worked—and didn’t work. If I could dissect other relationships, maybe

I could fix my own love life.

There I went again, spiraling into worrying about the impending doom of my future as a lonely workaholic, which I’d promised

myself not to think about this week.

For now, I should focus on finding answers. Not about my long-term love life or the job that might kill it, but what happened

to Diana Harden. Why did she leave, where did she go, and what happened to her?

I also wouldn’t mind finding out if Amber and Mr. Asshole got back together. They deserved each other.