Page 19 of Beach Reads and Deadly Deeds

“No. You never apologize for something you didn’t do wrong. You say ‘excuse me.’ Never ‘I’m sorry.’ If you spend your life

apologizing you’ll never gain any confidence.”

—J. T. Ellison, Good Girls Lie

Kalise led the way toward the resort offices in silence.

“Any news about what happened to Diana Harden?” I asked.

“If you have any questions or concerns, you can speak with the resort manager.”

“Is that where we’re going now?”

“We’re going to the security office. There’s nothing to be concerned about. Mr. Garmon, our head of security, simply needs

your statement.”

“What about the police?”

“We’re cooperating fully with St. John police, of course,” Kalise said.

“Then why aren’t the police taking my statement?”

She glanced at me as if it was an odd question. “St. Claire is a private island. Gino Garmon is our police.”

That surprised me, and I expected more of an explanation, but Kalise remained silent as she led me to the security building south of the main lodge. It was set back from the other structures, partly hidden behind flowering bushes and bamboo fencing. Kalise badged in at the door, and it opened.

A security officer smiled at us. He was dressed in khakis and the standard St. Claire polo with Security under the logo instead of his name. “Thanks, Kalise. I’ll take her from here.”

Kalise nodded to me and left.

The officer led me past several small offices to a conference room at the end of the wide hall.

Gino Garmon, the security chief, was just as hot as I remembered from the beach: dark Italian looks, firm, muscular body.

But he was still an ass, I reminded myself. He sat at the table with a man in a summer-weight light gray suit with a pale

pink tie. Tristan, who had helped Trina in the gift shop with the rude Sherry Morrison. The Tristan who, according to staff

gossip last night, was sleeping with Kalise.

Gino glanced at me without smiling. Tristan rose, smiled, and extended his hand. “Ms. Crawford, thank you for coming in so

promptly. I’m Tristan Dubois, the manager of St. Claire.” He had perfect posture and a slight French accent.

I couldn’t picture it. The tall, dark, stately Kalise with the shorter, pale, wiry Tristan who lived on an island but didn’t

look like he spent a minute in the sun. Not to mention he had a receding hairline and funeral home demeanor.

Maybe I wasn’t being fair, judging books—or people—by their covers. And Tristan had a warm, pleasant smile that would have

put me at ease if Gino hadn’t been glaring at me.

“Of course,” I said belatedly. “Anything I can do to help.”

Tristan said, “You’ve met Gino Garmon, our head of security. We just have a few questions, but you are of course not a suspect

in Ms. Harden’s death.”

That comment surprised me, that he felt like he had to say it out loud. I hadn’t even been here when she disappeared.

“I thought the police would be here.”

“St. Claire is a private island,” Gino said. “ I am the police.”

I really didn’t like this guy. His tone and body language screamed intimidation.

I steeled my spine, willed myself not to be cowed by him.

I found myself playing with the ends of my hair, twirling the waves into tight curls.

A nervous habit. I forced myself to stop by clasping my hands on the table in front of me.

Tristan said in a more conciliatory tone, “We are of course working closely with the St. John Police Department. They have retrieved the body and are performing the autopsy, and they

are leading the investigation on St. John. But you don’t need to worry about any of that. We simply need a timeline for the

record. May I bring you something to drink? Water? Iced tea? Something alcoholic perhaps?”

Was he trying to throw me for a loop? I tried to picture being interrogated by the police in New York City and being offered

a glass of wine. It almost made me laugh.

“No, thank you,” I said. “Maybe water?”

Tristan walked over to a mini-fridge and retrieved a bottled water, put it in front of me, then took his seat again, giving

me an encouraging smile. Maybe Kalise liked him because he was a genuinely nice guy.

Gino said, “What happened last night? How did you come upon the body? Where were you, what did you hear, what did you see?”

All humor disappeared, and I was immediately self-conscious about last night. What exactly did I say? What had Jason said?

I assumed they spoke to Jason, but what if they hadn’t yet?

Why are you even worried about it? Just tell the truth.

“I heard Mrs. Kent scream,” I said. “I mean, I didn’t know it was her at the time. But I heard a scream and ran toward it.”

“Where were you?”

“The lagoon at the end of the Luz Luna Bahia trail,” I said.

“Alone?” Gino asked with a smirk. Of course he’d spoken to Jason—Jason worked here. Or he remembered me in my panties and

shirt last night. Plus, Jason had been holding my hand. Was I blushing? Dear God, I prayed I wasn’t blushing. The more I thought

about not blushing, the hotter my face felt.

“At first. Then Jason Mallory, one of the bartenders here—” Of course they knew Jason was a bartender. Stop rambling , I told myself. “Um, Jason showed up as I was getting ready to leave. We were talking when we heard the scream.”

“What did you see on the beach?” Gino asked.

“The Kents were very upset. There was a body twisted in a pile of kelp. And Jason said it looked like the missing guest, Diana

Harden. By that time, you arrived with security, and we were instructed to leave.”

Gino stared at me. Intentionally to make me even more uncomfortable? Tristan, in a much kinder, even tone, asked a few clarifying

questions, specifically about time, whether I touched the body, and if I saw anything else that might be helpful.

When neither of them had additional questions, I asked, “How did she die?”

They both stared at me, Tristan with a neutral look, and Gino with a hint of... anger? I thought it was a logical question.

“I mean, was it an accident? Did someone kill her?”

“We haven’t received word from St. John as to cause of death,” Tristan said. He stood, signaling for me to do the same. “Thank

you so much for your time.” He walked me to the door. Gino remained seated at the table, writing in his notepad.

“I am so sorry about all this,” Tristan continued as we stepped outside. “I understand how traumatic and disturbing last night

must have been, and I’ve been authorized to extend you an all-expense-paid three-night package to use at your convenience.”

“That’s not necessary.”

Shut up! I practically screamed at myself in my head. A free vacation? Here? On St. Claire?

Stop being so damn conciliatory , I told myself.

Tristan smiled at me and said, “On behalf of St. Claire, we are deeply sorry for the trouble you have had during your stay.

If there is anything I or any of the staff can do for you, please do not hesitate to contact me directly.” He reached into

his breast pocket and pulled out a business card. “This is my personal number. I am available any time, day or night.”

What, he didn’t sleep? Eat? He was on call 24/7?

I took the card. “Thank you.” I had questions about Diana and her murder, but nothing Tristan could answer.

“I know Gino can be intimidating, I’m sorry if you were uncomfortable,” Tristan said. “He was a police officer in the States

and works well with the St. John Police Department. I’m hoping this was simply an awful accident. If there was foul play,

please, rest assured, the police will be leading the investigation, and we will assist in any way we can.”

That made me feel marginally better, though I still didn’t like Gino. If someone here was responsible, it would benefit the

resort to cover up a murder.

Murder. No one said she was murdered.

It could have been an accident, like Tristan said.

I didn’t believe that for a minute.