Page 20 of Beach Reads and Deadly Deeds

“It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of

theories to suit facts.”

—Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, A Scandal in Bohemia

Thinking about everything Gino and Tristan told me, I headed back toward my room on autopilot and ran into Andrew Locke and

his girlfriend. Literally. If I’d been holding a drink, it would have been all over his shirt.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, my hand splayed on his chest as I reached out to stop myself from falling. It was a very firm, very

nice chest, and I supposed I touched it just a moment too long, based on the angry glare coming from Sherry.

Andrew smiled warmly and cupped my elbow to steady me. “No harm, no foul,” he said. “Mia, right?”

“Yes, hi,” I said.

Had Diana written about Andrew in the book? Which note? She’d written about the value of a house in Arizona, and that’s where

Andrew and Brie lived. I couldn’t remember the details. Could she have been blackmailing Andrew? Or his girlfriend?

“This is my girlfriend, Sherry Morrison,” he said. “Mia came over on the ferry with David and Doug,” he added to Sherry. “You

met them yesterday.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said automatically. “I don’t know where my head is. I’m not usually so distracted.” I knew exactly where my head was—thinking about murder.

“I daydream a lot around here as well,” Andrew said.

I realized then how much Andrew and Brie looked alike, with the black hair and vibrant blue eyes. He seemed so nice and genuine

and was very attractive. I wished he was a few years younger. I wished he didn’t have a girlfriend.

“Honey, we don’t want to be late meeting the Stocktons,” Sherry said. Her tone was pleasant, but she possessively laced her

fingers with Andrew’s.

“We’re on island time,” Andrew said lightly. “Would you like to join us?” he asked me.

The offer surprised me—and clearly it surprised Sherry, though she hid her irritation well. If I hadn’t been looking at her,

I would have missed it.

“Yes,” she said with a fake smile, “why don’t you?”

Her voice was definitely more pleasant than her expression.

“Oh, well, thank you, but I can’t.” Though I suddenly wanted to. I didn’t know why Sherry had this almost... jealous?...

vibe. Of me ? Why? “Maybe later?” I said.

“Absolutely,” Andrew said. “See you at the luau tonight?”

“Sure,” I said, though I had no idea what he was talking about since I hadn’t looked at today’s resort schedule. “See you

then.”

They walked away, and I caught Sherry looking over her shoulder at me. Then she made a point to kiss Andrew on his cheek as

they walked hand in hand toward the Blue Dahlia.

I never wanted to be that girl—a woman so territorial over her boyfriend that she had to make a point of PDA to flex her feminine

muscle. Sure, the Kents’ PDA was over the top, but I didn’t think the wife was jumping on the husband as a sign for all the

other women to back off.

I pushed the encounter aside and continued down the path to my cottage.

My door was open.

For a split second I worried that someone had broken in, that they were searching for my book, or waiting to kill me like Diana Harden...

Stop it! I told myself. Imagination in overdrive, I approached cautiously, just in case.

Then I saw the housekeeping cart and two maids in black shorts and white polos efficiently cleaning my room. “Hi,” I said.

“Ms. Crawford,” one of the maids said, “we’ll be not ten more minutes.”

“Don’t rush,” I said. “I’ll sit on the patio.”

I walked through my room and picked the book up from my nightstand, along with the notes I’d taken the night before when I

couldn’t sleep. My spine tingled as the housekeepers watched me exiting through the sliding doors. Had they read what I’d

written? The first page was pretty damning:

Diana Harden: arrived Friday on St. Claire. Who else was here? Was anyone on the ferry with her Sunday morning? Did she return

to the island before she was killed? Who is her girlfriend?

Even last night I’d thought murder, not an accident. Now I was positive she was killed even though Tristan said they didn’t

have the report from St. John authorities.

Last night, I’d copied everything Diana had written in my notepad, using her shorthand, then my thoughts on what she might

have meant—including passages and words she’d highlighted within the text. I reread the comment about the house in Arizona.

Money or love? Money, of course—he’s worth a small fortune. Does he know all the dirt on his new girlfriend?

Then, written with a different pen: 112 ~ est. net $80–90m, AZ residence $5m+, vacation house $3m

AZ residence. That had to be Andrew Locke, right?

Unless someone else on this small island was from Arizona.

And maybe the comment above about dirt on a new girlfriend was about someone completely different.

.. like Trevor’s girlfriend CeeCee. What did the 112 mean?

A room number? I could easily check that out.

“We’re done, Ms. Crawford,” one of the maids said.

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 reading way too 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.

If I made a bigger deal about the book, she would be even more curious, so I tried to divert her attention and asked, “What

do you want to know?”

“The police—what they said, what you said, what they know. I need the deets.”

“The police weren’t there.”

“What do you mean they weren’t there?” Brie looked up from the book, and I judged whether I could grab it away before she

could pull it out of my reach. I decided no. “Isn’t that why Kalise grabbed you? To talk to the police about the body?”

“Tristan told me that St. Claire has its own security because it’s a private island. St. John is doing an autopsy, but Gino

Garmon is investigating here on the island, supposedly working with the police.”

“No shit?” Brie snorted. “Like he’s ever investigated a real crime.”

“Tristan said he’d been a cop.”

I didn’t know where Garmon had worked before he came to St. Claire. Maybe it was some small department in the middle of nowhere,

or maybe he’d been fired because he was incompetent. Or he lied on his resume, or maybe...

“What are you writing? Weird.” Brie frowned as she flipped through the pages.

I remembered the semicoded comment that might be about her father. Would Brie figure it out? Maybe.

I finally grabbed the book from her and held it in my lap. “Not me,” I said. “I think—” I hesitated just a second. Should