Page 3 of Beach Reads and Deadly Deeds

until this morning.”

“What kind of doctor?” I asked.

“Orthopedic surgeon,” David said. “Not as glamorous as Doug would have you believe.”

“David has saved the careers of more than a dozen baseball pitchers. Including Andrew Locke, who’s also here this week.”

“Stop,” David said with a shy grin. “Are you here with your boyfriend? Girlfriend? We should meet up and have drinks later.”

“Actually, I’m alone.”

They glanced at each other, and I felt doubly self-conscious. Two happily married men feeling sorry for me because I was (possibly)

the only single woman on a beautiful island. I should have thought about that before I agreed to come here with hopes of finding

a boyfriend for the week.

“Be careful,” Doug said with what sounded eerily like genuine concern.

“I think a private island in the middle of nowhere should be safe.”

“You would think that, wouldn’t you?” Doug said.

“Don’t scare her,” David said.

Now super curious, I asked, “What shouldn’t I be scared about?”

David gave Doug a disapproving look, then said, “A woman went missing a couple days ago. We heard someone talking about it while waiting for the ferry. She took the ferry to St. John but never returned.”

“Do you know who she was? Did she have a husband or something?” For the first time in years, I thought about my mother. She

hadn’t disappeared into thin air, exactly, but I’d never forget the day she walked out on my dad and me. I don’t know what

she said to Dad in private, but to me? “Honey, I’m just not happy. It’s not you, sweetheart, but this is the best thing for all of us.”

I had been six. I never saw her again.

Doug shrugged. “We don’t know anything about her. People were talking about it while we were waiting to board, and the redhead

over there—” he made a loose gesture toward Amber Jones “—was asking about her. She’d read something in the paper. The woman’s

name was Diane...”

“Diana,” David corrected him.

“Right, Diana . Like the goddess. We gave Amber the same warning.

“That’s why a pretty girl like you needs to be careful,” Doug said, patting my arm. “While this island seems safe, you never

know what might happen. If you need anything, find us. We’re here for you.”

“Um, thank you?” They seemed so sincere, I almost thought they were too nice.

“Doug worries about everything. Don’t let him scare you,” David said. “St. Claire is a wonderful resort. We’ve met some terrific

people over the years. We’ll have drinks later, get to know each other.”

“That would be nice, thank you.”

They went into the cabin and I was happily alone. The luxury yacht cut through the ocean like a knife, leaving behind a white,

frothy wake and erasing all feelings of unease. This was peace. The fresh air, the splash of the water, the blue sky meeting the bluer ocean. Maybe a week in paradise wouldn’t

be so bad.

Several deck chairs were positioned facing the water, none of them occupied.

I sank into one, finally removed from the super-awkward expectation of mingling and small talk.

I pulled my book from my bag, but couldn’t stop thinking about Diana, the missing woman.

As I stared at St. John Island shrinking in the distance, I thought up a hundred scenarios for what might have happened to her.

She left her husband and disappeared with her lover .

Or she met with foul play, the victim of a robbery gone bad.

Or she was single and met a hot, sexy waiter who swept her off

her feet, stole a yacht, and sailed off to the Bahamas.

I sighed, thinking about how I wouldn’t mind meeting a hot, sexy waiter to sweep me off my feet and take me to a beautiful island where we could run around on the beach half-naked and drink daiquiris out of

coconut shells.

Of course, I didn’t want to go missing. Because not all sexy men were good guys, and being whisked away was just a half step

from being kidnapped. Maybe Diana had trusted the wrong person.

“Enough,” I told myself, mentally making a note to ask the concierge about the missing woman. Right now, I needed to relax.

And finish my book. I opened it to where I’d left my favorite bookmark—a laminated black card with a clear go-away message

in white Courier font:

Thanks for not talking to me while I read.

It worked most of the time.

I was lost again in the book. No longer did I hear the chatter of voices from the cabin or the thrum of the engine cutting

through water. All I heard were the voices of the characters in this fictional world I cared about as I followed them on their

journey to solve the string of arson fires and fall in love in the process.

“Miss? Ms. Crawford? Are you all right?”

I looked up at the skinny server—with enough hair sticking out in all directions, I briefly wondered if he’d somehow electrocuted

himself. He stared at me and asked again, “Are you okay?”

“What? Yes! He came back at the end! I knew he would, but I was a little worried that his stubbornness would get the better of him.”

“Um... I meant... you’re crying, and everyone else has already disembarked.”

The ferry had stopped. The engine was off. The water was still. I didn’t hear voices, no clinking of glassware. It was just

me and the young server, wide eyes filled with concern.

Wiping my face, slightly embarrassed—yes, I had cried tears of joy that these characters had found their happily-ever-after—I

said, “Whoops, I’m sorry. I didn’t miss the shuttle, did I?”

“No, everyone is on the dock.”

“I’ll be right there, okay?” I smiled broadly as if I wasn’t just crying over a book.

“Take your time, Ms. Crawford. We won’t leave without you.”

He left, and I breathed a long sigh of relief, got up and crossed to the railing.

This story had impacted me more than most, and I couldn’t wait to gush about it. I would write a review, maybe record a reel

for Instagram. I loved the community of readers I’d fostered online, where we talked about the books that swept us away. Maybe

I could start a series of reviews, “Books I Read on Vacation.” Ha, it would be a short series, considering this would be my

last vacation for a very long time. Especially with the partnership waiting back home.

The unbelievably blue ocean beckoned me. As I leaned over the railing, I could see hundreds of fish swimming along the sandy bottom. An entire school of shimmery gray fish turned in unison and disappeared under the

boat.

Never have I seen water so inviting that I had the urge to just jump in. That would be completely out of character. Spontaneous was my wild grandmother, not me.

I wished I had someone who’d jump into the ocean with me, someone to share this amazing, once-in-a-lifetime experience.

But I didn’t, and I’d have to suck it up that I was here alone.

Being alone doesn’t mean I have to be miserable.

Maybe David and Doug could introduce me to any single straight guys they knew.

Confident that the tears were gone and my reddened face could be dismissed as a result of the salty breeze, I stuffed my book

in my bag and followed the path of the server.

The main cabin was littered with the remnants of cheese-and-fruit platters, champagne flutes scattered around, as if the passengers

had just vanished. Of course, that was silly—my overactive imagination at work. This wasn’t a Stephen King novel, and the

Langoliers weren’t chomping their way to shore.

A door had been propped open on the opposite side of the room, and as I went through, I heard a collective gasp. Turning,

I shielded my eyes from the midday sun and saw the passengers standing on the dock, all looking in the same direction—up.

I followed their gaze.

Nothing. What the heck were they looking at? I grabbed my sunglasses and put them on, searching the sky for whatever had caught

their attention across the brilliant crystalline bay.

Cliffs towered over the northern edge of the resort, and still I saw nothing. Then, at the top of the ledge, a giant bird—no,

a hang glider —swept into view.

A man glided off the mountain until he was over the ocean, his body outstretched behind him, his legs encased in a sack, the

large white wing that enabled him to soar like a bird glimmering in the sun. Everyone gasped again—and this time I joined

in—when the hang glider did a loop, like a roller coaster, over the ocean.

“Idiot,” I muttered as oohs and aahs rolled through the crowd standing on the dock.

“Oh my God, that’s so hot,” a female voice said. A glance told me it was one of the horny honeymooners speaking.

Hot? Stupid show-off, more like it.

“I’ll show you hot , darling,” her husband said, and dipped her over his knee until her long hair touched the dock. Then he kissed her neck up and down while she giggled, “Oh, that tickles!”

I had no idea who the man was, and I wanted to ignore both the extreme sport spectacle and the PDA coming from the honeymooners, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the aerial show. He swung side to side like a pendulum.

Then he pushed forward, arching his back, and the glider went up again.

“How is he doing that?” Amber asked. “Is there a motor on the wings?”

“No,” the honeymooner said, holding his wife close to his side while she gazed adoringly into his face. I didn’t know if her

expression was love or lust or witchcraft because it seemed unreal. “It’s physics. He’s using the wind speed plus air pressure

plus his momentum to propel his wings.”

His tone sounded like someone who made shit up to sound smart, but I had no other explanation, so maybe he was right. You

would never see me do something so dangerously stupid.

The hang gliding idiot smoothly ascended. Then he did another loop and soared toward the rocks at the base of the cliff. The

ocean swells splashed high, and I braced myself for his body to hit the boulders with a bloody splat .

“He’s going to crash!” someone shouted, and a chorus of agreement rang through the group, followed by a collective inhale