Page 32 of Beach Reads and Deadly Deeds

“Everyone who keeps a secret, itches to tell it.”

—Gillian Flynn, Dark Places

I was awake far too early for the amount of sleep I’d had, but took the time to have a solid breakfast and drink multiple

cups of deliciously rich coffee.

I had a plan: find out what the police knew about Diana’s trip to St. John. I didn’t trust Gino, and the St. John police might

have valuable information. That, plus the information I had from her book, and I was confident that I’d figure out what happened

to her.

My cell phone rang as I was walking to the ferry. Caller ID read Grams .

I still had plenty of time, so I sat down on a bench facing the ocean and answered.

“Hello, Grams,” I said.

“Mia, is that you?”

“Yes. Is something wrong?”

“Wrong? Of course not! Happy birthday, sweetheart!”

I smiled. She had never forgotten a birthday or any other special occasion. “Thank you.”

“What are you doing? You’re not sitting in your hotel room reading, are you?”

“No, Grams. And it’s not a hotel room. It’s a charming cottage right on the beach with a huge bed and my own patio and hot tub.”

“When I lived in New Zealand, oh, gosh darn, when your dad was four, I think, we had a place right on the beach. A tiny room,

barely fit a bed and table, but the view was amazing. I’d love to go back, but it’s probably not there anymore.” Then she

said, “What are you doing right now?”

“I’m waiting for the ferry to St. John. It’s a larger island about twenty minutes away by boat.” The morning ferry had just

arrived. Several people got off, mostly staff, and then I saw Anja Stockton. She must have gone over first thing in the morning.

“With someone?”

“Alone. Sightseeing and shopping.”

“Alone?” Grams said. “Honey, aren’t you having fun?”

“Yes, I am. I promise.”

“Mia, what did I tell you—”

“Grams, you don’t have to worry about me.” I definitely wouldn’t tell her about the break-in or the strangled woman who’d

washed up on the beach, but I knew she wouldn’t give up until I shared something. “Tonight I’m going on a sunset dinner cruise.”

“Ohhh! That sounds like a wonderful way to spend your birthday. You promised me that you would put yourself out there.”

I remembered how Jason kissed. Yes, I definitely had put myself out there, but if I told Grams about Jason, I’d never get

her off the phone.

“I am,” I told her.

“You are? You’re not lying?”

“I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“But you’re not posting anything to Instagram. I saw that reel where you talked about a book, and that’s the only thing you’ve

posted. How do I know you’re having fun if you don’t share anything? I’ve gone on that Instagram five times a day and nothing!”

Brie had found Diana’s social media. Had she posted any thing from the island that might help me make sense of her cryptic notes?

“Okay, I’ll post something.”

“Every day. I want to see the island.”

“I’ll post my view now. Check in five minutes.”

“Thank you, dear.”

Anja Stockton was walking along the water alone about thirty feet from me. She looked upset, as if she’d been crying. I hoped

nothing bad had happened, and I considered reasons she might have gone to St. John so early. Was Nelson ill? Had something

happened to someone in her family?

“You okay?” I asked Grams. “You need anything?”

“I’m good. The Paris theater is having a Cary Grant weekend, and on Friday they’re playing To Catch a Thief in the afternoon, which is my favorite, and then Charade after dinner, which is Martha’s favorite, so Martha and her sister and I are going to make a day of it.”

“That sounds like fun,” I said, and meant it. I loved classic movies. My cats were named Nick and Nora, after all. “Find out

when they’re having a Thin Man marathon. I’ll go with you.”

“You bet. Now, you go have fun, understand me? I love you, pumpkin.”

“Love you too, Grams.”

I ended the call and took a picture of the ocean, then another of the pool area. I posted both and wrote a sentence about

the most beautiful place on earth. Grams would definitely like the pictures.

I started for the ferry again, but noticed that Anja was now sitting on a bench only a few feet from me, on the beach side

of the road. My watch told me I still had time, so I went over to her and said, “Hi, Anja, are you okay?”

She looked at me, and I couldn’t see her eyes behind large dark glasses, but her face was splotchy and damp. She wore a wide-brimmed

hat and zebra-print wrap that hugged her elegant curves. Her huge diamond engagement and wedding rings sparkled when the sun

hit her hand.

“Oh, Mia. I’m a mess.”

I sat down even though she didn’t invite me.

“I’m a good listener,” I said. Maybe it was rude of me to intrude, but Anja was clearly sad. I hoped it wasn’t her husband;

I know, I know, married people had problems. But I loved happy endings, and they had seemed so happy together.

She smiled thinly, took off her glasses, and ran her fingers under her red, swollen eyes, then put her sunglasses back on

and sighed deeply. A full minute later, when I was thinking I shouldn’t have bothered her, she said quietly, “It’s been a

rough couple weeks.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry, but I don’t like seeing people so sad, especially in a place like St. Claire.”

“You’re not prying. You’re kind, and I’m really tired of keeping secrets.” She paused. “I don’t fit in here. Nelson doesn’t,

either, but he doesn’t care. It’s one of the reasons I love him so much. I, unfortunately, care more what people think. I’m

trying not to.”

“Did someone say something to you? Was someone mean?”

“Here? No, St. Claire is lovely, even if I don’t quite feel like I belong.”

She reached into her oversized bag and pulled out a popular entertainment magazine folded open to an article in the middle.

A photo of Anja dominated one of the pages, clearly a professional shot. A box in the corner showed a much younger Anja, with

big hair and too much makeup, grinning ear to ear, wearing a long blue dress next to a very tall, very wide young man in a

white tuxedo that was too tight on him. The backdrop screamed prom .

She pushed the magazine into my hands. “If Nelson knew the only reason I went to St. John this morning was to buy that rag,

he would be furious.”

The headline blared:

Anja Benoit Stockton’s secret love child with NFL linebacker Jamal Wallace

“I don’t need to read this. I don’t follow celebrity gossip.”

But my eyes flitted over the key words and phrases and put together part of the story. Anja and Jamal had been high school

sweethearts when Anja got pregnant and gave the baby up for adoption.

“Nelson and I knew the story was hitting. He did everything in his power to stop it, but when he couldn’t, he brought me here

to St. Claire, to shield me from the gossip and reporters.”

“I don’t know why people feel the need to dig around in someone’s past.”

“It’s my fault.”

“It takes two to make a baby,” I said.

“Not about that.” But she smiled. “Jamal was a sweet kid. We grew up with next to nothing, but I had my looks and Jamal had

football. He wanted to marry me and take care of us, but I knew our lives would be stuck forever in Zachary, Louisiana. It

wasn’t a bad place to grow up, but we had dreams, and a baby wouldn’t fit into those dreams. So I told him I had a miscarriage,

then went to live with my cousin in Atlanta, had the baby, and gave her up for adoption. I finished school there, ignored

Jamal—kids today would say I ghosted him. I felt like a ghost for those two years.”

She stared out at the ocean. I should say something, but I didn’t know what to say. Having a child out of wedlock wasn’t a

scandal anymore, and it wasn’t really a scandal twenty-five years ago, either. Yet she’d been so young.

“You know,” I said, “it’s really nobody’s business.”

She laughed, her response surprising to me. “Everything is everyone’s business.”

I looked back at the article, which had a definite slant against Anja. The gist was that a twenty-five-year-old girl named

Rosemary Jackson was searching for her birth parents and found her father, Jamal Wallace, through an ancestry database. They

met with the blessing of her adoptive parents, and Jamal was heartbroken because he’d been told by the birth mom that she’d

had a miscarriage. An investigation uncovered that the birth mom was Anja Benoit, now Stockton, a successful model.

“Jamal is right to be upset,” she said.

“I don’t think so,” I said. I could sympathize with both of them. I could feel empathy for the man who had been lied to while

also understanding the reasons Anja had lied.

“I made decisions for him without discussing any of it with him. He’s a good man. He wanted to do the right thing, and I lied to him. It has weighed on my conscience for years. It wasn’t

until Nelson that I learned to forgive myself.”

“I, um, overheard you and Nelson talking the other day. He was upset.”

“Yes. Like I said, he did everything to suppress the story, threatened to sue, offered to pay. He thought it would hurt me

if this came out. There was even a woman who said she could bury the story—for a price. Nelson was going to pay her, but I

put my foot down. It hurts, but not for the reason he thinks. I had been thinking for years about reaching out to the adoption

agency to let them know if my daughter wanted to meet me, I would be willing. But I didn’t. I don’t regret my decision to

give her up. I couldn’t have given her the life she deserved when I was seventeen. Her parents are good people. But I regret

lying to Jamal. Fear—it is a powerful emotion. So I dragged my feet for years and then this .”

She took the magazine from me, stared at the photo of her and Jamal.

“Have you considered reaching out to her now?”

Anja didn’t say anything, and I thought maybe my question was too forward.

After a moment, Anja said quietly, “What if she hates me for what I did?”

“What if she doesn’t?” I said.

Anja leaned back and closed her eyes.

I thought back to Diana’s book and the large dollar amount with the numbers 1419 underlined.

Nelson Stockton. Was Diana the woman who claimed to be able to suppress the story for a fee?

This story had been in the works for at least a few weeks, Nelson and Anja weren’t on the island when Diana disappeared, and there would be no reason she’d get away with blackmailing him over Anja’s situation when multiple people knew the story.

But what if she had some pull with the publisher?

Or if she gave information to the press when he didn’t pay?

Maybe Diana Harden and blackmail were old friends, long before she was murdered on St. Claire.

“Thanks for listening to me,” Anja said.

“Of course,” I said. “This was an awful way for the news to come out, but at least it’s out. Now you can weigh your options

and make a decision on your next step. For what it’s worth, Nelson loves and supports you.”

She smiled. “He’s a good man. He knows Jamal, who was a rookie when Nelson was in his last year of playing. He said he would

arrange a meeting between us. But Nelson hurts because I’m upset.”

“How’d you know that Nelson was the one?” I asked quickly, before I could change my mind.

“There were a lot of little things,” she said. “He’d been married for fifteen years and has twin sons, grown now. We met at

a charity function many years after he lost his wife in an accident. I was speaking, to raise money for inner-city youth sports.

He was also seated at the head table and convinced the organizer to change seats with him so he could be next to me. When

he looked at me, I felt a little tingle.” She laughed lightly. “At that point, I’d been a successful model and spokeswoman

for years. I had always planned to marry and have kids, but felt it wasn’t happening because of what I’d done to Jamal. Nelson’s

wife had been gone for a decade at that point, and he told me she’d spoken to him that night. He’d planned to just send a

check and stay home. Then he heard her telling him to go because he would meet someone who would change his life.” She smiled,

and I couldn’t help but smile, too. “I love him. It’s as simple as that. He’s not fancy, he has his flaws for sure, and he

cares a bit too much about sports, but when he looks at me, I know he loves me. I feel at peace when I’m with him.”

“He’s perfect for you.” I thought about how I tried to explain to my Grams and friends about what I wanted in a man. Not perfect, just perfect for me.

“He is,” she concurred. “Speaking of perfect, I am truly sorry that we interrupted your romantic moment with Jason last night.”

I barely stifled a groan.

She laughed, took my hand. “Darling, you are so cute. And he hasn’t been able to take his eyes off you.”

That surprised me. “What?”

“Every time you walk into his line of sight, his eyes follow you. He’s smitten.”

I had nothing to say to that.

“I think it’s lust,” I said, then backtracked. “I mean, we enjoy each other’s company, but he lives here, and I have a career

in New York, and we’re just having fun.”

“Honey, have all the fun you want. Career is important, but we can’t forget that we’re also women who crave love.”

Love? Love? I wasn’t thinking love. I was thinking one-night stand and getting this lust for Jason out of my system, then going back

to New York and accepting my promotion and getting on with my life.

“I scared you,” Anja said, squeezing my hand as she smiled warmly. “You never know when Cupid hits a bull’s-eye.”