Page 33 of Beach Reads and Deadly Deeds

“The problem with putting two and two together is that sometimes you get four, and sometimes you get twenty-two.”

—Dashiell Hammett, The Thin Man

I wasn’t the only person on the ferry.

Sherry Morrison was drinking a mimosa in the cabin. She stared out the opposite porthole, preoccupied. Our conversation—or,

rather her conversation—yesterday at the spa disturbed me. As I was carefully walking around the deck to avoid Sherry seeing me, CeeCee

ran up the dock, her oversized bag bouncing against her hip. “Wait for me!” She was breathless and collapsed on a deck chair.

I quickly slipped to the front of the boat and hoped neither of them saw me. The last thing I wanted was to get trapped into

a social group. Fortunately, there was another couple on board, and CeeCee talked to them.

The ride to St. John was less than thirty minutes over the open sea, and when we docked, I let everyone else depart before

I took the short, steep hill to the main police station.

First things first. Find out what the St. John police knew about Diana’s death.

I quickly learned that crime fiction wasn’t always accurate.

How many books had I read where the heroine goes into a police station and sweet-talks her way into information? Or waits until the desk sergeant steps away and quickly scans the computer for all the answers.

I was polite. Friendly. I flirted .

I got nothing. Nada. Zilch.

The police chief, who was in charge of the investigation, wasn’t in the office. The cop sitting behind the desk—who looked

younger than Brie—wouldn’t even admit that Diana had been murdered.

“If you need information, talk to the security chief on St. Claire, Mr. Garmon. Would you like contact information?” he said

in broken English.

No, I would not like his contact information. But I didn’t say that. I smiled, thanked him for his time, and left.

The St. John police angle was a bust.

But I wasn’t deterred. What did Diana do on St. John? She must have had a purpose here. Who did she talk to? Someone had to

have seen her.

I went back to the dock and showed Diana’s photo around to people who worked at the stands. Everyone was friendly—well, everyone

wanted to sell me something. I politely declined, asked again. When no one admitted to having seen Diana in any of the shops

or restaurants, I asked about private water taxies. Had the police already done this on Monday and Tuesday, after she first

disappeared? Were they suspicious that someone like me was asking questions?

I’d been certain I’d find answers here on St. John, but after two hours of talking to damn near everyone in the commercial

district, I had nothing. I was exhausted. The hills were killing my calves, and all I wanted was sit in my hot tub with a

large bottle of wine.

I was alone on my birthday focused on the last day in the life of a dead woman. What happened to my resolve last night to

put everything aside for the week except my own pleasure and happiness?

Someone broke into your room and stole your book , I reminded myself.

I walked down the narrow street feeling sorry for myself at the same time I was wondering what my next step should be. Someone had to have seen Diana on this island. She was a pretty blonde American. She would stand out.

I paused at the corner and caught sight of a restaurant on the hill with an amazing view of the bay. I was famished. I started

up the hill but hesitated when I saw a familiar woman sitting on the deck of the restaurant.

CeeCee. Though I only saw her in profile, there was no mistaking her lush, thick bleached blond hair—pulled back into a high,

bouncing ponytail—and large boobs framed by the tight sundress. She and an older woman were eating lunch under a wide umbrella.

This restaurant was quite a distance from the dock and outside the main tourist area.

Maybe she had a friend who lived here? Or spontaneously invited a stranger to lunch. That seemed on point. Yet... CeeCee’s

demeanor seemed different. She wasn’t using her hands in the flamboyant way she usually communicated. As I watched, she leaned

back with a glass of wine and a relaxed smile. The other woman was in her fifties with a short gray-blond bob and a long,

narrow face, dressed in a chic sundress. She looked like money.

I took out my phone and snapped a picture because I thought she looked familiar, but I didn’t recall seeing her on St. Claire.

CeeCee turned toward the street as if she sensed someone watching her. I immediately ducked into a small, crowded shop to

avoid being seen.

“Most private water taxis don’t work out of the dock area,” said a deep, feminine voice in heavily accented English.

I jumped, not expecting to see the large woman sitting on a bench on the balcony of the souvenir shop. She was in her sixties

with wrinkled, tan skin.

“I’m sorry?”

“Bertha from down the street said you’re looking for a private taxi. She saw you headed my way. She understands English, doesn’t

speak much. So, I figure you come to me to ask.”

I showed her Diana’s photo on my phone. “Did you see this woman on Sunday?”

She didn’t answer my question. Instead she said, “Kids who want to make a quick buck off tourists aren’t going to work the

docks. They’d be run off by the cops and charter companies.”

“Where are they? Another dock?”

The woman laughed. “They have don’t have a license. They move around.”

“I need to find who took this woman to St. Claire on Sunday.”

The stranger stared at me long enough to make me squeamish. Was she lying to me? Trying to con me? Get me to pay for the information?

Hell, at this point I’d give her near anything.

“You see anything you like?” she asked, her hand spread to encompass her small, enclosed shop.

Yep, money.

I walked through the crowded shop. Mostly junk—odds and ends, no organization, prices triple what they should have been. I

truly panicked when I overpaid for anything.

But money talks.

I saw a bright turquoise shirt with a mermaid lounging on a rock, wearing sunglasses. I swam with the mermaids, St. John, US Virgin Islands.

My Grams would love it and wear it. It wasn’t really wasting money on the tacky shirt if Grams got use out of it, right?

The woman smiled and pulled out a handheld card reader. I handed her my credit card. She rang up the purchase, put the shirt

in a bag, and handed it back to me.

“Crusty over at Fish Bay sets up special trips,” she said.

“Where is Fish Bay?”

“Down the hill, turn left at the yield, walk a mile, then up the hill, it curves around, then—”

“Do you have Uber on the island?”

“Better.”

She whistled so loud my ears rang, then raised her arm straight in the air. She was leaning so far on the edge of the balcony,

I thought she’d fall over the railing.

A tall, skinny kid on a bike with a rickety-looking seat attached rode up to the door. The seat didn’t have a seat belt. I pictured my body flying off a cliff because he’d lost control.

“My grandson, Jorge. Twenty dollars.”

I handed her back my card. She rang it up. I’d thought it would be safer not having cash on me; now I wasn’t so sure.

Certain I was going to plummet to my death on a narrow, winding road, I reluctantly climbed into the seat and held on tight

as Jorge headed down the hill toward the main commercial area. I slumped down to avoid being seen by CeeCee, but when I looked

back at the restaurant deck and the bright umbrella she’d been sitting under, she and her guest were gone.

I sat up and glanced around. “You know we’re going to Fish Bay, right?” I said, because this wasn’t the direction his grandmother

had pointed out to me.

“Yes,” he said. “This is faster.”

Fast was relative. We got stuck behind cars as they navigated through pedestrian, bike, and vehicle traffic in the main part of

town. I’d made a huge circle, I realized, as the police station was to my left, and the dock where the ferry dropped me off

was to my right. I pulled a visor out of my bag as the sun beat down on me; the only thing keeping me from heat stroke was

the cool ocean breeze.

Jorge made a few quick turns that had my life flashing before my eyes, but then we were on a road with trees and bushes growing

on both sides, interspersed with small houses, restaurants, and clearings where I could see the water.

It was pretty and more authentic than the ritzy St. Claire, but rougher around the edges.

We slowed down again as pedestrians crossed in front of us heading to the beach. The sun sparkled on the still bay, sailboats

heading out or returning.

Sherry walked right in front of Jorge’s bike, and I immediately dropped down into the seat. Sherry looked angry, and I didn’t want her to see me. She might think I was following her, and after her over-the-top behavior at the spa yesterday, I didn’t want a confrontation here.

“Watch where you’re going, jerk!” she shouted at Jorge.

“So sorry, so sorry,” he said.

“It wasn’t your fault,” I said automatically, though I don’t know if he heard me.

I peered over the seat and watched as Sherry climbed into the back of a taxi. They turned at the next corner.

“Miz?” Jorge said. “Miz, you okay?”

“Can you follow that taxi?”

Had I said that out loud? I almost laughed.

“ Sí , that one?”

He gestured to where Sherry’s taxi had turned up the road.

“Yes. Please. I’ll pay you.” There had to be an ATM on the island.

He obliged.

Then I thought, How am I going to get back before the ferry leaves?

I should have thought this through. The farther we were from the tourist areas, the more I questioned my judgment. Why had

I wanted to follow Sherry?

Because she’s been acting suspicious. And that phone call last night.

I looked at my watch. It was 12:30. Her meeting was over. Except she looked angry, and the taxi wasn’t going back to the dock.

It was probably nothing.

It might be something.

What was I doing? I wasn’t a cop. I wasn’t a private investigator. I wasn’t even Miss Marple, who probably had the sense not