Page 4 of Beach Reads and Deadly Deeds
of breath as the glider pushed his arms straight up and flew parallel to the ocean, out to sea.
“Fool is going to break his bloody neck,” the deep voice of Nelson Stockton proclaimed.
Yep. One hundred percent. The daredevil was going to crash into the ocean, drown, and put a huge damper on the first vacation
I’d had in years.
As the gliding man disappeared from view, murmurs continued among the group. Admiring and critical, everyone had a comment.
“Is he flying all the way to St. John?” the bride—who had finally ended her creepy, doe-eyed gaze at her husband—asked.
Uh, no, that’s like more than twenty miles. Maybe he wasn’t the only fool on the island.
“There’s probably a boat out there,” David reasonably suggested.
The doctor. So he wasn’t just a pretty face with an advanced degree. He had common sense too.
A boat would haul him in. Or maybe he really did crash into the ocean, body broken and floating for the seagulls to pick clean.
Or dragged down by sharks and devoured. Or shot down by the coast guard, thinking he was a drug smuggler.
Hmm. Maybe I’d been reading too many murder mysteries these days. Might be time to switch over to romance again.
Movement on shore caught my eye. The crew was putting luggage into a van. Next to the van was an electric shuttle, presumably
to take us to the resort.
Right now, all I wanted was to get away from the crowd, find the gift shop so I could buy a few books, and relax by the pool
with a tall, frothy—and most importantly, strong—drink. From the pool I could check out all the men on the island and identify
those who were alone, introduce myself, and hope for that spark between us, that look , that feeling , that flip-flop in my stomach that sent my libido into overdrive.
But no one was leaving the dock, all looking out to where the man had disappeared across the bay, and I was trapped at the
top of the stairs because Amber of the Deadly Yellow Hat blocked my path.
“Excuse me,” I said, and tried to step down.
She didn’t acknowledge me, nor did she move.
I’m not confrontational. In fact, I go out of my way to avoid confrontation. Growing up, my dad and Grams would argue about
everything—my dad was too stingy, Grams a spendthrift; my dad too judgmental, Grams too irresponsible. They argued about me,
too. I hated when they argued about me. I would make myself as small as possible and hope they didn’t ask for my opinion;
hence, I was stuck here with a hat in my face and no recourse other than pushing Amber overboard.
It was a thought, but I didn’t act on it.
“Oh. My!” The exclamation came from Mrs. Stockton.
“Is that him?”
“What is he doing?”
I couldn’t see anything through Amber’s hat, then realized the group was gawking at something behind the boat, out over the
ocean. Standing on my tippy toes, I turned my head and saw the glider’s wide wing coming straight for the boat. The jerk swooped
right over us, banked right, then flew over the water only feet above the surface. He headed to shore, using the water to
slow down as he unzipped the bag that his legs were encased in. As he descended, his legs touched the sand, and he ran along
the beach, pulling his wing down as he slowed to a jog, then a fast walk. A rod protruded from the glider; he stuck that into
the sand and stopped.
“Amazing!” a woman gasped. She sounded as if she’d just had an orgasm.
A man I presumed was her husband kissed her on the cheek. “We can do that,” he said.
Right. Just jump off a cliff and hope that flimsy wing brings you back to the beach in one piece. Good luck with that.
No one—and I mean no one —would convince me to strap myself into one of those insane contraptions. I’ll fly the way God intended: in a plane with an
engine, trained pilots, and ten-dollar mini-bottles of vodka.
“Who was that?” Mrs. Stockton asked no one in particular.
The captain of the boat smiled as he approached us. “That, Mrs. Stockton, is Jason Mallory, our head bartender and part-time
entertainment.” He chuckled. “Your bags are on their way to the resort, where they will be taken to your rooms. If you’d like
to follow me to the shuttle, the driver is ready.”
I half expected him to bow and chirp, Your chariot awaits .
“I hope there’s a backup bartender,” Mr. Stockton said. “Mr. Mallory is itching to break his neck.”
“He hasn’t broken a bone yet,” the captain said with a hint of pride.
There’s a first for everything.
I could just picture it now, Jason Mallory stuck in a wheelchair with a broken leg à la Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window , resigned to watching the world from his apartment. I supposed if he lived full-time on the island, the view wouldn’t be
so bad, but the boredom might kill him just the same.
The passengers started down the dock. I was about to say excuse me to Amber again when I noticed she was looking in a completely different direction. Instead of the beach where Jason Mallory
was packing up his hang glider, her gaze went south.
At first, I didn’t see anything, only cliffs and a trail that went up the mountain. Then something moved—a man in khaki pants
and a blue short-sleeved collared shirt. He was standing at the edge of the trail on an overlook watching the boat—or watching
the people on the boat. I shivered, remembering what Doug and David told me about the missing woman—and my thoughts about
a serial killer.
For my own peace of mind, I needed to find out exactly what happened to Diana. I really hoped she was having a lovely affair
with a cabana boy and just lost track of time.
A laugh bubbled up in my throat and escaped. I slapped my hand over my mouth. Where had that come from? Amber shot me a dirty
look, then followed the rest of the passengers.
I glanced back up to the trail; the man was gone. I counted to five before I followed Amber. I didn’t want to be stuck sitting
next to her, but I might not have a choice—only other single woman and all.
Suddenly, the sheer beauty of the island hit me. The bay with gently rolling waves, the staggering mountain that seemed to
erupt from the water, the sprawling resort with buildings that practically disappeared into the lush green trees and flowering
plants. I couldn’t see the swimming pool from here, but from the brochure, knew it rolled right up to the sand.
As I started to follow the group, a folded newspaper tucked partly under a seat cushion caught my eye. It was the same newspaper that Amber had had in her bag, but now I could read the headline.
American Woman Still Missing
Last Seen Leaving St. Claire
I picked up the paper. A photo accompanied the article: a stylish blonde with light-colored eyes and flawless skin.
Diana Harden, 32, of New Orleans, missing since Sunday morning.
Today was Tuesday.
I started to read the article.
“Ms. Crawford!”
Feeling guilty for no reason, my head jerked up. The captain smiled and waved. “The shuttle is ready to leave.”
I stuffed the newspaper into my tote and climbed down the stairs. I definitely wanted to know more about Diana Harden. A single
woman going missing at an exclusive resort in the Caribbean? A chill ran down my spine remembering Doug’s genuine concern
that I was here alone.
Was Diana on St. Claire alone as well? Did Doug know more about her disappearance than he had said? Was my fantasy that Diana
had gone off for a weekend of sun and sex about to be shattered?
Or maybe she did something stupid like hang glide off a cliff and drown in the ocean.
“Stop,” I whispered. My overactive imagination had kicked into high gear.
Maybe she ran away from an abusive spouse, like in Sleeping with the Enemy . Or faked her own death à la Gone Girl . Perhaps she was an heiress, kidnapped for ransom. Or the victim of a serial killer who stalked rich tourists on remote islands.
At that moment, I was glad I wasn’t rich.
The more likely story? Something completely innocuous, like she lost her cell phone. Or she was robbed. Or got drunk, fell off the dock, and was in a coma at the hospital.
Still, curiosity piqued, I was determined to learn more, starting with devouring this article—and anything I could find online
about Diana Harden—as soon as I checked in to my room.