Page 7 of Beach Reads and Deadly Deeds

“The key to good eavesdropping is not getting caught.”

—Lemony Snicket, The Blank Book

Dead. Was that literal or figurative? As in, I’m going to shoot you with the gun in my pocket dead , or I’m going to make your life miserable dead ?

Amber’s next words were lost in the breeze. Then she exclaimed, “...and don’t threaten me!”

She didn’t sound intimidated, so maybe dead along the lines of I’m dead meat if I’m late again .

At the age of nine, I’d convinced myself that Mrs. Horowitz, a woman I’d known half my young life, had killed her husband.

I was wrong. But after devouring twenty Nancy Drew mysteries in a row and borrowing my science teacher’s binoculars for the weekend, I saw murder, mystery, and mayhem around

every corner.

Mr. Horowitz had simply been away on a business trip. But during the five days he was gone, I’d visualized more than a dozen

ways Mrs. Horowitz could have disposed of his body.

“You have no idea what you’ve done,” the man said. “You arrogant fucking bitch.”

“That’s rich, coming from you,” Amber said. “I said I’d get everything back!”

“Do you know what will happen if those documents fall into the wrong hands?”

“Are you lost, Ms. Crawford?”

I jumped back and nearly fell into the vines. I was a poor excuse for a spy, hiding in the bushes but completely visible from

the path in front of me.

A tall, lean black woman with short hair dressed in the St. Claire uniform of beige shorts and white shirt with her name,

Kalise , embroidered in deep purple stared expectantly at me.

“No, I, just, was, um, enjoying the beautiful day.”

Lying did not come easy to me. I smiled to show how honest I was. I don’t think she was buying it.

“It is a lovely afternoon. I’m Kalise, the activities director. I hope you’ll be attending the sunset dinner at the Sky Bar

tonight? The shuttle leaves every fifteen minutes between six and seven.”

“Sure, great, thanks.”

“The details are in the guest portfolio on the desk in your cottage.” She gestured down the path with her elegant hand.

“Thank you,” I said and walked away, hoping and praying that Amber and the stranger hadn’t realized I’d been listening to

their conversation. I glanced back over my shoulder, waved and smiled at Kalise, and glanced up to the path above. No one

was there.

Whew.

Amber and her lover/boss/enemy were arguing about some documents, and he had threatened her, but that didn’t mean it had been an actual threat, and it really wasn’t my business.

Though I couldn’t help but wonder what Amber had done to anger the man. What documents had he been referring to? Financial?

My mind usually went to money because that was my job, and as they say, money is the root of all evil. And the cause of most

divorces.

“Stop,” I said out loud as I opened the door to my suite. Mysteries were only in books. My life was far too calm and organized to have time for adventure—and I certainly wasn’t looking for trouble. A risk-averse CPA–slash–financial planner? As boring as they come.

One step inside and I froze, mouth open at the view.

All rational thought disappeared. I had no words.

I never wanted to leave. To hell with responsible choices.

One entire wall of the beachfront cabin was thick floor-to-ceiling glass that folded closed, the seams barely visible. Beyond

was a deck with a private hot tub, then three steps down to the sand. No other cottage in sight. An older couple with white

hair and deeply tanned skin from too much time in the sun walked hand in hand fifty yards down the beach. Bushes of thick,

vibrant greens bursting with colorful flowers surrounded my bungalow, providing privacy.

Turning a slow three-sixty, I absorbed the space. The muted blues and greens were soothing, the king-sized bed inviting with

a fluffy white down comforter and a mountain of pillows. The bathroom—deep bathtub, separate rain shower with multiple jets,

private toilet, large counter. Toiletries were tastefully arranged on a tray between the two sinks: shampoos, conditioners,

lotions, toothpaste. A narrow closet held additional supplies and extra towels.

The walk-in closet was as big as my bedroom at home. Four robes—two plush, two lightweight cotton with the St. Claire logo

tastefully embroidered on a pocket—hung neatly. A built-in set of drawers took up one wall. A wall safe was also provided.

Convenient if you had anything of value, like Mrs. Stockton’s diamonds.

After unpacking, I booted up my laptop. Fingers poised above the keyboard to type in my password, I froze.

What the hell was I doing? I had seven days to do anything I wanted, and my first thought was work ?

St. Claire was literally paradise on earth, where the only people were guests and the staff who served them.

How could I consider working when every whim and desire I had would be fulfilled?

If I couldn’t find the sexy should-be cover model, maybe a muscular, tanned lifeguard would cross my path.

Or a limber, inventive yoga instructor. Or a sensuous cook to feed me grapes and fresh oysters.

.. I needed to be spontaneous and confident.

Channel Elle Woods , I heard Amanda and Jane instruct.

This was my last free week. My promotion loomed ahead, and now was the time to throw caution

to the wind, as they say. Do something so I had stories to tell my girlfriends when they thought I was a boring workaholic who lived for spreadsheets and fiscal

accountability.

I shut my laptop, put my phone on the charger, and changed into my new bikini and wrap-around sundress.

It was three in the afternoon: I would socialize, eat, drink, be merry. And track down that gorgeous man who’d smiled at me

in the lobby.

This was my vacation, maybe my last vacation for years. The irony? With my promotion, I’d have more money—enough to pay for

a trip to St. Claire myself—but no time to take even a three-day weekend. I’d never really cared about the trade-off until

I got here, and now the thought of this trip being the first and last for me was depressing.

But money meant security. It meant helping Grams, paying my rent, saving for retirement. My dad had thought of all that and

created a modest trust for me in the event he died... and then he’d died. How could I forget all he’d taught me, the responsibility

he’d instilled in me, and turn down a promotion that included my name on the door?

I had a week to make my decision, and there really was only one decision I could make. Why was I doubting myself?

I knew who I was at work: Mia Crawford, CPA, Financial Planner. My clients respected me. My boss valued me.

But numbers didn’t keep me warm at night. If I took the promotion, I wouldn’t have time to find love. I would be alone for

the rest of my life.

I had to work. I had to take care of my Grams and make sure my future was financially secure. But what if I never found anyone to share my future with?

The thought made me surprisingly sad.

Maybe I’d never find my forever love, but I damn well could find a lover for the next six days.