Page 81 of Beach Reads and Deadly Deeds

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 to go riding on a bike to the other side of a foreign island with a stranger, following taxis to the isolated areas where she had no business being.

I was a financial planner who read too many mysteries. I was reading way too much into Diana’s disappearance. It could have been an accident.

Sure, she was “accidentally” strangled with her own scarf.

Maybe her notes had nothing to do with blackmail.

But someone stole the book.

It was too late to back down now. I wanted to know what Sherry was doing.

And, to be honest, I was having fun.

The nice thing about St. John—at least from my perspective on the back of a foot-powered bike following a gas-powered vehicle—was that the roads were narrow and crowded, and no one drove fast because of the sharp turns. Jorge lost sight of the taxi a few times, but he wasn’t deterred from our pursuit, and always caught up with it—usually because the taxi was stuck in traffic.

Then we were in the open near the top of one of the hills, where three roads came together. All around were lush green trees and bushes, and I couldn’t see the ocean.

The taxi had parked near a food truck, but Sherry wasn’t inside. Dammit! What could she be doing here? There weren’t any businesses in walking distance except for the food truck.

“I’m sorry,” I said to Jorge. “I shouldn’t have had you come all the way here.”

“It’s fine,” he said, though he sounded tired.