Killing in the Caribbean

by Jennifer Fischetto

  "Do you know why she did it? Did she always want it done and the breakup initiated her extreme makeover?"

  "I don't think so. She once made a comment to my roommate that she now looked like the other girls Barclay dated."

  I softly sighed. "So she did it to get him back, thinking he'd like her better that way."

  "That's my guess."

  Poor girl. I can't imagine changing my body for any guy, let alone someone who dumped me.

  "Did it work?" I asked.

  "No. In fact, it pushed him farther away. He no longer felt bad and went back to his serial dating."

  I wondered if Pauline had regretted the surgery.

  Whitney scratched her cheek. "Wow, I hadn't thought about her in so long."

  Since we were on the subject of dating…

  "What about you and Finley? Did you two date in college?"

  "No, we were just good friends. The four of us—Finley, Greer, Barclay, and I—were super close. Even though Barclay wasn't into monogamy, he was a very loyal friend. Finley and I didn't start dating until five years ago."

  "That's sweet. Did you run into each other again, or had you stayed in touch?"

  "A bit of both. Greer, Finley, and I continued to exchange cards. It was this weird thing that started in freshman year. Instead of holiday and birthday cards, we'd give each other cards when one of us had an exceptionally crappy day. My mom was a big believer in sending out thank-you notes, so when I moved to the dorms, she gave me a huge stack of blank cards. I didn't do the thank-you thing, but one day after Greer failed a biology midterm, I decorated a card with 'Next time I'll hold the midterm down and you kick its butt' and gave it to him. It started something."

  I chuckled. What a great memory and tradition.

  "So we kept that up over the years, but we switched it when we graduated. Since we weren't living on campus and didn't know when crappy days hit each other, we'd send out cards when we had an awful day. Something like, 'I'm sending you this card, hoping you didn't just spill coffee on your white blouse during a job interview like I did."

  Her grin bloomed. "I still have all of them."

  I wished I had similar mementos and friendships as long as they did. My relationship with Cady was great. We'd grown super tight in the short amount of time we'd known each other, but once again I was reminded that it would all come to end either when I went back to my life in New York or when she learned I'd been lying all along.

  "So how did you and Finley meet up again?" I asked.

  She flipped onto her side and cupped her hand over her eyes to shield the blinding sun. "I ran into him at the card section at CVS."

  We both laughed long and hard.

  "He kissed me for the first time a week later after a terrible horror movie that wasn't even scary, and we got engaged three years after that. The engagement is a little longer than some, but we agreed he'd concentrate on his campaign first. His manager thinks we should've gotten married before the election next year. He thinks it would look better to his constituents if Finley is married, but I think it's more romantic if they get to go on that journey with us. Besides, I want our attention fully invested on our big day. No last-minute campaign duties."

  I smiled at her. She sounded truly happy.

  She sighed and flopped back onto her back. "I hadn't anticipated a funeral in the midst of it all."

  I guessed this was the perfect moment to ask her.

  "What do you think happened yesterday? How did he…?

  Her entire body tensed, and I felt bad for bringing it up. "I have no idea."

  "Do you think it was drugs? Did he use any?"

  She shot up into a sitting position and twisted her torso toward me. Her brow creased, and her voice deepened. "Oh heck no. He'd never. He hated drugs, other than the occasional aspirin and the insulin that saved his life."

  I nodded and hadn't wanted to get her angry. It was just a question, but in her mind, it may have sounded like an accusation. Nothing like blaming the victim for his own death.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  After everyone returned from their time with the turtles, they settled down on the beach. Finley went straight to the chair beside Whitney and seemed to crash. One arm flung over his face, he was not going to tan evenly.

  "You should've seen it, Zibby. It was amazing," Cady exclaimed. Sunlight glistened on her wet blonde hair, making it look like it was encrusted with tiny diamonds.

  I laughed at her excitement. "Sounds like you had a great time."

  "I got pictures." Mimi held up her iPhone.

  I stood up and walked over to her. Heck yeah, I wanted to see the turtles.

  She scrolled through several photos of them. Greer giving a thumbs-up while floating next to a giant white and brown turtle. His blonde hair was floating straight up, looking like an extreme mohawk. Even though he looked happy, there was something off about the photo. It took me a moment, and then it hit me. He wasn't wearing his fingerless gloves in it. The back of his hands looked reddish, but they were also a bit blurry in the photo.

  The next one was of Finley on Greer's back, goofing around, and a school of yellow, white, and black-striped fish. Despite the alcohol in his system, Finley looked alert and like he didn't have a care in the world. He had one arm raised, and I could imagine he'd wanted to shout, "Giddy up."

  When she reached one of Cady pointing at a giant turtle three feet in front of her, her hair streaming out behind her and the look of delight on her face, I stopped Mimi from scrolling.

  "Cady, it's you." I looked up, and my friend was walking toward the restrooms.

  "Can you send me that one?" I asked Mimi and rattled off my number.

  "Sure." She tapped her screen and grinned. "Sent."

  "Thank you. She's gonna love it. You have a good eye too. Ever thought of dabbling in photography?"

  She shook her head, and her drenched, light brown frizzy curls splattered my shoulder. "No, I'm a total novice."

  "Not by those shots, you're not."

  She grinned her thanks and walked to one of our vacant chairs.

  I grabbed my drink, sipped the last of it, and headed to the bathroom. I needed to use it, and I wanted to catch up with Cady.

  We both exited a stall at the same time and washed our hands. The place was wet and sandy, and I didn't want to stand in there a moment longer than necessary. Back in the fresh air, I pulled her aside.

  "So, are we done snooping?" I asked. "Did you talk to Greer?"

  She shook her head. "No, I didn't get a chance to. Did you learn anything from Whitney? I saw you with her."

  I thought of the stories she'd told.

  "She vehemently said there was no way Barclay used drugs. He hated them. She practically growled at me."

  Cady stomped her bare foot in the sand. "One of us needs to ask Greer."

  I started to roll my eyes. "If Whitney and Finley already said Barclay would never take drugs, why would Greer say something different?"

  She scoffed and widened her eyes at me. I could practically see the fear in them. She was terrified this was going to seriously hurt Aiden's business, which would also hurt him and his family. She loved him, and I loved her, so…

  "Of course I'll talk to Greer," I said.

  She blinked back a tear, bounced on her tiptoes, and then pulled me in for a crushing hug. "Thanks, Zibby. You're the best."

  "Yes, I am." I matched her grin, and we headed back to the others.

  Greer and Mimi were standing at the edge of the water talking. I'd have to wait. I didn't want to interrupt.

  I sat down in my chair and glanced at Whitney and Finley. Both of them were lying on their stomachs. He looked to be zonked out. His mouth was open, he was softly snoring, and a small droplet of drool hovered in the corner of his mouth.

  I looked over to the other couple, just as Mimi walked off toward the restrooms. I saw my opportunity and jumped up.

  When I reached Greer's side, he glanced at me from the corner of his eye a
nd then returned his gaze to straight ahead.

  "How are you holding up, Greer?" I asked.

  "I was fine until you just reminded me that my friend was dead."

  Ouch, okay.

  "I'm sorry." I hadn't meant to cause pain, but it just happened last night. Wouldn't the memory be front and center anyway?

  He turned and stared at me hard. His hands were still uncovered, and I was right about the redness in the photo. There were large patches of red, flaky skin across the back of each of them. It looked itchy and very uncomfortable.

  I immediately looked at his face so I wasn't staring at whatever was wrong with his hands.

  A frown wrinkled his brow, and his chin was clenched. "Are you?"

  What the heck did that mean? I matched his frown. "Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?"

  "Well, you barely know any of us, yet you've managed to latch on to us these last two days. What is your deal?"

  Latch on? Did he not remember that Barclay invited us to join them yesterday? And whether he knew it or not, today was all due to Whitney. Where was his anger coming from? Had I really pissed him off this much, or was it something else?

  "I don't have one. Barclay invited us to hang with you guys yesterday. Today it was Whitney. Besides, did you ever think that Cady and I are people who care when someone turns up dead?" I raised my voice louder than I intended, but luckily the ocean absorbed it and didn't allow it to travel.

  He scoffed and glared at the water. "He used to be a good guy."

  The change of subject was abrupt, but I didn't miss a beat.

  "Used to be?" I asked. What was that supposed to mean?

  Greer blinked a couple of times and looked dumbstruck. Perhaps he hadn't meant to say that out loud. "Nothing. I hadn't seen him in a while, and this vacation he was a little more aggressive than in the past."

  Really?

  "How so?"

  He shrugged and looked away. "There was some tension between him and Finley. I overheard their raised voices outside their rooms yesterday morning, but I couldn't hear what was being said."

  Maybe this tension was why they seemed to be arguing yesterday at the bar. Interesting how Greer didn't mention his own tension with Barclay, as Mimi told me.

  I was about to ask Greer about any drug use, mostly to pacify Cady, but before I got the chance, there was a commotion behind us.

  We turned to see a small crowd developing near one of the huts. A man was helping Mimi onto a barstool. She looked sickeningly pale and dizzy on her feet. We ran toward them.

  Greer was ahead of me. The sand was not the ideal surface to run on. As I passed the others, they turned my way.

  "What is it?" Whitney shouted.

  By the time I reached Mimi, Greer was by her side and the man had gotten her a bottle of water. I noticed her up-turned purse on the ground with items spilled out, so I went over to retrieve it before someone took off with her wallet.

  "Is she okay?" I asked while placing her coin pouch, a lipstick, a compact, and a pack of tissues back into her black hobo-style purse. I then gathered up several business cards that had fallen out of a thin metal case. Cortland Dental, Northshore Skin Care Specialists. Skin. This was probably for Greer's hands. Finch Street Gallery. Mimi Janson, Assistant Art Director. Her job. Central Grooming and Oakville Veterinary Center. Aww, did she have a dog?

  I stuffed them back into her purse and handed it to her.

  She said, "I'm fine, really. There's no need for all of this fuss. I just got a little woozy."

  "It's probably the heat," I said.

  "We need to get you back to the hotel to rest," Greer said with an overprotective arm around her shoulders.

  So Mimi had been right. To those he cared about, Greer was a nice guy.

  We all took a cab back to The Frond, where Cady and I planned to say our good-byes, but when we stepped out of the car, another pulled up right behind. It was the police.

  "This is perfect timing," Sergeant Clarke said as he walked over to us. I hadn't paid much attention yesterday, but while the sergeant may have been an older gentleman with a touch of gray at his temples, his physique was that of a much younger man who worked out. Lean, toned—there was no pot belly there.

  Constable Newton was right behind him. He was thin, almost to the point of being scrawny, but what he lacked in muscles, he made up for in poise. He stood straight with his bony shoulders back, didn't slouch, and had an air of confidence that didn't come off as arrogant.

  "What's going on?" Finley asked.

  The four friends stood side-by-side in front of the cops, while Cady and I lingered off to the side. Whatever was going on had to be about Barclay. It had nothing to do with us, but I was curious enough to not move and mind my business.

  "We need you to come down to the station to answer some questions." The sergeant looked to Cady and me. "All of you."

  "Why?" Greer asked in his aggressive tone.

  Cady and I exchanged suspicious looks. What did any of this have to do with us?

  "We've received the toxicology report," Clarke said.

  Wow, that was super fast.

  "Mr. Murdock did not suffer an allergic reaction. He was poisoned with succinylcholine."

  My body stiffened. I had no idea what that was, except it sounded painful. Poor Barclay. Did this mean Aiden was in the clear though? Cady would be thrilled. Aiden too, of course.

  "What does that mean?" Whitney asked.

  The sergeant cleared his throat. "Mr. Murdock was murdered."

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Royal Barbados Police Force was situated in a two-story white building with a small blue and white sign that said Police by the front door. We walked up several steps and entered. Sergeant Clarke and Constable Newton had loaded us into the back of a prisoner van of sorts, like we were criminals being arrested. I get that we wouldn't have all fit in a regular car and he wanted to keep us together, but I could've sworn I saw him smirk when he shut and locked the rear door.

  They first led us down a narrow hall to a small room where a uniformed officer stood behind a counter and took our fingerprints.

  "What is this for?" Finley asked before extending his hand.

  "We need to eliminate who was in Mr. Murdock's hotel room and who wasn't," Sergeant Clarke said.

  My chest tightened. I was so about to get caught. My prints were all over that room.

  Cady glanced at me and then quickly away. She was probably thinking the same as me.

  How was I getting out of this one?

  "I've never been inside Barclay's room," Finley said while the officer pressed his thumb onto the inkpad and then on two different cardstock sheets.

  "None of us have," Greer said.

  I glanced at Whitney, who was looking at the floor. It seemed both of us had something to hide.

  "In all of the time you've been here, you never once visited his hotel room? Were you not friends?" the constable asked.

  Greer frowned. "Of course we were, but we would gather in the hallway or the elevator and go out. The only times we were in our own rooms were to bathe and sleep."

  "Besides, didn't housekeeping clean daily?" Finley wiped his fingers on some paper towel and stepped aside so Whitney could go next.

  "That's right. I saw her open Barclay's door this morning. She must've wiped down the surfaces," Mimi said.

  Too bad that would help everyone but Whitney and me.

  "If none of you had been in Mr. Murdock's room, then why do you care if we take your prints?" Constable Newton asked.

  No one replied. We silently did what was asked of us and then followed the police out and into a medium-sized room with several desks situated throughout. File cabinets, extra chairs, a few potted plants, and a small coffee station filled the rest of the space. Along the far wall were two doors. One said Office and the other Interrogation. And beside each door was a horizontal pane of glass that was covered by drawn mini blinds on the inside of each room.

  There was
a loud hum of fans swirling the hot office air, warm despite the air conditioning, and a phone rang. Two other policemen were seated at their desks. Both looked up as Clarke and Newton ushered us inside and told us to take seats. This meant we would be scattered, each seated near an unoccupied desk, and not together. While I doubted Cady would mind, and I certainly didn't because we had nothing to hide, Whitney kept twisting her engagement ring on her finger and Greer's face was pinched.

  The four friends had walked into the room first, so by time they were seated, the only chairs left were by a tall potted palm tree by the entrance and one next to the interrogation room. Cady snatched the palm one, so I had no choice but to sit in the back. I tossed my ink-smudged paper towel into a trash can on the way.

  Newton and Clarke stepped away from us and whispered to each other for a few seconds. Then Clarke removed his jacket, loosened his tie, and looked around the room.

  Suddenly Aiden rushed in, panting and looking sweaty.

  Cady flinched and widely grinned. She started to get up to greet him, but he only glanced her way before hurrying to the sergeant. "Can we make this fast? I am trying to run a business and had to close up to come here."

  "Of course," Clarke said and waved a hand to the interrogation room as if he were Vanna White on Wheel of Fortune.

  Aiden led the way, and the sergeant and constable followed him into the room behind me.

  With the door firmly shut, I breathed out a sigh of relief. I had nothing to hide, but I was nervous and tense. Barclay had been purposely poisoned. Murdered. I couldn't believe it. Why? And by whom? Clearly I couldn't have been blamed. I didn't know him. But how was I going to explain snooping in his room? Would they believe the truth?

  I looked to each of his friends. We were here because the police had more questions. That was probably pretty standard, but did they think someone I'd spent the day with had done this? Of course they had. Who else? The housekeeper at the hotel, a poor hapless server somewhere?

  No, one of them.

  Whitney's dark hair fell forward, hiding her face from my view. She was no longer twirling her engagement ring, but her hands were pinker than the rest of her body from clasping them together so tightly. Was she nervous because she was guilty of murder? She couldn't have done it. They had been friends. Why would she? Why would any of them for that matter?