by Carrie Doyle
“You’re only five minutes late, but I prefer to be ten minutes early,” said Plum.
Juan Kevin’s eyebrows shot up. “I see. That’s probably a good idea.”
“They polled the CEOs of the Fortune 500 companies, and they agreed that punctuality is essential to success. I like to take it a step further,” said Plum.
“I agree,” said Jason. “If one of the guys working for me is even a minute late, I can him. Everyone is replaceable. People need to put their best effort forward.”
“Absolutely,” said Plum. She would have definitely hired someone like Jason. Although you don’t see that type in the publishing business, she mused. Perhaps that was why it was collapsing.
“Did you ask them about the earring?” Juan Kevin inquired. He pulled the turquoise piece out of his pocket and held it up.
“Whose is it?” asked Jason.
“That’s what we want to know. It was in the hot tub,” said Juan Kevin.
Deepak and Jason moved closer to examine it, and both shook their heads. “I don’t recognize it,” said Deepak.
“Me neither.”
“Do you remember any of the women that Nick talked to wearing something like this?” asked Plum.
“I don’t think so,” said Jason.
“That’s not something I notice. I’m not a jewelry guy,” added Deepak.
“No wonder you’re single,” said Plum.
Before he could respond, Juan Kevin spoke. “Perhaps Deepak can show me around the villa. I want to make sure everything is secure.”
“Certainly,” said Deepak, who swiftly followed Juan Kevin out of the room.
Jason poured himself a shot of tequila and downed it. “When do you think we can leave?”
“I can’t answer that. But we hope to be able to find out everything about Nick’s death so we can provide a conclusive answer to his family.”
“They said it’s an accident. What would take long?”
“They probably have to do paperwork,” said Plum. She didn’t want to admit she had asked the police to detain them.
“Everything on this island takes forever,” lamented Jason.
“I don’t disagree.”
“How can you live like this? It’s dysfunctional. I would go nuts.”
Jason is a kindred spirit, thought Plum. Most people were put off by demanding and aggressive New Yorkers like Jason, but Plum felt like she was finally speaking the same language to someone for the first time in a month.
“It’s been challenging to acclimate to the local culture, but I am looking at this as a time of temporary restoration and health. Paraiso’s low-pressure way of life can be healing,” replied Plum.
“Tell that to Nick,” muttered Jason.
“Yes, obviously that is an aberration,” agreed Plum.
“I really wish he hadn’t drunk so much. But he wouldn’t listen to us! He was stubborn. And it always ended up a mess, just like Kirstie warned me.”
“Your fiancée?”
“Yeah. She begged me not to let him come this weekend. She knew it would end badly.”
He stopped speaking abruptly.
“Continue,” prompted Plum.
But Jason’s moment for sharing had ended. He shook his head. “Obviously she didn’t think he would die.”
Juan Kevin returned to the kitchen with Deepak. It was evident the men were done talking and ready for them to leave. Plum fired one last question.
“The man who came to my office to retrieve the keys to Casa Mango referred to himself as Nicholas Macpherson. Do you have any idea who that man could have been? Why he would have wanted keys to the villa?”
A less observant person would have missed the quick glance that Jason shot Deepak, but Plum saw it. And if she were a betting woman, she would have sworn Jason slightly shook his head as if to warn his friend.
“No,” said Jason firmly. “I have absolutely no idea.”
“Me neither,” confessed Deepak.
Plum gave both men a probing look. “Are you sure?”
“Positive,” they both said in unison.
***
“I think we ascertained some valuable information, but we are not close to solving the murder,” said Plum, when they had stepped out into the balmy night. They walked down the path toward the driveway and stood near Juan Kevin’s car. The sun was sinking in the horizon, and the sky was streaked with twilight. A police officer sat on a chair at the end of the driveway, looking totally bored.
Juan Kevin gave her an amused look. “We still don’t even know if it was murder. His friends seem convinced it was an accident.”
“They could be covering. Maybe they murdered him.”
“It’s possible.”
Plum sighed. “I honestly thought we would get more out of them.”
“There’s a reason professionals handle this.”
Plum furrowed her brow. “The police? Please. It’s up to us.” She motioned to the officer staring at his phone. “You think that guy is going to crack the crime?”
Juan Kevin smiled. “You definitely seem more motivated than he is.”
“I am. I don’t have a good feeling about this. And I don’t know why everyone is so eager to accept this as an accident. You saw his face.” Impulsively, Plum added, “Maybe we should go to the bar and ask around? One last push. The bartender might know who the women socializing with Nick were.”
Juan Kevin glanced at his watch. “It’s a good idea, but I can’t.”
Despite her desire to keep their contact professional, a wave of extreme jealousy throttled Plum. “Why, you have a hot date?” she blurted out before thinking.
Juan Kevin smiled. He held her gaze before responding. “No. I need to check on a villa. There was recently a fire there, and the owner is returning to the island tonight. We agreed to meet at six thirty.”
“Oh,” said Plum, with palpable relief. Then to cover it, she quickly asked, “Are there a lot of fires here?”
“No,” replied Juan Kevin. “This was a silly instance of someone forgetting to blow out their scented candles and no fire alarms in the villa. There was one in the front hall, but the batteries had died. That’s why I was glad to see you had not just one but two in every bedroom at Casa Mango.”
“Right. Well, I suppose I’ll head to the bar without you. We do have a ticking clock.”
Juan Kevin paused, his perceptive eyes studying her. He finally spoke. “I will meet you there in an hour and a half.”
Plum brightened. “Okay, that sounds good.”
Juan Kevin drove off, and Plum walked over to her golf cart. She put the key in the ignition, clicked on the lights, and something to her right caught her eye. In the patchy shadows, a golf cart was idling across the street. She swerved her head for a closer look. Just as she did, the golf cart took off, plowing straight ahead full speed before making a sharp left down the street and disappearing around the curve. Something didn’t feel right. The driver of the cart had been watching her. Who was he? What was he waiting for? Plum felt a chill down the back of her neck. She shuddered.
She turned to the policeman “guarding” Casa Mango. He was now talking on his cell phone. Plum asked, “Did you see that?”
“Que?” he asked.
“The man there. Did you see who was watching?”
But the security guard didn’t understand. He shook his head and continued his call.
“Useless!” said Plum, before taking off in her cart. There was no question that Plum would need to learn Spanish as soon as possible if she wanted to survive on this island.
Chapter 8
An hour gave Plum just enough time to whiz home and freshen up. She darted into her villa and quickly showered. Although she was unnerved by the idling cart outside Casa Mango, she told herself she was paranoid and pushed th
oughts of it away. It helped that she had something to look forward to. For reasons she couldn’t quite explain to herself, Plum was excited for her evening with Juan Kevin. The snobby part of her that she had taken so many years to cultivate was whining that she was getting all gussied up to convene with a security guard, but the long-dormant soft side of Plum that yearned to be appreciated kept thinking of Juan Kevin’s soulful eyes. However, as she dressed, waves of reality dipped in and out of her consciousness, and she reminded herself that this was merely a fact-finding mission and could not be construed as a date. Plus, she was only planning on being on the island for a very short time. Why get involved with anyone?
After several wardrobe changes, Plum settled on a cornflower-blue, Egyptian cotton poplin dress with smocking embroidery. It was from last season’s Prada resort collection, but she figured Juan Kevin didn’t keep up with high fashion collections and wouldn’t notice. She thought it possible that it was inappropriate attire seeing as they were merely interviewing bartenders, but then was there really a dress code for sleuthing?
Primping in Paraiso was a challenge. Plum’s skin was so dewy in this climate that coaxing makeup to stick on her face was an effort, and her hair was an even worse story. She had showered and painstakingly blow-dried her mane, but by the time she was dressed, she looked like Little Orphan Annie. It was the damn humidity. She attempted to brush it out, but her unruly curls battled the bristles, and with irritation, she threw it into a tight bun. Her mother had always looked at Plum with chagrin and said that her curls were her cross to bear. It was indeed true.
The journey back down to the beach reminded Plum that she should lease a car; a golf cart did not work when one was on a mission, particularly at night. The mosquitoes flew straight into her eyes and promptly drowned, and every time she stumbled upon a speed bump, she felt as if a truck had run over her bottom. Plus, a car would be more practical. It would allow her to explore the island beyond the resort and to shop at the larger grocery store in Estrella, the closest town. Her mind wandered, and she imagined taking small road trips around the island with Juan Kevin. They would have picnics on secluded beaches, and her hair would be perfectly coiffed. It wasn’t like Plum to have these fantasies, and she wondered if she was becoming a more romantic person. Perhaps it was the warm weather that was generating this passion.
Juan Kevin had beaten her to Coconuts and was chatting in Spanish with a portly, tanned bartender whose name tag identified him as Miguel. For reasons foreign to her, Plum felt shy approaching Juan Kevin but was relieved when he turned and gave her a bright smile.
“Miss Lockhart, you look stunning,” he said, eyeing her with appreciation.
As she was not used to receiving compliments, she ignored his words and instead asked, “Any luck?”
“Miguel cannot recall if he was serving the bachelor party,” said Juan Kevin.
“I have a picture that can tell a thousand words,” replied Plum.
She had asked Deepak to email her a photo of Nick Macpherson, and instead he had sent the link to Nick’s Instagram page, where there were plenty of pictures of him partaking in various sporting activities. His profile picture was the most recent one of him that afforded a good facial view. She rifled around her clutch and pulled out her phone, sifting through the pages until she reached Nick’s.
She held it up to Miguel. He squinted then took the phone in his hands and studied it for a long time. A surge of hope shot through Plum then deflated when Miguel ultimately shook his head and moved to the end of the bar to help a customer.
“At least he was thorough.” She sniffed.
Plum slid onto the barstool next to Juan Kevin and ordered a glass of wine.
“The trouble is a cruise ship was in port that night, so the bar was very crowded,” said Juan Kevin. “It may be like looking for a needle in a haystack. But it’s worth a shot.”
“It’s the best picture. There’s a more recent post from two days ago, taken at Las Frutas, but he’s wearing sunglasses and a hat.”
“Let me see,” asked Juan Kevin, taking her phone into his hands.
The picture was taken on the craggy coral edge of the La Cereza Golf Course. Nick, Deepak, Jason, and another man stood by the pin of the sixteenth hole, the jagged rocks and dramatic coastline behind them.
“I don’t know who that guy is,” said Plum, pointing to the fourth man, who appeared to be in his late twenties.
“I do,” said Juan Kevin. “That’s Tony Spira. He’s one of the golf pros.”
“Huh,” said Plum. “Maybe we should ask him if he noticed any tension between Nick and Jason and Deepak.”
“Good idea,” said Juan Kevin. “In the meantime, let’s try the other waitstaff.”
They struck gold with the third server they asked.
“Yes, I remember him,” said a skinny, young waiter whose name tag identified him as Pedro. He had big, dark eyes and a hint of a mustache and was waiting for the bartender to prepare his drink order.
“And?” asked Plum.
“He was sitting in that corner. They were having tequila sunrises and shots of tequila. They were a very happy group.”
“They, who was they?” Plum asked eagerly.
“He was with two women. There was much laughter. But then a man came and said something in a loud, angry voice, and the man in the picture started yelling,” said Pedro as he refilled the peanut bowls.
“And then what happened?” asked Plum.
“They yelled at each other and then stopped. A woman was yelling also.”
“Did you see the women before or since?”
The young man leaned against the bar and cocked his head to the side as if to think. “One maybe, two, yes.”
“What does that mean?” asked Plum.
“One, maybe I saw before. She looked familiar, but I cannot be sure. She is also Paraison. The other, yes. She has been here many times. She came in last night.”
“Can you describe her?” asked Juan Kevin.
“She is not young, but she looks young. She has blond hair and a very nice figure, but her face is strange.”
“What did the man who yelled at him look like?” asked Juan Kevin.
“He was Paraison. He had dark hair…an expensive watch…my age. I don’t know him.”
Miguel had approached and heard the tail end of the conversation. He started to nod. “Yes, I saw that man.”
“Oh, now you remember.” Plum snorted. She took a sip of her wine.
Juan Kevin gave her a look and asked Miguel, “Do you have any idea who either of the women were?”
“Yes.” Miguel nodded slowly. So slowly that Plum wanted to reach over and shake him. “One was Carmen Rijo.”
“Carmen Rijo?” Juan Kevin said with surprise.
“Who’s Carmen Rijo?” asked Plum.
“She was talking with him,” continued Miguel slowly. “They were drinking together with her friend.”
“Do you know the man who was making a scene?”
“Sí.” Miguel nodded.
“Well, who?” snapped Plum. Could this Miguel not understand urgency?
“It was Martin Rijo,” Miguel said slowly.
“Martin Rijo?” repeated Juan Kevin, somewhat alarmed.
“Sí.”
“Who are these Rijos?” asked Plum.
“Let’s go sit down at the restaurant and have a bite to eat, and I will explain,” said Juan Kevin.
“I’m not very hungry. I’ll just get another glass of wine.”
Juan Kevin shook his head. “I’ve seen that play out before. This time, you eat when you drink.”
The restaurant was attached to the bar. It was a large, airy, whitewashed room divided by equidistant pillars and canopied by a double-height ceiling. The floors and wooden tables were bleached white. In the daytime, it afforded sweeping v
iews of the Caribbean, but as it was now dark outside, they had to make do with the sound of the waves lapping the shore. There were hurricane lamps dotting the tables and a large basket of overhead lanterns hanging from the rafters. The dim lighting, caressing breeze, and the rhythmic music gave it a sexy vibe.
They were seated in a corner booth and had placed their orders—seared, marinated red snapper with creole seasoning for Plum and grilled octopus with Romesco sauce for Juan Kevin, who also ordered a bottle of white wine. A busboy instantly placed a basket of herbed flatbreads with piquillo butter and a dish of marinated olives on the table. Juan Kevin pushed the dish towards her, and she was about to refuse but decided to sample one. The Kalamata olives were plump and flecked with rosemary and quite delicious. She immediately popped another one in her mouth.
“Try the bread. It’s excellent.”
She was about to say she generally eschewed carbs, but then she shrugged. Why not? One bite and she was hooked. “Delicious.”
“Paraiso has the best bread.”
“You’re not biased, are you?”
“Absolutely not,” he said with a smile. “But I do believe my island to be the most special place in the world and generally have the best of everything.”
“Everything except the ability to do things on time.”
“Yes, we have our own pace. But trust me, you will get used to it.”
“I doubt it,” said Plum. “But it’s a nice switch for now.”
“Do you miss your family?” he asked. He took a sip of water and wiped his mouth with the cloth napkin.
Plum shook her head. “I don’t have any family.”
Juan Kevin’s face became sad. “Oh, I’m sorry.”
“I have parents, but we are…estranged. I’m an only child. It makes life easier. I can travel anywhere on a moment’s notice without a bother. I have no one to check in with or look after. No Thanksgiving dinners with an aunt in Westchester. I am completely self-sufficient and nimble with no one tying me down.”
It was a pat response that usually elicited envy in her high-pressured New York world, but Juan Kevin gave her a sympathetic look.
