by Joanna Wayne
“They don’t know you’re here?”
“Not yet. I got in late so I slept on my boat last night. It’s docked on the southern end of the island, in the deepwater cove.”
“Why didn’t you use the dock?”
“It is a very large yacht.”
“How did you meet Alma and Carlos?” she asked, still trying to picture the strange couple socializing.
“I had engine trouble on my yacht a few years back. I docked, Carlos fixed it for me, and we hit it off. Now this has become my haven.”
Cape Diablo as a haven. Jaci tried but couldn’t get that image to gel. “I guess I’ll see you around,” she said.
“I certainly hope so.”
Leaving him behind, she hurried down the path, not slowing until she stepped into the clearing near the dock. A dozen seagulls took flight, but it was the boat the birds flew over that claimed her attention.
It was an impressive vessel, at least forty feet long with the name Quest painted in gleaming black letters across its clean white side. The deck was wide, with a chrome railing, and the cabin was low and sleek.
If Enrique’s boat was parked at the other end of the island, than this must be Raoul’s—unless there was yet another guest she hadn’t met. At this point, that wouldn’t surprise her.
Jaci looked around. There was no sign of Raoul or Carlos or even Tamale. Still, she took the steep steps to the boathouse. No wonder Carlos stayed in shape if he climbed these a few times a day.
The screen door was shut, but the wooden one was ajar. She listened for a second before knocking. There were no sounds of activity or conversation, but the inviting scent of fresh perked coffee was strong.
“Carlos?” She called his name softly, and when there was no answer, called again, louder this time. “Carlos, it’s Jaci.”
No answer, and suddenly she was keenly aware that just beyond the open door was the area that had been the primary focus of the inept investigation. This would be the perfect opportunity to have a look at it—unless Carlos walked in on her.
A second later, she pushed through the door and into the room that had once been splattered with blood. She took in everything at once, noting obvious details and the far more subtle things she’d been trained to search for.
The only way into the boathouse was through the door she’d just entered. There were windows on all sides, but they were too far off the ground for entry unless someone had used a ladder.
The floor was stained linoleum, worn thin and faded from years of tracked sand and scrubbings that had probably removed all traces of blood. The walls were the color of weak tea except where sun rays coming through the window had faded them to a yellowed white. There was no sign of blood.
The meager furniture was old and worn, and stacks of newspapers and old magazines littered half the rectangular wooden table that dominated the kitchen area. Clean but mismatched dishes sat drying in a plastic rack next to the stained sink.
Jaci stood in the middle of the room and tried to picture the way it had looked the night Alma and Carlos had walked into the bloody scene. What had gone through their minds? Had they been afraid? Shocked? Angered?
Or had they just wondered, as Jaci was now, if the infamous drug runner, his beautiful wife and his two daughters by his first wife had been murdered in that room? And if the Santiagos weren’t killed, then whose blood had run like a river in the boathouse that night?
Crossing the room, Jaci opened one of the two closed doors, half expecting skeletons to rattle and fall at her feet. But the door only led to the bathroom.
The second door led to a closet. She pushed aside the few pieces of clothing on hangers and stooped to get a better look into the back corners.
A couple of huge cockroaches scurried out, one crawling over her shoe in its haste to escape. Jaci jumped so fast she banged her elbow against the doorknob and yelped in pain.
“What the hell are you doing?”
She spun around to find Raoul standing in the doorway. He was barefoot and shirtless, wearing only a pair of jeans. His hair was wet, as if he’d just stepped from the shower. If he had, he had used the one on his boat and not the one in his uncle’s bathroom.
“I was looking for Carlos,” she mumbled.
“And you thought he was hiding in the closet?”
“Of course not,” she muttered, stalling to come up with something Raoul would buy. “I heard scratching noises and came in here to investigate. Guess it was just a mouse.”
“Really? ’Cause it smells and sounds like a rat.”
“It could have been,” she said, choosing to ignore his grating sarcasm. “I didn’t get a look at it. Anyway, when you see Carlos, will you tell him I was looking for him?”
Raoul grabbed her arm as she tried to squeeze past. “Nice try, but try again. Why were you snooping around in here?”
“I wasn’t snooping, and you surely don’t think I was trying to steal something.”
“Not a lot here to steal,” he admitted.
His fingers were still wrapped around her arm, and though there was no pressure, she was far too cognizant of his hold on her. Aware of the fresh scent of his just-washed skin and the drops of water that glistened in the hairs on his bronzed chest.
The responsiveness irritated her and sharpened her tongue. “No one told me the boathouse was off-limits, or even that Carlos actually lived here. I thought it was part of the island resort, a place to pick up fishing gear. Now get your hand off me,” she demanded, “before I file a complaint with the Florida Tourism Commission.”
“Ooo, now you’re scaring me. Want to call in the game warden, too?”
“If it takes that.”
Tamale’s barking interrupted theirs. Jaci and Raoul both turned as Carlos and his dog reached the top of the steps. Raoul released her arm but didn’t back off.
“What’s going on here?” Carlos said. “You two arguing about something?”
“No, we were just having a conversation,” Raoul said. “Jaci’s here to see you.” He brushed past her and grabbed a shirt from the corner post of the unmade bed.
Jaci had no idea why he’d lied, but she certainly wasn’t going to volunteer the fact that she’d been digging through Carlos’s things. She breathed a small sigh of relief as she walked over to stand near the table.
Carlos rested his hands on the back of a kitchen chair. “We must have just missed each other. I was up at the pool house looking for you.”
“Then you go first,” she said, meeting Carlos’s gaze and avoiding Raoul’s steely stare. “Why were you looking for me?”
“You said you’d like to go fishing sometime.”
“Yes, but that can wait until you don’t have company.”
“But the thing is, Raoul wants to go fishing, too. We’re going out today. You’re welcome to join us.”
She seriously doubted that Raoul shared his sentiment. That alone would have made her tag along if she hadn’t had more important matters to pursue. “I’d love to go fishing with the two of you, but something’s come up and I need to make a trip to Everglades City.”
“Not much there,” Carlos said, “unless you plan to take one of those airboat trips into the Everglades.”
“No, but this is somewhat of an emergency. I have a two o’clock appointment that I have to keep. I was hoping I could hire you to take me there, but since you’re busy, I’ll need to charter a ferry service.”
Carlos scratched his chin. “Kind of short notice to charter a boat out here.”
“I realize that, but it’s very important that I keep this appointment.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Carlos said. “I might be able to get Bull, that is, if I can get a decent phone connection.”
“Or I could use your boat and take myself,” she said. “I’d pay you, of course.”
“I couldn’t let you do that. You’d get lost for sure.”
Raoul walked over, poured himself a mug of coffee, then leaned his backside a
gainst the counter. “Kind of odd that you’d have to rush off to an important meeting, since you’re on a vacation to get away from it all.”
“That’s the thing about emergencies,” she said flippantly. “They don’t ask for an itinerary before they hit.”
“You’re right,” Raoul agreed. “So why don’t I take you to Everglades City?”
“You’re going fishing.”
“We can do that tomorrow, barring any unforeseen emergencies. Would that work for you, Uncle Carlos?”
“Works great. Unless the wind kicks up.”
Raoul’s offer caught her off guard. She’d love to tell him no thanks, but the meeting with Mac Lowell was too important. “I hate to mess up the fishing trip,” she said, “but I appreciate the offer. I’ll be glad to pay the going rate.”
“I wouldn’t know the going rate, but you can buy me a drink in town.”
“I can handle that. What time should we leave?”
“One-thirty should do it.”
“Can we make it one? I wouldn’t mind being early.”
“Whatever you say, Miss Matlock.”
She wasn’t sure what he was up to, but if he thought she was going to tell him her reason for snooping in his uncle’s closet, he had another think coming.
She wasn’t the type of woman who could be intimidated by a tall, sexy man with a nifty little cabin cruiser.
Forensics was not a science for the weak.
JACI WALKED BACK TO HER apartment, grabbed a pencil and pad, then settled on one of the lounge chairs in the courtyard to make a list of questions she wanted to ask Mac Lovell.
Mostly she wanted to listen to what he had to say, but since he was the first person she’d been able to talk to who actually took part in the investigation, she didn’t want to let anything slide.
Her first heading was “crime scene.” Question number one—“What were your first impressions when walking into the boathouse?” His response wouldn’t be as valuable now as it would have been when the experience was fresh in his mind, but it would still be helpful. First impressions of a crime scene always were.
Impressions were most important when they were at odds with the facts or the testimony of witnesses, and in this case, there were no witnesses. No servants around, though the family had employed almost a dozen. No nanny, no Carlos Lazario. They had all been away, most in Everglades City celebrating Mexico’s Independence Day.
The celebration was one of the biggest in the islands—a fiesta with fireworks and dancing and, of course, lots of food and tequila.
It struck Jaci that there had been no mention in the police reports that either Carlos or Alma had been drinking. Not likely that Carlos was, since he’d had to find the way through the dark channels back to the island.
So had he remained sober just so he and Alma could come back to the island that night? And why had they come back, when the police report made it clear that none of the other servants were expected to return until the following day?
Jaci raised her gaze to the window on the third floor of the villa. Sure enough, Alma was there, staring down at the courtyard. After thirty plus years, she must know every inch of the island, yet still she stared. Jaci lifted her hand and waved. If Alma noticed the greeting, she ignored it.
Jaci worked another half hour on the notes before lack of sleep and the heat of the midmorning sun took its toll on her concentration. Dropping her pen and pad to the tiled courtyard floor, she rose and stretched, then decided she’d think better if she got the blood moving back to her brain. Nothing like a brisk walk for that.
She went inside and put her pad on the desk, right next to her sticky note about her appointment with Mac. After a quick bathroom stop, she grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and hurried out the door.
An hour later, hot and sweaty, she went back to the apartment for a quick shower before her trip to Everglades City. Jaci fitted her key into the lock and pushed the door open.
She took one step inside, then stopped, instantly wary. Something wasn’t right. And then she saw the evidence. Someone had been in her apartment while she was walking—or else was still in there.
Chapter Five
“Who’s here?”
No one answered Jaci’s call, but still she was apprehensive as she took a few steps into the apartment. She scanned the kitchenette to the left of the French doors. There was no sign of anyone, and nothing looked out of place.
The sitting room was to the right, a small space filled with wicker chairs, a couple of small tables and a heavy wooden bookcase with nothing on the shelves except a collection of seashells.
The book Jaci had been reading last night had been tossed to the wicker chair nearest the window. She was certain—or almost certain—that she’d left it on top of the bookshelf.
The real giveaway was the research material that she knew had been in neat stacks on the ebony desk when she left. It was in jumbled piles.
Unfortunately, she didn’t have a view of the hall or the small bedroom and bath that opened off it.
“Is there a problem, señorita?”
She spun around. Enrique was only a few steps behind her. Surprisingly, she was glad to see him. “Someone’s been in my apartment. They may still be in there for all I know.”
“I’ll take a look,” he said.
She followed him down the hall, scanning everything as she did. The only thing of any monetary value she had with her was her laptop, and it was still exactly as she’d left it, on the table next to her bed.
Enrique stuck his head into the bathroom. “No one in here, either. Does anything seem to be missing?”
“No,” she admitted, “but someone was definitely in here while I was out. They’ve made a mess of the things on the desk in the sitting room.”
Enrique walked back down the hall and straight to the desk. She groaned inwardly. He was a friend of Alma’s and Carlos’s, and she should never have called his attention to the research material.
“I’m sure it’s fine,” she said. “I probably just imagined someone was in here. If anything, it was probably the wind that jumbled the papers.”
“Your window’s closed.”
“Yes, but it was open earlier this morning.”
The photos of the blood splatters had been tucked inside a labeled folder when she’d left. Now they were scattered across the desk.
Enrique picked one up and studied it. “What’s this?” he asked, scowling as if he were trying to figure out an ancient form of hieroglyphics.
“Just pictures.”
“Some kind of Rorschach inkblot test?”
“Something like that.”
“Then you must be a psychologist.”
“Exactly,” she said, turning away from him in case the lie showed on her face. “It’s really not important.” She gathered the rest of the photos, opened the top drawer of the old desk and pushed them inside. “Thanks for checking out the apartment, but everything’s fine.”
“Anytime. I’m always glad to help a beautiful woman in distress.” He trailed his fingers down her arm as if they were lovers, or at least very good friends, and his voice had taken on a decidedly seductive tone. It was time to usher him out the door.
She tried, but he stopped at the wicker chair and picked up the book she’d been reading last night. It was a basic text on blood splattering.
“I’m fine now,” she said, taking the book from him and tossing it back to the chair. “But thanks for the help.”
“If you have any other needs, I’ll do my best to take care of those as well.” He took her hand and kissed her fingertips again.
It would have been nice if she’d felt some kind of thrill. Didn’t happen, so she locked the French doors behind him and rushed to the bathroom, shedding her shirt and kicking out of her shoes as she went.
She’d have to hurry now to get to the dock by one, but there was no way she could forgo a shower. She knew she reeked.
Alma. It had to be she who�
��d snooped through Jaci’s things while she’d been out. Alma probably had a key to all the apartments and roamed around at will.
Hopefully, she was as crazy as everyone thought, and hadn’t understood or cared that all the notes on Jaci’s desk dealt with the infamous, unsolved Cape Diablo mystery.
And hopefully she hadn’t taken the information to Carlos and Raoul. If she had, Jaci would just confess. Even if Carlos didn’t like her reasons for being here, he couldn’t kick her off the island. At least she didn’t think he could. She’d paid for one full month in advance.
But Raoul could and probably would refuse to take her to Everglades City as they’d planned. So much for what had started out as a promising day.
She was almost certain it had been Alma who had searched her apartment, but it would be nice to know for sure, and easy to find out. Her prints would be on the book—unless Enrique had smudged them beyond recognition. And Alma’s fingerprints were on record. That’s one thing that had been collected during the original Santiago investigation.
Jaci picked up the volume, careful to touch it only on the corners while she slipped it into a plastic zip bag. She’d mail it to the lab at the university today. If she sent it by courier from Everglades City, they’d get it by tomorrow.
It took only a few minutes to get the package ready to go. After that, she showered and dressed quickly, then stopped at the desk to pick up the note with Mac’s information on it.
The slip of paper was missing, probably shuffled around somewhere in the mess of notes.
But their meeting was in Slinky’s Bar at two, so Jaci didn’t really need the note. The only other information on it had been Mac’s phone number, and that would still be in her cell phone under recent calls.
She locked the French doors behind her, knowing it was a waste of time. Everyone on Cape Diablo probably had access to the keys to all the apartments. It struck her as she hurried through the arched opening to the beach just how vulnerable she was on this island.
An island that reeked of decay and evil.
Cripes! She was starting to sound like her mother. There was no such thing as a cursed plot of land. Cape Diablo was just an island, nothing more.
