“Ooh. Look at that hat. I want that hat,” Chantal gushed. It was widely brimmed and black with some sheer strips that cast pretty shadows on the wearer’s skin.
“Very Hollywood,” I observed. “It would look great on you.”
“Puh,” she responded modestly.
We finally found a bar open to the public on the edge of the beach. Across the way children splashed in a kiddy pool fifteen feet across. In the center a cement frog about two feet tall spouted water from its mouth. Two naked little boys with flawless mocha complexions laughed and shrieked as they ran through the questionable water. I was kinda glad I wasn’t a kid anymore.
For lunch I had a cold salad of little tiny scallops that had been pickled. And a beer. It was hot even under the awning due to the noon hour and the complete lack of breeze. If Chantal’s brother really had planned to windsurf, he was out of luck.
“So what’s going on with Gavin?” I finally asked.
“What do you mean?” Chantal cleared a strand of hair from her face.
“He had sort of a strange reaction when I said Mike was gone. I just wondered why.”
Chantal’s eyes widened, and her mouth dropped open. “You’re not interested in him, are you? Please tell me you’re not interested in him.”
“Oh, no no no,” I demurred.
“You sure?”
“Totally sure. Oh, no. I just thought there might be a story there.”
Chantal monitored my face for a moment. Then her shoulders relaxed and she swayed into a more comfortable position. “You know about the lawsuit against one of Dad’s companies? We toasted the attorney who won it last night.”
I shrugged. “Over my head.”
“Lucky you. We’ve been living through that thing for months.”
Briefly, she explained about a man who filed a civil suit against a Roitman’s subsidiary blaming the company for the wrongful death of his daughter. The company produced anti-lock brakes, the failure of which Darryl Sykes, the father, claimed caused twenty-two-year-old Luanne to crash into the back of a disabled truck.
“Okay,” I said tentatively.
“Gavin’s been seeing Darryl Sykes’s other daughter.”
“Oh,” I said. “Oh, dear.”
“Oh dear, indeed,” Chantal agreed. “Dad threatened to cut Gavin off if he didn’t drop her.”
To me, that sounded surprisingly harsh, but all I said was, “I wonder why.”
“Spite?” Chantal guessed with a shrug.
Another facet of Frank Roitman to explore.
“More iced tea?” I asked after we pushed our plates away.
Toby’s widow patted her stomach and shook her head, so I blurted out the other thought that had been flitting in and out of my mind.
“You’re pregnant, aren’t you?”
Chapter 18
Chantal gasped. “Wow! How did you guess? I haven’t even told my mother.”
“Bartender,” I reminded her. “You haven’t been drinking alcohol.”
Confirmation of my suspicion had jacked up my pulse with excitement. And relief. To me, Chantal’s mourning always appeared to be genuine, so I never really saw her as a murderer. Now that she admitted she was pregnant, I felt I could safely place her in the Highly Unlikely to Kill Her Husband category.
Also, I couldn’t believe the Toby Mike described would leave Chantal to raise their child alone, unless…
“Did your husband know?” I inquired carefully.
“We were a little superstitious,” Chantal admitted shyly, “so I didn’t test right away. But I’d say yes. He smiled at me as if we shared a secret. He’d hold doors for me, pull out my chair. Little things he only did once in a while he did more often.” She glanced off toward the Caribbean then back at her lap. “Yes, I’d say we both knew.”
Unfortunately, her answer sounded more like an informed guess than a certainty, so suicide still couldn’t be ruled out.
“I’m sure you’re right,” I said. “But I wonder, was there any one particular thing he said or did that made you sure he knew? Something for the baby book perhaps?”
“Why?”
“Because…if he knew, I can’t imagine why he…?”
I let my voice trail off because Chantal had instantly become angry, whether at me or her deceased husband, I couldn’t tell. Either way, the damage was done.
“He knew, dammit. We both did.” Tears pooled in her eyes.
“Okay, okay.” I made those keep-it-down, patting gestures you do when people around you are staring. “Then why do you think he…?”
“Business.” She almost spit the word. “Something at work.”
Now she seemed angry about Toby’s job. With her father. I was finally getting somewhere.
Suddenly, Chantal stood up from the table and marched away from me. She showed no sign of stopping until she arrived back at the yacht.
A surprise, but it was fine with me. I’d planned on picking up the check anyway.
I’d also had enough walking on sand, and I didn’t want Chantal to look back and find me stalking after her. I’d disturbed her delicate peace, if indeed she’d attained anything resembling peace; and she would not benefit from seeing the person who disturbed her again anytime soon.
Maybe I should hand out a card:
Lauren Beck
aka Lori Ruggles
Persona non Grata
After washing off my feet at a faucet beside the kiddy pool, I put on my sneakers and squeaked my way over to a paved path that led toward a road that more-or-less led to a town center. Not many people were about since it was still hot as blazes, but enough were around to suggest that some commerce was being conducted. A pale green bank, which looked more like a solidly built storefront, stood on the near corner. Windows of thick barred glass allowed me to observe two tellers standing in wait and a man at a desk dealing with a woman in a colorful dress.
A motorcycle business seemed to be a popular hangout for the local men, and even covered up I drew at bit more attention than I liked. Keeping traffic between me and the men, I hustled along the road and soon came upon an enclave of shops geared toward tourists like me. The shade was welcome and the prices extremely reasonable, much better than anywhere near the yacht—go figure—and I almost allowed myself to succumb to a pink hat with a yellow flower. It was large and floppy and Lori Ruggles would grab it up in a minute. Me, not so much.
When I wandered back outside, opportunity knocked. Thirty yards away Frank Roitman was coming toward me with a purposeful gait. Since almost all I’d learned about the head of the family was that he preferred to buy companies connected to something he liked, I thought it might be interesting to follow him.
So, keeping one eye on Frank’s progress, I ducked back into the shop, snatched up the hat and its matching tote bag, muttered “Changed my mind,” and hastily paid in US dollars.
“No problem,” I was assured.
Waiting behind a display for Frank to chug on by, I donned the hat and my sunglasses, stuffed the store bag in my tote and held my breath.
Frank happened to be wearing a white, short-sleeved shirt and brown slacks, not the most distinguishable clothes around, so I hustled a bit to keep him in sight. He turned right along a stone path then left to a long aisle of small stores lining the edge of yet another resort. They appeared to be high-end shops, confirmed by the tony tourists meandering along in the shade of the shrubbery. When Frank ducked into a small pink building labeled Lady Luck, I was able to saunter along until I could see into its window. Jewelry. Along with the usual beautiful gems were pieces featuring a pale aqua stone I’d never seen before. As always, I admired the bling and the craftsmanship but personally had no use for it. Marsha Roitman, however, wore the stuff every day. And I mean every day.
Standing at an angle near a tall, bushy hedge I observed Frank conducting a transaction. A good-looking gentleman with confident posture had emerged from behind a one-way mirror, the same sort used in police lineups. He ope
ned the hinged, rectangular box he brought with him, extracted a necklace and handed it to Frank. Frank admired the piece, nodded, and the local gentleman secured the necklace back in the box. Frank then dug some cash out of his wallet and dealt out several bills into the man’s waiting hand. So far, so good.
Except what happened next was not so good. The bills disappeared into the gentleman’s pocket, freeing his right hand to hold a pen and his left to steady his receipt tablet and fold the previous store copies out of the way. When he finished writing, he ripped off the customer’s copy and made like he was handing it over, except before Frank got his thick fingers on it, the guy lifted it out of reach like a fifth grader taunting a classmate with a candy bar.
A short conversation ensued. Frank slipped another bill from his wallet. The man made a “more” gesture. Frank argued, lost, and grudgingly delivered another bill into the greedy shopkeeper’s hand.
The cop in me assumed the receipt had been written for an inflated amount, useful to Frank to impress his wife or as proof of value if the necklace ever got “lost” or stolen. Premeditated insurance fraud, in other words. If something other than that was going on, I couldn’t guess what it was.
I ducked behind the opposite hedge just in time for Roitman to emerge with his slim package and his anger. He paused long enough to wipe his brow with a handkerchief then set off at a purposeful pace toward the road. Which way he might turn was a tossup, so I cut through a small garden, around another business the size of my niece’s bedroom, trotted past a family with three wilted children and just managed to see Frank turn toward the motorcycle men.
“Damn,” I muttered, certain that Harleys were yet another Roitman passion.
No. Banks were. After Frank mopped his brow once more, tucked his handkerchief away, and entered the establishment, I hurried across the street to stand out of sight at the edge of the bank’s dusty plate glass window. Peeking through its bars, I watched as Frank’s stepped over to the one and only desk. Whereupon the guy manning the desk popped up and offered his hand to be shaken. Clearly, the banker’s gesture wasn’t just a surfeit of cordiality, because he covered Frank’s large mitt with his dusky brown fingers and finished the greeting with a warm pat. These guys had done business before.
Trying to look inconspicuous in spite of the huge pink hat, I dug into my tote and came up with a sale flier the clerk had stuffed in there along with my receipt and the plastic store bag I hadn’t yet thrown away. The flier would have to do. I leaned against the green, cement-block wall and fanned myself with the thing. Now and then I hazarded a look around that included the inside of the bank and Frank’s back.
While I’d been busy looking languid, the banker had disappeared.
About four minutes later, my flimsy excuse for being there had worn uncomfortably thin. Glancing at a non-existent watch was out of the question; this was the Dominican Republic. Nobody cared what time it was.
Ah. The banker returned carrying a white envelope. He sat down, removed the contents, and began motions that closely resembled the counting of currency. A not insignificant pile of currency.
Frank appeared to have made a large withdrawal, which meant he had an established account. An oddity to tuck away for further thought.
When the money was back in the envelope, another cordial handshake was performed with a happy nodding of heads. The envelope disappeared somewhere on Frank’s person—a logical guess, because it wasn’t in his hand when he exited the bank. Of course I’d turned my back on the door as soon as he stepped out of my sight behind the cement-block wall. A couple more paces put him outdoors again, but by then I was bent over tying my sneaker with my butt sticking up.
I waited at the curb and crossed over to the beachside of the road soon after Frank did. Then I followed him with my eyes at a greater distance until I was certain he intended to return to the yacht via the beach.
With all that money on me, I would have, too. Every resort along the way had armed guards watching every inch of sand.
Chapter 19
“Since Lori is a bartender,” Marsha told Captain George that evening before dinner. “Why don’t you let her take over for awhile?”
Well played, Marsha, I thought as the breath went out of me. Way to demote me from an unwelcome guest to an employee.
George shot me a glance to check how I felt about the switch, but what choice did I really have?
I ambled into position. Smiled cordially. Asked, “What will you have, George?”
Marsha’s lips parted and her eyes stretched. It was the first unguarded response I’d seen her make; but if she expected George to react to my cheekiness, she was doomed to disappointment. He raised his gnarled hands and bowed back without a word.
“Who wants a tequila sunrise?” I offered the family as one. “Pina colada? Bourbon on the rocks?”
Frank accepted the latter, which provided Marsha with the perfect opening. She eagerly informed the unenlightened among us, sadly just George and me, that Frank had bought a distillery a few years back. “Didn’t you, dear?”
Doing his part, he added, “It was on the rocks, too.”
“Not now, though,” Marsha boasted, stepping on his line.
“No, not now.” Frank’s smile replicated the private satisfaction my father got from a profitable real-estate deal, the sideline he’d adopted when farming failed to cover my medical bills.
“That seems to be a habit of yours,” I remarked, and Frank flinched as if he thought I referred to the bourbon.
“Oh no,” I amended. “I meant investing in your personal preferences—coffee, bourbon, cars…” More specifically car parts, such as anti-lock brakes. Which was probably a sore subject. Maybe I should just shut up.
“For fun,” I hastened to add.
“Oh, yes,” Frank replied without discernible pleasure, “for fun.”
“But only if he thinks he can make a buck,” Gavin contributed, which garnered an unreadable glance from Dad.
Chantal requested a cola with a benign smile. When we’d met on the stairs only minutes before, I’d apologized for upsetting her at lunch. To my surprise and relief, she tilted her head and lowered her brows as if I’d confused her. “I can’t imagine what you’re talking about,” she said, and in a way I guess that was true.
I poured a vodka and tonic for myself then took a seat at the edge of the group.
“Go on, Daddy,” Chantal prompted. “Show Mom what you found today.”
“Well…”
“Go on.”
Roitman extracted the serpentine necklace from his pants pocket and dangled it carelessly between his thick thumb and forefinger. Even in the dim surroundings the diamonds at the tip of each S-shaped link found light to reflect.
“Anybody here lose this?” Frank inquired casually. “I found it on the beach.”
“Oh, Frank,” Marsha scolded. “You’re such a tease.” She collected the necklace the way a pickpocket collects a wallet. “Thank you, dear. What are these light aqua stones? I’ve never seen them before.”
Obviously pleased with himself, Frank explained how larimar is only found in a small area of a mountaintop in the Dominican Republic. “The color will fade with sun or heat, so don’t wear it to the beach,” he cautioned.
“As if I’d wear diamonds to the…” she rapped Franks arm, then grabbed him with her talons and reeled him in for a kiss.
“Dinner’s served,” Anna announced.
Her husband bent down toward me. “I’ll take that,” he said with eye contact as he relieved me of my empty tumbler.
“Thank you, George,” I said.
Marsha did not notice my excess of manners, but Frank did.
To avoid the twilight breeze coming off the water, we dined inside by candlelight.
Later, as the rest of the family dispersed, Gavin crooked a finger my way and stepped out on the aft deck. From the sidewalk below the yacht’s mooring came the light conversation of two couples exiting the restaurant, and deep
er into the marina a few small parties seemed to be in full swing. Water lapping against the hull was a given, and I’d grown to love the sloshing sound and the briny fragrance that permeated the air. Above, thin wisps of cloud slid across an ebbing moon.
Standing in its shadow, Gavin told me, “You look cold. Here.”
Without waiting for an answer, he swung his sweater from his shoulders to mine. It was warm from his body heat and smelled of spice. Giving in to a shiver, I finished wrapping it around my bare arms.
“Thanks,” I said, slightly worried about where this was headed. For me, the only thing right about Gavin Roitman was his age.
He leaned against an angled support of the upper deck. “How are you holding up?” he asked.
I shrugged. “Oh, you know. You win some; you lose some. Mike’s where he belongs—I guess. I’ll be okay—I guess.” Blah blah blah. I could have gone on like that all night, except I’d have had to listen to it, too.
“Come to the club with me. Have some fun. You’ll feel better.”
“Oh, I don’t know…”
“Com’on. Dance a little. Get loaded. I promise I won’t bite unless you want me to.”
“When you put it that way, how can I resist?”
The shadowy contour of his dimple deepened, so sarcasm he got. Good to know. Best not to alienate the unsub (unsubstantiated suspect) until I got what I needed, such as any reason he might have had to kill Toby Stoddard.
I returned the sweater and ducked downstairs to grab the wrap Karen had thoughtfully packed. Then Gavin and I strolled companionably around the perimeter of the restaurant along softly lighted pathways leading throughout the resort. After the big finale of a tropical dance revue—we heard the beat all the way back at the yacht—a steady flow of older tourists shuffled past us on the way to their beds. The few parents carrying sleeping children over their shoulders kept well to the side.
Three bars close to the main lobby each conducted a brisk business in their own style. One seemed festive and bright and appeared to attract young marrieds. The dimmer, larger one located at the edge of the lobby catered to singles, especially the twenty-something crowd. The small, shadowy one lighted only with tiny candles seemed to be the last stop before the boudoir. This I based mainly on the cleavage of the woman on the lap of the man in the corner—and experience. Been there. Done that. Certainly not going there tonight.
Guilt Trip Page 8
