Jake lifted his shoulders. “The place has historical significance. I didn’t say the locals never practice Palarosa, just not the ritual sacrifice.”
She brushed off her hands. “And it’s not a virgin sacrifice, remember? You called it a virgin sacrifice when you charged in here, scaring me half to death.”
He grinned, a wicked light twinkling in his eyes. “I know it’s not a virgin sacrifice, but that’s what I thought of when I saw you standing up there.” He reached forward and traced a fingertip along her jaw. “You aren’t naked either.”
Georgette jumped to her feet, her knees trembling. “I’m not a vir—”
She ground her teeth together and turned away from him. What did she care if he thought she was a virgin? Obviously, his tastes ran in the other direction anyway.
He scuffled to his feet, and she glanced over her shoulder at his frowning face. Did he really think she was a virgin?
“Georgette, you need to go home.” He shoved his hands in the pockets of his shorts. “Wherever your sister is now, it seems as if she left a trail of bad feelings behind her. You’ve been warned twice. I can’t get you on the flight to Miami, but I have a friend who can fly you to Martinique tomorrow and you can take a commercial flight home from there.”
She folded her arms over her baggy T-shirt, no longer happy with its concealing shape. So, he just wanted to send her away? She set her jaw. “I’m not going anywhere until I see my sister.”
He reached out to her. “I don’t think you’re safe here, especially if you insist on traipsing about the island, following strange men to their homes, and dabbling in witchcraft.”
She narrowed her eyes. “How’d you know I was out here anyway? Unless you make a habit of checking on the old ritual spot.”
“I have my sources.” He dropped his hand.
“You mean your spies.”
He shrugged. “They all work for me.”
“Go to hell.” She twirled around and stalked back to the path leading away from the clearing. Why was Jake Kincaid watching her? Maybe he did something to Jamie. Maybe Jamie scorned him for this Jean-Claude, and Jake got his revenge on both of them.
Tears pricked the backs of her eyes. How could she think that and still be so damned attracted to the man?
***
Jake watched Georgette tear down the path, her braid bouncing behind her. His fingers caressed the hard edges of the jewel in his pocket.
Go home, Georgette.
Chapter Six
The following day, Georgette planned part two of her investigation. She needed a little help from her two new friends, but Gunther and Nicole weren’t at their best until the afternoon. And afternoons meant drinks by the pool.
Georgette slipped into her new blue-flowered bikini, wrapped a sarong around her waist, and padded out to the pool deck in a pair of glittering sandals. She pulled a chaise lounge close to the pool’s edge and slathered on the SPF-50.
Her book lay idle in her lap as she scanned the pool for Jake. He hadn’t made an appearance at the restaurant last night, and Georgette had slid into an exhausted sleep after dinner.
He must’ve been teasing when he’d implied that he thought she was a virgin. True, Brice was only her second lover, her first a sweet boy at college who’d returned home to Nebraska when he graduated.
When Brice started hanging around the bookstore, Georgette was thrilled to learn it was because of her, not Jamie. When Dad died of a stroke, Brice was supportive, helping her settle Dad’s affairs, since Dad had appointed Georgette executor of his estate, and assisting her with university business.
Once Jamie got her hands on the life insurance money, she started her world travels, keeping them updated with postcards. And Georgette settled into a life with Brice. They slept together, and it was...pleasant.
When she’d caught Brice with Jamie, what they were doing hadn’t remotely resembled what she and Brice called lovemaking. Jamie had lashed Brice’s wrists to the bedpost, and secured one of his ties snug around his mouth. That was all Georgette had had to see.
Brice explained later that Jamie pressured him into playing a game, but he didn’t enjoy it. Jamie had related a different story.
Georgette chewed her lip. Even if Brice had told her that’s what he wanted in bed, she was pretty sure she couldn’t have delivered. So maybe Jamie had saved her, after all.
Her lips curved into a smile recalling Brice’s eyes, round with surprise above his gag, when she’d burst into the room. She snorted.
Maybe that was why their lovemaking had been so blah, and it had had nothing to do with Georgette. Brice had needs he didn’t feel comfortable communicating to her. Maybe Jamie had saved them both.
Georgette felt anything but blah around Jake. Her nerve endings tingled at his touch. When she’d landed on top of him yesterday, she’d almost swooned against his chest. Her fingertips had itched to explore every inch of his solid body, lingering in all the right places.
The chair next to hers scraped, and she jumped. Gunther, a newspaper tucked under one arm and a drink in hand, gestured to the chair. “Mind if I join you?”
“No. Have a seat. Where’s Nicole?”
He settled his portly frame in the chair. “She had a treatment this morning. She’ll be along soon.” He shoved his sunglasses to the end of his nose. “That’s a pretty sarong. Did you buy it here?”
Georgette glanced down at the blue and green strip of cloth tied around her waist. “No.” she lied. “Someone bought it for me on another island.”
He clicked his tongue. “You’ll never get a tan all wrapped up, though.”
Georgette didn’t consider a sarong and a bikini top all wrapped up. She pointed to his newspaper. “What’s happening in the world?”
“Same old, same old.” He grimaced. “Big drug bust in Miami. The DEA took in a haul.”
“Is there a drug problem on Palumba?”
“No more so than anywhere else.” Gunther shook open his paper.
Nicole clipped across the tile in high heels and a beach cover-up thrown over her black and gold bikini. “We missed you at the pool last night, darling. You weren’t having a private chitchat with Jake again, were you?”
Were she and Jake becoming an item of gossip? The resort was like a small town—no better than Grand Forks, just warmer...and less clothing.
“I caught up on my sleep.” She drew in a deep breath. “There seems to be a lot of talk about the full moon.”
Nicole stretched out in her lounge chair. “Well, there would be. It’s the last month for sacrifice. If another young woman disappears, Jake’s going to blow a fuse.”
“Nothing has been heard from that first woman?” Georgette stirred her iced tea.
Nicole blew on her fingernails and shook her hands. “No. But I told you her lover left with her.”
“What was her name?” Georgette asked.
Nicole put her hand on Gunther’s arm. “What was her name, Gunther?”
“Huh?” He looked up from his paper.
“The missing local woman.”
He shrugged and turned the page.
Nicole snapped her fingers. “Hallie LaCroix. Her husband is a plumber. Does a lot of work at the resort. Or at least he used to. Fiso LaCroix.”
Feigning indifference, Georgette shielded her eyes. “Where is that waitress? I asked for lemonade, not iced tea.”
Georgette half listened as Nicole gushed about the facials and mud wraps at the resort’s spa. Then she gathered her belongings and shoved her feet into her flip-flops. “I’m feeling a little crispy. Maybe I’ll cover up and take a walk.”
Georgette rushed back to her room, showered, and changed into a sundress. Jaco. He’d helped her before, and maybe he’d help her again.
She wandered down to the shopping quad, but steered clear of the bookstore. That clerk must have alerted Jake about her interest in Palarosa. She plopped down on a bench in the shade with her book open and watched for Jaco.
&n
bsp; After almost an hour, Jaco’s hunched figure shuffled into the quad. Georgette walked behind him, squeezed his arm once, and then continued toward the sandy path without looking back.
She waited near a clump of bushes and let out a breath when Jaco picked his way down the path. She jogged up to meet him and took his arm. “Thank you for coming. I have a question for you.”
He nodded his grizzled head.
“Where can I find Fiso LaCroix?”
He nodded again, showing no surprise at her question. “Fiso lives across the street from the Costa Azul. There are several houses along the banks of the river, across the bridge. His is the second house past the bridge, with a white fence around it.”
She thanked him and then made her way back through the resort to the beach, which was the fastest route to the strip of hotels.
Her breath quickened as she passed the spot of her second attack, with the location of her first attack looming ahead. The tourists trudged up to the point to watch the acrobatic divers, but Georgette swerved inland toward the Costa Azul. She breezed through the lobby and landed in front of the hotel.
A paved road curved in front of the Costa Azul, connecting all the hotels on this strip. A few tourist shops sat across the street, and a small road crept past the shops, leading into the interior of the island.
Georgette tramped down this road, which followed the river, slapping at the mosquitoes buzzing around her face and zooming in for a nibble now and then. A wooden bridge arched over the river, and a cluster of small houses hugged the riverbank on the other side.
The gate on the weather-beaten white fence gaped open, and Georgette walked through and latched it closed behind her. A few mangy chickens pecked in the yard, and a lazy dog opened an eye and thumped his yellow tail once.
A TV blared from inside the house, and Georgette tapped on the sagging screen door. No answer. She tried again, calling out, “Hello?”
A man staggered to the screen door, his dark hair sticking up in all directions. He’d either just woken up, or he was high on something.
“Are you Fiso LaCroix?” Georgette clutched the strap of her bag.
He pushed open the screen door and stepped onto the porch. “Who are you?”
Georgette gulped. This had seemed easier when she’d practiced in her hotel room. She stuck out her hand. “I’m Georgette Lawson.”
He ignored her outstretched hand, scratched his stubble, and studied her with black, dilated pupils. “What do you want?”
Georgette straightened her shoulders and gathered a breath. “My sister, Jamie Lawson, disappeared from the island last month. I heard your wife disappeared the month before.”
Fiso swayed and lodged against the doorjamb. He hissed, “Palarosa.”
A cold shot of fear zinged up her spine. He really believed it. “Do you think your wife and my sister were sacrificed to the Palarosa gods?”
He closed his eyes and nodded. “Whores, both of them.”
Georgette crossed her arms over her low-cut sundress. “But what about your wife’s lov—”
Fiso opened his eyes and glared at her.
“—the other man?” she finished.
He smiled for the first time, a gold front tooth gleaming in the afternoon sun. He leaned toward her. “He left. I told him I’d kill him if he didn’t.”
Georgette stepped back from the strong smell of garlic on the man’s breath, the familiar scent giving her pause. “And my sister?”
Fiso lifted a shoulder and turned back toward his house. Pulling the screen door open, he glanced back at her. “Maybe you’ll be next.”
The screen door slammed, and Georgette stumbled off the porch. No wonder his wife had left him for another man. The chickens flapped around her ankles as she scurried through the yard, birdseed crunching beneath her sandals.
Back over the bridge, Georgette meandered along the riverbank. Loud, adult voices punctuated the air, and Georgette spun around. A couple of children ran shrieking over the bridge, but she didn’t see any adults.
The bushes swayed and rustled, spitting out a man in light khakis and a white shirt. He brushed off his slacks and picked his way along the path. He looked up, his steps slowing.
Georgette waited for the constable to draw up beside her.
He waved. “Hello. What brings you to this part of the island?”
Jake didn’t trust this man. Should she? She hitched her bag up on her shoulder. “Just exploring the river.”
He wagged a bony finger at her. “The river means mosquitoes. You don’t want to get eaten alive.”
She shrugged. “It’s not so bad. Did you hear yelling before?”
His smile stiffened. “A couple of children were playing with matches, and I reprimanded them.”
Those had been adult voices she’d heard. “So, there’s not much crime on the island?”
He started walking toward the road, and she followed. “I’m lucky. The island is peaceful—a few domestic disputes, disturbing the peace, a couple of tourists getting their wallets lifted. No more attacks on you, I trust?”
“No.”
He waved his arm toward the river. “You do seem to wander off the beaten path, Miss...Lawrence, is it?”
She nodded. “I suppose so.” Gesturing to a green and yellow van with a palm tree logo, she asked, “Do those shuttles go into town?”
He smiled broadly. “They do, and if you haven’t had a look around, I highly recommend it. Many new restaurants and shops carrying island souvenirs.”
“Sounds like a good idea.”
They reached the hotel drive, and Georgette hailed one of the vans, already filled with tourists. After she boarded and the van lurched away from the hotel, she noticed that Clive stood on the road, staring after it.
What was he doing in the bushes arguing with someone? And why had he lied about it? Her visit to Fiso LaCroix complicated matters even more. Fiso really believed his wife had been sacrificed in a Palarosa ritual.
And Jamie? Absurd. Modern-day tourists did not get sacrificed in ancient rituals.
Jamie would love this. When she came strolling back into the resort with Jean-Claude—or some other man—on her arm, she’d delight in all the attention her disappearance had caused. Maybe knowing about Hallie LaCroix, Jamie had done it on purpose. That would be in character.
The van’s brakes squealed as it pulled up in front of a gurgling fountain. Everyone clambered out. Whitewashed buildings gleamed at the edges of the square, their blue and red tile roofs rising to peaks. Graceful columns molded into arches over the cobblestone streets. A fruit stall at one corner of the square scented the air with its sweet wares.
Georgette edged along the sidewalk, window-shopping. Alleys off the main square dropped down a few steps and crisscrossed. She peered down one of the alleys. More shops, smaller and less glittering than the ones facing the square.
She took two steps down and continued her window-shopping among the smaller stores. Many of these shops displayed carved wooden Palarosa gods, grinning or scowling, depending on their purpose. The phallic god seemed to be a favorite, his penis proudly erect.
Georgette wended her way through the maze of little streets, the noise from the square receding with each step she took. She stopped in front of a small, dark store, its display window crowded with Palarosa icons, but these were not shining tourist tokens manufactured somewhere else. The dark wood on many of them was chipped and scarred—the grins more maniacal, the scowls more threatening. She laughed at her whimsy, a hollow sound in the vacant street.
She peered through the window at the empty shop and then pushed open the door. A little bell tinkled her arrival. The cool darkness enveloped her, and a heavy musky odor swirled in the air, clinging to her hair.
The beaded curtain behind the counter clicked, and a tall woman in a colorful turban stepped through. “Can I help you find something? A love potion? A spell to ward off evil?”
The hair on the back of Georgette’s neck prickled
. Did she look like she needed either? Both? “Actually, I’m just interested in Palarosa.”
The woman folded her hands on the countertop. “Many tourists are, but some residents prefer to hide the ancient lore from you.”
“Why?”
The woman waved her hands toward the window. “Perhaps they fear it will interfere with the shiny tourist trap that is Palumba.”
“A-are you a runda?”
The woman flashed beautiful white teeth. “You already know something of Palarosa. Yes, I’m a practicing runda.”
Georgette approached the counter and looked the woman in the eye. “Is the Palarosa sacrifice still performed?”
The woman drew a breath in between her white teeth. “Are you referring to Hallie LaCroix and that unfortunate tourist?”
Georgette nodded, holding her breath.
The woman straightened several items on the countertop, her long fingers stroking each piece. “The Palarosa sacrifice is illegal. The law considers it murder. Of course, it is no longer performed.”
Georgette exhaled. “What do you think happened to Hallie and...that other woman?”
The runda lifted a shoulder. “Ran off with their lovers, both of them. If you’re asking questions like this all over the island, you’ll need protection.”
She withdrew a leather sack from beneath the counter and stuffed several items inside. She pressed the bag into Georgette’s hand. “Chew the clove of garlic. Rub the feathers over your body. Draw a line across your threshold with the charcoal. Be safe.”
The woman turned and swept the beaded curtain aside, disappearing into the back. Georgette’s mouth gaped open. She could believe the entire scene was a dream except for the beaded curtain swaying back and forth and the bag in her hand.
Stuffing the leather sack into her purse, she exited the store. As she walked outside, she glanced at the floor. A black streak marked the wood.
***
His business in town finished, Jake grabbed a ringside seat on the patio of the Town Square Café, soaking in the noise of ringing cash registers. Ah, the sweet sound of success. Nothing his father had developed rivaled Palumba Falls. His jaw hardened. And he wasn’t going to let Palarosa hysteria destroy it.
Last Ticket to Paradise Page 7
