“Which proves he knows a good steak when he eats one,” Mitchell replied, but he noticed that the big dog seemed content to walk close by her side, rather than trying to test the length of his makeshift tether, and he thought it surprising that a wild stray would come so willingly to her heel. Evidently, he decided wryly, Kate Donovan had that same effect on male “strays,” whether they were canine or human. “Let’s hope he’s just as docile about getting into a car and riding on a boat,” he added.
Mitchell had already put the convertible top up so the dog couldn’t jump out of the car, but no amount of urging or shoving from Kate could get the animal to climb into it. After tossing her suitcase into the trunk, Mitchell went around to the passenger side of the car to help Kate, and ended up standing back, enjoying the view instead. She was bending over the dog, trying to plant his front feet onto the floor of the backseat, and for the first time, Mitchell realized that, from the rear, Kate Donovan looked adorable in snug jeans. “If you get in first,” he suggested finally, “Max may be willing to follow you.” The ploy worked, and Mitchell closed the passenger door behind the dog; then he walked around the car and opened the driver’s door so Kate could climb out of the backseat and get into the front.
In the parking lot on the other side of the driveway, Detective Childress watched Wyatt’s vehicle pulling away from the curb and glanced at his watch. Reaching for the surveillance notebook lying on the seat of the little white rental car, Childress jotted down the exact time of Wyatt’s departure while Detective MacNeil emerged from the hotel lobby and jogged across the driveway. “Did you find out who the redhead is?” Childress asked, shoving the car into gear the instant MacNeil’s door closed.
“Not yet. The doorman gave me the same answer I got last night from the manager and the other doorman—that it’s against hotel policy to divulge the names of hotel guests to anyone.”
Wyatt’s convertible was already making a right turn onto the main road, and Childress accelerated sharply. “Did you slip the doorman five bucks before you asked?”
MacNeil snickered. “I slipped him ten bucks, not five, and that’s the answer I bought. However, the assistant manager, Mr. Orly, is in charge today, and Orly looks very flustered. While I was in the lobby, a couple named ‘Wainwright’ checked in, and Orly couldn’t find their reservations. After he got that ironed out, he sent for a bellman to show them to their villa and referred to them as ‘Mr. and Mrs. Rainright.’ I didn’t ask Orly about the redhead while I was in there because he wouldn’t have told me, but maybe ‘Mr. Wainwright’ can get it out of him.”
As he spoke, MacNeil pulled his cell phone out of his shirt pocket and called the Island Club. “I’d like to speak to Mr. Orly,” he told the hotel operator.
After a significant delay, Orly answered MacNeil’s call, sounding so harassed that his sentences ran together. “This is Mr. Orly I’m sorry to have kept you waiting How may I be of service?”
“This is Philip Wainwright,” MacNeil lied, trying to sound authoritative and, at the same time, willing to overlook Orly’s earlier screwups during the check-in procedure if he cooperated now. “When my wife and I were on our way to breakfast, we met a young woman who remembered us from when we were here before. My wife and I both recall spending an enjoyable evening with her last spring, and we’d like to invite her to have cocktails on the beach with us later, but we cannot—for the life of us—recall her name. She has red hair and she mentioned she’s staying in villa number six. What the devil is her name, anyway?”
“I’m very sorry, Mr. Wainwright, but it’s strictly against hotel policy to reveal the identity of a guest to anyone.”
“I am not just ‘anyone,’ I’m another guest!” MacNeil exclaimed indignantly.
“The hotel’s policy applies to other guests, as well as to outsiders.”
“Let me speak to Maurice,” MacNeil demanded, knowing the manager was absent. “I’ve known him for years, and he won’t hesitate to tell me who she is!”
The assistant manager hesitated. “Maurice is away … however, if you’re certain he wouldn’t hesitate to tell you …”
MacNeil smiled to himself as he heard the sound of pages being flipped back and forth, but Orly’s next words were frustrating, rather than informative. “Villa number six is registered to a gentleman, and there is no indication of the lady’s name. I’m sorry, but I have another phone call—”
“What’s the gentleman’s name in villa six?” MacNeil said quickly. “That might jog our memory.”
“His name is Bartlett, and I don’t mean to be rude, but I really must answer another call now.”
“Well?” Childress asked expectantly.
MacNeil turned off his cell phone and slipped it back into his pocket. “Villa number six is registered to a gentleman named ‘Bartlett,’” MacNeil replied, repeating Orly’s words. “There is no indication of the lady’s name.”
Traffic on the island moved at a lazy pace, and the black convertible was mired in it, less than a quarter mile ahead. “I’ll bet you Wyatt is heading for Blowing Point,” Childress predicted, referring to the wharf where ferries and charter boats picked up passengers and returned them to the island. A minute later, the black convertible’s right turn signal began to flash. “Shit, I was right—Wyatt is heading for Blowing Point and we’re in for another damned boat ride. I’m already getting nauseated.”
“Take a pill.”
“I can’t take them, they make me groggy.”
“Then you should have taken one last night, instead of hanging over the edge of the boat, barfing your brains out.”
“When you report in to the state’s attorney today, you tell Elliott that if I have to sleep on a boat tonight because the yacht Wyatt is on is out in the middle of a harbor, then we need a bigger boat—one that doesn’t bob like a cork every time there’s a ripple in the water. I don’t mind being seasick for half an hour when we chase him from island to island, but I can’t do my job when I’ve been up all damned night blowing chunks.”
That last remark doused most of MacNeil’s amusement, because Childress was truly superb at vehicular surveillance. Behind a steering wheel, Childress could maneuver through any kind of traffic, darting and ducking in and out of it, without attracting any notice. He also had an almost uncanny knack of knowing when he needed to close the distance between Wyatt’s vehicle in order to see where Wyatt was about to go, and when it was safe to drop far back and stay completely out of Wyatt’s rearview mirror.
Because of that, Childress did most of the driving on land, while MacNeil handled piloting their boat. As a precaution, they rented different cars and different boats each day, but MacNeil was far more confident of Childress’s ability to handle his job than he was of his own ability to pilot a boat larger than the twenty-four-foot outboard fishing craft they were using today.
“How big is the boat Wyatt is using today?” Childress asked as he flipped on his right turn indicator.
“I don’t know—thirty-six feet, maybe thirty-eight feet.”
“If I have to sleep on a boat again, I want one that size.” He waited until Mac finally looked directly at him and said, “I’m not kidding, Mac.”
MacNeil opened his mouth to make a joke but bit it back. Beads of sweat were already popping out on Childress’s forehead at the mere anticipation of another boat ride, and beneath his newly acquired tan, Childress’s skin was turning a grayish-green. Rather than admit that he didn’t think he could handle a larger boat, MacNeil said, “Wyatt left his luggage at the hotel in St. Maarten this morning. I don’t think he plans to sleep on Benedict’s yacht tonight.”
Chapter Fourteen
THE WHARF AT BLOWING POINT WAS BUSTLING WITH activity. Two catamarans flying brightly colored flags and loaded with tourists were pulling away from the dock, and more tourists were lined up to board the regular ferry that ran back and forth between Anguilla and St. Maarten at half-hour intervals.
Mitchell found a parking space near
the far end of the wharf where the boat he had chartered was tied up, its captain standing on the bow, smoking a cigarette. “I hope Max is as willing to follow you onto a boat as he was to follow you into a car,” he said, opening Kate’s door and helping her out. Leaning into the backseat, he picked up the end of the dog’s makeshift leash. “He’s shaking all over.”
“He’s nervous,” Kate said sympathetically. Patting the side of her leg, she called, “Come here, Max, let’s—”
The big dog erupted from the backseat in a frenzied leap that nearly knocked her over. Laughing, she staggered backward, recovered her balance, and reached for his leash.
“Let me hold on to that until we get him on the boat,” Mitchell said. Wrapping the end of the necktie-leash around his hand for better control, he tightened his grip; but he needn’t have worried, because once the dog’s feet were firmly on the ground, Max sidled up next to Kate and trotted happily beside her. “Have you always been able to tame wild beasts, or is Max an exception?” Mitchell asked half seriously.
“Max isn’t completely wild,” Kate said, scratching Max behind his ears. “He may have been running loose his whole life, but he likes humans, which means that he was around someone who played with him and handled him when he was a little puppy. If that weren’t true—if he hadn’t been ‘socialized’ back then—he wouldn’t want anything to do with us now.” She shot Mitchell an apologetic look and explained, “My best friend and former roommate is a vet.”
They reached Mitchell’s chartered boat, and Kate’s attention turned to the task of getting Max aboard. “Let me get on first,” she said. Taking the captain’s outstretched hand, she stepped off the dock into the boat’s stern; then she turned and patted the side of her leg as she had before. “Come on, Max,” she called.
Max backed up, body trembling with fright, but just as Kate decided they would have to lift him aboard, he gave a giant leap forward and landed against her legs, knocking her into the captain, who grabbed her arms to steady her.
“So far, this has been easier than I expected,” Mitchell remarked, stepping down into the boat.
“Easier on you, not me,” Kate laughed, dusting dog hair off her jeans.
Mitchell chuckled at her quip and walked over to the railing to stand beside her, trapping the dog between them. The captain started the engine and Mitchell angled sideways, idly watching her long ponytail shifting in the breeze as the pier slid away and the boat picked up speed.
“Why are you staring at me?” she asked.
Mitchell was staring at her because she had the greenest eyes, the smoothest skin, and the most beautiful mouth of any woman he’d ever known. And, if her tender devotion to a stray mongrel was any indication, she also had the softest heart. He was thoroughly enchanted with all her attributes except the last one. For some reason, that one made him feel vaguely, inexplicably uneasy. “I was thinking that you have a beautiful smile,” he replied, then he turned toward the railing and leaned his forearms on it, watching the boat’s churning wake spread into a wide V.
The unexpected compliment filled Kate with pleasure, but since he hadn’t sounded entirely pleased—or convincing—when he answered her question, she decided not to reply.
Ten minutes later, as they neared St. Maarten, the captain finally broke the silence. “Are either of you folks fans of Zack Benedict, the movie actor?” he called.
When Mitchell said nothing, Kate looked over her shoulder at the captain. “I’m a huge fan of his.”
“That’s Benedict’s boat over there,” the captain told her, pointing off to the left at a gleaming white motor yacht riding at anchor inside the harbor. “It’s called the Julie.”
“Then it’s named after his wife,” Kate explained to Mitchell as she admired the graceful lines of her favorite movie star’s boat.
“Some tourists told me they saw Benedict aboard this morning, reading a newspaper,” the captain provided. “Do you want me to take you over there? I can get you in real close, and you could get a look at him if he’s on deck.”
“No,” Mitchell said emphatically at the same time Kate said politely, “No thank you.”
Startled by his forceful reply, Kate looked curiously at him. “You aren’t a Zack Benedict fan?”
His brow furrowed and an inexplicable smile edged his mouth while he appeared to give her question grave consideration. “I can’t, in good conscience, describe myself to you as Zack Benedict’s fan,” he said finally. “However,” he added, “I’d be interested in hearing why you’re such a ‘huge fan’ of his.”
Kate thought he was being condescending, but she refused to back down from her statement. “I admire him even more as a person than as a movie star,” she explained very firmly. “Men thought he was ultramacho when he escaped from prison a few years ago and took Julie Mathison hostage, but women all over the world fell madly in love with him when he forgave her for leading him into a trap and getting him recaptured. When he went back to the small town she lived in and asked her to marry him, half the women in America were in tears when they saw the newsclips of how he did it.”
“Were you in tears?” Mitchell asked, turning fully toward her.
“Of course.”
“You sound like a hopeless romantic.”
“I probably am,” she admitted.
“She betrayed him,” Mitchell reminded her. “If the real murderer hadn’t been found, Zack Benedict would still be rotting in prison because he trusted her when he escaped and she betrayed him.”
“You aren’t very forgiving, are you?”
“Let’s just say I’m not a romantic.”
Although he sounded very sure of that, as Kate looked at his handsome face, she considered some of his actions the night before and arrived at her own conclusion. Smiling a little, she turned away from him and gazed at Zack Benedict’s yacht instead.
“What was that all about?” he asked with amused curiosity.
“I was deciding for myself whether you’re a romantic.”
“What did you decide?”
“I think you are.”
“And you think you can tell things about me by looking into my eyes?”
Kate nodded in the affirmative, but her answer was a little shaky. “I really, really hope so.”
Mitchell suppressed a grin at her uneasy tone and toyed with the idea of surprising her tomorrow by taking her aboard Zack’s boat and explaining that he knew both Zack and Julie well, and that he liked Julie. At the moment, however, he wasn’t inclined to say anything that would lead to a prolonged discussion of her favorite romantic hero, and he didn’t want to commit himself to any plan other than going to bed with her.
Chapter Fifteen
“THE VET’S OFFICE IS A FEW BLOCKS FROM HERE,” Mitchell said as he helped her off the boat at Captain Hodges Wharf in Philipsburg, a bustling, picturesque little town on the Dutch side of St. Maarten. “We could walk there easily, but with your suitcase and the dog, we’ll be better off with a taxi.”
“You’re probably right—” Kate began, but her cell phone rang and she paused to take it out of her purse and look at the caller’s name. “I need to take this phone call. I left a message for a business associate to call me at this number.”
“I’ll take the dog and your suitcase and find a taxi,” Mitchell said, already walking toward the street.
Kate put the phone to her ear and covered her other ear with her hand, but there was so much background noise from street traffic and boat motors that she finally took the phone away from her ear and turned the volume all the way up. “I couldn’t hear you before, Louis, but I can hear you now. Did anything happen yesterday that I should know about?”
Following slowly behind Mitchell, Kate listened to Louis Kellard go over one day’s events at the restaurant: The vegetable supplier had delivered only half their order, and the featured evening entrée had to be changed partway through the night; the bartender had refused to serve any more liquor to an inebriated customer who m
ade a scene and had to be escorted out; this morning his attorney had called, threatening to sue the restaurant for causing embarrassment to his client; the wine cellar needed to be replenished before Kate returned …
Kate slid into the backseat of the taxi and Max jumped in behind her, so she scooted to the middle of the seat while she gave instructions to Louis: “If the attorney calls back, do not say anything to him, just refer him to our attorney. Which bartender was involved?” When Louis told her it was Jimmy, she said, “Tell Jimmy to exercise more tact from now on. My father told me Jimmy was becoming a prima donna, and he was thinking of letting him go. Did you talk to our vegetable supplier and find out why we got only half our order?”
While the taxi made its slow way along Front Street, which was lined with shops and crowded with tourists, Kate listened to the rest of Louis’s litany of problems, and she did her best to help solve them, but most of the time she could only answer Louis’s questions with a question of her own: “What would my father have done?”
By the time Louis was finished, Kate felt panicked and helpless. “Call me back this morning, as soon as you find out what happened to our vegetable order and why our linen inventory is suddenly so low,” she reminded him before he hung up. She ended the call and slipped the cell phone into her purse; then she glanced at Mitchell and found him watching her, his dark brows drawn together in puzzlement. “I imagine you’re wondering about that phone call,” she said.
“I couldn’t help overhearing it. I was under the impression that you’re a social worker and that your father owned a restaurant. Just now, it sounded as if you’re running it for him.”
Kate drew a shaky breath but managed to keep her voice steady. “My father is dead. He was killed on his way home from the restaurant three weeks ago. It was late at night, and the police think it was a random, drive-by shooting, because there had been another one in the same neighborhood a few days before.”
“And you’re going to try to run the restaurant in his place, is that it?”