Vacation Therapy (29 page)

Supper consisted of mashed potatoes and hard rolls, again, along with some other inedible things. Obviously, the recipe book didn't get blown away with the hurricane.

The tea dance was over, and soft Caribbean music played for the dining crowd. Sergio and I waited for Tom and Logan, but neither appeared for supper, so we ate alone.

As the resort guests ate and drank, Mike circled through the dining room. He spoke with a few of them, checking for any concerns. I doubted he'd come by our table and ask us if we had any complaints. With our list, he would never leave. Once he had exhausted his options, and our table was the only one left, he walked over and asked, “Mind if I join you?"

Sergio motioned to an empty seat. “Be our guest."

Cradling a hot cup of tea in my hands, I nodded in agreement.

Mike pulled the chair out and sat down next to me. Leaning in, he said in a hushed tone, “Thanks for all the help out there.” He motioned with his head and then sat back in his chair and closed his eyes.

I looked over at Sergio, who shrugged his shoulders. I opened my mouth to say something, but couldn't think of how to begin.

Seeing my hesitation, Sergio pulled his chair closer to the table and asked. “So, what did you find out? You know...about John?"

Mike's eyes shot open and darted around the room. After seeing no one was paying any attention to us, he started. “It appears that John had been drinking too much. He must've had the garbage bag over his head and stumbled on his way to his room. With all the booze in his system, he passed out and suffocated."

"But why would he put a bag over his head?” Sergio asked.

"He was pretty vain. All models are. I suppose he was trying to keep his hair dry,” Mike answered. “I doubt anyone thought to bring an umbrella on vacation. Who would have known that we would've needed one?"

"But that's silly, John wasn't afraid of getting wet,” Sergio argued.

Mike folded his arms across his chest, but he didn't look convinced.

"His picture,” Sergio retorted.

"What picture?” Mike unfolded his arm, sat forward, and narrowed his eyes on Sergio.

"The one on the Club Fred towel. He's soaking wet there.” Sergio shook his head as if to say, “Duh."

Mike's face relaxed a little. “Oh that. I'm sure he got paid very well for that photo, don't you?” He pointed to his chest. “I wouldn't mind getting wet for what he was paid for that photo, not even in this weather.” He motioned out the window with his head.

The night was black, and the steady downpour continued to beat against the glass.

Sergio shook his head. “John may have been vain, but I'm sure he was smart enough to know better than to put a plastic bag over his head. They teach that in grade school, and most bags have it written them. Well, maybe he wanted to keep the rain off, but he was strong enough to rip the bag."

"See. That shows you how dumb people can be,” Mike countered. “If they have to write it on every bag, it must be a concern."

Mike didn't understand what Sergio was saying and probably never would. So I tried something different. “What about the scratches on John's legs?"

Confusion clouded Mike's face, but he answered quickly. “There weren't any scratches on his legs."

This time it was our turn to react. Both Sergio's and my eyebrows shot up.

"Whoa! Wait a minute.” Mike held up his hands in surrender. “What I mean is, that I didn't notice any scratches, not that there weren't any there."

Sergio turned to me. “What kind of scratches were they? Did they look like claws? Did someone or something grab onto his leg? Or was it road rash from the sidewalk?"

"I'm sure when he fell...” Mike started.

Why was Mike trying to explain these scratches? He never saw them. What had he seen? Instead I said, “It appeared to me that he scratched himself with his own hands."

"He scratched himself?” Sergio screwed up his face. “Like in an allergic reaction? Could he have been exposed to poison ivy? Or was it alcohol poisoning? But would that have caused him to scratch himself to death?"

"I have allergies, and I've had some nasty reactions, but I've never scratched myself that bad.” I shook my head.

Mike pushed his chair away from the table. “I should go mingle a little more, and see if anyone needs anything. This weather isn't what the guests have paid for, so I need to do some damage control.” He stood up, bowed to us, and fell into his scripted Club Fred dialogue. He raised his voice so those nearby could hear. “Let me know if I can do anything else for you two, to make your stay better,” and with that, he was gone.

We watched him leave, but he didn't speak to any more guests along his way. He walked through the dining room and out into the night.

"So, what do you make of that? Was he a little defensive or what?” Sergio asked.

"He wouldn't admit anything about those scratches, and then he even tried to make up excuses for them."

"What do you really think?” Sergio pressed.

I took a deep breath. “If I had to make a guess, I think someone snuck up behind John, pulled the plastic bag over his head, and suffocated him."

"But wouldn't there have been marks around his neck?"

"There would be if they grabbed him around the neck. But don't you remember about those scratches? They were down on his legs, not at his throat. When we ripped the garbage bag off of him, his arms were down at his sides. He didn't try to get the bag off his head, or couldn't, so he dug into his legs."

"Isn't that strange?” Sergio asked.

"I bet when the bag was pulled down, John's arms were held down by his sides, so he couldn't take it off or rip the plastic bag open."

"That's where the scratches came from.” Understanding glowed in Sergio's eyes.

"Exactly. John tried to get the bag off of him, but as he struggled, his hands were only able to dig into his legs."

"John was pretty strong and healthy.” Sergio's doubt shaded his voice.

"But he'd had a lot to drink. You even commented on how much, and when I did CPR, there wasn't any doubt. Besides, he wasn't expecting to be attacked."

"So anyone could've been strong enough to do that? Tom? Logan?"

"Anyone could have. With the element of surprise and with all of that alcohol, I don't think they would've needed a lot of strength. All they would have had to do was knock him down, lay on him, and hold him on the ground with the bag over his head. It wouldn't have taken long."

"You don't mean...” he began.

I nodded. “John left ten minutes before we did."

"We just missed the killer?” Sergio swallowed hard.

"Not us, you. When you ran ahead and tripped over John, the killer could have still been close by. He could've been hiding in the bushes or around the side of the building."

Sergio's face paled, looking around the room. “If you hadn't been behind me..."

"Let's not think about that.” I followed his gaze as we wondered who was turning Club Fred into Club Dead.

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Sergio and I sat in silence. I never thought he could be quiet for that long. With my track record, those around me hadn't been faring very well; I double-checked to see if he was still breathing.

He was and his eyes darted from person to person in the dining area. I read the question in his eyes: Which one of these guests was capable of murder?

I wondered the same thing. My eyes followed his gaze around the room. Who was paying more attention to us than they should? Was there anyone here we could trust? In this room, at this whole resort? Looking back at Sergio, I wondered. Could I trust him?

Men strutted around the tables, cruising each other, but they seemed to be avoiding our table. I laughed to myself. Had our reputation spread throughout the resort already?

"What's so funny?” Sergio asked, his attention returning to me.

"Did you notice how many guys are checking each other out, but they're all giving us a wide berth?"

"Disappointed?” Sergio cocked his head and looked over at the next table. The two men quickly avoided his stare. “I see what you mean,” he said and then started to smirk. “Maybe we should make a lunge at someone and see if we could clear this place out.” He made his hands into claws and snarled at me.

We both burst into laughter, enjoying the relaxed moment, but it didn't last long. Just as we settled down, a guy clad in a black plastic bag with only his head and arms sticking out entered the dining room in a flurry. His hair slicked back against his scalp as water dripped down his face. He shook himself like a Labrador emerging from a lake. He looked familiar, but I couldn't place him.

Sergio noticed the man and my gaze. “Do you know him too? You seem to know everyone at this resort. Are you sure you haven't been here before?” He turned to face me. “You sure get around for a straight boy. Are you sure you're not gay?” His head rotated to inspect the new arrival. “He's not too bad looking, if you like them that...intense."

From across the room, the man's eyes found me and I felt them lock on. He ripped the bag from his body and tossed it to the floor.

"He's coming our way.” Sergio leaned forward. “Who is he?"

I shrugged my shoulders and racked my memory, trying to figure out who he was, but nothing would come. Maybe all of the rain was drowning my mind.

The man scowled as he crossed the room. His lips curled back into a sneer, and I flashed on a memory of him on the beach. That face was yelling, yelling at...Tom. Then the name popped into my mind, Sean. Tom's agent, and his mood hadn't improved from our first meeting. “That's..."

Sergio gave me a questioning look as we watched him slither between the tables.

Before I could finish, Sean was within hearing distance.

His footsteps pounded across the tiled floor. Then clicked to a stop at our table. “So where is he?” Sean spat at me.

"Nice to see you again too,” I replied, evenly. My humor was wasted on him.

"I don't have time for pleasantries. I need to know where Tom is, and I need to know, now.” He stamped his right foot to punctuate his point.

"He...” Sergio began, but I cut him off with a look.

I took over. “We don't know."

Sean glared at me and turned his eyes to bore into Sergio.

Sergio tossed his head to the side. “I have him tied up right now, and once he submits..."

"Enough.” Sean slammed his fist down on our table and made us jump. “Good. Now that I have your attention, we'll begin again. Where is Tom?” A vein pulsated in his temple, threatening to explode.

I shook my head. “I haven't seen him since the hurricane hit. We were waiting for him at supper, but he didn't show."

"The phones don't work around here. He won't answer his door. The maids are nowhere to be found, so I can't get into his room,” Sean complained.

"What do you need him for?” I asked.

Sean's mouth pinched closed.

I glared back at him. He thought he was intimidating me. I couldn't tell him something I didn't know, no matter how much he yelled. “I don't owe you anything,” I began, “besides, I don't particularly like you."

Sean pointed his index finger at me. “If you see him, you tell him that I need to talk to him, A-S-A-P.” He frowned at Sergio. “And that goes for you too.” He curled his lip like a demonic Elvis and turned on his heel and stalked off.

"We'll hurry right out into the storm and find him for you,” Sergio stood and called after him.

Sean stopped, his body visibly tensed. He clenched his hands, and then raced off into the stormy night.

I saluted his departing form.

"You sure have interesting friends.” Sergio smiled at me as he sat down. “After that encounter, I could use a beer. Do you want one?"

"Sure, why not? The way this day has been going...” I pushed my chair back and stood.

Sergio held his hands up to stop me. “I'll get it, and it's my treat."

"I thought the drinks were included in the price."

"They are. That's why it's my treat."

As Sergio set our bottles down, Tom stuck his head through the swinging doors of the kitchen. He scanned the room and slowly eased through. Approaching our table, he asked, “What have you guys been doing? Anything fun?” He forced a nervous smile.

"You wouldn't believe us if we told you,” Sergio said.

"You owe us big time,” I said. “For running interference with your good buddy, Sean."

Tom's brow creased, but he said nothing.

"Aren't you going to ask what he wanted?” Sergio probed.

"No. I think I know,” he said, with a flat tone.

"Would you mind telling us?” I said. “After all, we covered for you."

Tom took a deep breath and exhaled. “All right. I'll admit it. I've been hiding from him all week. So far, I've been lucky, but he's persistent.” He paused for a moment, and finally he said, “Sean's been trying to get me to sign a new contract."

"Isn't that a good thing?” Sergio asked.

"It is, but I don't want to make any more movies,” Tom said.

"Right now or ever again?” I asked.

"I don't know. Right now, I want to move on and try something else.” Tom sat back.

"What else can you do?” Sergio asked.

I kicked him under the table.

"Ouch,” he said, sitting up.

Tom ignored Sergio. “Not a whole heck of a lot, but I'm willing to try something, learn a new trade."

"Modeling? Hollywood movies?” I asked.

"It's really hard to switch into something like that after you've...exposed yourself the way I have.” Tom's face flushed.

"What about your...other plans?” I asked.

"What other plans?” Tom's eyes darted between us and he swallowed hard.

"Your recent wedding?” I prompted.

Tom's face fell. “Oh, that."

"Is it true?” I continued.

"How did you find out?” He lowered his voice.

"Let's just say I found some information that suggested that you were married .” I made full eye contact.

"So, what do you want?” Resignation settled into Tom's voice.

"I don't want anything."

"What?” He sat up straight in his chair.