Second Honeymoon Part 11

I WALKED QUICKLY across the white sand of Grace Bay beach, the various studies and statistics I'd read over the years about criminals returning to the scene of the crime running through my head.

Burglars? About 12 percent of the time.

Murderers? Nearly 20 percent. Kick it up to 27 percent if there was a s.e.xual component to the killing.

I didn't want this guy to think I was making a beeline for him, so I stopped first to dip my toes in the water. From about twenty feet away, I watched as he began to pull his Jet Ski up on the sand so the waves wouldn't take it.

"Need a hand?" I asked, meandering over.

"No, thanks, I'm good," he said without even looking at me. "I'm good" was an American expression, but his accent wasn't American. Mr. Speedo was Monsieur Speedo. A Frenchman.

There were two other Jet Skis-Yamaha WaveRunners, actually-that belonged to the resort sitting side by side a little farther down the beach.

"Hey, I was thinking about going out for a spin tomorrow. What do they charge you here for renting these things?" I asked.

Speedo, however, wasn't riding a Yamaha. His was a royal-blue Kawasaki, a beat-up one at that. It may or may not have been his, but it almost certainly didn't belong to the Governor's Club.

In other words, I was playing dumb. My real question was, Are you a guest here, Speedo?

"I'm visiting," he said curtly. "Don't know what they charge."

"I guess I'll have to ask the guy," I said, looking at a water activities hut next to the bar. The guy sitting in front of it, taking care of zero customers, looked even more bored than the bartender. It was the same theme all around. There was nothing like a couple of murders at a high-priced resort to kill off business.

Speedo turned and walked away from me, the cliched reputation of the French att.i.tude toward strangers fully intact.

Wait a minute, mon frere, I wasn't done with you yet. In fact, I was just getting started.

He was heading toward the pathway that led back to the pool. I caught up to him about halfway there.

"I'm sorry," I said. "There was one other thing I wanted to ask you."

He couldn't have looked more incredulous when he turned to me.

Sacre bleu! What does this stupid American tourist want now?

"I'm kind of busy," he said.

"Me, too," I shot back. "I'm trying to solve a murder."

I was hoping to see him flinch. He didn't. Cool as could be, he simply nodded. "Yes, the Breslows," he said.

"You know about it, huh?"

"Of course. It's the talk of the island."

"Funny you should say that word. Talk, that is. From what I understand, you were talking to the Breslows here on this beach about a day or two before they were murdered."

"So?"

"Did you know them?" I asked.

"No."

"What were you discussing?"

He shifted his feet. "Who exactly are you?" he asked.

"Will it change your answer if I tell you?"

Speedo eyed me for a moment and I eyed him straight back.

"Snorkeling," he said, finally.

"Snorkeling?"

"Yes. They asked me about Dead Man's Reef," he said, pointing over my shoulder.

But the second I turned to look I knew I'd made a mistake.

Chapter 17

AS SUCKER PUNCHES go it was a pretty good one. Straight to my gut, hard and fast. Kind of like how I went down.

Breathe, O'Hara! Breathe!

Fat chance. I was on my knees, hunched over in a helpless ball, my arms and legs resting on the sand.

Meanwhile, Speedo looked like the start of a one-man triathlon, dashing across the beach and heading straight for the water. Except I knew he wasn't about to start swimming. s.h.i.t!

I pushed myself up, took one look at him dragging his Jet Ski into the surf, and immediately started running...in the opposite direction.

The guy manning the water activities hut barely had time to blink.

"I'll be back," I said to him, swiping the set of keys off his counter. With any luck he'd simply wave and tell me, "Have fun!"

Yeah, right.

"Hey, man!" I heard over my shoulder as I sprinted back down the beach. Now we had it going on. I was chasing Speedo, and Water Activities Dude was chasing me. "Hey, hey, you! Stop right there!"

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw my southern cavalry. Carter was up from his bar stool, blazing across the beach like General Sherman through Georgia. For an older man, he sure could run.

As I dragged one of the resort's two WaveRunners into the water as fast as I could, I looked up to see Carter nearly tackle the activities guy. Jesus, what a sight. This beach had never seen such action.