Killing in the Caribbean

by Jennifer Fischetto

  Voices sounded near the shut door, and I froze. They were returning.

  I dropped the statement back into the trash and ran past the sofa. Bed. Closet. Balcony. Where was I supposed to hide now? The closet was nearest to me. I ran inside, nearly twisting my ankle on several pairs of heels, and shut myself in as the main door opened.

  There were wooden slats in the top half of the closet door, so I was able to make out shadows and could see whoever entered if they stood in front of it. Not that I wanted them that close to me.

  "I can't believe them," Greer said with enough venom in his tone to make me wish I'd taken my nosy butt downstairs instead of playing Miss Marple.

  What was I saying? That older woman wouldn't have been caught dead snooping through someone's belongings like this. Oooh, bad choice of words.

  "Calm down," Mimi said in a soothing voice.

  He groaned and walked to the front of the closet.

  I held my breath. Please don't need anything in here.

  "I'm going to go ahead and meet the others downstairs. You sure you still want to get dinner with them after that argument?" Mimi asked.

  She was leaving. Yes!

  Greer heavily sighed. "It'll be fine. Eventually."

  "You won't be long?" Mimi asked.

  "No," he said, still in front of me. A mere two inches of wood separating us. "I need to change quick, and I'll be right there. Order me a Scotch."

  Change? Crap. What was the likelihood that the clothes he wanted were in the dresser?

  "Do you think it's a good idea to start the night like that? Maybe a beer or—" Mimi's voice was soft, as if she was hesitant to suggest it.

  "Do I look like I need mothering?" he yelled so loud I flinched.

  My shoulder hit a hanger, gently scraping the metal hook on the metal rod. Shoot!

  Luckily they didn't seem to hear me, because neither opened the closet door.

  Mimi said, "I'll see you downstairs," in a stronger tone than before.

  I heard soft footsteps and the slam of the door.

  Greer sighed and continued to stand there.

  Seconds, which felt like years, ticked by. I wanted to come up with an excuse in case he found me, but come on. What could I possibly say? Wanted to check out the shirt you wore yesterday?

  Then he moved, and I heard the click of the bathroom door.

  Oh my goodness. I knew I didn't have time to wait. He would be looking for his clothes in seconds.

  I opened the closet door as gently as possible and slipped out. Well, most of me did, but something tugged at my hair. A few curls had twisted around a hanger. Somehow they were so tightly wrapped, I couldn't easily untangle it. I yanked a little and then a lot, clenching my teeth to keep from yelping. As long as neither of them noticed the DNA I'd left behind, all would be well. I hoped.

  I gripped the main door handle, pushed down, and flung it open. The hall was empty. I took that as a good sign. I didn't want to push it, so there was no way I was waiting for the elevator. I didn't bother to fully shut Greer's door and darted to my left. I pushed open the heavy metal door to the stairwell as I heard a sound behind me.

  I didn't bother to turn and investigate. I took off.

  When I reached the first landing and turned to run down the second set of steps to the fourth floor, I heard the door above me open and close. Crap. Greer was on the stairs now too. He must have seen me, or he would have taken the elevator to meet the others. Did he plan to reach me, grab me, and demand to know why I was in his room? He wasn't in a good mood, nor was he a fan of mine, so if he caught up, I'd likely be confronted by a very angry man. I didn't want to deal with that, so I pushed on and ran faster.

  My vision tunneled, and the only thing I saw in front of me was the door to the fourth floor. My heel missed the last step, and I nearly went down, but my sheer determination, adrenaline, and fear kept me upright. I lunged at the door, threw it open, and stumbled out onto the corridor.

  It was empty and longer than the fifth floor. I passed four rooms before reaching the elevators, and there were at least four more on the other end of the floor. I saw an exit sign farther down. A second staircase. Greer wouldn't be there. I ran toward it, passing the elevator and hearing it ding. I turned to see the doors open. No one walked off. I was about to shout for someone to hold it, when I took a step back and saw Whitney's face.

  I stopped short.

  She was looking down at her phone and didn't see me. Thank goodness. I didn't want to have to come up with a lie as to why I was in the hotel and on the fourth floor, especially with Greer at my heels.

  I took a step forward out of view in case she looked up, pressed myself against the wall for a heartbeat, and then ran to the second stairwell.

  I wasn't going to chance it. I ran down all four flights until I reached the lobby. Pulse racing, gasping for air, and sweat dripping into my brow, I was relieved when I saw the gray tiles and tried to compose myself. I was mostly hidden from the lobby and the front desk. If the elevators opened, I would be seen, but I couldn't think about that at this moment. I took several deep breaths, calmed my pulse, and stepped out of the elevator bay.

  And smack into Sergeant Clarke.

  No, no, no, he was going to arrest me.

  "Miss Foster, what are you doing here?" he asked.

  "Um, visiting a-a friend." My voice was shrill and sounded way too loud.

  He nodded and sized me up. "Have a good day."

  That was it? I wanted to collapse from relief, but my feet started moving again, and when I hit outside, I ran.

  * * *

  After getting my second—no, third—workout for the day, I expected to find Cady draped over Aiden at his bar. There were a couple of drunk locals at a table shouting about soccer and no one else. Maybe she was in the bathroom. I headed that way when Aiden stepped through the door behind the bar that led to the kitchen.

  He nodded when he saw me. "Hello."

  "Hey, is Cady still here?"

  He shook his head and grabbed a rag to wipe down the clean, shiny bar. "No, she left thirty minutes ago. I don't think I was good company."

  I walked over to him and sat on a stool. I needed to talk to her.

  "Well, now that you know it was poison, that has to help, right? It wasn't the food or drink," I said.

  He jutted his chin toward the table of shouters. "This is the biggest crowd I've had all day. I had to tell my cook to not bother to come in. He usually works part-time nights when it's crowded. Not tonight. I knew that man's death was going to cost me my business."

  Way to empathize, Aiden.

  "Well, why don't you put up flyers too? Say something like Poor man was murdered by one of his friends. First drink free tonight only."

  His eyes widened, and he grinned. "You're right. Maybe I can salvage this."

  I hoped he didn't plan on using my words exactly. They needed some finesse.

  He stepped to the side and picked up his phone. He glanced to me. "Do you want something?"

  I really wanted a long shower, but until then… "Sure. You choose. Something fruity, please."

  His smile was big and breezy. "Coming up."

  He poured two different rums, one darker than the other, orange juice, a pink juice, and some grenadine into a short, rounded glass while talking into the phone about how Barclay really died. He popped an orange slice onto the side and a maraschino cherry inside and set it before me while saying into the phone, "Spread the news. It had nothing to do with Ocean Grille."

  He hung up and said, "Thank you, Zibby. I don't know why I didn't think of this myself. I guess I've just been so worried. You're a lifesaver."

  I sipped my drink and inwardly smiled at the chilled fruitiness as it went down. "It's understandable to not think clearly when your livelihood is being threatened. No need for thanks though. I didn't do anything but try to help you spin it." Plus commit breaking and entering, but I was sure he didn't know about that.

  "Maybe so, but this mak
es me feel better. I owe you."

  A crash sounded behind me. I flinched and turned. One of the locals had fallen backwards in his chair, onto the floor. Both men were stunned quiet for a moment, but when the fallen one started to laugh, the other joined in and their thunderous roar filled the space.

  Aiden came out from behind the bar. "Okay, it may be time for you two to call it a night."

  The man stood up and lifted his chair. "But it's early."

  "Maybe by the clock, but you clearly have had enough to drink. I don't need your wives calling and cursing at me because I allowed you both to get willy-nilly hammered."

  That was an expression I'd never heard before.

  "Fine," said the man who hadn't fallen. "Let us finish this round first."

  "Yeah, we paid for them."

  Aiden lifted the empty glasses from the table. "No problem."

  I sipped my drink, and three more people entered the bar. Wow, his friend's word traveled fast.

  Aiden greeted them with a full smile and winked at me. "You should call Cady and have her come back."

  That sounded like a great idea.

  I unzipped my purse and reached for my phone. The FBI agent's business card half sticking out of its case caught my eye. Barclay's room. Had that only been this morning? It felt like a week ago. It looked more bent than before. I pulled it out, straightened it against the edge of the bar top, and tried to slide it back it, but it wouldn't go all the way. Again. What was the problem?

  I grabbed the case near the bottom edge, tried it again, and realized something else was in there. I turned the case over and let an object fall onto my palm.

  It was an SD card.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I stared at the blue and gold square for a minute. This wasn't mine. Had it been in that case this whole time? That explained why I'd had difficulty removing and returning the card. Maybe it had something to do with the FBI, or had Barclay hidden it there for safekeeping?

  Either way, I wanted a peek now.

  I looked up to Aiden, who was pouring a couple of beers on tap. "Hey, you know that favor?"

  "Anything," he said.

  He really was in a good mood.

  "Do you have a computer I can borrow? Wi-Fi on the ship is super expensive." I didn't bother to explain why I needed his computer and couldn't send an email or go on Facebook via my phone.

  He saw three new paying customers, and I hoped he wouldn't think of my request being weird, but he frowned and asked, "You want to use my business computer?"

  Okay, so when he put it like that, I realized it was a total invasion of privacy.

  "If you wouldn't mind. I won't look at anything you have on there. I just need to do something…personal." I was certain that hadn't won him over.

  He smiled to the new customers. "I'll be right with you."

  I shook my head, feeling foolish for having asked. "Never mind. It can wait."

  "No, no, you're Cady's best friend. She talks about you a lot. She's super grateful she has such a good friend by her side."

  "Yeah?" I couldn't help but smile extra cheesy. I assumed she liked me as much as I did her, but it was nice to hear that from someone else.

  "She's mentioned how much she trusts you. That the two of you don't have any secrets."

  Oh, that made me feel awful. My stomach soured, and I pushed my drink a little away. I should tell her the truth about my past, my life back home, but what if she told Aiden and he happened to mention it to someone he knew? Before long, the truth could have traveled, and Mom and Timmy could be in trouble again.

  Aiden was watching me. "Go ahead. It's in the office. First door on the right in back."

  He was talking about his computer.

  "Oh, thank you."

  "No problem. The password is her birthday." With a wink, he walked to the table to take their order.

  I stepped around the bar and walked through the swinging door, almost colliding into a shoulder-height stack of boxes.

  The kitchen was small, with a sink, flattop, oven, and a deep fryer with two baskets. A tiny prep table and a couple of shelving racks completed the setup. Stainless steel doors to what was probably a walk-in fridge or freezer stood between the cooking area and the dishwasher in the back corner.

  The first door on the right led to a tiny, windowless room with enough space for a desk, chair, and a thigh-high file cabinet. An old computer monitor sat on the desk, which faced the wall and not the door. It was an odd setup. Who wanted their back to the door? It didn't matter. I attempted to click the door shut, but it sprung back open a couple of inches. I didn't have time to mess with it, so I gave up after the second attempt. It wasn't like Aiden was going to come back here when he now had customers. Plus, I wasn't even sure what was on the card.

  I hurried to the chair and noticed the computer light already on. I wiggled the mouse, and a box popped up for a password. I typed in 1210 and hesitated on the year Cady had been born. She was a year older than me, so I counted back one and added the last two digits.

  Aiden's desktop photo was of him standing outside in front of the bar. His smile was electric and made me chuckle. I inserted the SD card. After it loaded, I clicked open the file and saw several more folders, each one labeled. Photos, Finley, Greer, Whitney, and Misc. Why did he have folders on his friends?

  I started with Photos.

  The first one I stared at was a concrete and glass office building.

  "Okay, that's boring," I whispered out loud.

  The next shot was the same building, but now I realized why Barclay had photographed it. Greer was captured leaving it, with a briefcase in hand. Was it Greer's place of employment? If so, why was Barclay so interested?

  The next picture was of a smaller building, and Finley was getting into his car out front. Then there were several of Finley arriving at some bungalow and Whitney standing in the doorway. Their home.

  Barclay had been stalking his friends.

  I checked out the timestamps. These had been taken three months ago. So he had, at the very least, seen his all of buddies since college, even if they hadn't known. Or did they?

  The next dozen photos were of Whitney. Shopping, going to the gym, out with girlfriends, to dinner with Finley. It looked like Barclay had been obsessed with her.

  The next photo made me gasp.

  It was also of Whitney, and she was lying in bed. Her dark hair sprawled out around her head, like a giant crown. She was looking adoringly into the lens, and her shoulders were bare. It appeared that she wore nothing but the sheet. She and Barclay were having an affair? Her breaking into his room and crying on his bed suddenly made a lot more sense. She was more than a simple friend grieving an old college buddy.

  Did Finley know? That was unlikely. He wouldn't go on vacation with his fiancée's lover. They were best friends. How could Barclay do this? And why would she be with him? Maybe she was lonely with all of Finley's campaigning, perhaps felt neglected, and Barclay paid attention to her. I didn't know if any of this was true, but it sounded like it could be. Then again, it also sounded like a Lifetime movie.

  I clicked on Finley's folder next. It contained several images but not of people or places. They were…tests?

  They were dated a decade ago, and the name on each of them was Finley Patterson. Straight As. I clicked on the last image, and this time two sheets of paper were side-by-side. The one on the left was a replica of the first image I brought up, but the one on the right was a regular piece of notebook paper with numbers and letters.

  1. A, 2. C, 3. B, and so on for twenty-five numbers.

  The letters matched the answers on the test perfectly. A cheat sheet.

  But what did this mean? Was Barclay saying that Finley cheated on his tests, and if so, where were these from? It had to be college. That was when they all met. So Finley cheated throughout college, and from the number of images, it looked like it was more than just one class. Why had Barclay kept this? And did Finley know Barclay had them
?

  If so, it was possible that Finley would put his career over their friendship. But murder? That seemed so extreme. Why not find the evidence and destroy it?

  I clicked on Whitney's folder next. It held one file. A video of her and Barclay having sex.

  No.

  Wow.

  Oh gross.

  Oh my eyes.

  I was about to click off when Barclay said, "Say it."

  Whitney giggled and said, "You're the best lover I've ever had."

  I turned it off, not needing a breakdown of how much this would hurt Finley if he saw it. I did, however, want to bleach out my brain so I could forget what I'd seen. Blech.

  If Finley knew about the affair and that his buddy had proof of possible cheating, would that have pushed him over the edge? He certainly wouldn't want that leaked during his campaign.

  Next was Greer's. I hated to admit that I was extra interested in what Barclay had on the man.

  His file contained over a dozen images, and each one consisted of two pages side-by-side like Finley's. These weren't tests though. They were printed accounts receivable records. I studied the first set. Both pages had the same date, over a year ago, and each listed a mirror copy of accounts. The only differences were the numbers—the discrepancies equaled a few hundred thousand dollars.

  Was Greer stealing money, and that was why he had that cash deposit on his bank statement? If this was true, there had to be many more to add up to the amount above.

  Instead of opening each image, I went straight to the last file. It was an audio recording. I turned up the computer's volume.

  "I don't know what you're talking about." That sounded like Greer.

  "Don't lie to me, buddy. I'm Barclay Murdock and you're Greer Rawlings. We've known each other for years."

  Very clever of him to say their names so anyone listening to the recording knew who they were. Clever, manipulative, and dishonest.