by Rachel Woods
“I could talk with your housekeeping staff,” Icarus said, walking to one of the couches. “One of them might know the housekeeper with curly ponytail.”
“I hope so,” I said, sitting next to him. “I need to know who sent me that damn blackmail letter. I might not be able to do anything about it, because I was told not to go to the police.”
Icarus frowned. “Where is the letter? I want to read it.”
“Actually, it wasn’t a letter,” I said. “It was a text message. The note in the aqua envelope said something like you have an important message on your phone.”
“Well, let me see the text message.”
Panic made my gut twist, and I stared at him, hesitating.
“Quinn …” Icarus prompted.
Biting my bottom lip, I looked away, conflicted. If Icarus was really the blackmailer, then he would have already seen the video because he would have sent the video. And he would know what the text message said because, again, he would have been the man behind that awful, evil distorted voice.
After a weary sigh, I stood and went into the bedroom to grab my phone from the night table. Back in the living room, I accessed the offensive text message and showed it to Icarus.
“It’s me and you,” he said after the evil, distorted voice ended.
Nodding, I said, “When we were together in the spa bungalow.”
“The first time we made love,” he said, staring at the final image, the frozen shot of my ecstasy, the results of his passionate lovemaking. “Somebody must have been in the spa with us.”
“The doors were unlocked.” I reminded him. “I assumed that was part of the fantasy, but maybe not.”
“Maybe whoever filmed us broke into the spa before we got there,” Icarus said.
“Maybe they were waiting for us,” I said. “Maybe the person knew you were going to bring me there. Maybe they knew that would be my first fantasy.”
Icarus looked away and then cleared his throat. “Um, maybe I shouldn’t ask this but do you have a hundred thousand dollars …?”
Staring at him, I tried to discern if he was asking because he was curious, or because he was trying to make sure I had enough money to pay him.
“No, I don’t,” I said, watching his expression. I was looking for some sign of horrified disappointment, but what I saw looked like concern and worry. “Well, I mean, I have access to money, so …”
“So coming up with a hundred thousand dollars won’t be a problem for you?” he asked, a strange look on his face, one I couldn’t really understand.
“Getting the money won’t be a problem,” I said, unable to fathom the emotions behind those whiskey eyes.
“Listen, um …” Icarus cleared his throat again and stood. “I should probably go and find the maid who delivered the blackmail note. I’ll let you know what I find out.”
Chapter Eleven
Icarus returned later, around nine p.m.
“Hey,” he said, giving me a quick squeeze as he walked into my suite. Exhaling a nervous breath, I closed the door behind him and then turned, anxious to learn what he’d found out.
“You okay?” he asked, genuinely concerned.
“Yeah,” I said, and shrugged. “I’m fine. Did you find out which one of the housekeepers delivered the note?”
Nodding, he took my hand and led me to one of the couches. After we sat, Icarus explained that he had asked a maid named Sandy to deliver his note to me, and she had. But Sandy told him that as she was leaving, she’d seen another maid walking into my suite—a maid Sandy didn’t recognize. The maid Sandy didn’t recognize told Sandy that she was new and was filling in for another maid who had called in sick. Sandy didn’t question the new maid. The new maid told Sandy that she had an envelope to deliver to me, and Sandy told the new maid to put it in the bedroom with the other note. Then Sandy and the new maid left my suite.
“So, who was the new maid?” I asked.
“Sandy couldn’t remember what her name was, so I asked Liberada,” Icarus said. “She didn’t know anything about a new maid. So, I talked to a friend of mine in security. There are surveillance cameras in the hallways, so we took a look and I saw who the new maid was.”
“Do you know her?” I asked, picking up on a hint of familiarity in his tone.
“Her name is Stazia Zacheo. And she’s not a new maid,” Icarus said. “She used to work here, but she was fired a year ago. She got caught stealing from the guest suites. She’s not even supposed to be on this property.”
“So, how the hell did she get on the property and into my room?”
“Somehow, she snuck into the hotel to deliver that blackmail letter to you.”
“So, she’s working with the blackmailer, you think?” I asked.
“I’m going to find out,” Icarus said. “I’m going to talk to her.”
“I want to come with you,” I said.
Icarus shook his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?” I asked, trying to ignore the suspicions of him that had returned. “I want to know who told this Stazia girl to give me that letter.”
“So do I,” he said. “But she’s not going to be honest if you’re there. I can talk to her, Matean to Matean.”
“And she’ll tell you the truth?” I asked, wary of his claim.
“She’ll be straight with me,” he said and then added, “or else.”
Apprehensive, I wanted to ask or else what, but I pushed the doubts away.
“After I find out what Stazia has to say, I’ll be back.”
Nodding, I sighed.
“It’s going to be okay,” Icarus said.
“If you say so …”
“I do say so,” he said, lifting my chin, making me look at him. “Trust me, okay?”
I nodded, but I couldn’t stop the tears trailing down my cheek. After Icarus kissed the tears away, he left, leaving me alone in my room with nothing but scattered, confusing thoughts to keep me company as I paced around the living room. I couldn’t stop thinking about Stazia Zacheo, the fake maid who’d managed to slip into my hotel suite. Who was she working with? Would she really tell Icarus who the blackmailer was? And if she did, then what? I couldn’t go to the cops and tell them. I would still have to pay the blackmailer. I couldn’t let the world see that sex tape. What was the point of talking to Stazia?
Still, not long after Icarus left, I began obsessing about his conversation with the fake maid, Stazia. What were they talking about? Was she telling him who the blackmailer was? Afraid I might go out of my mind, I called Lisa and updated her on everything.
Not surprisingly, she thought Icarus’s reason for talking to Stazia alone was bullshit.
“I don’t trust that guy, Quinn,” Lisa announced. “I mean, the maid told you that Icarus asked her to deliver the blackmail note to you.”
“That’s what I thought, too,” I said. “But then I got the note that Icarus actually wanted delivered to me, remember? The note with his number on it that the butler found in the trash. The maid told me that.”
“Icarus could have told the maid to lie and tell you that,” Lisa said. “I think that asshole is trying to gaslight you.”
Lisa and I continued to discuss, speculate, and analyze the depressing, disturbing events occurring in my life, but eventually, she had to go. Again, I was left to pace around the suite, waiting for Icarus to return, but he never did.
Neither did he answer his cell phone when I called the number on the letter. As time passed without word from him, I grew increasingly worried. Soon the worry turned to suspicion. My doubts about Icarus returned, leaving me weak, feeling like a desperate fool.
As ten p.m. became eleven p.m., I was in full panic mode, enraged, believing Icarus had made a complete fool of me. I was pissed at myself for allowing the deception. Why hadn’t I voiced my suspicions when he insisted on going to talk to Stazia alone? Why had I believed him when he’d claimed the fake maid wouldn’t open up if I was around whe
n he questioned her?
Eleven p.m. rolled into midnight, and I was stalking back and forth throughout the suite, wanting to scream and throw things but somehow managing to keep it together.
Sometime before one in the morning, I stomped into the bedroom, dived into the bed, and pulled the covers over my head.
DAY FIVE
Chapter Twelve
The next morning, knocking woke me up.
Groggy, half-awake, I staggered to the door and yanked it open.
“Good morning,” the maid said in that annoying, cheery St. Matean accent. “How are you today, Ms. Miller?”
Irritated, I asked, “Can you come back later?”
“Yes, ma’am,” she said. “But will you want your bath and breakfast?”
I wanted to slap her. “What part of come back later do you not understand?”
Her eyes widened with shock and she dropped her gaze. “Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“No, I’m sorry,” I said, pissed at myself for hurting her feelings. “Please. Forgive me. I didn’t sleep well. I wasn’t feeling very good.”
“Do you need to see the hotel doctor?” she asked, sincerely concerned, making me feel even worse for snapping at her so viciously.
“No, no … “ I stopped, then sighed, and said, “I just … it doesn’t matter. I just need a bit more sleep.”
“Sorry I disturbed you.”
“No, no, listen, I will have breakfast,” I said. “But no bath, I’ll just take a shower. Maybe in about two hours. Can you come back then?”
When she returned, around eleven a.m., my mood had not improved, but I kept the attitude and anger to myself because myself was who I was mad at.
As she poured my coffee, she asked, “Did you get your note?”
“My note?”
“I left an aqua envelope on the coffee table for you.”
Suspicious, I glared at her. “Who told you to do that?”
“No one.”
“No one?” I asked, doubtful.
“I mean no one told me,” she said. “It was on my task sheet.”
“Task sheet?”
“A daily list of tasks I’m required to perform for each guest,” she explained. “But that task—delivering the note to you—wasn’t on the official task sheet, which is printed from the computer. It was written on a sticky note. It said, ‘Deliver aqua envelope in your task box to Ms. Miller’.”
“What is a task box?”
“When a guest wants something like a special brand of shampoo or something not normally stocked in the suite,” she said, “that item will be placed in our task boxes to be delivered to the guest.”
“And who would have put the envelope in your task box?”
“Sometimes the concierge or the personal assistant,” she said. “Usually, we don’t know who specifically assigns the tasks, but it will be one of our supervisors. Maybe the butler. Maybe the head housekeeper.”
After the maid left, I grabbed the aqua envelope from the coffee table and ripped it open. Trembling, I read the note inside of it, staring at the words written in small, neat, block print:
Below you will find an outline of the instructions you are to follow for the delivery of the payment for the video. Follow these instructions completely. Any deviation from these instructions will result in immediate release of the video all over the Internet.
Wrap the money in newspaper. Make five separate bundles of $20,000 each
Put the money in a large beach bag
Take the beach bag to Golden Lizard Beach, which is located behind the hotel
At Golden Lizard Beach, there is a unisex/family locker room. Go to the locker room and put the beach bag in locker/safe number 17
Use the code 2868 to lock the safe
Leave Golden Lizard Beach and go back to your hotel suite
You are to act alone. Under no circumstances are you to contact or alert the police in any way. Your every move is being watched and the video will be released immediately if you try anything stupid.
Dizzy and enraged, I sat on the couch, reading the blackmail demand letter over and over, scarcely able to believe that it was real, hardly able to fathom how my life had taken this disastrous turn. Part of me struggled to figure out who the hell could be blackmailing me. Thinking about what the maid had told me, I realized that whoever had wanted the letter delivered to me had to have known about the housekeeping “task list” and “task box” system. The person knew the maid on duty would carry out the task without question, assuming a superior had assigned it.
I had to consider that maybe one of the supervisors at the hotel might be the blackmailer. Maybe Liberada. The lovely personal assistant knew about all of my fantasies. She may have even imagined some of them. She might have told Icarus to take me to the spa bungalow because she’d planned to set me up. Suddenly, I wanted to confront Liberada, to demand the truth from her. But as soon as I jumped up from the couch, my indignation was tempered by worry. If Liberada wasn’t blackmailing me, then the real blackmailer—who claimed to be watching my every move—might think I was trying to get Liberada to help me contact the authorities. Or, maybe—
A knock on the door interrupted my scattered, disorganized thoughts. I opened the door. Icarus stood in front of me, dressed in his custom-tailored chauffeur’s uniform, reminding me of the first time I saw him.
“Where have you been?” I asked, not caring if I sounded like some kind of nagging fishwife. “Why didn't you come back yesterday?”
“That’s why I’m here,” he said. “I wanted to tell you what happened.”
Crossing my arms, I said, “I’m listening.”
“I looked for Stazia all night,” Icarus said. “She wasn’t home. I wasn’t able to find her.”
Nodding, I shrugged. “Well, I guess you tried.”
“I won’t stop looking.”
Saying nothing, I stared at him, desperately wanting to believe him.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?” I asked, trying to ignore how damn good he looked. And smelled.
“Like you don’t believe me.”
“Maybe I don’t,” I said. “You say you were looking for her, but I don’t know that for sure.”
Icarus said, “You have to trust me, Quinn.”
“What if I don’t know how to trust you?” I asked.
“How many times do I have to tell you,” Icarus said, his eyes solemn and grave. “Blackmail is not my hustle, okay?”
“What is your hustle?”
“Nothing criminal,” he said, a touch defensive. “Nothing that would hurt anyone. Strictly legit. My plan is to make an honest living.”
“Doing what?”
“One of my aunts passed away a few years ago, and she left me a house,” he said. “A huge, run-down place on the east side of the island, close to Pirate’s Beach.”
“I read about Pirate’s Beach,” I said. “Fodor’s said it was the best beach on the island.”
“May be the best beach,” he said, his grin wry. “But, it’s on the east side of the island, near a few neighborhoods that tourists are told to avoid.”
“I read that, too.”
“There are some poor areas and some crime, but the majority of the people who live there are good, honest, hard-working people,” he said, with the same pride he’d displayed the first time I met him, when he’d given me commentary about his island home. “Most of them work in the tourism industry, in the hotels and restaurants and excursion companies.
“Anyway, the house was left to my aunt by her husband. He was from Ireland and had a bit of money. After he died, my aunt went a little batty,” he said, giving me a quick rueful smile that faded quickly. “She didn’t really keep the place up. She didn’t keep herself up, either, that’s why I made sure to check on her two or three times a week.”
Looking away, I warned myself to take what he’d told me with a grain of salt. I didn’t want to be to
uched by Icarus’s kindness toward his aunt, an old woman who had obviously been unable to manage the difficulty of being a widow. I didn’t want to be fooled by his compassion. The sweet nephew act might have been just an act, designed to make him appear caring. For all I knew, he might have tricked his aunt into leaving him the house. He might have employed coercion or even resorted to forgery. I couldn’t assume he was being honest with me, even though I hoped he was telling me the truth.
”Anyway, I want to fix the house up,” he said. “Turn it into a small hotel.”
“You need money for renovations,” I said, assigning a motive for blackmail to him, though I was starting to have trouble with my own suspicions of him.
“Which is why I’m going to get a home improvement loan,” he said, bestowing me with a smile that was beguiling and reassuring in a way which made me think he had decided not to be offended by my doubts of him.
“Well, while you were looking for Stazia,” I said. “I received another aqua envelope.”
“What did it say?”
“Don’t act like you don’t know what it says,” I told him.
“What is it going to take to make you believe me? I want to help you,” he said. “I’m not trying to blackmail you. If I was, trust me, leaving you notes on hotel stationery is not how I’d do it. If I was blackmailing you, I wouldn’t be playing these bullshit games, okay? I would have just come to you, showed you the video, and then told you how much it would cost you to make it go away.”
Conflicted, confused, I stared at him, struck by the honest sincerity in his gaze, desperate to believe him and yet still not sure I should.
“Maybe you’ll believe me when I help you find out who the blackmailer really is,” he said. “And I think the best way to do that is to pay him.”
“Of course, you do.”
Exhaling angrily, he shook his head.
“Look, I want to believe you,” I said. “But can’t you see how hard it is when you’re telling me to pay the blackmailer? Shouldn’t you tell me not to pay him? Or her?”