He strode toward the pier and walked to the end of it. No one was around at the moment. The morning’s passengers had left hours ago with their sunscreen and high hopes; they wouldn’t return until they were salty and sunburned, with or without fish. He held the Arizona phone discreetly in the palm of his hand, walked to the end of the pier, pretended to enjoy the breakwater a quarter mile away and the horizon well beyond. With the incoming splash of a wave, he slipped the unwanted phone into the water, giving it a little flick to send it beyond the wooden pilings. There. Done.
Lunch went well. Tom was full of himself and his business savvy. Danielle quizzed her husband about the Rolls Royce they’d taken to the bank. Was it nice, honey? Wouldn’t we look grand driving around Kansas City in one of those? He practically promised her one as soon as they got home.
Twice, Frank had to steer the conversation away from travel plans. He didn’t want to say anything that would cause the Andersons to change their plans or try to track his.
“Say,” he said after graciously allowing Tom to pay the lunch check, “I didn’t realize this restaurant didn’t serve alcohol. Let’s all go back to my suite and have a celebratory drink to our success.”
He’d picked up, early on, that Danielle was one of those tourists who goes to beach resorts with the idea that while she’s on vacation there will be no responsibilities and no schedule. Beach time and drinking were her goals, and from what he’d noticed last night she could really put it away. She quickly latched onto his invitation. The longer he could keep the couple occupied, the less chance they would learn too much before it was too late.
“Oh my god,” said Danielle when they walked into the penthouse suite. “Oh. My. God. How big is this place, anyway?”
“Three bedrooms, four baths.” He spread his hands to indicate the living room furnished with European style rococo and the latest designer colors. A grand piano sat in one corner, a dining table for twelve beyond. The balcony was above the treetops so the view consisted of acres of undulating green palm fronds with the luminous turquoise water beyond.
“It’s a little much just for me,” he told them, “but the smaller suites were full.” He gave a what-do-you-do shrug.
He’d discovered the fully stocked bar as soon as he arrived and now, with the confidence of a man at home in his surroundings, he offered to pour. Danielle immediately snapped up the 18-year Glenlivet. Tom said he would take one, as well.
Tom knew how to pace himself, it turned out, but his wife didn’t. By four o’clock she was snoring in a very unladylike manner from one of the deep armchairs.
“Appears my wife could use a nap,” Tom said, not quite meeting his host’s eye.
He walked over to Danielle’s chair and tried to rouse her.
“Let me give you a hand, old man,” offered Woodsworth IV. “No worries. Who among us hasn’t needed a nap at some point.”
Tom gave an embarrassed smile of gratitude and the two men proceeded to lift Danielle to her feet. She roused enough to stumble along.
“I’d better help you the rest of the way,” Woody said. Danielle was the curvaceous sort, not some reed-thin fashion model.
They got to the elevator and, luckily, the ride was only two floors down. Tom managed the key while Frank propped Danielle against his shoulder, hoping she wouldn’t topple. He would no doubt yank his back out if he had to catch her. Inside, Tom led the way to their king-sized bed. She mumbled a bit in her sleep. While Tom removed her shoes and jostled to get the duvet over her, Frank turned discreetly away.
Discreetly enough to spot a heavy gold bracelet and decent diamond dinner ring on the dresser. They were in Frank’s pocket before Tom looked up.
“All right, then,” Woody said, as Tom cleared his throat, still having a hard time looking Frank in the eye. “I’m sure a nice rest and a good dinner will set everything right.”
“See you sometime tomorrow, okay?” Tom said, following him to the door.
“Oh, absolutely. Breakfast, perhaps, in the restaurant. Say, ten-ish?” He gave a formal little bow.
Like hell, he thought as he rode the elevator up. The hotel’s shift change happened at five a.m. and he planned to be in a taxi on his way to the airport at least an hour before that persistent day manager came to work.
Chapter 36
An overseas flight, first class, was the most luxury Sandy had ever experienced on an airplane and she made sure to thank Penelope for the indulgence. For herself, Pen was glad for the creature comforts but a night-long flight was still a long one and, although she’d been able to stretch out, this was nothing like sleeping in her own bed at home.
“Welcome to Grand Cayman,” the flight attendant said over the PA, “where the local time is six a.m.”
Pen stood and stretched before reaching for her bag in the overhead bin.
“Let me help you with that,” said the senior flight attendant. She easily lifted the wheeled suitcase down. “My, you packed pretty light. You must have more in the hold.”
“It’s a quick trip,” Pen said.
“My kind of traveler,” the woman said. “You wouldn’t believe the passengers I see in the terminal, struggling with three or four huge bags. Goodness, don’t they know a beach resort only requires a couple bathing suits and a cover up or two?”
Gracie and Sandy retrieved equally small suitcases and they stood to wait for the doors to open and a ladder to be wheeled into place.
“Follow the painted yellow lines on the floor inside,” the attendant said. “They’ll take you right into the customs hall.”
The three friends walked side by side through a pathway of red plastic cones on the tarmac. The humid air hit like a wet shroud.
“I feel my hair wilting already,” Sandy said. “Thank goodness I’m not here for a beauty contest.”
“Even the beauty queens aren’t up for a contest at this hour of the morning,” Gracie said.
As the hall narrowed inside the building, Pen fell behind the others. The only thing that kept the corridor from feeling oppressively tight was the fact that the walls were mostly of glass, the tarmac with waiting airplanes outside on her left, and the various airline departure gates on her right. All at once, something caught her eye.
Standing in a line at one of those departure gates was the man she’d known as Richard Stone. No, Frank Morrell—she corrected herself.
“It’s him!” She nudged Sandy’s shoulder. “There he is!”
Sandy and Gracie turned, confused. “Who?”
Impatient shouts came from behind them. “Hey, move it along up there—”
Pen pushed her friends forward, rushing to get out of the passageway. But when they passed through double metal doors, they were not in the same area where she’d spotted Morrell. The immigration hall opened before them, with roped off lanes for returning residents, visitors, and those with certain passports. Pen halted but Gracie pulled her aside, out of the path of brightly clad tourists in foul moods because they were so determined to start having fun.
“It was him—Richard Stone, em, Frank Morrell—back that way, standing in a queue of people about to board a plane. We have to get out there …”
But a customs official was standing at the door through which they’d just come.
“No access this direction,” the woman recited in a bored tone.
“No—I—it’s just—”
“Forget a bag? Do not worry, they will clear the plane and bring it out for you, madam.”
Pen stared longingly. If only she could see which plane he was boarding. But the stout woman in uniform was hearing none of it.
She realized Gracie and Sandy were waiting for her to lead the way. With no other choice they got into one of the long lines to have their passports stamped. By the time they cleared immigration and customs, Pen knew Morrell was surely on his plane and most likely it would have departed. She squeezed her eyes shut.
“Pen, it’s not the end of the world. We’re all tired. Let’s find
a hotel and get some rest,” Sandy said.
Eyes closed, Pen visualized the scene with Frank Morrell standing in wait for a plane. Gate 14. The sign above his head registered in her brain.
“Before we leave, I need to know,” she said.
She walked to an electronic monitor listing arrivals and departures. At Gate 14, it showed Flight 93 had just departed for London and Zurich. Frank Morrell had skipped yet another country.
Chapter 37
The thought of more travel, of going all the way to Europe, felt simply overwhelming in their present, jet-lagged state.
“Let’s go to his hotel,” Gracie suggested. “Maybe we can ask some questions there, find some kind of clue where he was going next, learn whether London is his destination or if it’s Switzerland.”
Or somewhere beyond, Pen thought. Once a person got to Europe it was a simple matter to use the train system and be in another country within a few hours, and relatively anonymously. She decided not to voice that thought—everyone was discouraged already.
Gracie pulled out her phone, where she’d noted the name and address of Frank Morrell’s hotel. At the curb she flagged a taxi.
“The Grand Cayman Regent, please,” she told the driver.
“Once we get there, what then?” Sandy whispered, once the cab was rolling.
“I have an idea,” Pen said. She leaned back in her seat for the short ride to the hotel.
When the taxi stopped under the hotel’s shady portico, Pen turned to the others. “If you ladies will see to the luggage, I will obtain a room key.” She raised her eyebrows coquettishly.
“What are you up to?” Sandy said with a little grin.
Pen fluffed her hair and applied fresh lipstick. “Here, take my purse and carry-on bag. I need to appear as if I’ve been here all along. I’ll meet you at the far end of the lobby or near the elevators, somewhere out of sight of the front desk.”
She hopped out of the taxi and practically sprinted to the sidewalk, where she adjusted her posture and put a jaunty bounce in her step. With an air of confidence she stepped through the wide entry doors. It still wasn’t quite eight in the morning and she hoped the morning desk clerks were not fully alert just yet.
Two clerks stood by, the younger female sipping from a coffee cup. She chose that one.
“Terribly sorry,” she said, “I went off for my walk and forgot my room key, and my nephew is out. Would you be able to print me another?”
As hoped, the girl set down her mug a little reluctantly. “Room number?” Her tone was satisfyingly bored.
Luckily, Pen had checked before leaving the cab. “Five-oh-one.”
She glanced around the lobby, trying not to appear the least bit concerned as the girl tapped a few keys at her computer terminal.
“Name?”
“Coddington. Woodsworth Coddington.”
Two more clicks. A moment later a gold plastic card was handed over.
“Hm, there’s some sort of note here about …” the clerk began.
But Pen had already turned away with a thank-you and a brisk step. Gracie and Sandy were standing near the elevators.
“That one,” Pen said, indicating the button for the upper floors.
The door slid open without a sound. Inside, they saw that three penthouse suites occupied the entire fifth floor. When they arrived moments later they found Suite 501 to their right. The new key worked perfectly. A collective sigh as they wheeled their bags inside.
“Whoa!” Gracie said.
They took in the huge living-dining room, grand piano and all. Cushions on the plump chairs and couches were somewhat smashed down, and the coffee table held empty drink glasses. A bowl of mixed nuts was nearly empty. The bar beside the widescreen TV was open, with bottles of Scotch and vodka sitting out.
“There are three bedrooms and four baths!” Sandy exclaimed after a quick foray through the place. “Only the king bed in the master looks as if it was used.”
“Are there three beds between the others?” Pen asked. “A few hours sleep is all I’m interested in right now.”
“You think we should stay here?”
“I don’t see why not. The brute paid for all this with my money, after all.”
“Um, I’m not sure he did,” Gracie said, reading a sheet of paper she’d picked up from the marble floor. She held it out to Pen.
The bill was for over twenty thousand dollars, including several lavish restaurant meals and items from the hotel gift shops. A handwritten note across the front said, A little matter with your credit card, sir. Please contact the manager at your earliest convenience.
“Well, we know that won’t happen, now that ‘Coddington’ is Frank Morrell again and is on his way to Europe,” Sandy said.
“I’m certainly not under obligation to pay the man’s bill, not after he stole more than a million dollars from me,” Pen said, gritting her teeth. “But I’m too tired at the moment to think how to handle it. Put out the Privacy notice, lock the bolts on that door and find beds for yourselves. We’ll discuss this when we’re fresher.”
Sandy pointed the way toward the two unused bedrooms, each furnished with two queen beds. She and Gracie said Pen should take a room to herself and they would share the other.
“Once we have our wits about us again, we’ll search the bedroom he used and see what clues we might find.”
Pen slept soundly for a few hours. When she looked at the bedside clock it showed 11:49. With the dark curtains closed, she felt momentarily confused whether it was morning or night. But, since she was wide awake, she got up and pulled the hotel’s complimentary robe over her nightgown. Opening the drapes revealed it was, indeed, midday. Beyond the sliding glass door lay a small terrace and a grove of palm trees, with the vivid Caribbean sea beyond. But Pen had no time to enjoy the fact that she was in the tropics. Frank Morrell’s actions still grated at her and she wanted answers.
Chapter 38
Pen’s bedroom had its own coffee maker and she set it to brew a small pot while she showered and dressed. She carried her mug to the suite’s living room. It seemed Morrell had entertained here before he departed. Perhaps the reason he’d come to Grand Cayman was less about an offshore bank account and more about meeting up with someone. She’d like to know who.
She went systematically through the room, opening drawers (nothing of a personal nature), fanning through magazines and observing placement of the used glassware. Three people, she surmised—two of them Scotch drinkers, while the third appeared to be a very watered-down vodka. Near the vodka glass, tucked under the edge of a wooden coaster, she found a business card.
Thomas Anderson, Raceway Auto Parts, Wholesale and Retail. The printed address was in Kansas City. On the back of the card were handwritten notes. A phone number and Room 325.
Most likely it was a room here at the hotel, someone (or two someones) Morrell had invited up for drinks. She wondered what the connection might be. She left the card on the foyer table where she’d set her own key card for the room, then went into the master bedroom Morrell had occupied.
The king size bed was unmade, a messy tangle of sheets, the duvet lying in a pile on the floor. It appeared the occupant had a restless night. She hoped so. She hoped the man’s conscience bothered him. A lot.
A tropical-weight suit lay rumpled across an upholstered chair, with a flowered shirt beside it. A pair of pale tan dockside shoes were a nice match for the suit and looked as though he’d just kicked them off. Another tropical shirt hung in the closet, the tags still on it. No suitcase, no toiletries in the adjoining bath.
On the bathroom vanity she spotted a slip of paper, a receipt from one of the hotel’s gift shops. It listed the clothing items she’d found, plus a Rolex watch. Her jaw tightened. Mr. Morrell was certainly having a fine time at her expense. Or possibly not—she recalled the hotel bill with the handwritten note about a credit card problem. It looked as if Morrell liked to take, without giving anything in return. She took the re
ceipt with her.
She was going through the nightstand drawer when she heard sounds in the living room.
“Pen? You’re up?” Sandy said.
“In here,” Pen called out.
“Amber’s emailed me,” Sandy said, staring at her phone as she walked into the bedroom. “She wants to know how it’s going. I already told her we arrived safely.”
Pen shuffled through the few postcards and envelopes that she found in the drawer. A battered scrap of paper floated free. She grabbed it before it hit the floor.
“Hm, what’s this?” She turned it in her hand. Without looking directly at Sandy she said, “Tell Amber about our seeing Frank Morrell leave the airport here this morning and ask if she has a way to find out whether he is booked only to London or if he’s going on through to Zurich on that same flight.”
While Sandy thumbed a message on her phone, Pen looked closely at the small paper. It contained only a name and number.
Anton van der Went—31-20-061452
“Oh, and ask her what country and area code this is.” She read the digits. “Maybe she could do a search on this name, as well?”
Gracie emerged from the bedroom with rumpled hair and a yawn. She wore her sleep clothes, a light pair of shorts and a tank top.
“That wasn’t nearly enough rest,” she said, “but if I stay in bed now I’ll be up all night.”
Sandy had brewed more coffee and now handed Gracie a cup. They plumped the sofa cushions and relaxed into them while Pen filled them in on her search of the suite.
“What do an American—tourist probably—from Kansas and somebody with a Dutch name and foreign dialing code have in common?” she asked the others.
“Other than both their names showing up in our con man’s suite? I have no idea,” Sandy said.
“Let’s start with the American,” Gracie suggested, picking up the room’s phone.
Diamonds Aren't Forever Page 11