Killer Beach Reads

by Gemma Halliday Publishing

  Luckily for them they let me use my mobile phone that I'd had the foresight to pocket before leaving my room.

  "Greg!" I squeaked into the mouthpiece. "I need you here ASAP! I think I'm being arrested for murdering Nona Belladonna."

  And I promptly burst into tears.

  Forget what you've seen on television shows or read in books. Being held on suspicion of murder is as dull as dishwater. Before you exclaim that this can't be true, let me explain what I mean: the process of being booked is tedious. Hours can be spent waiting for a search warrant to be obtained or for one's attorney to appear. Although I wasn't being booked in the formal sense of the word, I still wanted a lawyer present. And as you might have guessed, I insisted on my own personal attorney, Gregory Browning, Esquire. Since he was a few time zones away from me, it did take a while for him to join me.

  * * *

  "What exactly have you said to them, Caro?" Greg's face was somber. "You haven't admitted to anything, have you?"

  "The only thing I admitted to was that I wanted to go home." I put my arms around him, breathing in his smell with a sigh of relief. I was so glad he'd come to my rescue.

  "And that's exactly what I would have advised." He gently untangled my arms from around him and began shuffling through the stack of papers given to him by one of the Amazon's minions. "Unfortunately—or fortunately for you, Caro—this is a circumstantial case, as in all of you who had reason to dislike Nona Belladonna are being considered possible suspects."

  "All of us?"

  While the thought that there were others should have consoled me, it didn't. I ran through the possible list: Me, definitely. Perhaps Clyde Van Heusen. Maybe Sam Connery, or even Layla. Had Nona managed to insult someone else as well? While it wouldn't surprise me in the least, I couldn't think of anyone at the moment.

  "There are several being questioned, Caro. And from what I can see, you are free to move around the resort as you wish. No one is being detained."

  I was suddenly angry. "Then why the dramatics? I mean really, Gregory! They all but frog-marched me from the lobby to this room, in full view of all the other guests." I was building up a head of steam. "I've a good mind to pack up and leave."

  "And what would that solve, Caro?" Greg was pragmatic as always. "You'd just have to return. Unless," he added thoughtfully, "we can figure out who really killed her."

  My face lit up. "You're on!"

  * * *

  When I plan out a new book, I use a system of sticky notes to keep track of characters, events, who's dead, and who isn't. I figured it would work for deducing the motive behind Nona's death as well. Armed with copious amounts of fresh fruits, cheeses, and sparkling mineral water, Greg and I began the process of eliminating suspects. Combined with the soft breeze blowing in through the open windows in my room, it almost felt like an exercise in relaxation…minus the murder angle, of course.

  We began with motives.

  "Well, there's me," I said. "I happen to know that I didn't do it, so there's no need to add my name to the list."

  Gregory rolled his eyes but didn't say anything. I could see a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips, though; he understood my skewed way of thinking, something that had always endeared him to me.

  "There is that local news reporter I saw her with at the pool, Clyde Van Heusen," I began. Greg nodded and wrote down the name. "I have no idea what he might have had against her, but since he is someone whose reputation can make or break his work, I'd say she might've gotten in a dig or two."

  "Or three," Greg added. "She was what I refer to as a 'piece of work.'"

  I had to laugh. "That's a lot nicer than what I've called her, I'll admit."

  My husband looked up sharply. "Well, don't, Caro. Admit it, I mean. That'll just add fuel to the fire."

  I tossed my head. "I'm not a dummy, Gregory. And the next name is Layla."

  "Really." It was a statement rather than a question. "What could Nona Belladonna do to make her so angry that she'd kill?"

  "Not anything about Layla herself," I said. "Her sister. She told me in so many words that she'd been targeted by Nona, something about her screenplays." I shook my head. "That woman really lived up to her name."

  Sam Connery: Nona had written a scathing review about his newest book, calling it, "pap for those naïve enough to call Connery's book a 'suspense-filled thriller.'"

  "Some of the things she said about writers almost made me think that she was a failed writer herself," I said thoughtfully, tapping my forefinger against my lips. "Isn't that somewhat typical of those who tend to struggle in a certain area? Someone, say, who can't bake at all but who is critical of those who do so no one notices their lack of skill?"

  Gregory nodded. "I've seen that time and time again in the court room, Caro. It's called ad hominem, and it's used to reflect attention away from someone who's guilty of something similar."

  "Ah," I said. "Someone such as Nona Belladonna. All of those venomous reviews could be her ad hominem." I looked at Greg with what I hoped came across as a serious expression on my face. "I wonder what it was that she did?"

  "And that, my dear, is exactly what I intend to find out."

  We spent the better part of an hour scouring the internet for any connection, no matter how obscure, between Nona Belladonna and the possible suspects. It was quite interesting what we found.

  Samuel Connery, the thriller writer, had once been on a panel with Nona's cousin Marie, a successful writer in her own right. That surprised me—somehow I thought of Nona as someone who'd crawled out from under the nearest rock without family or friends. The panel had been the subject of social media gossip, claiming that those attending had been cheated out of a promised book signing. Since it was Sam's seventh book and Marie's first, Nona had intimated in a scathing post that perhaps other writers (Sam being one) were intimidated by Marie's success. To my knowledge, neither Sam nor the other writers had responded to that low blow. Maybe he'd been saving it for later…

  Layla's sister, Doria, had felt the wrath of Nona Belladonna long before she had left for her career in the States. As a young intern with the local television station, Doria had been responsible for setting up interviews with newsworthy persons. Nona, of course, had managed to worm her way onto the list as someone to be interviewed by Clyde Van Heusen. Hmm. That was another link that seemed suspect. Doria, it seems, forgot to supply Nona with the specific type of bottled water she'd asked for. According to an online magazine, Nona had reduced Doria to tears with her caustic remarks.

  Clyde Van Heusen, the unwitting pawn in the fiasco, had incurred her ire as well. He'd had the audacity to turn down her not so subtle suggestions that they "…pair up and see where it takes us." As one onlooker remarked later on Facebook, Nona Belladonna was about as blatant as a cat in heat. Ouch.

  "What do you suppose he was doing with her at the pool, Gregory?" I'd told him about my own near miss with Nona, including the fact that I'd seen her with Clyde.

  Gregory shook his head. "I'm not sure, unless there's more to the 'pair up' story than we've learned."

  "As in maybe he gave in, and she was holding that over his head?"

  "Perhaps. Is Clyde married?"

  I had no idea. I quickly accessed the public records for New York, his original place of residence, and struck gold: Clyde Van Heusen and Sarah Esther Goldman, heiress to a large media fortune, were married before he'd taken the job at the island's television studio. Maybe Nona knew something his wife didn't.

  Greg sat silently, tapping his teeth and thinking. He clicked rapidly through the internet, pausing occasionally to jot down a note. I waited, knowing that something was churning in that brilliant brain of his. I wasn't disappointed.

  "When Clyde married Sarah Goldman, he essentially married Goldman Media, a veritable gold mine of radio and television stations. Sarah was the only child of Abe and Esther Goldman, both of whom were killed in a skiing accident when she was a teen. I'm only speculating, but perhaps Non
a Belladonna had some dirt on Clyde, something that could not only ruin his job but his marriage as well."

  "Wouldn't losing the marriage be the same as losing the job?"

  "Yes. And no. It depends on any prenuptial agreement that might have been made as well as the contract he agreed to for his current job."

  "Ah." I sat with my eyes closed, trying to visualize the myriad tentacles that emanated from Nona. I'd made the assumption that her sardonic reviews were the impetus for hating her. I hadn't even considered the possibility of emotional blackmail.

  "I think we need to figure out who was where before Nona was served her shrimp cocktail poolside." I sighed, knowing that our work was cut out for us. We'd not only need to verify our suspects' whereabouts, but we'd also need to discover who'd had access to the food. And to the rat poison. Which reminded me…"Greg, where would items such as rat poison be kept? I can't imagine that it would be accessible to just anyone." I frowned. I didn't care for the idea of either rats or a poison to control them.

  "It's probably in a maintenance storage area, presumably under lock and key." Greg stood up, gathering the various papers and shutting down his laptop. "Let's take this back to your room, Caro." His blue eyes were twinkling in that way that always sent a shiver of anticipation down my spine. "We've got a lot of catching up to do."

  We certainly did. It was enough to put the entire Nona Belladonna fiasco far from my mind.

  CHAPTER THREE

  After a well-deserved nap, I awoke as the evening shadows began to move across the room. My jet-lagged hubby, looking incredibly adorable with tufts of hair standing up on his head, was still snoring away, his mouth slightly open and one arm flung over his head. The only thing missing in this tableau was Trixie. Resort life was all well and good, but I preferred my own domicile, with my hubby and pup beside me.

  I planned to speak with Layla first thing in the morning—evenings seem to be the busiest for her as she dealt with the many complaints from the resort inmates. It might be a good time to follow up with Sam Connery, though. If anyone had wanted to remove Nona Belladonna permanently from the picture, it had probably been a writer.

  I started toward the shower, fully intending to freshen up then mingle with the other guests as Greg slept. I'd missed him horribly though, and with his crazy schedule I knew we might not have another day to snuggle in bed for a while. With a wicked grin, I slipped back under the blankets. I fully intended to make it up to him accidentally waking him.

  It's best that you believe me when I said I did. The details, as they say, will remain under cover…

  The next morning dawned bright and early. I'd left the shutters open in order to catch the breathtaking view of the stars. Without the mainland issue of light pollution, it was amazing just how clear they looked. Morning sunshine in my eyes was another matter altogether. I preferred to be awakened with the scent of freshly brewed coffee, not the equivalent of a laser assault.

  Greg was already up and showered, sitting at the desk that held his laptop, a few manila folders, and a legal pad on which he was writing. From the frenetic pace of the pen, I guessed that he was in a "zone" and that it would behoove me not to disturb him. After all, it was my defense he was designing.

  I planted a quick kiss on his head, next to the balding spot he claims is where his hair swirls, and headed for the shower. I felt energized and ready to face whatever issues Nona Belladonna's demise tossed my way.

  Refreshed and dressed, I left Greg still working, promising to return soon with breakfast. I walked across the common area, inhaling the scent of the jasmine vines and admiring the gorgeous colors of the myriad flowers that grew rampant everywhere I looked. It was a glorious start to the day, and I entered the lobby with a smile on my face.

  A hubbub near the concierge desk caught my attention, and I hurried over to see what the fuss was all about. Maybe Layla had heard something about the ongoing investigation and was busy disseminating the information to eager resort guests.

  Only it wasn't Layla sitting there. It was a woman I'd not seen before, someone whose frazzled expression emphasized that this was a job she'd no desire to do. The commotion was caused by her ineptness in handling questions, finding maps, and handing out comp passes for golf and massages. The woman's expression was thunderous, and I missed seeing Layla's beautiful smile. With any luck, she'd be back soon.

  I grabbed a light breakfast of fruit, freshly baked croissants, and honey and headed back to the room. As I passed near the main reception desk, I noticed three resort workers huddled together, worried expressions on their faces. Since my impulse control is next to nil whenever a murderer is on the loose, I hurried over to the desk.

  "Excuse me," I began in my friendliest tone. "Could you please tell me when Layla will be back on duty?"

  At my question, one of them, a young woman who couldn't be more than eighteen, burst into tears and ran into an adjoining office. Murmuring an apology, the other older woman followed her, shutting the door behind her. The young man who was left gave an eloquent shrug, its casualness not matching the worry in his large brown eyes.

  "Has something happened to Layla?" I asked gently. I set the breakfast tray on the counter, my stomach giving a rumbling complaint. Information first, food later, I told myself. I rearranged my expression to counselor mode, just the right touch of concern in the eyes, a tiny lift of one of the brows. That, combined with a slight tilt of the head, tacitly encouraged folks to spill their guts. For the most part, this was for show, something I'd honed over the years. With Layla, though, I truly was feeling more than a tad concerned.

  "I know nothing, miss," he said as he beat a rapid retreat to the office.

  So much for my acting skills. Oh, well. There was still time to find out what the issue could possibly be. Hopefully Layla would show up soon; if not—and I didn't want to speculate—I'd be a bit more forceful with my inquiries. For the moment, it was back to my—our—room for breakfast with my hubby.

  I sniffed appreciatively as I walked into the room. Greg had brewed a pot of Jamaica Blue Mountain coffee, one of the best I'd tasted in a while, and its aroma was a nice counterpoint to the buttery scent of the croissants. One of the bestselling points of this resort was its excellent menu, and I'd made every possible effort to enjoy it to the fullest.

  "Things seem to be in a slight uproar at the concierge desk," I mentioned as I applied a judicious amount of honey to a croissant. "Layla, it appears, is not here today."

  Gregory continued chewing a fresh piece of papaya, his eyes fixed on the beautiful landscape outside our patio window. He speared another piece of fruit, chewed and swallowed, and then turned to me.

  "I've been expecting something like to this to happen, Caro."

  "What?" I exclaimed. "Layla is too sweet to be a murderer, or murderess, or whatever you want to call her." I stared at him in disbelief. "Are you saying, Greg, that you think she did it?"

  He shook his head as he reached for a croissant. "Not at all, Caro. What I'm saying is this: I think that the killer has his—or her—sights on Layla. With her constant presence at the resort, an unhinged mind might assume she saw something, whether she did or not." He held out his hand for the honey. "The killer thinks she knows more than she does and has probably kidnapped her. Or worse," he added, taking a bite of the buttery bread. "This is delicious. We need to get the recipe for Candy."

  Candy owned the bakery in our small town, Candy's Sweet Treats. I didn't think she'd appreciate being told that someone else's baking was better than hers.

  "If Layla didn't do it, and I certainly did not, that leaves Sam Connery and Clyde Van Heusen. And I think we need to discount Clyde anyway, Greg," I said as I reached for my coffee. "Isn't he always on air in the evening?"

  "I'd already considered that, my dear," said my spouse, hooking a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the paperwork on the desk. "And we can forget Sam as well. He didn't arrive until late that day and was with someone from the resort's events office fr
om then until dinner."

  I sank back in my chair, sipping my coffee, feeling completely flummoxed. If I still wanted to believe that Layla was innocent, then I had no idea who could have done it. Although it was possible, knowing Nona Belladonna's knack for putting everyone on the defensive, that anyone here at the resort could be culpable. I shook my head in annoyance. We were back at square one.

  "I did some more digging this morning, Caro," Greg went on, his voice unruffled. "There are a few others here who have as much right to dislike Ms. Belladonna as you did."

  I sat up straight. "Really? Tell me who, Greg!" Were there other writers here I hadn't been aware of?

  Greg forked another piece of perfectly cubed papaya into his mouth. And smiled.

  The figurative penny dropped.

  "Not Eduardo!" I exclaimed.

  Greg nodded his head. "Yes. I found a rather catty review of a recipe book that Eduardo was hawking on his cooking show." He forked another piece of fruit, then added, "And then there's Gustave Brennan, his sous chef. Apparently he had a guest appearance on Wolfgang Puck's show a few years ago and botched up his presentation as well as his host's name. He kept calling him 'Gordon' or 'Mr. Ramsay.'"

  I had to chuckle over Gustave's faux pas. I've made a fool of myself many times, so I felt a bit of empathy for the man. It was his current boss that I was more concerned about, however. Eduardo, Casa Del Mar's on-site chef, had once published a book of recipes garnered from his now-defunct cooking show. The majority of reviews were good, but trust Nona Belladonna's pen to drip so much poison that his ego was crushed; with one review—yes, just one, but that was enough—she'd managed to send Eduardo into hiding. Thankfully, he'd chosen to hide out at Casa Del Mar, much to the gastronomical delight of its visitors.