Rebel Island (Tres Navarre #7)

Rebel Island (Tres Navarre #7) Page 6

“That,” I said, “is a distinct possibility. At any rate, whoever shot Longoria is stuck on this island until the storm passes, and we have no way to contact the mainland.”

“That’s whacked,” declared the college kid, which I thought covered the situation pretty well.

“Has anyone seen Chris?” I asked. “Chris—What’s his last name?”

“Stowall,” Alex answered miserably. “Chris Stowall.”

“The manager?” Mr. Lindy asked.

“Yeah,” the college guy said. “That freak who told us to turn down our music.”

“We need to find him,” I said. “He checked Longoria in. He may have some answers. Who saw him last?”

The blond lady developed a sudden interest in her pillowcase.

“We’ll find him,” the college guy said. “Beats sitting here.”

“Don’t go anywhere alone,” I said. “And don’t try to go outside.”

“Yes, mother.” The guy nodded to his friends and they headed off. The shaggy-haired Latino kid looked a little nervous about it, but the big bald dude put a hand on his back and kept him moving.

Mr. Lindy spread his arms across the couch. “So, Mr. Navarre. What do you suggest we do now?”

“Stay in here, together, as much as possible. If anyone has to go somewhere, go with someone else.”

“Hell, little bro, we don’t need bathroom buddies,” Garrett grumbled. “We’re grown-ups.”

It was the first time I’d ever heard my brother claim to be a grown-up, which in itself was pretty disturbing.

“The killer has no place to go,” I told him. “At least not until the storm passes. Cornered people tend to be desperate.”

The maid raised her hand. “Señor, where could this man hide? It is a big house, but—”

“We could search it,” Alex suggested, a glimmer of new hope in his eyes. “Me and the staff. I bet we won’t find anybody. Then we can all rest easier.”

I thought about that. I didn’t like the idea of more people roaming around the hotel. Then again, I didn’t like the idea of spending the night in the parlor, either.

“All right,” I told Alex. “Why don’t you and your staff, Jose and—”

“Imelda,” the maid provided.

“Imelda,” I said. “Why don’t the three of you search. Alex, you have any kind of weapon?”

“Here,” Lindy said, and offered his .45.

Alex didn’t look too happy about it, but he took the gun.

“You know how to use that, son?” Lindy asked.

Alex nodded. “I was in the army, but…”

Whatever he was thinking, he didn’t say it. He nodded at Jose and Imelda, who followed him out.

“Well, ain’t this cozy?” Garrett winked at the blond lady. “You mind being my bathroom buddy, darling?”

The blond lady squeezed her eyes shut, like she was hoping we’d all disappear. When we didn’t, she grabbed her pillow and ran out of the room.

Garrett’s smile dissolved. “Aw, hell, I didn’t mean—”

“I’ll go after her,” Maia said.

“No,” I said. “I’ll do it.”

Maia raised her eyebrows.

“Please,” I said. “Just…I’d rather you and Garrett stay where it’s safe.”

Maia muttered something in Chinese, probably a curse on her overprotective husband. “Fine. If I start labor, I’ll just have Garrett help me out.”

“Now wait a minute, sister,” Garrett protested.

I was about to go search for the blond lady when Mr. Lindy said, “Mr. Navarre?”

“Sir?” The sir came automatically—South Texas breeding. Something about the old man brought it out in me.

“You failed to mention the most obvious place for this murderer to hide,” he said. His eyes were frosty blue. “Right here. As one of the guests. How do we know it’s not one of us?”

The blond lady was sitting in the empty dining room.

A row of five tables with white linen cloths ran down the middle of the room. In the dark, they reminded me of gurneys in a morgue. Damaged windows were covered with tarps and hastily hammered boards, but rain leaked in the edges, soaking the carpet. The floor was strewn with silverware and overturned flower vases.

I sat down across from the lady.

“Tough night,” I said.

She brushed a carnation off the table. “Tough year.”

“What’s your name?”

“Lane.”

“That your first or last name?”

“First. Lane S—” She pursed her lips. “Lane Sanford.”

She was younger than I’d first thought: in her late twenties, pretty the way a sun-bleached cotton dress is pretty—comfortably worn, slightly faded. The roots of her hair were ginger brown.

“Okay, Lane. The thing is, we should be sticking together. I’m a little worried about you.”

She hugged her arms. “A little worried…”

“You’re staying alone at the hotel?”

“I thought I was alone.”

“I heard you talking to Chris and the maid this afternoon. Something about your ex?”

“I tried to warn them. Bobby will do anything. He’s been tracking me and…” She started breathing shallowly. “And that marshal who was shot—”

“Lane, I want you to take a deep breath and hold it.”

She gave me a desperate watery look, but she tried to hold her breath.

“Good,” I said. “Now let it out slowly, and tell me about your ex.”

She exhaled. “You don’t understand. You don’t know him.”

“Do you have any evidence your ex is here? Have you seen him?”

“I…No, but—”

“Was there some reason he would’ve targeted Longoria?”

“Longoria?”

“The marshal who got shot.”

“I don’t…I don’t know. I told Chris I shouldn’t have come.”

“So the hotel manager, Chris…you know him personally?”

She stared at the boarded-up windows. “I told him I couldn’t run anymore. I’m so tired of hiding from what happened.”

“What do you mean?”

Before she could answer, the college guys came tromping into the room. “Yo, Navarro,” the redheaded guy said.

“Navarre,” I corrected.

“Whatever,” he said, but he wasn’t pulling off his angry-young-man routine very well. His face was ashen. His two friends looked queasy. “We, um, found something maybe you should see.”

In the back of the kitchen was a triple-wide stainless-steel refrigerator. The college kids—who strangely enough possessed names: Chase, Markie and Ty—had decided to raid it looking for snacks. They’d lost their appetites when they saw what was on the floor.

“You were all together?” I asked.

Chase, the redhead, glanced at his friends. “Well, we were kind of…not.” He nodded at the sickly-looking Latino kid. “Ty was throwing up.”

“Too much information,” I said. “And you two?”

“Markie was getting glasses from the cabinet over there,” Chase said. “I was gonna get the food. Then I saw that.”

“It’s blood, isn’t it?” Lane Sanford’s voice trembled.

“Chase,” I said, “you and your friends take Miss Sanford back to the parlor, please. Tell my wife…” My voice faltered.

I was used to relying on Maia’s opinion, but she already felt queasy. I couldn’t ask Maia to look at this. “On second thought, ask Mr. Lindy to come in here.”

I finally convinced Lane to go with the college guys, which left me alone, staring at the skid mark of red on the white tiles.

I didn’t hear Mr. Lindy come up behind me until he spoke. “Blood, all right,” he said. “Someone slipped in it. Partial shoeprint, there.”

I looked at the old man. “Are you retired law enforcement, Mr. Lindy?”

“Criminal lawyer. Thirty-seven years. I’ve seen my share of blood.”

His voice was as dry as a South Texas creek bed.

“Maybe this is from when they were moving Longoria’s body,” I said hopefully.

Lindy shook his head. “I stumbled across Chris Stowall and the cook, Jose, while they were doing that. I tried to convince them it, ah, wasn’t a good idea…but Mr. Stowall was not entirely rational. He insisted he couldn’t let the guests see the body. At any rate, the cellar where they took the body is around the corner there. They didn’t come through this way, and no one tracked blood as far as I could see. They used a plastic tarp.”

I crouched next to the red smear. Sure enough, the edge of a shoeprint was visible—a man’s shoe, I thought. Smooth sole, about a size 11. There were no other red prints on the floor, though, as if the man had slipped in blood, then taken his shoe off to avoid leaving a trail. But if that was the case, why had he left this stain?

“I don’t want to think this is someone else’s blood,” I said. “I mean, besides Longoria’s.”

Lindy’s eyes glinted. “Mr. Huff said you’d retired from private investigations. I take it you’ve dealt with murders before?”

Had I dealt with murders? Under different circumstances, I might’ve laughed. “Yes, sir. A few.”

“And you knew Marshal Longoria?”

I wondered if Lindy was grilling me. I suspected he was the kind of lawyer who could set his victims at ease, then work out a confession before they realized what had happened.

“I knew him,” I admitted. “And I don’t want anything to do with solving his murder. You’ve got more experience than I do.”

The old man shook his head. “Until the police can be called, you do what you think is best, son. I’ll back you up. The others looked to you naturally, you know. There was no doubt that you would be in charge.”

“Thanks a lot,” I said. “And now we have a bloodstain along with a dead body. How am I doing so far?”

Lindy patted my shoulder. “You go find that wife of yours, try to relax a little. Lock your bedroom door. I’ll call you if anything else happens.”

“We should all stay together.”

Lindy smiled. “Too late for that, son. These people are not the types that stay together well. Now, go salvage what you can of the first night of your honeymoon. I’ll get my gun back from Alex Huff. I’m increasingly beginning to wonder if I will need it.”

8

Imelda watched nervously as Señor Huff ransacked the building. He muttered to himself, throwing open doors and clutching his borrowed gun. She had seen him in many moods, but never like this before.

“Where is he?” Señor Huff growled. He pulled sheets out of the linen closet and dumped them at Jose’s feet, then moved to the next guest room and kicked open the door. “Where is the bastard?”