hose and rinse down his equipment before stowing it. Lee hurried down to the cabin.
As he worked, Keith was startled to see that Brad had gotten in his dinghy and was motoring quickly away from his anchored boat.
He chose the direction away from Keith and his group, disappearing around the island.
He was gone for only a matter of minutes, back long before the Coast Guard cutter approached.
Brad hadn’t even turned on the dinghy’s motor, he thought. He had used the oars, but had moved with incredible haste.
Why?
The answer was obvious. To try to go unnoticed. And to get rid of something.
Or someone?
ON MONDAY BETH HAD BEEN hopeful, by Tuesday she had been mad, and on Wednesday she was morose, then angry again, this time with herself.
Keith Henson knew her name, where she came from and where she worked. She realized that she’d had it in her head that he was going to find her, that he was going to say he had to see her again, that he was as mesmerized, fascinated, and in love or lust with her as she was with him.
But obviously he hadn’t made any effort to locate her—she was simply too easy to find.
Every time the phone rang, she answered it eagerly, then was disappointed. Since she had come home, she realized, nothing had changed.
She still thought about two things: Keith Henson and the skull on the island.
She realized that she was becoming obsessive, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. Despite the fact that Ashley and Jake had been true to their word—they had taken her seriously and gotten a friend to order the Coast Guard to search the island—nothing had been discovered. She should have been happy—there had been no corpse on the island, no body parts.
But she couldn’t help wondering where the skull she had seen had been hidden, or whether at this point it had been removed entirely.
At home—and even at work—she had spent hours online, looking up everything she could find on the Monocos. There were pictures of them alongside their magnificent yacht. There was even an old photo of them—from perhaps fifteen years ago—when they’d been at her club. That meant some of the older members might have known them.
She’d also searched the name Keith Henson on the Internet. She found a dozen men of that name who had Web sites or were mentioned in articles.
He was not one of them.
She was thinking about both the island and Keith now, as usual, tapping a pencil idly on her desk, when there was a knock on her office door and George Berry, the current commodore of the club, poked his head in.
“Beth?”
“Hi, Commodore.”
“May I come in?”
“Of course, please do.”
He sat in the chair across from her. “I’ve been worrying about the Summer Sizzler.”
“Oh?” She smiled questioningly.
The Summer Sizzler was an annual event, and all new members were seriously encouraged to attend. It was an important date on the club’s social calendar. The food had to be the best. The entertainment was expected to be the same. And it was coming up in less than two weeks. She, along with the entertainment committee, had it well in hand.
“Chef Margolin has been working hard,” Beth assured the commodore, when he didn’t say anything further. “He hasn’t given me his final menu yet, but I’m willing to bet that once again, he’ll completely outdo himself.”
The commodore waved a hand in the air. He was a man in his early sixties, with a head of the most remarkable silver hair she’d ever seen. His wife had the exact shade. They both had twinkling blue eyes, and in Beth’s mind, they were adorable. They’d had no children, and for as long as she could remember, they had put their time and efforts into their various boats, charities and the club.
Like the Monocos, she found herself thinking.
“You are planning something very special, aren’t you?”
She arched her brows, looking at him. How special? The Summer Sizzler was like an end-of-the-season party—not as major as New Year’s, Christmas or the Grand Ball, when the new commodore was installed each year.
Special?
Of course, there was going to be a great menu. And she’d ordered torches, and wonderful light and flower arrangements for the outside bar area, hired a band….
“Really special,” Commodore Berry said insistently.
His concern gave her an idea. “I think you’re going to be very happy with my plan,” she told him.
“You do have a plan for something special?” he asked.
She saw no reason to tell him that her plan had just come to mind. “Give me a day or two, and I’ll lay it out for you, all right?”
“It’s going to be incredible, right?” He smiled anxiously. “It has to be, you know. I want to go down in history as the best commodore this club has ever had.”
“We’ll see to it,” she vowed.
As soon as he had left her office, she jumped up and headed for the stairs that led down to the first level, with the dining room and, beyond glass doors, the patio. Just a little while earlier, she had noticed a member she had been anxious to talk to—Manny Ortega.
Manny was in his sixties, just like the commodore. He was a fascinating man, who’d come over from Cuba in his teens—lying about his age in order to enter the States with a conga band. He had worked clubs all over Miami in his day.
She was certain he must have worked with Ted Monoco at some time in his life, and she was more than certain he knew the couple, because, according to an item in the paper, he had called the police about the Monocos, suggesting that they were missing.
“Hey, gorgeous,” he said to her as she approached his table. He was sitting, Cuban coffee in front of him, smoking and staring out at the different vessels in their berths.
Manny loved his Cuban cigars. He always had the real thing. She wasn’t at all sure how he got them, but she never asked.
“Hey, yourself,” she said. “And thank you. Can I join you?”
“Absolutely. What’s up? Need an aging drummer?”
She laughed. “You never know when I’ll take you up on that, Manny. Actually, I was curious. I happened to be reading some old newspapers the other day. Are you a good friend of the Monocos? Ted and Molly?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Have you heard anything from them?”
He shook his head slowly, his mouth
