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 downcast. “Not a word.”
“Do you think something happened to them?”
“Well, I did. But the police told me the other day that their yacht had been spotted, so I guess I have to respect their right to privacy. Seems odd, though. They’ve always kept in touch with me before.”
“It does seem odd. Do you know who actually saw their boat?” she asked.
He tapped his cigar, studying the smoke. Then he looked at her. “Is there a reason you’re asking all this?”
“Oh, we just came back from Calliope Key, and it made me start thinking.”
Manny lifted his hands in a fatalistic gesture. “Who knows about people? They tell me that Ted and Molly can do what they want, that they are adults. So...did I offend them somehow? I don’t know. Could they show up tomorrow? I suppose.”
“But...don’t they have bills to pay and stuff? Taxes?”
“Everything is done automatically from Ted’s accounts. He set it up when they started planning to sail around the world. I just hadn’t realized he was planning on closing the door on old friends.”
“So no one has talked to them?”
He looked upset, and she wondered if she was treading on dangerous ground. Manny’s feelings had evidently been hurt. He might have started off worried, but whatever the police had said to him must have made him believe that his old friends just didn’t care anymore.
She leaned forward. “It doesn’t sound like the Monocos to me,” she said.
He arched a brow. “You knew them?”
“No, but...they were—or are—nice people, right?”
“The best,” Manny agreed.
“Then it doesn’t seem right.”
“No, it does not seem right. But it is...what is.” He stood and stretched. He was a man of about five-nine, compact and wiry, his features weathered. He set a hand on her head. “You’re a sweet person. Kind to worry, but don’t. It will do nothing but frustrate you, I promise.”
But they were your friends, she longed to remind him. She managed not to say anything, in the interest of remaining employed.
She nodded, then, on a whim, asked, “Manny, have you ever met a man named Keith Henson?”
He frowned. “I do seem to recognize the name. In what context, I’m not sure. I don’t think I’ve ever met him, but the name rings a bell.” She waited, he frowned. After a minute, he shook his head again.
“How about Lee Gomez?”
“Hey...this is Miami. I know dozens of Gomezes.”
“But a Lee?”
Again he shook his head.
“Matt Albright?”
“No...can’t say I know that name.”
“How about Sandy Allison or Brad Shaw?”
He stared at her, frowning and took a puff of his cigar. “What is this today, Beth? Twenty Questions? All these names? There are three million people living here.”
She flushed. “They’re just people we met on the island.”
“Honey, people have been going to that island for centuries. Lots of them. From all over.”
“I know. But the name Keith Henson rings some kind of bell?”
“Yeah. But I don’t know what.”
“Thanks, Manny,” she murmured. “Sorry for bugging you.”
“I have to go, big date this afternoon,” he said. She had always thought of him as a dapper man, rather an old-fashioned word, but one that fit him. He inclined his head toward her. “Thank you for the lovely company, Beth. See you later.”
“Oh, Manny, I’m sorry. One more question. A man named Eduardo Shea bought the studios from the Monocos. Do you know
