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 receipt 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.

“We have a room number,” said Pen. “How about a visit instead? There’s simply nothing like the face-to-face interview.”

Gracie raced off to get dressed and ten minutes later they were standing in front of room 325. There was no answer to Sandy’s knock at the door.

“Now what?” Pen asked. “We seem to have reached an impasse.”

“They have to come back sometime soon,” Sandy said after using a house phone to verify that Mr. and Mrs. Anderson had not checked out.

“Well, it seems unproductive to sit outside this door, waiting them out. They could be on a sightseeing tour or having lunch followed by beach time … what if they don’t come back before dinner?”

“Come,” said Pen. “I have an idea.”

They rode the elevator down in silence and found the hotel’s main restaurant, an open-air place with beach views and a well-stocked bar. Pen walked up to the bartender.

“Might I have a hotel guest paged in here?” she asked.

He nodded. When she gave the name, the handsome man smiled. “I’ll save you the trouble. That’s Mr. and Mrs. Anderson over there, the table by the rock wall.”

Pen turned to the others with her hands spread. See there? Simple.