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“WELL, THAT WAS CERTAINLY interesting,” Rosemary said with a grin. She’d kicked off her shoes and was settled comfortably in one of the armchairs in the suite’s sitting room. Vera had dispensed with the mixers and poured them each a generous glass of gin, which Rosemary sipped appreciatively. “We were hoping for some excitement to complement our relaxing holiday, so I suppose we ought to count the redoubtable Vivi Chevalier and her deplorable fiancé as such and consider it a success.”
Vera glared at her friend. “How dare you say that? It was like torture sitting there all evening watching her fawn all over your brother.” At Rosemary’s raised eyebrow, she hastened to add, “She’s engaged, and it’s simply not right.”
“Where did this sudden burst of propriety come from? Do you realize who you sound like? You sound exactly like me,” Rosemary said, grinning. “I believe we’ve experienced a reversal of roles.”
“You picked a fine time to broaden your ethical horizons, Rosie.”
“It isn’t as though I’m advocating her behavior, Vera. It’s simply not my problem. Nor yours. She won’t get anywhere with Freddie, not really,” Rosemary said wryly. “He merely likes to puff out his chest and act the big man. What he really wants is to settle down with a nice girl. Not too nice, mind you. He needs to be thoroughly entertained, and as yet no woman has been able to keep him on his toes. I suspect he’ll find someone before long.” She watched Vera’s face carefully but left the rest of her thoughts unsaid, merrily taking another drink.
Vera flopped into a chair, somehow managing not to spill a drop of gin, and sighed. “I suppose you’re right. It’s simply that, well, I was hoping for an evening with just the four of us. You know, like old times.”
“It’s only our second night on the island,” Rosemary reassured her. “I’m certain there will be plenty of intimate dinners with just the four of us over the next few weeks. To tell the truth, I’m surprised you feel that way. I assumed you’d be racking up flirting partners far faster than my fool of a brother. From what I’ve heard, the island doesn’t lack for eligibles, or for jazzy nightlife. What exactly is standing in your way?”
With another sigh, Vera threw her head back and stared at the ceiling before answering, “I think I’ve had enough of men for the time being.”
Rosemary nearly spat her drink onto the beautiful Persian rug. “Say that again, please. I want to remind you of it the next time you find yourself besotted by some tall drink of water with fire in his eye.”
“I’m restless, I suppose. Men are all the same, deep down. At least the ones who chase me. The men who follow you around have substance; the ones who come after me just see the pomp and circumstance. They never really try to get to know me. They treat me like I’m a piece of fluff, and that’s where it ends. Maybe I want more than that.”
It was more of an admission than Vera had ever made, and Rosemary felt as though something was coming down the pike for her friend. It was about time, in her opinion.
When the door slid open a crack to admit Anna, Vera burst out in surprise. “Well, where did you come from, then?” She’d have sworn the young maid was already tucked up in bed.
“Sorry, miss. I didn’t mean to disturb you. I was talking to some of the staff and lost track of time.” Red-faced, Anna bustled around the suite, putting things to rights. “It won’t happen again.”
“Nonsense, Anna. You’ve done nothing wrong, and there’s no need to scurry about as though you’re breaking curfew. You look better, I must say. The color is returning to your face.” In fact, there was a pretty flush to the girl’s cheeks, but Rosemary decided not to pry.
How long they stayed up talking, Rosemary couldn’t say, but when Vera’s eyelids began to droop and she begged off for bed, it must have been close to two o’clock in the morning. Rosemary wandered onto the balcony and noticed someone coming up the footpath from the beach. Squinting, she made out Mr. Wright’s bald head shining in the light of the moon. As she shivered in the cool breeze, she wondered what he’d been doing out and about but didn’t linger on the notion, as the insufferable man’s schedule was none of her concern.
Rosemary slept restlessly that night, her dreams interrupted by terrible visions. It had been this way since Frederick’s unfortunate arrest; during the day, she could control her thoughts, but under the cover of darkness, the horrors she’d seen combined with the pain of losing Andrew manifested in the form of nightmares.
After she had watched the bodies of her friends and family pile up behind her eyelids, she decided she’d had enough and rose from the comfort of her bed to pace around the suite. She opened the terrace door quietly, trying to avoid waking Anna or Vera, and stepped onto the cool flagstones. Amid a swath of pink and gold, the sun rose over the mountains until there was nothing but blue sky as far as the eye could see. The dreadful breeze from the evening before seemed a distant memory.
Deciding that the sand and sparkling water were too inviting to ignore, Rosemary dressed quickly and took the stairs to the first floor. By the time she arrived at the bottom, she regretted having declined the use of the lift. The sheen of sweat on the back of her neck made an early morning swim an even more desirable notion.
A half-loaded maid’s cart blocked the door to the reception area, trapping Rosemary in the stairwell. “Hello?” she called and jumped when her question was answered with a bloodcurdling scream.
Charlotte, the maid, stepped out from the storeroom situated down the corridor to the left of the stair landing, her eyes the size of dinner plates and her hair a disheveled mess. She looked as though she hadn’t got a wink of sleep the night before and hurried to smooth her wrinkled uniform when she realized who stood in the stairway. “Oh, I’m so sorry, miss—miss—” she stammered.
“It’s Rosemary—”
“Miss Rose, I’m so sorry. You startled me. I’m afraid I’m rather easily frightened,” Charlotte explained.
“It’s all right,” Rosemary replied once her heartbeat returned to its normal rhythm. “I just needed to get past your cart.” She gestured towards the front reception area, sending Charlotte into another round of apologies. Rosemary suppressed the urge to roll her eyes up towards the heavens and reassured the girl a second time, then was nearly bowled over when someone attempted to shove past her.
“Charlotte, what on earth is going on? Why are you screaming like a banshee?” Gloria admonished. “We have guests, you know.”
“It’s my fault,” Rosemary explained. “I startled her is all.”
“Well,” Gloria said, looking up and down the corridor, “I’d say you’d better get back to work before her strictness—I mean Miss DeVant—shows up to pin your ears back for you.”
If Rosemary hadn’t liked Gloria much before, she certainly didn’t care for her now after hearing her talk about her superior in such a manner in front of a guest, and particularly after Cecily had been so kind to her the evening before. The red tinge that rose to Gloria’s cheeks when she realized the gaffe did little to alleviate Rosemary’s irritation.
Rosemary ducked out and Gloria followed, Charlotte’s tittering still echoing behind her.
“Drat,” she said out loud as she stepped outside onto the flagstone footpath that led directly to the beach. “I forgot to bring a towel. And now I’m talking to myself.” Rosemary wondered if a dip in the sea was worth the trouble of returning to her room, and then realized she didn’t have to go that far after all.
She retraced her steps to where Charlotte stocked her cart, and this time made certain not to startle her. “I’m looking for a towel,” she said gently, frowning when she realized the cart was filled with sheets instead.
“The cupboard on the other side of the stairwell has towels,” Charlotte explained and tried to maneuver around the cart that was blocking her into the storeroom. Rosemary now understood why she’d placed it at the bottom of the stairs.
“I can help myself if that’s all right,” she told the girl, who nodded gratefully.
“Of course, take as many as you need. Reach up, and you’ll find the cord for the light.”
Rosemary pulled open the door Charlotte had indicated and took a step forward, her arm reaching high for the cord. Her foot knocked into something on her way, and when the light came on, Rosemary thought for a long, drawn-out second that she was still trapped in one of her nightmares.
There, dead on the floor in a pool of blood, lay the unmistakable figure of Cecily DeVant. Tears sprang to Rosemary’s eyes, and her hand fluttered to her mouth, as much in shock as to keep herself from heaving. An ear-piercing scream erupted from her throat.
Out in the corridor, Charlotte struggled with the cart but wasn’t able to break free before Gloria arrived on the scene, her brows drawn down in consternation.
“For the love of all that is good and holy, Charlotte,” she snapped as she rounded the corner, “what on earth—” she broke off her diatribe when she realized it wasn’t Charlotte but rather Rosemary screaming, then rushed towards the cupboard door.
“Oh—oh—oh no!” she wailed into the silence left when Rosemary abruptly quieted. “Stay back, Char. Go out to the lobby. Ring for the police.”
Later, Rosemary would appreciate the efficiency with which Gloria handled the situation, but right then all she could do was sob. Cecily wasn’t the first murder victim she’d ever seen—and it was clear as day that this was indeed murder—but it was the first time she’d actually had affection for the body she’d happened upon.
“She’s dead, isn’t she?” Gloria asked, her voice flat and devoid of emotion.
“Yes,” Rosemary said after a long pause. “She’s most certainly dead.” From somewhere deep down, she summoned the strength to examine Cecily not as a friend but as an investigator. She knew the scene would be, as all the others were, permanently seared into her memory, and she wanted to ensure she didn’t miss what might turn out to be a vital clue.
Spatters of blood colored the stacks of stark white towels a macabre crimson, which meant the crime had been committed here, in the storeroom. Judging by the angle, Cecily had been kneeling down when she was struck on the back of the head. The only other sign of trauma was a shallow scratch on Cecily’s forehead.
Rosemary had already ruled out the possibility that the death had been an accident, but the site of the wound clinched it. That, and the fact that whatever weapon had struck the fatal blow was nowhere to be seen. She looked for blood on the corners of each shelf just to ensure it couldn’t have been an unfortunate accident but found none.
Once satisfied, and with a sorrowful glance at Cecily’s unusual face, she turned and walked slowly through the door, across the lobby, and into the bathroom where she finally allowed herself to break down. Sobs turned to dry heaves from her empty stomach, and the pounding in her head hammered up a decibel until it was deafening. So deafening she didn’t realize someone was pounding on the door.
“Just a minute,” Rosemary called, attempting to keep her voice even. She rose and splashed water on her face in a vain attempt at cleaning herself up before opening the door. She had never been so glad to see Vera’s face in all her life and allowed herself to be gathered into her friend’s outstretched arms.
“Are you all right? That receptionist called up to the suite and told me what happened. Fred and Des are on their way down. I told Anna to stay behind. She doesn’t need to be involved in this,” Vera said, her voice shaking. She’d wanted to ask straightaway what had happened, but since a part of her didn’t really want to know, she waited until Rosemary had collected herself.
“You’re quite right about Anna,” Rosemary agreed. “It’s Cecily. She’s been killed.” It was all she could say, and it was enough.
Vera turned pale. “Oh no. Murdered?”
“Yes, I’m positive.”
“Then, we’ll have to take the case, won’t we?”
Rosemary sighed. “I highly doubt the local police will appreciate a couple of women butting into their work, regardless of how successful we’ve been in the past. However, Cecily was my mother’s dearest friend—and after meeting her, I’ve developed a soft spot for her as well. If there’s anything we can do, of course, we will. Let’s just keep quiet about this. I certainly hope Frederick hasn’t been bragging about our involvement in murder investigations.”
“I have not as yet been provided with the opportunity to brag overmuch about anything, dear sister.” Frederick’s voice was low in Rosemary’s ear, and she felt his hand wrap protectively over her shoulder. She turned and buried her head in his chest.
“It’s Cecily,” she said again, wishing it weren’t true.
Her brother swallowed hard and cursed but didn’t let her go. “I’m sorry, Rosie. Truly. Now, what are we going to do about it?”
“I’m so sorry, too, Rose.” Desmond finally spoke from where his arm was wrapped around Vera’s shoulders in a similarly comforting fashion. She was already sick of hearing those words but appreciated the effort just the same. “You’ve suffered quite a shock. Why don’t we take you back to your suite?” he suggested gently.
Rosemary pushed away from Frederick and shook her head. “No, not yet. I’ll have to talk with the police, and I want to check on Charlotte.”
She wanted to do more than that; she wanted to observe the reactions of the rest of the staff because it seemed to her that one of them would be the most likely culprit. Often, the murderer couldn’t help but show up at the scene of the crime, likely from the need to watch the proceedings whether with vile pleasure or in an attempt to allay suspicion. “The girl would have found the body herself if I hadn’t been there. I believe the towel cupboard was her next stop.”
“You don’t think that young little maid could have killed Cecily, do you?” Vera asked in a high-pitched, incredulous tone.
Rosemary shook her head. “No, not really. However, I honestly couldn’t say what she’s capable of. If she didn’t do it, she’s suffered quite a shock. Charlotte wasn’t the only one of the staff who had reason to resent Cecily’s iron fist, that’s for certain.”
And while Rosemary did suspect that whoever had killed Cecily likely worked at the Aphrodite, she couldn’t help but remember the look of sheer loathing on Geneviève’s face the night before.
