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A Diabolical Discovery
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LUCAS WOULD HAVE BEEN happy to buy me another drink and continue talking, but I was mere chapters from finishing my latest novel, The Studly Cowboy’s Mail Order Bride. Dixon and Daphne, the aforementioned cowboy and his bride, were cornered by a gang of notorious outlaws, and Dixon had only two bullets left. All very exciting. I was sure my readers were going to love it.
When I first started writing, I’d decided thrillers were where it was at. Romantic ones, of course, but that was four years before the genre became popular, and my books didn’t sell. Plus, I might have had a flair for the melodramatic. Just a touch. After that, I’d tried just about every genre you can imagine: erotic romance, paranormal, contemporary. Nothing worked. And then I tried a historical romance with just a touch of over-the-top drama. It sold like proverbial hotcakes. And the rest, as they say, was history. My rabid readers couldn’t get enough of the bodice rippers I gleefully churned out. I love it. They loved it. It was sort of perfect. Sure, people looked down their noses and called my books “trash,” but I laughed all the way to the bank.
As I wove my way across the courtyard of the resort, perhaps a tiny bit tipsy from too much blackberry bourbon, my mind was completely focused on the next scene I would write. How was I going to get Dixon and Daphne out of their dreadful situation? I smirked a little as a couple of different options came to mind. Followed, naturally, by Daphne throwing herself at Dixon. I could see it all very clearly in my mind. Talk about steamy. My fingers itched for my keyboard.
Loud voices derailed my train of thought. Frowning, I glanced around the courtyard trying to find the culprits. When I caught sight of the shadowy figures beneath a small cluster of palm trees, I shook my head. Of course, Natasha Winters was right in the thick of it. She was yelling rather drunkenly at what looked like her almost-ex-husband, Jason. It was hard to tell what with the shadows, but he was the right height and build, and he had on the same color shirt I’d seen Jason wearing: that awful striped shirt, which suited his frame and complexion not at all.
“Listen, you nitwit,” Natasha snarled. “I am tired of financing you and your little floozy. I’m done.”
Oh, juicy. I knew Jason had cheated on Natasha. Everyone in the romance industry did. That was why their marriage broke up. Natasha had gone on a drunken social media rant. There’d even been pictures, though those had been taken down eventually. But plenty of screen shots of her meltdown remained. Most writers would probably end up with their careers in the toilet. Not Natasha. Her sales had skyrocketed. The bigger and crazier her rants, the more people gobbled up her books.
Of course, the ridiculous thing was that Natasha had been cheating on Jason for years. Everyone knew that, too. Or at least everyone who went to writer conventions. Natasha would always end up with some random waiter, bartender, or male stripper for the weekend. Somehow that was okay, but the minute Jason strayed, she was done. Frankly, if I were Jason, I’d have dumped her ages ago. Of course, there was the money to consider. From my understanding, Jason hadn’t worked at a regular job in years, thanks to Natasha’s income. For a while, that had been fine. Apparently, Natasha finally grew tired of Jason and his girlfriend sponging off of her. Couldn’t say I blamed Natasha.
Jason held up his hands, placating. “Listen, Tash—.”
“Don’t call me that. Don’t ever call me that,” she shrieked. I wished I could see her face. Still, my imagination sufficed. “Okay, fine. Geez, calm down. You’re making a scene.” He glanced around, but he didn’t see me, secreted as I was behind the corner of my building.
That really got her going. I won’t repeat the words that came out of her mouth. Let’s just say it would have made a sailor blush.
The gist of it was that Natasha was done paying and Jason was trying to change her mind. Part of me wanted to stay and listen to the argument. Kind of like a rubbernecking at an accident on the freeway. But Dixon and Daphne were calling, and who was I to ignore the call?
The elevator pinged, and the doors slid open. Right before I stepped inside, I heard Jason yell, “You owe me, Natasha. You do this and you’ll be sorry.”
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MY ROOM AT THE FAIRWINDS was more of a mini suite. The front room, next to the door, held two double beds with smushy pillow-top mattresses and perfectly pressed white cotton sheets. A short hall—the bathroom just off it—connected the bedroom to the front room. It was a nice bathroom. Nothing fancy, but it did have a rainfall showerhead and a very large tub. I decided I needed one in my own cottage back home. The rainfall showerhead, I mean. I already have a rather nice claw foot tub.
The front room contained a tiny kitchenette and sitting area to the right, and a dining table on the left. The wide glass doors opened up to the most amazing views of white sand beaches, the turquoise Gulf beyond. Breathtaking. And nothing like my own Pacific Ocean back home.
Unlike this stretch of Florida coast, Oregon sand was made of rocks, so it was dark, more tan-colored than white. Except on the sunniest days, the water tended toward a rich, stormy blue-gray. I missed it already. I loved the wildness of that rugged coast.
Still, the Gulf called to me. Suddenly the trials and tribulations of Dixon and Daphne couldn’t hold my interest. I needed a walk on that beach. Maybe clear my head a bit. Get over my annoyance with Natasha Winters and her nonsense so I could write.
Closing down my laptop, I threw on a pair of jeans capris, a thin t-shirt, and my flip-flops. I wrapped my long, dark brown hair into a bun—otherwise I’d end up with a rat’s nest— and tucked my cell phone in one pocket and my room card in the other. I quickly made my way to the elevator, across the courtyard, and out onto the beach.
The sand glowed softly beneath the nearly full moon, and the sound of the waves drowned out most everything else. They weren’t the loud booming crashes of the Pacific, but a softer, slower rush. Soothing.
Between me and the Gulf, rows of beach chairs huddled, dark shapes against the light sand. Two cabanas stood sentinel against the dark sky, their white canvas sides flapping slightly in the light breeze.
A breeze which in no way dispelled the oppressive humidity that lingered. According to the taxi driver on the way in from the airport, there had been a storm a couple days before. He’d assured Cheryl and me that the humidity would lift soon. I wasn’t holding my breath.
Wiping a light sheen of sweat from my brow, I strolled slowly across the firm sand, winding my way between the huddled shapes of folded-up lounge chairs. The cabanas were still up, which was unusual this late at night. Apparently whoever was responsible was having a lazy day. As I passed the cabanas, something caught the corner of my eye. With a frown I stopped, turning toward the second cabana. A dark shape was sprawled across the seat. Someone was inside.
I started to turn away, figuring it was a pair of lovers getting romantic in the moonlight. Couldn’t say I blamed them, except it was so darn humid the thought of touching another human being made me squidgy. Then I realized the shape wasn’t moving. Maybe someone had fallen asleep or passed out. I shook my head. Not my business.
But, of course, curiosity had always been my downfall, so I carefully picked my way across the sand and entered the cabana. It was so dark I couldn’t make out much of anything other than the person appeared to be a woman. She was on the slender side and wearing one of the white bathrobes the resort passed out to the better-paying guests. Her blond hair spilled across the white fabric of the cabana’s seating area as she lay prone on the lounge chair, her face turned slightly toward me, though I couldn’t make it out.
“Excuse me.” I cleared my throat. The woman didn’t move. I tried again. “Hello? Ma’am?” Still not a sound or flicker of movement.
One pale arm dangled from the couch. It was so still. Suddenly I had a really bad feeling.
Swallowing hard, I moved closer and reached down to touch that hand. Cold. Far too cold. Feeling a little queasy, I checked for a pulse like I’d seen people do in the movies. Of course, I had no idea what I was doing, so the action was pointless.
Then I saw it: the handle of a knife sticking out of her back, a dark stain spreading across the white robe. I swallowed hard. I should call the police.
I will, I assured myself. Just as soon as I see who it is.
I leaned over until I caught sight of her face. Holy crackers, it was Natasha Winters, and she was stone-cold dead.