“Lila care most about opinions of guests. That is what Lila care about.”

Susan sighed. She might as well try to help James. She certainly wasn’t helping anyone else. “I’ll go talk to her immediately.”

“But not tell her that I come see you,” Lourdes urged.

“Of course not.” Susan was fairly sure Lila’s image of her was so low that nothing could damage it-although she was also fairly sure Lila wouldn’t appreciate her butting into Compass Bay’s business.

“You go now. Before something stupid happen to James.”

“Yes. But will you do me a favor? Would you find out if anyone has seen my husband recently?”

“Yes. You do James favor. I do you favor.” Smiling broadly, Lourdes left the cottage.

“Well, no time like the present,” Susan informed her reflection in the wall mirror.

Lila was at the front desk flipping through some reservation forms. She looked up with a smile, which disappeared when she recognized Susan, only to be replaced immediately.

“Mrs. Henshaw. What can I do for you? I hope you’ve recovered from your ordeal. Perhaps you’ve reconsidered my offer and would like a massage?”

“I’m absolutely fine,” Susan said. “I wanted to tell you how wonderful James was when I discovered my kayak sinking. He didn’t waste a minute getting to me and bringing me back to land. He wanted me to get up in his kayak, but I thought it would be better if he just towed me behind. He was wonderful,” she repeated.

“Ah, well, many of our guests grow quite fond of James during their stay.”

“He must be quite a valuable employee,” Susan said.

“All our employees are valuable to us,” Lila said. Obviously she was losing interest in their conversation; she picked up the papers she had been sorting through when Susan entered the room. “Oh, Mrs. Henshaw, I almost forgot. There’s a message here for you. The call must have come in while you were out this morning.”

It was from Jed. “Still with Jerry. Everything okay. He says we don’t have to worry about Kathleen anymore. Repeat. Anymore.”

Susan frowned. “Thanks.”

“Everything okay?” Lila asked.

Susan suspected that the other woman had read the note before passing it on, so she merely nodded. She turned and then remembered the reason she was here. “You will give James my thanks for everything he did today, won’t you?”

“Of course. But you can tell him yourself, you know. Or leave him a note at the employees’ lounge.”

“Where is the employees’ lounge?”

“Right across the street. The little stucco building beside the parking lot.”

“Maybe I’ll do that,” Susan said, folding the piece of paper and sticking it in her pocket.

“Watch the traffic. There aren’t a lot of cars on the island, but there are even fewer safe, competent drivers.”

“Thanks for the warning.” Susan turned and left the office, walking across the large patio, under the bougainvillea-covered arch that formed the entry to Compass Bay. Taxis had picked her up and dropped her off here, but she hadn’t paid any real attention to the unpainted stucco building sitting in the middle of a dirt field on the other side of the street. Cautiously looking both ways down the deserted street, she headed toward the run-down building. A few of Compass Bay’s brightly colored chairs, broken-down and in disarray, sat around the building. French doors were open and Susan could see even more utilitarian furniture inside. She walked in.

The building was deserted. Rusting metal chairs stood about equally disreputable metal tables displaying the remains of a meal. A large mouse-Susan refused to think rat-scurried across the filthy floor. The place was a mess except for the large bulletin board hung on an unpainted wall. Messages, printed in heavy black marker on thick white paper, had been hung neatly. Curious, Susan wandered over close enough to read them.

The first was a listing of each cottage and its occupants. Under the names (first and last of each member of the party) was the check-in and checkout date, the guest’s hometown and state, and services that had been reserved. Susan noticed that the honeymooners were scheduled for sequential massages every other afternoon, as well as room service breakfast to be delivered daily-and promptly-at eleven A.M. Beside this order someone had written “KNOCK FIRST!!!!!!”

Moving even closer and squinting, she realized that each guest’s name had been annotated, and, some, judging from the variety of handwriting, by more than one person.

Next to the Henshaws’ cottage number and their names was written “neat & nice” then a couple of stars, and finally “detective wannabe.” Slightly insulted, Susan continued her perusal.

The Gordons were depicted by three amateurish sketches of skulls and crossbones and a lot of exclamation points. Susan frowned.

Joann and Martin weren’t well loved by the staff, she noted. “Pickie!” someone with minimal spelling skills had written. “Kayak 1-3 MWF” read another. “Slobs!” said yet another note.

Susan was intrigued by the note next to Veronica and Randy’s cottage: “Large pitcher of rum punch-no ice-room service at four P.M. each day-do not be late!” “Nothing else matters, man!” someone else had added. “One drink for my lady and one more for the road,” an apparent Sinatra fan had scrawled. It had been edited by another, turning it into “5 drinks for that lady and none for the road.” The final editing said, “That’s no lady, that’s his wife-STAY AWAY!”

Equally interesting was the complete lack of comment next to Ro and Burt’s cottage. Names. Dates. Nothing else.

But Rose Anderson also had nothing written by her name. Was that because there was nothing to say about the shy, timid woman, or had someone erased any notations-as Susan suspected had been done next to the Parkers’ names?

“Mrs. Henshaw. I understand you’ve been looking for me.”

Susan turned and discovered James leaning against the doorjamb, arms folded across his chest.

“Yes,” she answered. “I wanted to thank you for all you did today. And I have some questions.”

THIRTY-TWO

Jed was sitting in the bar, a large, untouched gin and tonic on the table before him. “If you’re not careful, the staff will be leaving notes in the staff lounge about your drinking habits,” his wife said, sitting down beside him.

“What?”

“It’s not important. Jed, I know where Kathleen is!”

“So do I. At home in Hancock. How do you know?”

“How do you know?” she asked at the same time.

“You first,” Jed urged.

“James told me. Apparently he’s related to the owner of the taxi company and knows the driver who took her to the airport.”

“Not surprising. That young man seems to know everyone on the island-and be related to at least half of them.”

“How do you know about Kathleen?”

“Frances Adams told me. Kathleen called her-”

“From Connecticut?”

“Yes, let me explain. Do you want a drink of your own?” he asked, as Susan picked up his glass and sipped.

“Yes, but that’s not important! Go on! Tell me everything!”

“There’s not a whole lot to tell. Kathleen called the embassy office this afternoon while I was with Jerry. She spoke to Frances Adams, who came down immediately and told us about the call.”

“Why did she take off?”

“Kathleen said she left Compass Bay and flew home to see if she could discover anything that would help Jerry.”

“And what did she find out?”

“Nothing. She told Frances Adams that the trip was a waste of time. And, of course, now she has another problem.”

“What?”

“The island police are not at all happy about her leaving. They’re threatening to arrest her if she returns to the island.”

“Can they do that?”

“Apparently so. At least, they can hold her, which is really the same thing. Frances suggested that she remain in Connecticut until this is all resolved.”