“Things are different now, and Cochburn is within his legal rights to take in tenants.” Andres’s will had stated that if anything happened to him, Alma Garcia and Carlos could live on the island rent free for the rest of their lives.
It was a generous provision, the trust set up with a close attorney friend who’d let the señora and Carlos live on the island without the bother of tourists. But he had retired, and his son who took over the business had no allegiance to Andres.
Renting to tourists had been his idea, but when it failed to bring in the dollars he’d hoped for, he’d let the villa and the island fall even further into ruin.
“Are you on Cochburn’s side now?” Alma demanded.
“I’m not on anyone’s side. I just don’t see the point of worrying over every tenant who comes to the island.”
“How can you say that after the disasters we’ve had? Undercover cops. Women on the run. Investigative reporters.”
“Jaci appears to be harmless.”
“She was out on the beach last night after midnight, Carlos. I saw her.”
“It was a nice night.”
“I want her off the island. Either you take care of it or I will.”
He grasped the señora’s left hand, then tilted her chin with his other thumb so that she had to look into his eyes. “I’ll handle Jaci if she needs handling. You must leave this to me. Do you understand?”
“Then get rid of her. Get rid of Raoul, too.”
“Soon enough. For now, you should take it easy and stay out of the sun.”
“Andres doesn’t want strangers on his island.”
Carlos shoved his hands into his pockets and backed from the room. His promise to take care of things was empty. The thing that needed the most care was the señora, and he had no idea how to reach a woman who’d kept breathing but stopped living thirty years ago.
JACI STARED OUT THE WINDOW into the growing darkness. She’d dined on crabmeat omelet and toast at seven, and she was still feeling stuffed. She’d work another hour or two, then take a long walk in the moonlight before turning in.
Pulling her feet into the overstuffed chair, she rummaged through the stack of old newspaper reports until she found the article on the accidental drowning of Andres Santiago’s only son. The boy had been four years old, but reportedly a good swimmer.
The investigation had been less than what would be routinely expected in a drowning of that sort. Two cops had come over from Everglades City. They’d questioned the child’s stepmother, Medina Santiago, and apparently bought her story that the boy, who was just getting over measles had been weaker than usual and must have passed out while swimming in the deep end of the pool.
A notation at the end of the report said that the nanny, Alma Garcia, had discovered the body, and that Andres Santiago had not been home at the time of the drowning.
Jaci was certain the investigating cops would have known Santiago was a powerful drug smuggler, one who outsmarted them at every turn. They’d never been able to curtail his operations, much less stop them. Was that why they’d exerted so little energy on investigating the son’s drowning, or the later disappearance of the rest of the family?
Leaving her notes, Jaci crossed the room and grabbed her navy jacket from the back of a wicker chair where she’d left it. The wind always seemed to pick up when the sun went down. She started toward the pool, but stopped when she caught sight of Alma slipping through the courtyard gate in a flowing white dress.
Jaci hurried to the gate and followed at a distance. The woman’s bare feet seemed almost to float across the sand, and her skirt caught the wind, billowing about her legs. She didn’t stop until she reached the water’s edge.
Jaci thought at first she was going to walk right into the surf, but instead she began to twirl like a ballerina, gliding over the sand, laughing as if she were listening to a private and very humorous conversation.
Jaci continued to watch, hypnotized by the graceful movements and the silver streaks of moonlight that illuminated the lone figure. Watching Alma now, it was difficult to believe she was the same white-haired woman who stared from the third-floor window.
The twirling stopped as suddenly as it began, and Alma stood very still, her arms open as if she were waiting for a lover to step into them. Perhaps this was some kind of ritual, Jaci decided, or maybe Alma Garcia had experienced the isolation of Cape Diablo for too many years.
And then the lover arrived, albeit invisible. When Alma began to dance again, it was a waltz, and it was clear she was dancing with an imaginary partner.
The mesmerizing scene was sweetly romantic, yet somehow disturbing at the same time. In fact, Jaci had the uneasy feeling that someone was watching her watching Alma.
She scanned the beach, but didn’t see any sign of Carlos, and the three of them were the only people on the island.
She turned away from Alma and walked back to the courtyard. Her mind still on the older woman and her bizarre dance, Jaci walked to the edge of the pool and stared into the murky water.
It hit her again how strange it was that the nanny, who’d once found the body of a boy she was paid to tend floating in this very pool, still lived here. In the same house where the Santiago daughters who’d been in her care had lived before the bloody night they’d disappeared with their parents, never to be heard from again.
Jaci shivered. And then she saw a new shadow mingling with hers, one that she was certain did not belong to Carlos or Alma Garcia.
Chapter Three
Startled, Jaci stared accusingly at the man who’d appeared from nowhere. “Who are you?”
“Sorry if I frightened you. My name’s Raoul, and you must be Jaci.”
“How do you know that?”
“Took a wild guess.”
“That’s not funny.”
“Carlos said there was a woman named Jaci staying in one of the pool house apartments. He failed to warn me you were territorial.”
Okay, so she’d come on a little strong. Still… “You could have let me know you’d walked up behind me.”
“I wasn’t exactly tiptoeing around. You were just so fascinated by whatever you were staring at, you didn’t hear me. Besides, the courtyard is a common area, or at least it used to be.”
“It still is,” she said, feeling unjustly chastened. “But I thought I was the only tenant on the island.”
“Technically, you are. I’m here visiting my uncle— Carlos.”
For some reason, she’d assumed Carlos Lazario had no relatives, probably because none had ever been mentioned in the police or newspaper reports. Which was why a good criminologist could never trust assumptions.
“So now that I’ve established I’m not a pirate from the high seas here to rape and plunder, why don’t we start over?” The stranger stepped closer and extended his right hand. “Pleased to meet you, Jaci.”
She shook it, more amiable now that she knew he was Carlos’s nephew. Maybe befriending Raoul would be the way into the old man’s heart, or more specifically, into his boathouse and villa.
It was hard to tell much about Raoul’s features in the dim courtyard lighting, but she did note a slight resemblance to Carlos. Something about the mouth and the shape of the eyes, she thought. But Raoul was much younger, thirty something, she’d guess. And way sexier.
“It’s a nice night,” he said, “cooler than this afternoon.”