Vivian had berated herself for her recklessness, and yet, part of her didn’t regret the encounter. Still, as she knocked on Amal’s door, Vivian knew she wasn’t ready to spill her secrets to her best friend. Nine o’clock on a Sunday morning was too early for blunt, tough love.
“Amal?” Vivian put one of the mugs on a narrow console table positioned against the wall and then opened the door.
Amal wasn’t in her room.
The bright sun shone through the windows, illuminating the emptiness, made even more disappointing by the unmade bed.
More than a bit annoyed, Vivian took the coffee back to the kitchen, wondering where the hell Amal could be. Three sips of coffee later, Vivian abandoned the java, remembering the note from Amal Mr. Higginbottom had told her about, anxious to read it.
Changing from her pajama shorts and a camisole into khaki shorts and a camo-printed tank, Vivian tied her long, flowing braids back into a ponytail, shoved her feet into the pair of deck shoes she kept near the front door, and left the condo.
Vivian hurried along the winding path to the property manager’s office, curious about why Amal hadn’t called to check in with her. Vivian wasn’t her best friend’s keeper, but a quick text from Amal would have put Vivian’s mind at ease. Amal’s prolonged absence didn’t really upset her, though. Her best friend had pulled disappearing acts before, seeking various and sundry “vacation sex” experiences.
What bothered Vivian was Amal’s hookup with Landon George. Thinking of her best friend with the shifty crook worried Vivian; she couldn’t shake the apprehension.
The waiter seemed to be, at the most, a petty wannabe criminal, but was that just an act? Thinking back on her interview with Landon, she remembered thinking his protests of innocence weren’t just deceptive but deliberate. Like the African warlords she’d interrogated, the waiter had given her disinformation. She’d left the meeting with Landon feeling as though she’d been talking to the mastermind, not just a minion.
As she neared the property manager’s office, Vivian chided herself for worrying. Amal was savvy, clever, and tough. A badass boss bitch. She resided among the pampered elite in Palm Beach now, but Amal had survived, and thrived, in a tough urban neighborhood. Amal could take care of herself.
“Yes, I have the note right here,” said Mr. Higginbottom, after Vivian had entered his office and reminded him about his promise to find the note from Amal. Moving behind his desk, littered with papers, folders, brochures, and pamphlets, he put on a pair of glasses and began shuffling through the several small mounds.
“Here it is,” he announced, peering at the piece of paper he’d unearthed. “Oh, no, wait, this is not it. This is a note to remind myself to call my cousin’s neighbor, Mrs. White. Her godson works at the Purple Gecko, where they found the hit-and-run victim. Nasty business. Did you write that story?”
“No, I didn’t.” Vivian shook her head and then cleared her throat. “Mr. Higginbottom, you said you had the note from my friend. Can you please find it?”
“Oh, yes, of course,” said the man as he fished through his sea of haphazard papers and excavated another piece of paper, proclaiming it as the note from Amal. “Here you are!”
“Thanks,” Vivian mumbled, unable to mask her frustration as she read the note. “Mr. Higginbottom, this note is not from my friend.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“This note says: Met a great guy and we’re going on a sunset cruise. Don’t wait up. I’ll be back tomorrow for breakfast. Sally,” Vivian said, her frustration escalating to annoyance.
“Sally isn’t your friend?” Mr. Higginbottom asked, confusion in his owl-like eyes. “Are you sure? The beautiful girl with the long dark hair and gray eyes like a summer storm?”
“Amal’s eyes aren’t gray,” Vivian said, her disappointment giving way to a strange despair. “I don’t know anyone named Sally.”
“Neither do I,” said the office manager, shaking his head. “However, there is something I do know, or rather, something I remember!”
Not amused by the elder man’s befuddled temperament, Vivian asked, “What?”
“I remember your friend!” Mr. Higginbottom exclaimed. “She’s the lovely woman from Egypt, right?”
Vivian crossed her arms, irritated. “Did you talk to her?”
“I actually did more than that,” pronounced Mr. Higginbottom, with pride. “Your friend, if I remember correctly, and I do believe I am at the moment. Although, sometimes, my memory, which once was better than that of an elephant—”
“Mr. Higginbottom, please,” implored Vivian. “Tell me what happened with Amal.”
“Oh, yes, right! Well, you see,” began the property manager, somewhat conspiratorially, “your friend came to me needing assistance with calling a cab, and I told her that I would do no such thing! I informed her that I would be very offended if she didn’t allow me to drive her where she needed to go, and so—”
“Wait a minute,” Vivian said, holding up a hand to stop him. “You drove Amal somewhere?”
“Indeed I did,” said Mr. Higginbottom. “I was happy to do it because I was anxious to ask her questions about Egypt, which is one of the places my Martha has always dreamed of going, but your friend was very distracted and seemed preoccupied with her thoughts, so I wasn’t able to get much from her about the pyramids and ancient ruins and—”
“Where did you take Amal?” Vivian demanded.
“She requested that I drive her to the Palmchat Rides and Rentals,” said the property manager. “It’s a rental car company near downtown.”
Skeptical, Vivian asked, “What time was this?”
“Why, if I remember correctly, it was around ten o’clock,” said the older man.
“You took her to a rental car company at ten o’clock at night?” Vivian asked. “And the place was still open?”
“I believe it was,” he said, looking at
