“Why would he do that?” Cheryl asked.
I shrugged. “Who knows?”
“Can I see it?” Lucas asked.
I pulled the silver bracelet from my handbag and gave it to him. “There’s an etching on the back, but it’s hard to see.”
He held it up to the light, frowning slightly as he inspected the inside of the jewelry. “Yes, I see it. It’s well worn, but I am fairly certain the first letter is an ‘A.’ The second is almost impossible to make out. ‘C’ maybe? I can’t really tell.”
He handed the bracelet back. It was my turn to hold it up to the light and squint at it. He was right. It was impossible to make out the second letter. Not that the initials would help much. There must be a hundred women at the Fairwinds Resort whose names began with the letter “A.”
Still, it was interesting. I needed to find out if Kyle knew a woman with an “A” name. I was still certain he’d recognized it. I’d half expected it to be Natasha’s, but there was no way she’d have worn something with another woman’s initials. She just didn’t roll that way.
Lucas leaned forward. “Penny for your thoughts.”
I smiled smugly. “Oh, believe me, they’re worth a whole lot more than that.”
He raised one black eyebrow. “A dollar?”
I snorted with amusement as I waved the waiter over to pay. I started to pull out my keycard to charge my room when Lucas waved me off. “My treat.”
“Thank you.”
He nodded graciously.
I smirked. “But I’m still not telling you.”
Chapter 8
The Mysterious Newcomer
THE NEXT MORNING I put in a call for Detective Costa. Reluctantly, mind you. Costa’s suspiciousness freaked me out, and I’d yet to find any proof to clear my and Cheryl’s names. But I’d seen crime shows on TV. I knew what happened when you withheld important information from the police, and I did not want to end up on the six o’clock news wearing handcuffs. I’d be getting a call from my mother for sure.
The desk sergeant put me through to Costa’s cell phone, which surprised me. I wasn’t sure that was a good thing. More like “this chick is a suspect and I’m waiting for her to confess” sort of thing.
“Go for Costa.” His voice boomed through the tiny speaker.
Rather brusque way to answer the phone, don’t you think? “Uh, this is Viola Roberts.”
The pause was a little lengthier than I would have liked. “How can I help you, Ms. Roberts?”
Oh, so smooth. I cleared my throat. “I have some information you might find interesting.”
Another brief pause. “I’m on my way.”
“Wait—” But he’d already hung up. Doggonnit. Where was I supposed to meet him? Was he coming to my room? I stared down at myself. I was still in pajamas, no makeup, and my hair was a mess. I hadn’t had a shower either. I sniffed my armpit. Ew.
It wasn’t unusual for me to skip a day of showering when on a deadline, but this was not such a time. Exposing the world, or even Costa, to my unwashed self was not on the agenda.
There wasn’t time for a proper shower, so I did a spit-bath thing, swiped on some deodorant, and ran a comb through my hair before smushing in some pomade. Not much of an improvement, but there was no help for it. I was debating my outfit for the day when someone banged on the door. My stomach heaved with dread. Sure enough, standing on the other side of the peephole was Detective Hottie, and he looked good enough to eat. Naturally, I looked like I’d been caught in a tornado.
“Give me a second,” I called through the closed door.
“Make it snappy.”
I rolled my eyes, but did as he ordered. I whipped off my pajamas and threw on a pair of navy blue capris and a hot-pink t-shirt.
With a sigh, I threw open the door and forced a cheery smile. “Detective. How nice to see you. Come in.”
He was wearing the same rumpled suit he’d worn the first time I met him. At least I assumed it was the same one. It looked the same. He followed me past the messy bedroom and into the living area. “Would you like some coffee?” Cops drink coffee, right? That isn’t just a movie thing?
“Thank you. No.”
“Well, I need some,” I said, busying myself with preparing my morning beverage. Actually, what I needed was some hard liquor, but it was way too early for that. “Have a seat.” I waved to the couch.
“Thanks, but I’ll stand.”
“Suit yourself. How can I help you?”
“You called me, remember?”
Oh, right. “Of course.” I grabbed the French vanilla creamer from the fridge and poured a generous dollop into a mug. “I overheard a conversation last night I thought you’d find of interest.”
One black eyebrow went up, but he remained silent. Great. He wasn’t going to make this easy on me.
“I was at the Flying Fish Grill with some friends last night, and I saw two of your suspects arguing with each other.”
“How do you know they’re my suspects?” he asked, giving me a bland look.
I barely refrained from giving him an eye roll. “Because if they’re not, you’re not very good at your job.” It came out a little more snarky than I intended.
His lips quirked. Hopefully in amusement. I could use some goodwill right about now. “Go on.”
“I assume you’ve questioned Natasha’s editor, Yvonne Kitterage? And her current personal assistant, Greta?”
He didn’t give any indication he’d done so. Just stared at me with gimlet eyes. Man, he was disconcerting.
“Well,” I tried not to squirm, instead splashing dark liquid into my mug. I took a long swallow. Nirvana. “They were at the Flying Fish, and they were arguing about something.”
“What were they arguing about?”
“Er, well, it wasn’t very clear. First Greta said, ‘It wasn’t my idea.’ And then she said something about Yvonne being the one who got her into ‘this’ —whatever ‘this’ was—and that she wasn’t going down for it. Then
