CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 10
Does Writing a Mystery Mean You Can Investigate a Mystery?
“Where’s Harper?” Oliver asks me as we pick our way over a path toward the maintenance building.
“She’s doing that glass-bottomed boat thing, I think.”
Oliver makes a face. “Didn’t I hear that Connor was going on that?”
“Not sure.”
“He was making all those Jacques Cousteau jokes at lunch?”
“Oh, right.”
I stop at a fork in the path. The undergrowth is fuller here, palm fronds growing into the path. One sign points toward the beach, and another says STAFF ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT in neat white lettering.
“This way,” I say, pointing toward the staff sign.
“Not even our first full day here, and we’re already breaking the rules,” Oliver says.
“I’d expect nothing less.” I shoot him a glance over my shoulder, grinning wide, and he grins back. “Why did you ask about Harper?”
“You won’t like it.”
“Tell me.”
“Are you sure everything is over between her and Connor?”
My heart starts hammering in my chest. “Um, yes.”
“So convincing.”
I push a low-lying branch out of my way. “What do you know?”
“Nothing specific, it’s just...I think I heard her on the phone with him the other day.”
“That doesn’t mean anything. She does have to talk to him about work sometimes.”
“This didn’t sound like work.”
“What did it sound like?”
“Honestly? Phone sex.”
I stop. “I think I just threw up in my mouth.”
“Sorry.”
“Are you sure?”
“They were talking about sex.”
“Oh my God.” I feel dizzy and seasick. Not a good combo.
“I shouldn’t have told you.”
“No, I’m glad you did.” I shake myself. Harper’s a grown-up. She can sleep with who she wants to. And she has been acting secretive recently. Around less, and lit up in a way that, now that I think about it, could indicate that she’s in a relationship. “I wish she’d told me.”
Oliver lifts his eyebrows. “Because you took it so well the last time.”
“Why does everyone in my life lie to me about who they’re dating?”
“I think you know the answer to that question.”
“Fine. FINE. Whatever. I can handle it.”
“You’re not jealous, are you?”
“What?”
“Excuse me, what are you doing here?”
I turn around. There’s a man in his mid-thirties in a pair of brown coveralls walking toward us. He looks like he works outdoors—his hands roughened, the ridge of a tan around the edge of his hat. His complexion is darkened by the sun, his black hair in an unruly mop that partially covers his eyes.
“We’re looking for José.”
“That’s me. But you can’t be back here. This is a staff-only area.”
“Yes, we know, but we need to talk to you.”
His eyes shift left, then right, but there’s no one here but us. “What about?”
“That electrical short that happened at the pools today.”
“That was...unfortunate. Thankfully no one was hurt.”
“Yes, that is good news, but was it unfortunate?”
He frowns. “I don’t get your meaning.”
“We have reason to believe that it might’ve been done deliberately.”
“Who is ‘we’?”
I point to me and Oliver.
“And who are you?”
“Oh, sorry. I’m Eleanor Dash and this is Oliver Forrest. We’re guests at the wedding that’s taking place tomorrow.”
“Are you the police?”
“No, we write detective fiction.”
“So I don’t have to answer your questions?”
“Why wouldn’t you want to answer them?” Oliver asks. “Do you have something to hide?”
“Of course not.”
“Well, then.”
José looks back and forth between us. “Are you doing research for your next book?”
“No,” I say. “Why do you ask that?”
“Because that other guy was here earlier asking the same thing.”
“What other guy?”
“He said his name was Inspector Tucci. He said it was research for a part.”
My heart sinks. We were beaten to the punch by an actor pretending to be a detective.
Of course we’re authors pretending to be detectives.
Is that better or worse?
“What did you tell him?”
“The wiring was loose and that’s what caused the short.”
“Could that have been done on purpose?”
“Impossible to say. The wiring is old and was on the maintenance list to be replaced.”
“Why didn’t you replace it, then?” Oliver asks.
“Management didn’t approve it. I’m sure they will now.” A phone beeps! in José’s pocket. “Is that all?”
“Who has access to the panel?”
“Anyone with keys. It’s locked.”
“It wasn’t locked this morning.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” José says. “The person who turned it on this morning likely simply forgot to lock it.”
“Who turned it on?”
He shifts uncomfortably.
“Was it you?”
“Yes, it was. But I didn’t notice anything out of sorts.”
“We’re not accusing you of anything,” Oliver says. “We just want to know what happened.”
“Where are the keys kept?” I ask. “Maybe someone tampered with the wiring yesterday.”
“I have a set. One is kept in the maintenance shed back there.” He points over his shoulder as his phone beeps! again.
“Do you need to get that?” I ask.
“I’m good.”
“Has anyone been in the shed who shouldn’t be?”
“Not that I’ve noticed.”
“And the extra keys?”
“Are right on the hook where they should be.”
“Is the hook labeled?” Oliver asks.
“Yes.”
“That’s not very secure,” I say.
Oliver puts a hand on my shoulder. “Thank you for your time, José.”
The radio on his hip crackles.
“You’re a popular man.”
He picks it up. “No rest for the wicked.”
He puts it to his ear and walks past us. I try to eavesdrop, but he’s speaking in rapid Spanish.
“What do you think?” Oliver asks.
“If someone wanted to get into the maintenance shed, it probably wouldn’t be that hard. And the panel was unlocked...so anyone could access it.”
“But they couldn’t count on that. More likely they had the key and forgot to lock it after themselves.”
“Right.”
Oliver’s eyes dance with interest. “You want to try to break into the shed?”
I step back in surprise. “Oliver Forrest, what’s gotten into you?”
“Better than being on a glass-bottomed boat with Connor Clouseau.”
“You mean Cousteau.”
“I said what I said.”
“Okay then, let’s go.”
I check over my shoulder for José, but he’s out of sight. We walk down the path, and after a minute we arrive at a white maintenance shed. It has a black shingled roof and is about twelve-by-twelve in size. Oliver tries the handle. It’s locked.
“You’re leaving fingerprints.”
“I don’t think anyone’s going to be dusting for prints. But I’ll wipe the handle down after if that will make you feel better.”
“It will.” I look at the lock. It’s a standard one, the kind that comes from Lowe’s or Home Depot on prefabricated doors. “What now?”
“We pick it.”
“You know how to do that?”
He winks at me and pulls out his wallet. He takes out a credit card and slips it into the crack, wiggling it into place. He fiddles for a moment, then turns the handle and the door opens. “Ta-da!”
“I’m impressed.”
He holds out his hand. “After you.”
I walk into the space as he snaps on the light. It looks like every maintenance shed I’ve ever been in, which isn’t many, but you get the idea. Tools on hooks on the wall, a workbench, leftover pieces of wood, a bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. Everything is tidy and tucked away where it should be. The air smells like sawdust and linseed oil.
“Here are the keys,” Oliver says, pointing to the farthest wall. There are twenty different keys on hooks, each labeled by a label maker.
“He’s organized, I’ll give him that.”
“I think he’d notice if one was missing. Seems like the type.”
“I agree.”
“Dead end, then?” Oliver says.
“Ugh, do not use that expression.”
“Sorry, sorry.” He taps me on the arm. “On a scale of one to panic, how worried are you?”
“Six? You?”
“I know there are no coincidences, but it would seem a bit cruel for us to be involved in back-to-back murder plots.”
“At least we’re not the target this time?”
He smiles. “You mean you’re not.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I loop my arms around his neck. “Watching you pick that lock was kind of hot.”
“What are you two doing in here?”
We spring apart.
José is standing in the doorway with his hands on his hips, a look of fury on his face.
“The door was open,” I say.
“It was not .”
“We’ll just be on our way,” Oliver says.
“I’m calling management.” José takes his radio off his hip.
“There’s no need to do that,” I say. “We haven’t done anything. We promise. We just wanted to see the keys for ourselves.”
He holds the radio to his ear, his eyes narrowed.
“What if I make it worth your while to forget you ever saw us in here?” Oliver says, reaching into his pocket. He takes out his wallet and removes a couple of hundreds.
José eyes them.
Oliver takes out a third.
José nods, and Oliver passes him the money, then grabs me by the arm and leads me back out into the sunlight.
When we hit the path, we start running, the palm fronds slapping our faces as we push them out of the way. The effort hurts my lungs and my calves, but it feels safer to run than to stop.
Life is like that sometimes.
You run away from danger.
But that doesn’t mean there aren’t monsters up ahead.