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Roman studied the water. “How much time has passed since you first saw the body?”
I’d completely lost track of time since I’d realized I was being shot at, so I glanced at my watch, then considered briefly. It was nearly one-thirty and my driver dropped me off at noon. “A half hour to forty-five minutes.”
“So the body couldn’t have been carried off by the tide.”
“No.”
Turning, Roman met my eyes directly. I could read nothing in his expression, I had no way of telling whether he believed me or not. Even with the cell phone, I wasn’t sure I would have believed myself.
Finally, he said, “The killer must have come back and cleaned up after himself.”
Relief streamed through me. Then I glanced around. “Maybe not entirely.” I rose and walked over to the spot where I’d seen the sand spurt up near the white cat. The image was indelibly imprinted on my mind. The sand was damp now. Squatting, I began to dig with my fingers. On the fifth scoop I found the bullet and held it up for Roman to see. “He missed this.”
Roman’s eyes narrowed as he strode toward me. “How did you know that was there?”
“He shot at the cat, too. One of them ricocheted off the rock. Then I saw the sand spurt up.”
Roman glanced up at the Castello, then grabbed my free hand and urged me toward the trees at the foot of the hill. Once we were in their shelter, he told me to sit down and then he sat down beside me. “Start at the beginning, Philly. And tell me everything.”
4
BY THE TIME we finally reached the Villa Prospero, my initial adrenaline rush at finding the body had faded, and I was beginning to react to the reality of the situation. Telling Roman what had happened had brought all the details vividly to my mind. Since we hadn’t talked on the climb back up to the villa, I’d had time to dwell on them.
A man was dead. And someone had disposed of his body. A bone-deep chill moved through me, and I shivered.
Roman turned to me immediately and took my arm. “Are you all right?”
I nodded. “Just a bit of a delayed reaction, I think.”
“You’re going to have to repeat the whole thing to the police.”
“I can do that.” I squared my shoulders in reaction to the concern I heard in his voice. “I’m a big girl, Roman.”
Miranda was at the registration desk and she looked up with a polite smile when we walked into the lobby. I noted again the combination of neatness and elegance in her appearance.
I knew from Aunt Cass and my father that Miranda was only in her early forties, but she looked even younger. She’d married early to Sandro Kostas, a man her parents had chosen for her so that she would have help running the hotel after they passed away. Kostas had left her a widow three years ago. Before his death, she’d spent most of her time seeing to the cuisine and keeping the books. Sandro had played the host. But it seemed to me as though Miranda was doing well as a hostess—she looked far more assured than she’d been earlier when Mr. Magellan had confronted her.
“Philly?” Her face brightened as she moved toward me and took both of my hands in hers. “Spiro’s daughter. You’re even prettier than your pictures. Welcome, welcome. It’s such a pleasure to have you here. I’m so sorry I didn’t greet you properly when you arrived. Demetria should have told me.”
“Don’t blame her—I told her not to. I wanted to walk on the beach and I ran into a white cat. Did she come back here?”
As she shook her head, a faint frown appeared on Miranda’s forehead. “That might have been Ariel. But I haven’t seen her at all today. She may have gone to look for my son, Alexi.”
Miranda turned to Roman then. “Demetria told me that you know my cousin Philly?”
Roman smiled at her. “I know her very well. I’m her brother Kit Angelis.” He held out a hand, and Miranda grasped it warmly, her face a mixture of surprise and delight.
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