“Welcome to Cape Diablo.”

The man’s tone didn’t match his words.

“Thanks. I’m Jaci Matlock, the new tenant.”

“Yeah, I know.”

So this was the caretaker. He didn’t look that bad for a recluse who’d spent half his life on a secluded island. He was as unfriendly as she’d expected. She’d have to play this just right to get him to talk to her about the past, or even let her into the boathouse.

“Follow me,” he said.

An icy tremble slithered down Jaci’s spine as she started up the shadowy path toward the house. The crimes might have occurred thirty years ago, but the air seemed alive with dark and possibly deadly secrets.

The situation was a forensic student’s dream, unless…

Unless it turned into a nightmare.

A Clandestine Affair
Joanna Wayne

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Amanda Stevens and B.J. Daniels who, as always, were a ball to work with. And a special thanks to Denise Zaza, our wonderful editor, who puts up with all three of us and whose editorial insight and guidance is invaluable.

And, of course, to all of you readers who help us keep writing the stories we love by buying our books of intrigue, passion and happy endings.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

When not creating tales of spine-tingling suspense and heartwarming romance, Joanna Wayne enjoys reading, traveling, playing golf and spending time with family and friends.

Joanna believes that one of the special joys of writing is knowing that her stories have brought enjoyment to or somehow touched the lives of her readers.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Jaci Matlock—The cold murder case is just a project until she becomes obsessed with finding the truth about what happened that murderous night on Cape Diablo thirty years ago.

Raoul Lazario—He’d expected a challenge when he came to the island to see Carlos, but he wasn’t prepared for Jaci Matlock or the danger that threatened her.

Mac Lowell—He is the investigating officer who’d made detailed photos of the crime scene and blood splatters the night the Santiago family had disappeared.

Bull Gatlan—The man who delivers visitors and supplies to Cape Diablo.

Enrique Lopez—Friend of Carlos and Alma, but his interest seems to lie in seducing Jaci.

Ralph Linsky and Jack Paige—Detectives from Everglades City.

Carlos Lazario—Raoul’s great-uncle, a friend to Andres Santiago and caretaker of Cape Diablo. A man with secrets of his own.

Alma Garcia—She’d been the Santiago children’s nanny until they’d disappeared. Now she’s delusional and wanders the island in a tattered white dress.

The Santiago Family—Andres had run a smuggling operation and built the once-beautiful Spanish villa that dominates the island. Medina was the daughter of a fallen Central American dictator and Andres’s second wife. Their two daughters, Pilar and Reyna, disappeared alongside them thirty years ago.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

Chapter One

Jaci Matlock could look at crime scene photos by the hour and never once get bored. But after a half hour in a Naples, Florida, art gallery with her mother, she was all but climbing the walls. Even the flute of bubbly the gallery owner had pressed into her hand didn’t help, though she’d have hated to face the evening without it.

Her mother stopped in front of an abstract that looked as if it had been painted by a menopausal chimpanzee. She stared at it for a minute. “I hate to imagine what the artist was thinking when she painted that.”

“Another night of reruns?” Jaci offered.

“Or when will my daughter come for a real visit?”

“I’m standing right next to you. That feels like a real visit to me.”

“Two days and one night is not a real visit. Are you sure you can’t stay longer?”

“If I did, I’d be rambling through the house alone. You’re leaving for a month’s cruise Wednesday.”

“You could use a vacation yourself. We could go to Europe for a couple of weeks when I get back, just the two of us. Paris is lovely in the fall.”

“Or we could have lunch at that new French restaurant you were telling me about. I can possibly spring for the tip.”

“I’m not kidding, Jaci. You spend far too much time wallowing in the morbid. Clarence and I could give you the trip as an early present for earning your graduate degree.”

Her mother’s husband, Clarence Harding III, could definitely afford it. And to give the old fart credit where credit was due, he was generous with his darling wife, Evelyn and Jaci as well.

But Jaci was far too independent—and stubborn—to live on her stepfather’s handouts. Thankfully, her father had started a college fund for her before he’d died. That, a part-time job waiting tables and the small inheritance she’d received from her dad’s parents had let her earn her undergraduate and Master’s degrees with a minimum of loans.

Almost. She still had one major hurdle to pass.

“If I don’t complete my thesis project this semester, I won’t be getting the degree,” she said, omitting the fact that spending two weeks stalking Paris boutiques with her mother would be far more punishing than any assignment Professor Greeley could dream up.

“I know you have your paper to write, but surely you could work on that just as well in Paris.”

“It’s not a paper. It’s a project.” They’d had this conversation before, and if her mother didn’t consider forensics an F word instead of a science, she’d have remembered that.

Actually, the project should already be half-finished, but Jaci had run into a major complication. After six years of literally getting away with murder, the killer in her research crime had found religion and confessed to everything.

The family of the slain woman was thrilled to have closure. Jaci was back to square one as far as her project was concerned. Not a lot of hypothesizing she could do on a case that was solved by the killer’s confession, and she hadn’t found another cold case that spurred her interest the way that one had.

“Oh, look, there’s Mrs. Baxter and her son, Matthew. He’s a surgeon,” Evelyn crooned. “Nice looking—and single.”

Which meant her mother had dreams of match-making dancing in her head. Jaci sized up the guy as he approached with an overweight, middle-aged woman dripping diamonds. He was Caucasian, just under six feet, medium build, dark hair, lighter mustache. No visible tattoos or distinguishing marks.

She groaned silently. Maybe she had spent too many hours buried in evidence. Actually, the guy was cute, but then so were beagles. Dogs required a lot less energy than a relationship, and she didn’t even have time for them.

She half listened while her mother and Mrs. Baxter exchanged greetings, then met Matthew’s eyes briefly when her mom made the introductions. Jaci put out her hand, and from the second his closed around hers, she was mesmerized—by the painting hanging just beyond his right shoulder.

“It’s the Santiago house.”

Matthew let go of her hand. “Excuse me?”

“That painting,” she said, walking around him to stand in front of it. “It’s the house where the Santiago family was living when they disappeared.”

“I’m sorry. Were they friends of yours?”

“Not likely. I wasn’t even born when they went missing.”

“My daughter’s studying to become a forensics scientist,” her mother said, almost apologetically.

“That’s interesting,” Matthew said. “How did you choose that for a career?”

“It kind of chose me.” She didn’t bother to explain; her attention was focused on the painting. She barely managed a “nice to meet you” when the surgeon and his mother moved on.

“You certainly scared him off fast enough,” Evelyn said. “I’m assuming that was your purpose in fawning over that macabre painting.”

“It’s not just a painting. That’s the house on Cape Diablo.”

Her mother stepped back, tilted her head slightly and studied the picture. “What’s Cape Diablo?”

“One of the mangrove islands off the coast. It’s not that far from here.”

“The bougainvillea looks as if it’s bleeding all over that decaying villa. It’s repulsive.”

So were the facts. A wealthy but scandalous drug runner, his wife and two children had disappeared from the house and the island thirty years ago. The only clue to what might have happened to them was splattered blood found in the boathouse.

The crime had fascinated Jaci since she was eleven and had heard her father and his partner talking about it one night when they’d thought she was asleep.

“I can’t imagine why an artist would want to create something so morbid,” Evelyn said.

“That’s nothing compared with what you hear and see on the nightly news.”

Her mother put her hand on Jaci’s shoulder. “You are so much like your father.”

The hint of melancholy in her voice surprised Jaci almost as much as the mention of her father did. He’d been dead eleven years and they’d been divorced for three before that. Her mother probably hadn’t mentioned his name a dozen times since the divorce, and never since his funeral.

All Jaci had known of the facts surrounding the divorce was that it had broken her dad’s heart. It had broken hers, as well. And Clarence Harding III’s entrance into the picture so soon after hadn’t made matters any better.

Jaci stepped closer to the painting and studied the artist’s signature, “W. St. Clair.” It was almost hidden in the trunk of a mangrove in the bottom right corner of the canvas.

Her mother had already moved on. Jaci joined her in front of a painting of a blue heron perched on the bow of a sinking sailboat. “Are you familiar with the work of W. St. Clair?” Jaci asked.

“No. Is that who painted that horrid picture?”

“Yes.”

“Then I don’t plan to become familiar with his work.”

His? Maybe. But Jaci had the feeling the painting had been done by a woman. She wasn’t sure why.

“Do you have a pen?”

Her mother fished a silver ballpoint from her Prada handbag and handed it to her. Jaci scribbled the artist’s name on the napkin she’d been holding under her champagne glass, then slipped the napkin into her skirt pocket as she returned the pen.

“You surely aren’t thinking of buying that painting,” her mother said. “The house looks as if it came straight from a nightmare.”

“On my budget? Are you kidding? I’m just curious about the artist. But the Santiago disappearance would make a fascinating subject for my culminating project. And it’s nearby,” she added, thinking aloud more than making conversation.

“You wouldn’t actually visit Cape Fear, would you?”

“Cape Diablo, Mother, and there’s no reason not to go there. It’s a nice quiet, secluded island amid ten thousand others in the Gulf of Mexico.”

“I don’t like it. In fact, I’m getting a really bad feeling about the place.”

So was Jaci. It was probably the crimson paint splattered like fresh blood. But she was desperate for a project, and the murder case was still as much a mystery as it had been thirty years ago.

Besides, there was nothing to fear on the island—nothing but isolation and an aging mansion that likely held deadly secrets hidden within its crumbling walls. All within an hour of the mainland by a fast boat.

The night hadn’t been a waste, after all.

FOR THE NEXT TEN DAYS, Jaci ate, slept and breathed the Santiago murders. She was so engrossed in the details, she half expected old Andres Santiago to be standing by her bed when she woke up in the morning.

But who knew what might happen when she actually reached Cape Diablo? She was headed there now, booked into one of the small apartments in what had once been a lavish pool house, or so said one of the many articles she’d read on the Santiagos’ disappearance.

She’d tried to reach Wilma St. Clair and had finally tracked her down to a residence in South Dakota, of all places. But the artist was out of town on her honeymoon and there was no way to reach her.

Jaci had also tried to get in contact with Mac Lowell, the cop who’d taken the detailed pictures of the blood splatters on the boathouse wall the night the family had disappeared.

That was a wash, as well. He’d quit the force right after that and moved out of the area. He’d later inherited his mother’s Everglades City beach house and went to visit on rare occasions. Jaci was still hoping to contact him.

She’d left word with the neighbors and also stuck a note beneath the door, asking him to call her—covering all bases in case he made a trip back to the area.

His partner that night was also unavailable. He’d been killed in a car crash about the same time Mac had moved away.

The good news was that once Professor Greeley intervened on her behalf, the Everglades City Police Department had released copies of the blood splatter photos and the pertinent police records.

The bad news was that other than the photos, the police reports left a lot to be desired. Crime scene investigations from thirty years ago, especially when the crime involved a smuggler’s family living on an island that hadn’t fallen under the jurisdiction of a big-city police force, didn’t even approach today’s standards.

Jaci swatted at a mosquito that was circling her in search of a target not coated in insect repellent. “How much farther?”

Bull Gatlin kept his eyes straight ahead. “Another ten minutes or so.”

She hoped the trip wouldn’t take longer than that. It was already dusk, and she didn’t want to be out in these waters with nothing but the moon and stars to light their way.

She didn’t see how the pilot could find Cape Diablo as it was. One island followed another, all looking pretty much the same: swamp grasses, sand, jungles of mangroves that grew along the edge of the water.

Walking trees. That’s what her dad had called the mangroves when he’d taken her fishing out in the gulf. The tangled red roots made the spindly trees look as if they were walking on the incoming surf.

Jaci settled back into the memories. At age thirteen she’d been certain losing him was the end of the world. She still missed him, especially on nights like this when she could all but hear his deep, rumbling laugh and see the sweat trickling down his brow below the grungy old hat he’d worn on their fishing excursions.

He’d considered himself an ordinary cop, but she’d be happy if she could be half as good at locating evidence and solving crimes as he’d been.

“You plan to stay long?”

The boatman’s question yanked her back to the present. “I’m not sure.”

“You brought a lot of luggage.”

“Only four bags and my laptop.”

“That black duffel could hold enough for a year-long stay. Felt like it, too, when I put it in the boat.”

So what was he—the luggage patrol? The duffel contained her research material, and that was none of his business. “I won’t be staying a year.”

“Bet not. Most folks don’t stay more than a few days.”

“Why not?”

“Not much to do there. No TV. No entertainment ’less you like to fish, and you need a large boat to do that right, one you can take out in the open waters of the gulf.”

“No distractions. No demands. That’s the beauty of a secluded island.”

“Cape Diablo’s secluded, that’s for sure. I’m the only one who goes out there regularly, and that’s only ’cause I get paid to do it. Last man who had this job was murdered right there on the island.”

“When did that happen?”

“About three months ago. Pete got mixed up with some crazy broad who went around killing people for the fun of it. That’s the kind of folks you get on Cape Diablo. Woman like you won’t stay long.”

If his plan was to give her the creeps, he was succeeding. She studied him while he steered the boat through one of the narrower channels. He was scrawny with blond scraggly hair that fell a couple of inches past his collar.

Maybe forty. Maybe not. Hard to tell, since his face showed the signs of too much sun and not enough sun block. Looked pretty much like your basic beach bum, but his name had been given to her when she’d made the rental arrangements.

“Do you run a regular shuttle to Cape Diablo?” she asked as he slowed to maneuver through a narrow spit.

He rubbed his fingers through his unkempt beard. “I bring mail and supplies out twice a week. Occasionally I make an extra run to transport a tenant.”

“Only an occasional tenant?”

“Yeah, but then I’ve just been on the job a few months, and we’ve had a run of bad weather this year, tropical storms popping up like mushrooms.”

“Mr. Cochburn said I should call you if I need supplies from town.”

“Mr. Cochburn told you that, did he?”

“Yes, he’s the attorney I talked to when I made the rental arrangements.”

“I know who he is. I just don’t see why he doesn’t level with folks he’s sending out here.”

“Then you don’t deliver supplies?”

“I deliver them, all right—mail and supplies twice a week, like I said—but good luck trying to call, unless you got one of them satellite phones. Other than that, cell service is about as dependable as a FEMA roof in a hurricane.”

Jaci hadn’t considered that possibility. “What do people on the island do in case of an emergency?”

“Tough it out. Guess that’s all part of the beauty of having no distractions,” he said, clearly mocking her earlier optimism. “That’s it up ahead. Not much to see this time of the night, but the house is pretty impressive if you arrive by day, especially while you’re too far away to see its dilapidated condition.”

The narrow dock they were approaching was lighted, but beyond that all she could see was a tangle of tree branches and one light shining from the top of a rambling Spanish villa.

“That’s the old woman’s apartment,” Bull said, as if reading her mind. “Surely Mr. Cochburn told you about her.”

“He didn’t mention any of the tenants.”

“She ain’t a tenant. More of a permanent fixture, and crazy as they come, that one.” He circled his finger by his right temple to make his point. “Spent too much time sniffing the white stuff, if you know what I mean.”

“Are you talking about Alma Garcia?”

“Yeah. So you do know about her.”

Absolutely. Jaci knew about Carlos Lazario, as well. In fact, they had been the deciding factors for her moving onto the island instead of just hiring a boat to take her out for a day.

Alma had been the nanny for the Santiago family. Carlos was said to have been Andres Santiago’s right-hand man and bodyguard. Reportedly neither Carlos nor Alma had been on the island at the time of the disappearance, but they were now, thirty years after the fact.

Jaci was eager to talk to them, but didn’t plan to tell them why she was here. Better to let them think she was just a tourist in pursuit of a little R and R. It would make snooping easier.

“Carlos, the old caretaker, he’s been here forever, too,” Bull said, surprisingly talkative now that he’d gotten started. “He’s all right, but don’t mess with him if you can help it. He’s tired of tenants. Says all they do is cause trouble. Seems like that’s true of the ones he gets out here. Me, you couldn’t pay me to spend the night. They got bogs out in that swamp that can suck you in and bury you in the mud quicker than you can sing a chorus of ‘Margaritaville.’”

Another little problem Mr. Cochburn had failed to mention. “Thanks for the warning. I’ll make certain to stay out of the swamp.”

“Yeah, and I guess you know there’s no electricity out here except for a generator. You can hear it running all over the island, kind of a constant low drone. Gotta be some kind of dark at night if it ever goes off.”

The wind picked up and Jaci pulled her light jacket tighter while Bull docked and tied up the boat. He helped her out, then unloaded her luggage, dropping it on the edge of the dock.

She stood for a moment, soaking up the atmosphere. Every crime scene she’d ever visited had its own feel about it. Cape Diablo was no different, except that her instant reactions to the place were even more pronounced than usual.

The island had a sinister aura about it, as if the place itself might hold evil. More likely she was letting the seclusion get to her. A good forensics expert wouldn’t be influenced by that, and neither would she. But first impressions did matter.

A gray-haired man stepped into the clearing near the dock, a black Lab following a step behind. For a second it seemed that the man had appeared from nowhere, but a closer look revealed a slightly overgrown path that led back to the boathouse. The two-story structure was at the edge of the clearing, just as described in the police report. Only the reports had not mentioned how spooky the run-down place looked in the deepening grays of twilight.

“Welcome to Cape Diablo.” The man’s tone didn’t match his words.

“Thanks. I’m Jaci Matlock, the new tenant.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“And that’s Carlos Lazario,” Bull said.

So that was Carlos. He didn’t look that bad for a recluse who’d spent almost half his life on a secluded island. He was unfriendly as she’d expected. She’d have to play this just right to get him to talk to her about the past, or even let her in the boathouse.

Carlos scanned the pile of luggage. “All this?” he asked, shaking his head.

“I tend to overpack,” she said, tossing the laptop over her shoulder and picking up the two smaller bags. “I can carry my own luggage,” she said. “I’ll come back for the rest.”

“I’ll bring ’em,” Carlos said, “but don’t go expecting me to wait on you.” He turned to Bull. “Did you get my order?”

“I got it right here.”

“Good.”

Bull reached inside an old cooler at the front to the boat and took out a package wrapped in brown paper. “It wasn’t easy to come by,” he said, handing it to the man.

“I appreciate it.”

“You be careful, Carlos. You don’t need any trouble at your age.”

“I’m not going looking for any.”

The verbal exchange between the two men bordered on the surreptitious, and Jaci would have loved to know what was in the package.

Carlos tucked it in the pocket of his tattered black jacket, then bent and picked up the two heaviest pieces of luggage with seemingly little effort. He was strong for a man his age.

“Follow me,” he said.

“Sure you want to stay?” Bull asked, climbing back into the boat.

“I’m sure.”

But an icy tremble slithered down Jaci’s spine as she started up the shadowy path toward the house. The crimes might have occurred thirty years ago, but the air seemed alive with dark and possibly deadly secrets.

The situation was a forensic student’s dream, unless…

Unless it turned into a nightmare.

Chapter Two

Alma stood near the edge of the courtyard watching the new tenant as the young woman completed a series of lunges and squats. Her skimpy black running shorts revealed long, tanned legs, and a white jogging bra stretched across her perky, ample breasts.

Even with no makeup, and her auburn hair pulled through the back of a baseball cap and flowing loose behind her like a horse’s mane, Jaci Matlock was striking.

But then, it was easy to be striking when you were Jaci’s age. Mid-twenties, Alma suspected—young, but still older than Alma had been when she’d first come to Cape Diablo.

She had been striking, too, though she would never have dressed in such scandalous attire. She’d worn white peasant blouses and full cotton skirts that only revealed her ankles when the fabric was billowed by ocean breezes.

Her hair had hung to her waist, straight and black as onyx. Her complexion had been flawless, always carefully protected from the sun by large-brimmed straw hats woven by her grandmother back in their tiny Central American country.

Her face was gaunt now, her once flawless complexion weathered and wrinkled until she was only an unrecognizable shadow of the beautiful young woman she’d once been. Even her hair had betrayed her, lost its gleam and become wiry and prematurely gray.

When Alma had first come to the island, she’d missed her family and friends terribly. Worse, the isolation had frightened her. The wind whispering through the branches of the trees had reminded her of the wailing of women whose husbands and sons had never come home from battle.

But Cape Diablo had been the pathway to her future, the awakening of her dreams. Dreams that had withered and died almost as quickly as the seaweed that washed up on the beach to bake in the noonday sun once the tide had receded.

All because of the events that had transpired one dark night.

The secrets were old and tattered now, threadbare like her white festival dress. And yet they ruled the island like angry demons. The spirits dwelled in every crevice of the crumbling mansion, and had seeped between the tiniest grains of sand.

“Beware, Jaci,” she whispered as she backed into the shadows beyond the courtyard wall. “The curse of Cape Diablo shows no mercy.”

CARLOS PULLED THE WORN fishing hat low on his forehead as he squinted to read Raoul’s letter for the second time that morning. The note hadn’t come by regular mail delivery. His late brother’s only grandson never used the post.

Instead, it had been hand delivered by a courier who’d arrived by speedboat while Carlos was checking his stone crab traps. He’d read it and stuffed it in his pocket while he finished emptying the night’s catch.

Carlos reread the note now, carefully this time, to make sure he had not overlooked Raoul’s arrival date. But no, it wasn’t there. All he’d written was that he was coming for a short visit.

But he would arrive soon, possibly tonight. Raoul never gave a lot of advance notice for his rare stopovers at the island.

Carlos folded the note and stuck it back in his shirt pocket, grimacing as he did. The last time Raoul had been to the island was to tell him that Raoul’s grandfather had died. He’d come and taken Carlos back to the mainland to pay his last respects to his only brother.

Emilio’s death had hit Carlos much harder than he’d expected. Not that he’d seen him much over the last thirty years. Emilio had never understood the ties that bound Carlos to this place after the terrible tragedy, and Carlos hadn’t dared explain.

Feeling torn between his desire to see his great-nephew and his concern for what might have prompted the unexpected visit, Carlos left the shade of the mangroves and walked across the sandy beach behind the big house.

Courtesy demanded he let the señora know that Raoul was coming, though he wasn’t sure she’d recognize Raoul or realize he was Emilio’s son. She seemed confused about a lot of things these days—another source of worry for him.

Occasionally a tenant questioned him about the old woman who stared at them from the third-floor window, or from behind the courtyard wall, yet avoided talking to them even if they encountered her on the beach.

Carlos merely shrugged when they asked, refusing to offer an explanation. The señora belonged to the island and the house. The vacationers were the intruders, and he had had nothing but trouble from them over the last few months. The visitors had become more deadly than the drug smugglers who’d always used the island for their nefarious business.

And now there was a new one. Jaci Matlock. She seemed nice enough, but there was an intensity about her that worried Carlos. Not that she’d asked many questions when she’d arrived last night. It was more the way she’d scrutinized him when he’d carried her things inside the apartment. And the way she’d stared at the villa, as if she was making notes in her mind.

Or maybe he was just growing paranoid in his old age. He was seventy-three and felt it in his joints and bones. Nothing like the days when he’d been strong and daring, fighting for his hero right up until General Norberto was killed and his dictatorship overthrown.

The old memories set in, more comfortable in his mind than thoughts of Raoul or the island’s new inhabitant. The sun grew hot on Carlos’s back as he walked. Even though it was mid-October, the heat penetrated his thin shirt as if his skin was bare.

The heat didn’t really bother him. He’d grown used to it years ago. The sun and the island were like old friends, he thought as he paused to watch a blue heron step along the shore, searching for its breakfast.

Carlos’s heartbeat quickened as he spotted something that looked like a human bone bobbing around in the retreating tide. He waded in and slapped both hands into the water. On his second try, his fingers closed around the wave-tossed object.

Driftwood. Only a piece of driftwood.

He stared at it for long minutes, then flipped it back into the water. Paranoia was definitely setting in.

“Good morning, Carlos.”

He jumped at the sound of his name, and turned around to find Jaci Matlock standing a few feet away. He had no idea how long she’d been there, or if she’d seen him frantically groping for the driftwood, only to return it to the churning waters of the gulf.

“Good morning, Miss Matlock.”

“The island is even more beautiful and peaceful than I pictured it. And the villa is fascinating.”

“It’s a crumbling relic.”

She bent to pick up a sand dollar that had washed ashore. “Your traps were full this morning.”

“How do you know?”

“I saw you empty them.”

“Then you must have been up with the sun.”

“I’m an early riser.”

“I didn’t see you on the dock.”

“No. I was on the beach, using my binoculars to watch a couple of dolphins frolic.”

But at least for a while her binoculars had been focused on him. Paranoia or not, his suspicions about her presence on the island grew. “How did you find out about Cape Diablo?”

“My mother suggested it. She lives in Naples, and apparently some of her friends vacationed here. They raved about the quiet, secluded beach and the marvelous view of the gulf. They also bragged about the crabs. May I buy a few from you? They’d make a nice dinner.”

“I don’t supply food to the tenants.”

Tamale came running up to join them, going straight to Jaci. She knelt in the sand and he jumped excitedly, licking her hands and face.

“Come along, Tamale,” Carlos said.

“Tamale, what a neat name for a dog.”

“It’s just a name. First thing that came to mind when some guys dumped him from a boat a few yards from shore and never came back for him. That was almost a month ago.”

“Lucky for Tamale. He seems at home here.”

He walked away, but Jaci joined him, her willowy shadow dancing with his plumper and slightly stooped one. The silence rode between them until they’d almost reached the cutoff to the overgrown garden and the arched opening to the courtyard.

“How long have you lived on Cape Diablo?” she asked.

He looked at her for a second and met her penetrating gaze before glancing away. “Too many years to count.”

“You must love it to have stayed so long.”

“It’s home.”

“I’m interested in seeing the villa. What time are the tours?”

“Tours?”

“Yes, Mr. Cochburn said you give tours of the villa to tenants staying here. Actually, I tried to rent one of the apartments inside the big house, but he said they were closed temporarily for repairs.”

“I don’t know what Mr. Cochran told you, but there are no tours.”

“Then perhaps you could show me around.”

“No. The villa is off-limits to visitors at this time.”

“Because of the damage from recent storms?”

He nodded, though her assumption was false. The villa had become too dangerous over the last few weeks and the tenants too upsetting for the señora. “I must insist that you not enter the villa during your stay.”

“That’s disappointing.”

He expected more argument, but she skipped ahead for the last few yards, kicking through the surf and playing chase with Tamale like a small child. Her mixture of innocence and intensity left him more confused than ever about her reasons for coming to Cape Diablo.

She stopped when she reached the overgrown garden surrounding the courtyard, and stooped to pick a late bloom from a bush all but strangled by a lush crop of weeds.

When Andres had lived here, there had been enough servants to keep the house and gardens in impeccable condition. It still saddened Carlos to see it in such disrepair, but what could one old man do?

He caught up with Jaci just as she stepped into the courtyard.

“Why is it the swimming pool has been left in such a state of disrepair?” she asked. “It’s seems a shame not to use it when the setting is so enticing.”

“With all the gulf to swim in, why would one need a cement pool?”

“Yet someone built it here.”

Yes, and if it were up to Carlos, he’d have had the hole filled in so that there was no sign it had ever existed. The señora wouldn’t hear of it.

“What kind of fish do you catch around here?” Jaci asked.

Thankfully, she’d let the subject of the pool drop. “Flounder, redfish, pompano—too many to name.”

“I’d love to try my hand at catching some of them. Would you consider taking me out in your boat? I’d pay you, of course.”

He knew it was a mistake to leave his boat out in the open for renters to see. They always thought it should be at their disposal, the way they thought he should be. “I’m having a little trouble with my motor right now. If I get it fixed, I’ll let you know.”

He didn’t know why he’d said that, but maybe taking her fishing wasn’t such a bad idea. It would give him a chance to check her out, see if she was just a tourist as she claimed, or another of the curious here to search for answers to the Santiago mystery, or go ghost hunting.

He waited for Jaci to enter the gate, then headed to the main house to search for the señora. He saw her standing at the window, staring down at him. The look on her face was anything but pleasant. And this was even before he told her of Raoul’s visit.

“I DON’T WANT HIM HERE,” she said, speaking in Spanish though she spoke fluent English. She’d learned it as a young girl and now mixed the two languages as if they were one.

This was exactly the reaction Carlos had expected. He dropped into one of the uncomfortable antique chairs in Alma’s sitting room and prepared himself for a bout of her childlike pouting.

“He’s my brother’s grandson,” he countered.

“He doesn’t like me.”

Carlos couldn’t argue that with her. Raoul had no more use for her than Emilio had had. “You don’t have to see him. He’ll stay in the boathouse with me if he spends the night. Most likely he won’t stay that long.”

“What does he want?”

“He didn’t say. I assume he only wants to see me and assure himself that I’m doing well.”

“Of course you’re doing well. Why wouldn’t you be?”

“Maybe because I’m getting older, even older than his own grandfather was when he died.”

Her expression changed from one of pouting irritation to apprehension. “Don’t talk like that, Carlos.”

He placed his rough hands on her thin shoulders. “Relax, señora. I’m not planning to die anytime soon. Raoul will visit and then he’ll leave. Nothing will change.”

She exhaled slowly and the drawn lines of her face eased. For a second, he caught a glimpse of the beautiful, sensual woman who used to live behind her dark, tortured eyes. Then she’d reminded him so much of another woman. But she’d never had her grace, her sweetness or her courage.

He stepped away, and the señora walked back to the window where she spent so much time.

“What were you talking about with the new tenant?” she asked without turning her gaze from the island and the gulf beyond.

“Fish.”

“What about them?”

“She wants to pay me to take her fishing.”

“I don’t trust her.”

“You don’t trust anyone who comes to Diablo except Enrique.”

“They shouldn’t be here. Andres would never have let strangers roam his island.”

“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.”

“Very nice. Do you visit Cape Diablo often?”

“I try to check on Carlos when I can.”

“I’m sure he’s glad for the company. He must get lonely out here.”

“You’ll never get him to admit that.”

“Guess he likes isolation.”

“That and he’s incredibly hardheaded, just like my grandfather. Actually, Carlos is my great-uncle. He and my grandfather were brothers.”

“I suppose the hardheaded trait missed you,” Jaci said, finally managing a smile.

“You got it. I’m a rational, thinking man, and I’ll butt heads with anyone who says differently.” Raoul propped a foot on the rim of a clay flower pot full of blooming verbenas, and looked into the murky water. “I hope your room’s in better shape than the pool.”

“It’s clean, and the bed is comfortable.”

“This pool is disgusting.”

“I asked your uncle about it. Apparently it hasn’t been used in a very long time.”

“Try three decades. It should have been filled in years ago.”

“Or at least drained and cleaned,” she agreed. “Is there a reason why it’s been left like this?”

“Not that I’m aware of, but it’s a waste of time wondering how or why my uncle and Alma Garcia do anything on Cape Diablo. I gave up years ago.”

So he’d been coming to the island for a long time, maybe all his life. He might have even known the Santiago children, though he’d have been so young, Jaci doubted he’d remember much about them.

Raoul stooped to fish a plastic cup from the algae-filled pool. Jaci took the opportunity to study him more closely.

He was lean and fit, as if he worked out or engaged in physical activity on a regular basis. Dressed in denim cutoffs and a short-sleeved knit shirt open at the neck, even though she found the night wind cool. Dark hair. Probably dark eyes as well, though she couldn’t tell in this light.

Not classically handsome, but with a rugged sexual appeal that seemed to stem as much from his self-confident manner as his looks.

“So what brings you to Cape Diablo?” he asked, once he’d tossed the cup in a nearby trash basket.

“I needed some downtime, and a secluded island seemed the perfect place to find it.”

“That’s about all you’ll find here. That, snakes and every kind of annoying insect you can imagine.”

She hoped to find a whole lot more, and Raoul might be just the person to help her get it. “Will you be around awhile?”

“A couple of nights, but I probably won’t be here much during the day. I’m hoping to take Carlos fishing. He likes to catch the big ones, and his boat is too small to handle the waves in the open gulf.”

“I didn’t hear your boat come in.”

“Purrs like a kitten. It’s a lot quieter than the generator, except when I first start up the engines.”

She dropped to the edge of one of the webbed lounge chairs, hoping Raoul would do the same. He didn’t.

“The island must have a fascinating history,” she said, looking up at him with what she hoped was a natural and slightly seductive smile. “Do you know much about the original builders of the villa?”

“I’m not big on history.” He slapped at a mosquito that was buzzing around his neck. “Not fond of mosquitoes, either, so I think I’ll head back down to the boathouse. If I don’t see you again, enjoy your vacation.”

So much for her feminine wiles. “Thanks.”

She gave a slight wave as he retreated. But she had no intention of letting him get off that easily. She’d find a way to talk to him again.

He knew about the history of the island, but didn’t want to get into it with her. Why else would he have turned and run the minute she mentioned it? It couldn’t have been the mosquito. If he’d been avoiding those, he’d never have ventured out in the first place.

And even if she got nothing from him except company, it wouldn’t be a total loss. The solitude might suit Carlos, but as far as Jaci was concerned, it was growing old fast.

Her mother might not be able to push her into the path of a sexy man, but isolation and an old murder case could do the trick.

RAOUL TOOK THE LONG WAY back to the boathouse, still trying to decide the best way to accomplish what he was here for, but now also thinking about Jaci Matlock. Needing downtime wasn’t much of an explanation for why a young, good-looking woman would come to a secluded island by herself.

Maybe she had some big decision she was wrestling with and wanted uninterrupted time to think, or she could be getting over a man. Losing someone you loved could make a loner of you. Who knew that better than him?

Raoul slowed as he caught sight of Alma a few yards ahead of him, crouched between two clusters of sea oats. She was down on her knees, and sand was flying around her as if she were in a whirlwind.

A few steps closer, and he could see the small plastic shovel moving so fast it seemed to be gas propelled. He doubted she was building sand castles, but then who knew with Alma Garcia?

The woman was nuts. He’d first realized that when he was about ten and she’d kept calling him by the name of the Santiago kid who’d drowned in the pool. And then there was the time he’d run into her on the beach and she’d said she was looking for Pilar and Reyna because they had run off from their lessons. That had been four years after the girls and their parents had disappeared.

As far as he could tell, Alma was getting worse all the time. The woman should be living in a home someplace where she could get medical attention, not roaming the beach alone all hours of the night. She was probably the reason Jaci had spooked so easily.

But he didn’t dare mention that to Carlos again, not after the way he’d exploded the last time Raoul had suggested the woman get psychiatric help.

Raoul didn’t even begin to understand the relationship between his uncle and Alma Garcia. Misguided loyalty, his grandfather had called it. Carlos thought Andres Santiago expected him to care for his children’s nanny, and Carlos had never failed his old boss, even if it meant staying on Cape Diablo and looking after Alma until one of them died.

Raoul planned to make sure that didn’t happen, which was why he was here.

JACI WENT TO BED AT NINE, mainly because there was nothing better to do. Yawning, she stretched between the crisp white sheets, only to have macabre images of blood splatters start creeping through her mind. Two people had been shot and killed in the boathouse, one at much closer range than the other. Two and only two, though four had disappeared. There might also have been two shooters, one taller than the other, or else the killer had changed positions or been struggling with one of the victims when the gun went off.

That was as much as she could be sure of from the photos of the splatters—or at least relatively certain. It was unfortunate that some of the blood hadn’t been collected and preserved.

Not that they had any DNA from Andres or Medina to compare it with, but if the samples from the boathouse had included the blood of Andres’s daughters, DNA tests would have indicated the relationship.

Jaci’s mind went back to the police reports, most of which she’d memorized.

The beds of the Santiago children were unmade. The sheets, blanket and pillowcase had been stripped from one bed. Even the pillow was missing. The second bed was mussed, with the covers pulled back as if it had been slept in. The bed in the master bedroom was neatly made. There was no sign of a struggle and no blood found anywhere inside the villa.

And after that night neither the girls nor their parents were ever seen again. So the questions remained: had Andres and Medina been murdered in the boathouse upon returning from a Mexican Independence celebration? If so, what had happened to the bodies? And where were the girls, Pilar, age eight, and Reyna, age ten? Kidnapped or murdered?

So many questions without answers, and no real clues, at least none that Jaci had found yet. It would have helped if she could have gotten in touch with Mac Lowell and heard his impressions from the night he’d taken the photos.

She was still hopeful he’d show up in Everglades City, or at least get the messages she’d stuck under his door there. But even if he did, she wasn’t sure how he’d get in touch with her. Her cell phone was basically useless.

A good project required more than remarks on blood splatters and a weak hypothesis. She needed pertinent information from Carlos and Alma, something that hadn’t come out before. And she needed to get inside that villa.

Giving up on sleep, she slid her legs over the side of the bed to pad to the refrigerator for a snack. She sliced into a juicy orange just as her cell phone blasted—the first call to get through since she’d arrived on the island. She sprinted across the room and grabbed it before the connection was lost.

Her hello was a little breathless.

“Is this Jaci Matlock?”

“Yes. Who is this?”

“Mac Lowell. I heard you were looking for me.”

“I am.”

“What do you want?”

“I understand you were part of the original investigating team the night the Santiago family disappeared.”

“That was years ago.”

“I know, but I really need to talk to you about the photos you took.”

“Sorry, lady. You’ll have to go to the Everglades City PD for anything to do with that case.”

“I have been to them, and they gave me copies of your reports and the photos.”

“I doubt that.”

“No, they did. I’m a criminologist investigating the case.” That was close to the truth. She was just a degree and a job offer away from being official.

“Then you know all I do. More, actually. I’ve had way too many margaritas since then to remember details.”

Static crackled in her ear. She’d likely lose the connection any second. “Look, I won’t take up much of your time, but I’d really like to talk to you.”

“You’re talking.”

“The connection’s already breaking up, and the chances of getting through to you again are not good. I’m staying in an apartment on Cape Diablo, but I think I can get someone to take me to Everglades City.”

The pause lasted so long she feared they’d been disconnected. When Mac Lowell finally answered, his tone seemed almost fearful. “What the hell are you doing there?”

“I just wanted to see the scene of the crime for myself.”

“Does Carlos Lazario know why you’re there?”

“No.”

“Keep it that way. And if I were you, I’d get off that island tonight. Get off and stay off.”

“Why? Is Carlos dangerous? Was he involved in the crime?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Ten minutes of your time. That’s all I’m asking.”

The phone crackled like crazy, causing her to miss half of what he said next.

“Did you say Slinky’s Bar?” she asked, trying to verify what she thought he’d said.

“Tomorrow at two. Take a seat at the back of the bar and don’t tell anyone why you’re there.”

“How will I find Slinky’s Bar?”

The connection splintered or else Mac Lowell broke it. He obviously didn’t want to talk to her. He might not even show, but she’d find Slinky’s Bar and be waiting at two.

Grabbing a pen, she checked her caller ID for the number he’d phoned from, then scribbled it on a pad of paper, along with his name and Slinky’s Bar at two.

It wasn’t until she’d picked up her orange and taken a big bite that Mac’s warning started echoing in her head. He seemed to believe that staying on the island put her at risk. But from whom?

Surely not Carlos. He couldn’t go around murdering tenants like a character in a grade B horror movie. Someone would have noticed long before now. And not Alma. She was strange, but much too frail and pathetic to be a real threat.

Still, Jaci checked the locks on the door before she crawled back into bed. This time when she slid beneath the covers, she fell into a troubled sleep where nightmarish bodies entwined with the roots of mangrove trees.

And Raoul Lazario swam naked in a murky pool.

RAOUL LEANED AGAINST THE DOCK’S end post and took a long drink from the bottle of cold beer Carlos had just handed him. A few clouds had blown over earlier, but the sky was clear now. Heaven’s bejeweled curtain, Allison used to call it when the sky sparkled with stars the way it did tonight.

“You brought in any interesting treasures lately?”

Raoul pulled his thoughts from the past and turned to Carlos. “We uncovered a couple of ancient Greek statues on a ship in the Aegean Sea. I’m not exactly sure of their historic or archeological significance, but the man who financed the dive was excited.”

“Ancient Greek statues. It must have been an old ship.”

“Sank in the sixteen hundreds.” Old ships had always held more interest for Raoul than their cargo. Not that anything held much interest for him these days.

He watched a stingray as it swam out from beneath the dock. “I’m thinking of taking a couple of years off.”

“To do what?” Carlos asked.

“I don’t know, just something besides dive for lost treasure.”

Tamale joined them, carrying a worn tennis ball that he dropped next to Carlos. It started to roll, but Carlos grabbed it before it reached the edge of the dock. He picked it up and threw it without saying a word to the dog.

“It wasn’t your fault, you know.”

Funny. Raoul hadn’t mentioned Allison once since he’d arrived on the island, but he knew that was what Carlos was talking about now, the same way Carlos knew it was why he’d lost his zeal for diving.

Carlos was insightful. He was also wrong. “It was my fault.”

“I don’t see how you figure that.”

“I’d rather not get into that tonight.”

Carlos reached down to wrestle the ball from Tamale and toss it again. “You remind me a lot of Emilio. You’re smarter than either of us, but as stubborn as the rest of the Lazarios.”

“Grandpa was smart. You are, too.”

“We never did much with it. Not like you. You went out there and made a name for yourself. You even got a movie made about you.”

“The movie never mentioned me.”

“But you inspired it. You brought up that ship off the coast of Argentina and recovered a wealth of Spanish history with it. Emilio was so proud when the movie came out, he couldn’t quit talking about it long enough to drink a beer with me. Guy let two Coronas get plumb hot.”

“That doesn’t sound like Grandpa.”

Carlos chuckled. “We had some good times, Emilio and me. Guess we could have had more, but I was stuck out here on Cape Diablo, and he didn’t like coming out here.”

Now they were getting somewhere. “Why did you stay all those years?”

“It seemed the right thing to do.”

“Does it still seem right?”

“We need another beer,” Carlos said, avoiding the question.

“I’ll get it.”

“No, you stay put,” he insisted. “I’ve got to take a bathroom break, anyway. Bladder don’t work any better than the rest of me these days.”

Tamale jumped back on the deck as Carlos headed toward the house. Only this time it wasn’t the ball that was clutched in his teeth.

“What you got there, boy?” Raoul clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth a few times and Tamale crept over with his tail tucked between his legs, as if he thought he might be in trouble for returning without the ball.

“It’s all right, boy. I just want to see what you found.”

Tamale dropped the object at Raoul’s feet. He stooped and retrieved it. A bone. Human. Much too small to have belonged to an adult.

And suddenly Raoul was taken back to when he was a kid and dropped into the scariest night of his life.

Chapter Four

Carlos and Emilio were sitting on the dock having a beer. Raoul had been playing in the sand, making a fort, with twigs for toy soldiers. He’d gone inside to go to the bathroom, and he guessed they hadn’t heard him come back out.

If they had known he was around, his grandfather would have never repeated the horrible things he’d told Carlos about what he thought had happened to Pilar and Reyna.

Raoul had been only six at the time, but his grandfather’s words had frightened him so badly that he’d spent the entire night hiding under Carlos’s bed. If something so terrible could happen to Pilar and Reyna, then it could happen to anyone on the island—even him.

He hadn’t returned to Cape Diablo until he was eleven. Even then he hadn’t ventured far from his grandfather’s side.

“What you got there?” Carlos asked now as he ambled back toward the dock.

Raoul pushed the memories to the back of his mind. “Looks like a leg bone.”

“Probably driftwood. Let me see it.”

Carlos’s hand shook as he exchanged the beer he’d brought Raoul for the bone. The tremors were new, a reminder of how important it was that Raoul succeed in his mission.

“It’s a bone,” Raoul assured him, “and human. I’ve scavenged enough sunken ships to know one when I see it.”

“Guess you’re right,” Carlos said, turning the object over so that he could see it from every angle. “Never know what will wash up out here.” He tossed the bone into the waves before Raoul could stop him.

Raoul decided thirty years was long enough to avoid a subject. “I’m surprised no one ever found the bodies of the Santiago family.”

Carlos stuffed his hands into his pockets and stared out at the water, though there was not much to see in the dark. “No one’s ever proved they’re dead.”

“Or that they’re alive.”

“Right,” Carlos agreed, “so any theory on what happened to them is just groundless speculation.”

“But you must have one. Do you think Andres staged his family’s disappearance?”

Carlos slapped at a mosquito, stepping backward as he did, and almost tripping over Tamale, who was crouched at his heels. “Guess a man might do anything if he had reason enough.”

“You and Andres Santiago must have been close.”

Carlos nodded. “He saved my life once. That binds men.”

“How did that happen?”

“It was back when I served with General Norberto. Andres had come to our camp to deliver some guns and ammunition he’d smuggled into the country. A bunch of guerillas jumped us and one got a fix on me. Andres took him out before he could kill me.”

A gust of wind caught wisps of Carlos’s thinning, gray hair and blew it into his face. He raked it away, then looked straight at Raoul. “All that’s past. No use in bringing any of it up now.”

His tone made it clear the topic was closed. The adage that elderly men spent more time in the past than the present didn’t hold true with Carlos. Or if it did, he didn’t want to talk of it with Raoul.

“It’s getting late,” Carlos said, “past my bedtime.”

And not nearly Raoul’s. Sleep avoided him most nights until the wee hours, so he avoided laying his head on the pillow until his eyelids were so heavy they’d close without a fight.

“You turn in when you’re ready,” Raoul said. “I’ll sleep on the boat.”

“No need. You can take my bed. I’ll stay in one of the guest rooms in the main house. We only have the one renter and she’s in the pool house.”

Even if there had been a dozen renters, there would be room in the big house. “I’m surprised you never moved up there permanently. Surely it’s more comfortable than the boathouse. Definitely more roomy.”

“I’ve thought about it, but I like my own space. The boathouse suits me. It’s clean and private. Mostly, it’s home.”

“More reason I shouldn’t run you out of it,” Raoul said.

“You’re not. I’m offering. A man gets pleasure from sharing his house with kin, and you’re the only family I got left.”

“In that case, I’ll stay in the boathouse.”

“You plan to do some fishing tomorrow?” Carlos asked.

“I’d like to. I was hoping you’d go with me. We can take my boat and hit the open gulf.”

“That would be good, just like old times, ’cept we got that lady staying here—that renter I told you about.”

“I met her when I took a walk up to the courtyard. She seems capable of taking care of herself for a day.”

“It’s not that, it’s just…” Carlos rubbed his whiskered chin with the back of his hand. “The guests are on their own, but still I hate to leave a woman who’s not familiar with the place out here by herself.”

“Alma would be here.”

“Yeah.”

His answer was evasive, but his expression was troubled. Evidently he realized Alma would be no help to Jaci or anyone else, no matter what the emergency.

“Get some sleep,” Raoul said, not wanting talk about Alma tonight. “We can see about fishing tomorrow.”

Carlos nodded. “There’s food in the boathouse if you want a midnight snack. Cereal and stuff like that. Plenty of cold beer, and a bottle of whiskey on the shelf over the sink.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Then I’ll just get a few things and head to the villa.” Carlos took the path to the boathouse, Tamale at his heels. He stopped after a few steps and turned back to Raoul. “How would you feel about taking another fisherman along—or in this case, a fisherwoman?”

Raoul balked. No way was he buying into that. “I don’t think Alma—”

“Not Alma. Jaci asked me to take her fishing, but I’m sure she’d have a lot more fun on a boat like yours. Besides, my motor’s acting up.”

Raoul mulled over the request. He’d hoped for some quality time when he’d have Carlos’s full attention and no interruptions. Jaci’s presence would make that impossible.

His great-uncle took off his hat and ran his hands through his thinning hair. “There’s nothing wrong with going fishing with a good-looking female.”

“That’s not the issue.”

“Isn’t it? How long has it been since you’ve been with a woman?”

Raoul tensed. He hadn’t expected anything that direct from Carlos. “I’m with women all the time. Some of my best divers are women.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

He knew exactly what Carlos meant, but there was no way he was discussing his sex life with his aging uncle. “We can take Jaci along if she wants to go. It’s no big deal.”

“Good. I’ll check with her in the morning,” Carlos said, yawning through the last of the sentence.

Raoul watched him walk away. Unfortunately, the question Carlos had asked didn’t recede with the man and his dog. The truth was Raoul hadn’t been with a woman in any kind of romantic or intimate way since Allison.

Two years plus. Twenty-seven months of aching loneliness.

Twenty-seven months of guilt.

He didn’t expect a day with Jaci to change any of that. Yet she was on his mind now, and he wondered again what had bought her to Cape Diablo’s isolated shores.

JACI HAD SLEPT UNTIL NEARLY 9:00 a.m., the latest she’d stayed in bed since the fall semester had started. Normally she would have been up by seven, but she’d lain awake for hours, tossing and turning and staring out the window into the darkest night imaginable.

She blamed her inability to sleep on the unfamiliar cacophony of sounds. The drone of the generator. The roar of waves crashing on the island’s western shore. The hooting of an owl. The chorus of a thousand tree frogs.

But it wasn’t just the noise. It was an apprehension she couldn’t explain, the feeling that something bad was going to happen before she got off this island.

She’d expected the place to be a catalyst for the investigation, but she hadn’t expected the aura of mystery to be so intense.

The isolation had a lot to do with that, but the island’s inhabitants certainly added to the eerie ambiance. Carlos Lazario and Alma Garcia were the strangest of bedfellows. Carlos was weathered but sturdy, like the mangroves that endured whatever storm come their way. Alma was more like the thin sea oats that swayed in the slightest breeze.

Yet they both seemed to belong to Cape Diablo, just as the crumbling villa did. Jaci stared at the vines that crept up the white stucco walls and twined around the second-floor loggia. The few remaining bougainvillea blossoms had turned brown, but she could well imagine them in full bloom, a riot of scarlet.

Wilma St. Clair’s painting didn’t seem nearly as bizarre now that Jaci had arrived on Cape Diablo. Fingers of blood gripping the walls fit the sinister feel of the place much better than colorful blooms.

Jaci padded to the kitchen and took a bowl from the cabinet over the sink. She’d have a bit of cereal, then get down to her real business of the day—finding transportation to Everglades City to meet with Mac Lowell before he changed his mind.

JACI TOOK A DIFFERENT PATH to the boathouse, one that skirted the eastern coastline of the island and wound through the mangroves instead of along the sandy beach. Birds chattered and shrieked in the trees, as if scolding her for invading their territory. Dragonflies and wasps flitted among the brush, and she stopped more than once to swat away a mosquito or wipe sticky spiderwebs from her face and hair.

The area wasn’t as frightening as the swamp would have been, but still it left her more uncomfortable than she would have expected.

She was almost to the clearing when she caught a whiff of cigar smoke. She had to search for the smoker. Finally, she spotted him standing under a tree a couple of yards away. He showed no sign of having noticed her, so she stepped off the path and behind a thick growth of palmetto to check him out.

Hispanic male, probably six-two, late fifties, lean but muscular, tattoos on both arms that looked to be dragons of some kind. No obvious weapon.

She left her cover and stepped back to the path. When he noticed her, she gave a wave.

“Good morning,” he said, tipping a Miami Dolphins cap. He seemed friendly and normal enough.

“Same to you. Are you a new tenant?”

“No. I’m a friend of Carlos and Alma, just here for a day or two.”

Who’d have guessed they socialized?

The man dropped the cigar and ground it out with the toe of his boot. “Enrique Lopez,” he said, walking toward her. “I’m sure we’ve never met. I would remember a woman as beautiful as you.”

“I’m Jaci,” she said, “a tenant.”

“A pleasure to meet you.” He took her hand and held it for a few seconds before kissing her fingertips.

The guy’s lines probably worked as often as not. He wasn’t bad looking for a middle-aged man. He had that pirate thing going on with the whiskered chin and dark, unruly hair.

“Are you going somewhere in particular, Jaci, or are you just out for a morning walk?”

“I’m on my way to the boathouse to find Carlos.”

“I just left there, and there was no sign of him.”

“He may be at the villa,” she said.

“I hope he is. That way I can surprise both him and Alma at once.”

“They don’t know you’re here?”

“Not yet. I got in late so I slept on my boat last night. It’s docked on the southern end of the island, in the deepwater cove.”

“Why didn’t you use the dock?”

“It is a very large yacht.”

“How did you meet Alma and Carlos?” she asked, still trying to picture the strange couple socializing.

“I had engine trouble on my yacht a few years back. I docked, Carlos fixed it for me, and we hit it off. Now this has become my haven.”

Cape Diablo as a haven. Jaci tried but couldn’t get that image to gel. “I guess I’ll see you around,” she said.

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