sunlight and low silver clouds. He had shoulder-length black hair, a geometric chin, and spoke articulate English with a French accent. His name tag read: FABRON MMT.
Was Fabio a derivative of Fabron? He looked a little like the guy I’d seen on the cover of romance novels. Maybe he’d picked it out himself, like a vanity license plate.
Standing behind Fabron, like a shadow, was a tiny woman in a blue maid’s uniform, her expression blank. She remained disinterested as I smiled, put my arms out, palms up, to let the man know I felt confused and foolish. I also didn’t want him to get close enough to spot the rope. “Off-limits? Geez, sorry. Didn’t know. Maybe you should put up a sign or something-”
“We don’t use signs. Guests are expected to know monastery rules. We expect the rules to be followed.”
A smooth, condescending manner-Fabron had something else in common with Ritchie.
I said, “Monastery? I was under the impression my lady friend and I were at a health spa, not a church retreat.” A joke-I chuckled. Fabron didn’t. The woman’s expression remained blank, as if she didn’t hear.
“Whatever impression you got, sir, it’s wrong. This is a monastery, a sacred part of the spa grounds. That’s how we refer to it. Maybe you weren’t paying attention at orientation. Occasionally, guests find it’s helpful to go through orientation twice.”
At the front desk, a woman with a German accent had been just as arrogant-suspicious, too. Same with the attendant who’d shown us to our rooms. From their reactions, I could tell they recognized Senegal, but it had only fueled their rudeness. Maybe people came to a place like this as atonement for personal excesses. If the staff treated guests as subordinates, it was probably encouraged.
Interesting. What were the staff’s limits? I was curious.
“Your name’s Fabron?”
The man blinked at my stupidity. "Yes. That is why I chose to have it on my name tag.”
“What’s M-M-T stand for?”
“Male Massage Therapist, sir.”
“Back rubs, huh?”
The man reacted, but caught himself. “Ask all the questions you want at orientation. What I’m telling you is the Lookout’s off-limits. Must I tell you again?”
Fabron turned, expecting me to follow.
I didn’t.
When he glanced back, I touched the safety railing, and pointed at the boats. “Looks like I’m not the only one who missed orientation, huh?”
“Excuse me?”
“There’s a body down there-a man. Do you think the spa’s gonna give the guy his money back?” I still wore the harmless smile.
Fabron’s nostrils widened, but it backed him down a notch. “One of the locals drowned. Too bad, but you know how it is-islanders don’t receive swimming lessons. They go out in homemade boats, anyway. They are stupid. Spend time on this island, you will learn it’s true.”
I looked over the railing again. “If that guy was in a boat, it was an invisible boat. He didn’t need swimming lessons, Fabio. What he needed was flying lessons. Do you know who it is?”
“No.”
“Then show some respect. You don’t know anything about the man.”
Behind him, the woman in the maid’s uniform smiled.
I squinted at my watch, expecting the man to react. When he didn’t, I said, “But thanks, anyway, for the reminder.”
“Reminder, sir?” He said it in a flat voice.
“My lady friend and I got to the spa about an hour ago. I don’t want to miss orientation-sounds like it might be unhealthy.”
I didn’t need any more enemies on the island, but I had made one.
I got a glimpse of Beryl late that afternoon as I hurried toward the health spa. The facilities were housed in a modern building of stone and wood, down the mountain from the monastery and Isabelle Toussaint’s estate.
Beryl was in the quadrangle with three other women. She wore jeans and a white knit blouse. The others wore the familiar white scrubs that, I realized, were belted at the waists, and more like togas. They were walking single file around the quadrangle-walking meditation, it was called. No talking.
At orientation, we were told that for the first forty-eight hours we could speak only to staff members. Otherwise, conversation wasn’t permitted. New guests were referred to as Novitiates-a monastic touch. As Novitiates, we were expected to remain silent or we would be asked to leave. I was tempted to ask if we would be banished by helicopter or pushed off the cliff. By then, I’d told Senegal about watching the boats retrieve the body. As if reading my mind, the woman had nudged an elbow into my ribs to keep me quiet.
After our morning together, I’d begun to appreciate Senegal Firth. She had a cool head and a first-rate intellect. Because of the circumstances, she’d loosened up a little, creating a space for me behind her mask of aloofness. Senegal had also decided to make the best of the situation even though she’d battled against coming to the Orchid.
“As long as we’re here,” she’d said, “I’ll use the time to shed a pound or two and treat myself to whatever it is the spa offers. The staff may be bastards, but they do seem to have a sound approach to fitness. Lots of exercise and simple food. The last few months have been bloody rough, and I’ve let my health slip a bit.”
I liked the woman’s attitude and decided to take the same approach. Less food, tougher workouts, harder runs-I could scope out the area while I was jogging. But I had no interest in treatments offered by the spa.
Turned out, though, I had no choice.
At orientation, all new arrivals had been assigned “body analysis” appointments. They were required-as were “purifying treatments.” Because I was a little late for my first appointment, I had been jogging across the quadrangle when I noticed the women in white, and I singled out Beryl.
Beryl’s chin lifted when our eyes met. She acknowledged me with a stricken shake of the head. I got the impression that something bad had happened… a sense of emergency, and she was eager to talk. A moment later, she touched three fingers to her cheek and tapped three times, communicating something else. What?
I touched my face in reply, but I also shrugged-I don’t understand- then winked. I’ll figure it out.
As I filled out forms in the spa’s waiting room, I gave it some thought. Three… Why was the number significant? Beryl, Shay, Corey, and Liz had been seduced by three men. It was three days until Shay’s wedding rehearsal… The women had only three days to wire more money to the blackmailer’s account. As maid of honor, Beryl had three days before she had to return to Florida. It had been three days since I left Sanibel…
What else?
That’s all I could come up with.
Shay and Beryl had already given me all the details they could about the three men. I didn’t need to be reminded we were running out of time. Beryl was smart. Why would she risk communicating something I already knew?
She wouldn’t.
Maybe it had something to do with a reply to the e-mail I sent from Jade Mountain. That morning, before Sir James drove Senegal and me to the Saint Lucia airport, I’d stopped at the reception office to check for replies, but the Internet was down. No way to check now.
To hell with the rules. I had to talk to Beryl.
27
A door opened and a woman, mid-thirties, with corded forearms stepped into the spa’s waiting room, drying her hands on a towel. White towel, white shorts, white blouse showing a hint of cleavage. An attractive woman who would’ve been striking if it wasn’t for the frown and sterile, professional manner. Her name tag read: NORMA FMT.
“Mr. North? Ready for your body analysis?”
No, but I followed the woman, anyway.
Along with the body analysis, the Orchid required new arrivals to have a sea-salt cleansing treatment, then spend two hours alternating between a sauna and a cold-water dip pool-“sweat lodge rotation,” it was called.