Model Suspect Page 2

  “Of course, that doesn’t mean there couldn’t be someone else we don’t know about,” I murmured, trying hard to come up with any theory that didn’t involve Sydney’s beloved new husband as the bad guy.

  George glanced up from the mini fridge she’d just discovered under the seat. “What was that, Nance?”

  I blinked, realizing I was thinking aloud again. “Oh, nothing,” I said. “I was just thinking—what if someone from back home followed Vic and Syd here to Cayo de Oro without them knowing about it?”

  Bess’s blue eyes widened with alarm. “You mean like that MrSilhouette guy?”

  That was exactly what I’d been thinking. About a year earlier, Sydney had had some trouble with an Internet stalker who went by the handle MrSilhouette. My friends and I hadn’t known anything about it until Sydney had received a cameo necklace—a pendant with a silhouetted head on it—at her bridal shower. As it turned out, Candy had slipped it into the pile of gifts, hoping to make Sydney freak out enough to cancel the wedding. But now I wondered—what if the real MrSilhouette was still out there stalking Sydney?

  “It seems possible, right?” I settled back in my seat as the driver jumped in up front and started the car. There was a soundproof barrier between the front seat and the rear compartment, so I felt safe continuing our discussion. “What if MrSilhouette has been hanging around this whole time, maybe spying on Sydney and adding to the trouble whenever he gets a chance?”

  “Creepy!” Bess commented with a shiver.

  George looked skeptical as she unwrapped a package of cashews. “Sounds more like the plot of a movie or something than real life,” she said. “Besides, how would someone like that get close enough to plant that jet fuel, or whatever? Security was crazy tight during all the prewedding stuff.”

  “The only thing Syd knows about MrSilhouette is that he’s got this shiny bald head, right?” Bess said thoughtfully. “So he’d stand out in a crowd, at least if he’s young.”

  “We don’t know that he’s young,” I pointed out. “But you’re right—one of us probably would have noticed if there was some random bald guy hanging around.”

  See, that was all Sydney really knew about MrSilhouette. He’d once sent her a single photo of himself taken from behind. It showed nothing other than the back of his bald head.

  “What about that bald cameraman, Butch?” Bess said. “He’s the only bald person I can think of who was around for most of the mischief—well, at least if you don’t count Syd’s dad’s bald spot.”

  I nodded thoughtfully. Butch was part of the Daredevils camera crew. He was brusque and rude and seemed to have a bad attitude toward most of the people he was filming, including Vic.

  “Yeah, except he never seemed to pay any particular attention to Syd one way or the other. Plus he was the one who saved Vic that time his hair caught on fire, remember?” I shrugged. “But I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to call the Daredevils production office and confirm that Butch has been safely over in London shooting the next season of the show since before Syd and Vic left for the honeymoon.”

  George didn’t seem to be paying attention anymore. She’d rolled down the window on her side and was staring out and ahead.

  “Check it out,” she said, sounding excited. “I think we’re here!”

  I glanced out the window just in time to see a beautifully landscaped sign slide past proclaiming that we were entering the Oro Beach Resort. The limo slowed to negotiate the twisting drive leading to a large cluster of thatched buildings surrounded by palms. Manicured garden beds overflowed with riotously blooming tropical shrubs and flowers, and off to one side I could see part of a rolling, grassy golf course.

  “Wow, it looks nice,” Bess said. “Check out the waterfall!”

  “I can’t wait to see the beach,” George added.

  The window between the front and back seats slid open. “Here you are, ladies,” the driver announced politely as he guided the car to a smooth halt at the curb in front of the largest thatched building. “Please enjoy your stay on Cayo de Oro.”

  “Thanks,” we chorused.

  The driver was already climbing out, probably intending to hurry back and let us out of the car. But I was perfectly capable of opening a car door myself, and was feeling far too impatient to wait. So I reached over, pushed open the door, and hopped out.

  “Look this way, Miss Drew,” a gruff voice called out.

  I blinked, almost stumbling back against the car as a huge TV camera was shoved in my face.

  SMILE! YOU’RE ON CAMERA

  It felt like déjà vu. But it was all too real.

  “Huh?” George blurted out as she emerged onto the curb beside me. By now two or three other cameras were pointed our way along with assorted boom mics and such. “What, did we step into the middle of a shoot for the Travel Channel or something? I thought we were done with this kind of thing!”

  “I thought so too,” I said, staring at the camera operator. The very familiar camera operator. “Er, it’s Butch, isn’t it?” I said to him. “What are you guys doing here?”

  “Slow learners, eh? Don’t talk to the camera,” the bald cameraman retorted in his usual curt manner.

  “Hello, hello!” a new voice broke in breathlessly before I could respond. Turning, I saw another familiar face. It was Donald Hibbard, the efficient but often frantic young man who was the head production assistant from the wedding film crew. He was rushing toward us from the direction of the nearest building, clutching a handful of papers. His skinny, pale legs stuck out from his billowy Bermuda shorts, and a pair of oversize sunglasses were jammed onto his head, almost lost in his mop of sandy hair.

  “What’s going on?” Bess asked. She’d joined us on the walkway by now. Her hand strayed to her own hair, obviously checking to see if it was camera ready. As usual it looked flawless, just like the rest of her.

  “I guess you guys didn’t hear,” Donald said with an apologetic shrug. “Mr. Eberhart decided we needed to get a bit more footage. After all, we probably won’t be able to feature Pandora as much as he was planning, what with her being in jail and all. So Vic and Sydney have graciously agreed to allow us to join them here on the island for the first week of their honeymoon.”

  “Really?” I traded a glance with my friends. My first thought was that Sydney couldn’t be too happy about this. She’d really been looking forward to having the filming finished so she and Vic could relax and enjoy their honeymoon in private.

  But my second thought was that this was a very interesting turn of events. It seemed quite a few of our previous suspects might not be out of the picture after all! The possibilities flooded my mind: Hans Eberhart, the director who might be trying to pump up his career. Madge, the foul-tempered assistant director who seemed to have it in for everyone she encountered. Butch, the bald, surly cameraman my friends and I had just finished discussing …

  Donald quickly explained that we needed to sign a new set of releases for this stage of the filming. We did so as several resort employees appeared to help the limo driver unload our bags from the car.

  “So where is Mr. Eberhart?” I asked Donald as I capped my pen and handed back the release. “I’d like to talk to him about something if he’s around.”

  “Oh, Mr. Eberhart didn’t come down here himself.” Donald tucked the releases under his arm and tossed his bangs out of his eyes, almost dislodging his sunglasses. “He’s in London with the rest of the crew—they’re shooting the beginning of the new season over there. He sent Madge down here with just a small crew to take care of things.”

  Just then a neatly dressed woman approached and pressed something into my hand. “Your things will be waiting for you in your bungalow when you’re ready, ladies,” she said in a lilting island accent. “In the meantime, please enjoy the resort.”

  Before any of us could respond, she turned and glided off back into the lobby building. I glanced down and saw that I was now holding a trio of plastic key cards. Handing one each t
o Bess and George, I pocketed the last one.

  Glancing back toward the drive, I saw a uniformed porter in a golf cart whisking our bags off down one of the walkways between the buildings. “Oh,” I said. “I guess we should probably go figure out where we’re staying.”

  “I don’t think it’ll be much of a mystery,” Bess said, peering down at her key card. “There’s a number printed right on here, and a little map showing where our place is among the others.”

  We said good-bye to Donald and headed down the walk after the golf cart. I was half expecting the cameraman to follow us, but to my relief he didn’t. Instead he shouldered his camera and strolled off in the direction of what appeared to be some kind of open-air restaurant nearby. I guessed my friends and I weren’t famous enough to be worth filming more than our entrance.

  “Wow,” Bess said as we passed between two large thatched buildings, which appeared to make up the lobby area and a lounge. “This really changes things, doesn’t it?”

  “Sure does,” George agreed. “I guess maybe we haven’t lost all our suspects after all—there’s Madge, for one. I always thought she was up to no good.” She shot me a look. “Plus since Hans Eberhart isn’t here, it means Nancy can’t start suspecting him again.”

  “Hmm? Oh, right,” I said, feeling a little distracted. Eberhart had directed a couple of arty films early in his career, and George was a big fan. She’d been dismayed when I’d put him on my suspect list in the beginning. But it looked like she wouldn’t have to worry this time.

  “All right, with Eberhart out of the picture, who else have we got?” Bess asked. “There’s Madge, like you said.”

  “Yeah,” George agreed. “And what about that Butch guy? Weren’t we just saying he could be MrSilhouette?”

  “Ssh,” I warned them as we emerged into an open area with a gorgeous free-form pool at the center of it. But I didn’t have to worry. There was nobody in sight except a resort employee skimming leaves off the surface at the far end of the pool.

  The golf cart and our luggage had long since disappeared, but Bess seemed to know where she was going. She strode briskly across the pool area and entered a shaded cobblestone arcade. Small, expensive-looking boutiques lined both sides of the walkway, and wrought-iron benches and potted palms decorated the middle.

  “I think it’s this way,” Bess said. “All the bungalows are right on the water, so if we just head in the direction of the beach, we should be able to find it.”

  “Why bother?” George pointed out. “They already took our bags there for us. So maybe we should just look for Sydney.”

  Bess frowned. “We just got off a plane, remember?” she said. “I want to help Syd as much as you do, but I think that can wait for five minutes while we all freshen up.”

  “Oh, please.” George rolled her eyes. “The TV people rented out this whole place for Syd and Vic. It’s not like you need to primp in case you meet some cute guy.”

  Bess frowned. “Maybe you don’t mind looking like a ghoul on camera, but I happen to think it’s worth taking two seconds to try to look human….”

  The two of them continued bickering as we drifted along, but I wasn’t paying much attention. Halfway down the shopping arcade, George glanced over at me.

  “Earth to Nancy,” she said, waving a hand in front of my face. “What’s the matter?”

  I blinked. “Sorry,” I said. “I was just thinking about what Donald said.”

  “Yeah, so why are you looking so glum all of a sudden?” George said. “This is good news, right? Having the film crew here means we’re not starting from scratch after all.”

  “Oh, I know—it’s not that.” I sighed, feeling uneasy. “It’s just that hearing Donald mention Pandora just reminded me again that the wrong person might be in jail—and that I’m at least partially responsible for her being there.”

  Bess dragged her attention away from the stylish bathing suits on the mannequins outside the nearest shop, which she’d just stopped to admire. She turned to peer into my face as George and I drifted to a halt too.

  “Don’t you dare beat yourself up about that, Nancy,” she told me. “You were just trying to help Syd. Besides, Pandora pulled a big honking knife in the middle of the wedding, remember?”

  “Yeah,” George put in. “We all thought she was guilty, including the cops. Her being in jail isn’t anything like the stuff with Akinyi and Jamal….”

  Her voice trailed off. I guess she’d seen me wince.

  “Smooth move,” Bess chided her. “You just had to remind her of that when she was already feeling guilty, right?”

  “It’s okay,” I said as George started to apologize. “You’re right. It’s not the same as that at all.” I sighed as I thought about that whole mess. “It’s probably a good thing the only place I’m likely to see Akinyi again is in one of Bess’s fashion magazines,” I added ruefully as the three of us started walking again. “She was pretty gracious when I apologized at the reception, but still—she doesn’t seem like the forgive-and-forget type.”

  “Yeah,” George agreed.

  Bess didn’t answer. We’d just reached a spot where the shopping arcade opened up into an open-air seating area. Several coffee shops and food stands stood at each end, and directly ahead we had a stunning view of the large teardrop-shaped lagoon some fifty yards away down a slight hill. As distracted as I was, I had to admit the view was gorgeous. The crystal water sparkled beneath the late-afternoon sunlight, and even from this distance I could make out the shapes of fish swimming around out there. Off to the left stood a cluster of quaint thatched-roof huts on walkways out over the water, and farther down that way was a broad white beach backed up by a tangle of tropical jungle. Out in the ocean beyond the reef that protected the lagoon, several sailboats were taking advantage of the perfect weather.

  “Wow,” George said. “I take back my complaints about flying in coach. It was worth it to get here!”

  I nodded and glanced over at Bess. To my surprise, I saw that she was staring off to one side of the seating area, ignoring the picture-postcard view. At first I thought she must have been distracted by spotting another fashionable outfit or something. But that wasn’t it.

  “Hey,” she said, pointing. “Isn’t that Akinyi over there?”

  “Huh?” George turned to look. “What, you mean a picture of her or—oh! Yeah, that’s her all right!”

  I nodded slowly. There was no mistaking the model’s impossibly tall figure, her flawless features, or her gorgeous ebony skin. At the moment Akinyi was draped in a gauzy cover-up over a tiny bikini. She was posing on a wrought-iron bench in front of a colorful blooming shrub while a photographer snapped away. A Daredevils cameraman was filming the photo session while Madge, the assistant director, looked on.

  “What’s she doing here?” George wondered aloud.

  I shook my head. At that moment Akinyi turned her head and spotted us. The serene expression on her face soured into one of mild distaste.

  “Come on,” Bess said. “We might as well go over and say hello.”

  “Oh, right,” Akinyi said as we hurried up to her and the others. “Syd said you three were coming.”

  Madge shot us an irritated look. “Do you mind?” she snapped. “We’re in the middle of something here.”

  Akinyi tossed her a cool glance. “Actually, I could use a drink of water,” she said, sweeping past the assistant director toward one of the nearby food stands. “Let’s take five.”

  For a second Madge looked ready to argue. But I guess even she didn’t want to mess with Akinyi. Or maybe being in charge instead of second in command had mellowed her a little. Either way, she just waved one skinny hand in the direction of the cameras and then stomped off with her cell phone pressed to her ear. The photographer shrugged and lowered his camera, though the TV cameraman kept right on filming Akinyi as she grabbed a bottle of water.

  “Um, we weren’t expecting to see you here,” Bess said tactfully as Akinyi took a f
ew gulps of the water.

  The model finished drinking and wiped her mouth with the back of one hand. “I know,” she said in her lightly accented voice. She had been born somewhere in Africa, though the slight accent and her exotic looks were the only traces of that background. “Syd and Vic flew me and Jamal down here as a way of apologizing for what happened.”

  I smiled sheepishly. Was it my imagination, or had she shot me a quick look when she’d said that?

  “Yeah,” I said. “Um, listen, Akinyi, once again I’m really sorry about everything that happened. It’s just that when I heard that story about Vic making Jamal lose his job, and then we found the raincoat and stuff in your rooms …”

  “Never mind.” She made a sort of sweeping motion, as if pushing away my apology. “It doesn’t matter.” She glanced over at the TV camera, which was still rolling. “We needn’t speak of it.”

  I wasn’t sure if she meant she didn’t want to talk about the incident at all, or just when the camera was filming us. Either way I was happy to let the subject drop.

  “So,” Bess said to Akinyi, “this resort seems really nice. Have you had a chance to—”

  Whatever she was going to ask was cut off by a sudden ear-piercing, high-pitched alarm blasting out of the speakers in the seating area. Along with that came a flurry of slightly muffled yells and screams from somewhere not too far away, topped by one panicky shout that rang out over the rest:

  “Fire!”

  FIRE AND WATER

  “Oh!” Akinyi exclaimed, clutching at her heart. I forgot to mention one other thing about her. She’s one of the most neurotic people I’ve ever met. Every little thing sends her into a tizzy.

  “Come on!” George shouted, springing into action. “Let’s go see what’s going on!”