Rebel Island (Tres Navarre #7)(12)

Whatever he was thinking, he didn’t say it. He nodded at Jose and Imelda, who followed him out.

“Well, ain’t this cozy?” Garrett winked at the blond lady. “You mind being my bathroom buddy, darling?”

The blond lady squeezed her eyes shut, like she was hoping we’d all disappear. When we didn’t, she grabbed her pillow and ran out of the room.

Garrett’s smile dissolved. “Aw, hell, I didn’t mean—”

“I’ll go after her,” Maia said.

“No,” I said. “I’ll do it.”

Maia raised her eyebrows.

“Please,” I said. “Just…I’d rather you and Garrett stay where it’s safe.”

Maia muttered something in Chinese, probably a curse on her overprotective husband. “Fine. If I start labor, I’ll just have Garrett help me out.”

“Now wait a minute, sister,” Garrett protested.

I was about to go search for the blond lady when Mr. Lindy said, “Mr. Navarre?”

“Sir?” The sir came automatically—South Texas breeding. Something about the old man brought it out in me.

“You failed to mention the most obvious place for this murderer to hide,” he said. His eyes were frosty blue. “Right here. As one of the guests. How do we know it’s not one of us?”

The blond lady was sitting in the empty dining room.

A row of five tables with white linen cloths ran down the middle of the room. In the dark, they reminded me of gurneys in a morgue. Damaged windows were covered with tarps and hastily hammered boards, but rain leaked in the edges, soaking the carpet. The floor was strewn with silverware and overturned flower vases.

I sat down across from the lady.

“Tough night,” I said.

She brushed a carnation off the table. “Tough year.”

“What’s your name?”

“Lane.”

“That your first or last name?”

“First. Lane S—” She pursed her lips. “Lane Sanford.”

She was younger than I’d first thought: in her late twenties, pretty the way a sun-bleached cotton dress is pretty—comfortably worn, slightly faded. The roots of her hair were ginger brown.

“Okay, Lane. The thing is, we should be sticking together. I’m a little worried about you.”

She hugged her arms. “A little worried…”

“You’re staying alone at the hotel?”

“I thought I was alone.”

“I heard you talking to Chris and the maid this afternoon. Something about your ex?”

“I tried to warn them. Bobby will do anything. He’s been tracking me and…” She started breathing shallowly. “And that marshal who was shot—”

“Lane, I want you to take a deep breath and hold it.”

She gave me a desperate watery look, but she tried to hold her breath.

“Good,” I said. “Now let it out slowly, and tell me about your ex.”

She exhaled. “You don’t understand. You don’t know him.”

“Do you have any evidence your ex is here? Have you seen him?”

“I…No, but—”

“Was there some reason he would’ve targeted Longoria?”

“Longoria?”

“The marshal who got shot.”

“I don’t…I don’t know. I told Chris I shouldn’t have come.”

“So the hotel manager, Chris…you know him personally?”

She stared at the boarded-up windows. “I told him I couldn’t run anymore. I’m so tired of hiding from what happened.”

“What do you mean?”

Before she could answer, the college guys came tromping into the room. “Yo, Navarro,” the redheaded guy said.

“Navarre,” I corrected.

“Whatever,” he said, but he wasn’t pulling off his angry-young-man routine very well. His face was ashen. His two friends looked queasy. “We, um, found something maybe you should see.”

In the back of the kitchen was a triple-wide stainless-steel refrigerator. The college kids—who strangely enough possessed names: Chase, Markie and Ty—had decided to raid it looking for snacks. They’d lost their appetites when they saw what was on the floor.

“You were all together?” I asked.

Chase, the redhead, glanced at his friends. “Well, we were kind of…not.” He nodded at the sickly-looking Latino kid. “Ty was throwing up.”

“Too much information,” I said. “And you two?”

“Markie was getting glasses from the cabinet over there,” Chase said. “I was gonna get the food. Then I saw that.”

“It’s blood, isn’t it?” Lane Sanford’s voice trembled.

“Chase,” I said, “you and your friends take Miss Sanford back to the parlor, please. Tell my wife…” My voice faltered.

I was used to relying on Maia’s opinion, but she already felt queasy. I couldn’t ask Maia to look at this. “On second thought, ask Mr. Lindy to come in here.”

I finally convinced Lane to go with the college guys, which left me alone, staring at the skid mark of red on the white tiles.