Rebel Island (Tres Navarre #7)(13)

I didn’t hear Mr. Lindy come up behind me until he spoke. “Blood, all right,” he said. “Someone slipped in it. Partial shoeprint, there.”

I looked at the old man. “Are you retired law enforcement, Mr. Lindy?”

“Criminal lawyer. Thirty-seven years. I’ve seen my share of blood.”

His voice was as dry as a South Texas creek bed.

“Maybe this is from when they were moving Longoria’s body,” I said hopefully.

Lindy shook his head. “I stumbled across Chris Stowall and the cook, Jose, while they were doing that. I tried to convince them it, ah, wasn’t a good idea…but Mr. Stowall was not entirely rational. He insisted he couldn’t let the guests see the body. At any rate, the cellar where they took the body is around the corner there. They didn’t come through this way, and no one tracked blood as far as I could see. They used a plastic tarp.”

I crouched next to the red smear. Sure enough, the edge of a shoeprint was visible—a man’s shoe, I thought. Smooth sole, about a size 11. There were no other red prints on the floor, though, as if the man had slipped in blood, then taken his shoe off to avoid leaving a trail. But if that was the case, why had he left this stain?

“I don’t want to think this is someone else’s blood,” I said. “I mean, besides Longoria’s.”

Lindy’s eyes glinted. “Mr. Huff said you’d retired from private investigations. I take it you’ve dealt with murders before?”

Had I dealt with murders? Under different circumstances, I might’ve laughed. “Yes, sir. A few.”

“And you knew Marshal Longoria?”

I wondered if Lindy was grilling me. I suspected he was the kind of lawyer who could set his victims at ease, then work out a confession before they realized what had happened.

“I knew him,” I admitted. “And I don’t want anything to do with solving his murder. You’ve got more experience than I do.”

The old man shook his head. “Until the police can be called, you do what you think is best, son. I’ll back you up. The others looked to you naturally, you know. There was no doubt that you would be in charge.”

“Thanks a lot,” I said. “And now we have a bloodstain along with a dead body. How am I doing so far?”

Lindy patted my shoulder. “You go find that wife of yours, try to relax a little. Lock your bedroom door. I’ll call you if anything else happens.”

“We should all stay together.”

Lindy smiled. “Too late for that, son. These people are not the types that stay together well. Now, go salvage what you can of the first night of your honeymoon. I’ll get my gun back from Alex Huff. I’m increasingly beginning to wonder if I will need it.”

8

Imelda watched nervously as Señor Huff ransacked the building. He muttered to himself, throwing open doors and clutching his borrowed gun. She had seen him in many moods, but never like this before.

“Where is he?” Señor Huff growled. He pulled sheets out of the linen closet and dumped them at Jose’s feet, then moved to the next guest room and kicked open the door. “Where is the bastard?”

“Señor—”

“No.” Huff stuck his finger in her face. “You don’t talk to me. Neither of you.”

Jose cleared his throat. “But, Señor Huff—”

“Get back downstairs,” he ordered. “Make the guests some food. I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to hear you.”

He stormed down the hallway and left them alone.

Imelda looked at her husband. “What do we do?”

She was used to Jose having answers. Usually, no matter how bad the situation, he would give her a reassuring smile. She loved the way the edges of his eyes crinkled, his gaze warm and brown. He was a handsome man when he smiled.

Now his expression was grim. He knelt and gathered up the fallen linens. “We make the guests food.”

“Jose…please. It’s killing him.”

He folded up the sheets clumsily and stuffed them back into the closet. He was never good with linens. That was her job, folding the corners perfectly, smoothing out wrinkles.

“Señor Huff will survive this,” he promised. “We all will.”

“We owe him—”

“I know what we owe him,” Jose said. She heard the steel edge in his voice and knew better than to argue.

“We’ll go downstairs,” Jose insisted. “And do our jobs.”

He trudged off, not waiting to see if she would follow.

Imelda hesitated, staring into the empty guest room. It was room 207. It hadn’t been used in weeks. Every day, Imelda would go in anyway to dust and fluff the pillows. She would open the window to let in fresh sea air. She loved empty rooms. They were clean and full of promise. They had no past. Unlike their own room. Terrible memories could not be smoothed out. They couldn’t be neatly folded and tucked away.

It had all started to go wrong last fall, when the visitor arrived from the mainland. That day, she had known their lives would be shattered yet again. Their hopes of finding peace would be dashed.

She gathered her strength. She could not give up now. The young man, Señor Navarre, might be a new opportunity. She would know, soon enough.