Rebel Island (Tres Navarre #7)(28)

17

Before heading to the hotel office, I reread Chris Stowall’s journal. One entry caught my attention, because it was one of the few written in detail. It described how Lane Sanford had convinced Chris to take the job as Rebel Island hotel manager.

Lane Sanford had just gotten engaged. Chris was cryptic about the details, but he clearly wasn’t happy.

They were walking together at the seawall in Corpus Christi. Chris didn’t record the time or the weather, but he wrote very specifically about what Lane was wearing. Her sleeveless dress was pastel blue. Her sandals were decorated with cowry shells. Her hair hadn’t been dyed blond yet. It was ginger brown, braided down her back.

Chris was trying to convince her that marrying Bobby was a terrible idea.

“You don’t believe people can change?” Lane asked him.

“No. Look at me. I can’t.”

It must have been chilly, because Lane hugged her arms. Her fingernails were pink, which Chris found disturbing. She never painted her nails. She must’ve done it for Bobby.

“Chris, you’ve got to stop,” Lane told him. “You can’t keep doing what you’re doing.”

“I gave it up,” he told her. But he could tell she didn’t believe him.

“I know where you could get a job,” Lane said. “Alex would take you in. He bought the hotel, you know.”

Chris protested. Alex was an old friend, but they hadn’t seen each other in years. Not since Alex had joined the army. Besides, Alex had gotten a little weird ever since his old man died. How the hell could he afford to buy Rebel Island, anyway?

“His father had some money,” Lane said. “He never spent anything. And I think Mr. Eli wanted him to have the place. He sold it really cheap.”

Chris didn’t think much of Mr. Eli. The man had been creepy. Alex living on that island so long with just his dad and that old guy in the bathrobe—it seemed pretty damn strange.

“I’ve got no experience,” Chris said. “Nobody would hire me.”

“Alex would,” Lane insisted. “He believes in giving people a chance. He’s got big plans for the hotel.”

She took out a business card and pressed it into Chris’s hands. He paid a lot more attention to the warmth of her fingers than he did to the card.

“Just call him for me?” she asked.

Chris gazed at the waves, thinking about surfing, how he would like to be out there riding the crests. Things were simpler in the water. The waves came to you. You just needed patience and balance. You didn’t need to think too much, or prove anything. You didn’t get in trouble just because you wanted to make some money.

“I’ll call him,” Chris promised.

A week later, Chris wrote: I took the job. It’ll only be for a while. Besides, I’ve got an idea. I could have enough money for Hawaii in a few months.

The hotel office looked like a hurricane had blown through, though it was one of the few rooms where the hurricane hadn’t.

Paperwork was strewn everywhere. Notes and old photographs overflowed the bulletin board. There were a wall calendar and two desk calendars, and as far as I could tell none of them was for this year.

“Here, señor.” Jose handed me the phone bill from last month.

“Please,” I said, “just call me Tres.”

Jose had a quick, natural smile that would’ve gotten him labeled impertinent in school or the military. He probably didn’t find anything particularly funny. His mouth was just shaped that way. He was built like a wrestler, low and thick and solid, with hands that could’ve crushed rocks. But his smile and the gleam in his eyes made him look nonthreatening. Almost cuddly.

I decided not to share that observation with him.

I scanned the list of calls from the hotel’s land line. Most were to Port Aransas or Aransas Pass. Some to Corpus, Kingsville, San Antonio, Brownsville. All the closest metropolitan areas. The places you might expect.

“Can you tell which room dialed which number?” I asked.

Jose looked at the phone bill. “No, señor.”

“How about cell phones? Does Chris have one?”

“I think, yes. But mobile phones do not work on the island.”

“Don’t suppose you have any idea where his might be?”

Jose shook his head. “Lo siento, señor.”

I stared at the dark computer screen. No way to access the thing. I found some printed-out emails, but nothing interesting. Confirmed bookings. Catering invoices. Responses to creditors and guests. It looked like Chris had written most of the hotel’s correspondence. There was nothing that matched the printout from U.S. Marshal Berry.

“Jose, how long have you worked here?”

“Two years, señor, in July.”

“You like it?”

“The work is good. I enjoy preparing the brunches on Sunday. Usually, I make better than Vienna sausages.”

I went back to the phone numbers. Something about them nagged me but I couldn’t pinpoint what.

“Did Chris hire you?” I asked.

“No, señor.” A hint of distaste in his voice. “Mr. Huff hired me. Mr. Stowall came later.”

It seemed weird for Jose to be calling a young twerp like Chris “Mr. Stowall.”

“They treat you okay?” I asked. “Chris and Alex?”