LITMIR.BIZ

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and the island were like old friends, he thought as he paused to watch a blue heron step along the shore, searching for its breakfast.

      Carlos’s heartbeat quickened as he spotted something that looked like a human bone bobbing around in the retreating tide. He waded in and slapped both hands into the water. On his second try, his fingers closed around the wave-tossed object.

      Driftwood. Only a piece of driftwood.

      He stared at it for long minutes, then flipped it back into the water. Paranoia was definitely setting in.

      “Good morning, Carlos.”

      He jumped at the sound of his name, and turned around to find Jaci Matlock standing a few feet away. He had no idea how long she’d been there, or if she’d seen him frantically groping for the driftwood, only to return it to the churning waters of the gulf.

      “Good morning, Miss Matlock.”

      “The island is even more beautiful and peaceful than I pictured it. And the villa is fascinating.”

      “It’s a crumbling relic.”

      She bent to pick up a sand dollar that had washed ashore. “Your traps were full this morning.”

      “How do you know?”

      “I saw you empty them.”

      “Then you must have been up with the sun.”

      “I’m an early riser.”

      “I didn’t see you on the dock.”

      “No. I was on the beach, using my binoculars to watch a couple of dolphins frolic.”

      But at least for a while her binoculars had been focused on him. Paranoia or not, his suspicions about her presence on the island grew. “How did you find out about Cape Diablo?”

      “My mother suggested it. She lives in Naples, and apparently some of her friends vacationed here. They raved about the quiet, secluded beach and the marvelous view of the gulf. They also bragged about the crabs. May I buy a few from you? They’d make a nice dinner.”

      “I don’t supply food to the tenants.”

      Tamale came running up to join them, going straight to Jaci. She knelt in the sand and he jumped excitedly, licking her hands and face.

      “Come along, Tamale,” Carlos said.

      “Tamale, what a neat name for a dog.”

      “It’s just a name. First thing that came to mind when some guys dumped him from a boat a few yards from shore and never came back for him. That was almost a month ago.”

      “Lucky for Tamale. He seems at home here.”

      He walked away, but Jaci joined him, her willowy shadow dancing with his plumper and slightly stooped one. The silence rode between them until they’d almost reached the cutoff to the overgrown garden and the arched opening to the courtyard.

      “How long have you lived on Cape Diablo?” she asked.

      He looked at her for a second and met her penetrating gaze before glancing away. “Too many years to count.”

      “You must love it to have stayed so long.”

      “It’s home.”

      “I’m interested in seeing the villa. What time are the tours?”

      “Tours?”

      “Yes, Mr. Cochburn said you give tours of the villa to tenants staying here. Actually, I tried to rent one of the apartments inside the big house, but he said they were closed temporarily for repairs.”

      “I don’t know what Mr. Cochran told you, but there are no tours.”

      “Then perhaps you could show me around.”

      “No. The villa is off-limits to visitors at this time.”

      “Because of the damage from recent storms?”

      He nodded, though her assumption was false. The villa had become too dangerous over the last few weeks and the tenants too upsetting for the señora. “I must insist that you not enter the villa during your stay.”

      “That’s disappointing.”

      He expected more argument, but she skipped ahead for the last few yards, kicking through the surf and playing chase with Tamale like a small child. Her mixture of innocence and intensity left him more confused than ever about her reasons for coming to Cape Diablo.

      She stopped when she reached the overgrown garden surrounding the courtyard, and stooped to pick a late bloom from a bush all but strangled by a lush crop of weeds.

      When Andres had lived here, there had been enough servants to keep the house and gardens in impeccable condition. It still saddened Carlos to see it in such disrepair, but what could one old man do?

      He caught up with Jaci just as she stepped into the courtyard.

      “Why is it the swimming pool has been left in such a state of disrepair?” she asked. “It’s seems a shame not to use it when the setting is so enticing.”

      “With all the gulf to swim in, why would one need a cement pool?”

      “Yet someone built it here.”

      Yes, and if it were up to Carlos, he’d have had the hole filled in so that there was no sign it had ever existed. The señora wouldn’t hear of it.

      “What kind of fish do you catch around here?” Jaci asked.

      Thankfully, she’d let the subject of the pool drop. “Flounder, redfish, pompano—too many to name.”

      “I’d love to try my hand at catching some of them. Would you consider taking me out in your boat? I’d pay you, of course.”

      He knew it was a mistake to leave his boat out in the open for renters to see. They always thought it should be at their disposal, the way they thought he should be. “I’m having a little trouble with my motor right now. If I get it fixed, I’ll let you know.”

      He didn’t know why he’d said that, but maybe taking her fishing wasn’t such a bad idea. It would give him a chance to check her out, see if she was just a tourist as she claimed, or another of the curious here to search for answers to the Santiago mystery, or go ghost hunting.

      He waited for Jaci to enter the gate, then headed to the main house to search for the señora. He saw her standing at the window, staring down at him. The look on her face was anything but pleasant. And this was even before he told her of Raoul’s visit.

      “I DON’T WANT HIM HERE,” she said, speaking in Spanish though she spoke fluent English. She’d learned it as a young girl and now mixed the two languages as if they were one.

      This was exactly the reaction Carlos had expected. He dropped into one of the uncomfortable antique chairs in Alma’s sitting room and prepared himself for a bout of her childlike pouting.

      “He’s my brother’s grandson,” he countered.

      “He doesn’t like me.”

      Carlos couldn’t argue that with her. Raoul had no more use for her than Emilio had had. “You don’t have to see him. He’ll stay in the boathouse with me if he spends the night. Most likely he won’t stay that long.”

      “What does he want?”

      “He didn’t say. I assume he only wants to see me and assure himself that I’m doing well.”

      “Of course you’re doing well. Why wouldn’t you be?”

      “Maybe because I’m getting older, even older than his own grandfather was when he died.”

      Her expression changed from one of pouting irritation to apprehension. “Don’t talk like that, Carlos.”

      He

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