Afoot on St. Croix (Mystery in the Islands) Read Online Free Page B

persuasive magic and convince the proprietor that it was time for an upgrade.
    He squeezed the empty water bottle in his hand, causing the plastic container to crinkle loudly. Convincing new clients to make a purchase was rarely a problem. Finding money in their accounts to pay for the expenditure, however, was another thing entirely.
    He counted the number of hotel guests on the dinghy and smiled optimistically. It was certainly worth a trip out to the cay.
    Humming to himself, the salesman dug around inside his leather satchel and removed a packet of papers containing a printout of his itinerary.
    After checking the name of the hotel listed on his travel documents, he turned his back to the water and scanned the signs of the businesses fronting the shoreline.
    “There it is,” he said, locating a coral-pink block-shaped hotel that was, thankfully, less than a stone’s throw away from the shade of his covered bench.
    He shifted the satchel’s strap to the opposite shoulder and grabbed his suitcase handle.
    “Boy, am I ready to kick off these shoes.”
    •
    SWEATING PROFUSELY, THE salesman stepped inside an open-air diner built into the hotel’s first floor. He’d been unable to find a boardwalk entrance to the hotel, but after craning his neck around the side of the building, he’d decided to check for access through the restaurant.
    The place had wood framing painted indigo blue and decorative accents in a rainbow of bright colors—the style was comfortably worn, classic Caribbean chic. A parrot-shaped lawn ornament perched on the diner’s outer railing, but it was a poor day for catching a breeze. The bird’s wide nylon wings stood immobile in the late-afternoon heat.
    At this short segment of the boardwalk, the sea passed beneath the wooden walkway, forming a small lagoon that lapped at a row of boulders built up around the diner’s edge. An arched footbridge skirted the pool of water, providing access to the main thoroughfare.
    For those seated at the plastic tables positioned along the restaurant’s open wall, the sailboats floating in the harbor appeared almost within arm’s reach. The thriving crustacean community that lived among the rocks was far closer than that.
    A speckled brown crab scuttled across the diner’s wet concrete floor. Huddling beneath one of the boulder-side tables, the crab watched as the air-conditioning salesman rolled his luggage around the hostess stand and past the bar to a wide hallway leading into the hotel’s inner courtyard.
    •
    HAVING FINALLY FOUND his way inside the hotel, the salesman proceeded directly to the reception desk. With relief, he leaned over the counter toward the receptionist.
    “Good afternoon,” he said, his voice a deep charming pitch. “I believe I have a reservation for tonight. The name’s Rock. Adam Rock.”
    The West Indian woman behind the counter smiled placidly in return.
    “Welcome, Mr. Rock,” she said as she began clicking keys on a bulky computer console.
    The salesman laid a heavy hand on the counter, trying to wait patiently for his room. A gold ring on his left hand clinked as he rolled his palm against the surface. He tilted his head to look at the courtyard’s covered ceiling, grateful for the shade.
    “Ah,” the woman murmured after a few minutes typing. “There you are.” She glanced up from the screen. “Have you been to St. Croix before, Mr. Rock?”
    “Not for a long while,” he replied, stroking his chin. “It’s been about ten years, I believe.” He nodded toward the courtyard’s far wall. “I stayed at the Comanche back then.”
    “We’re happy you chose us this time,” the woman said politely, once more preoccupied with the computer.
    At long last, she selected a room key and handed it over the counter to the salesman. “Well, Mr. Rock, I hope you enjoy your stay.”
    The salesman grinned slyly as if contemplating a joke that had just played out inside his head.
    “Yes,” he said, twirling the metal rod