Murder in the Raw Read Online Free Page B

the handsome redhead under his scrutiny, guessing her to be in her late forties. Seated beside her, Toni Weeks also retained a noble beauty. According to Paul Winslow, her mother had been a distant relative of the emir of Kuwait and had married an Englishman.
    “Our daughters are the same age,” Toni told Rex. “Jasmin and Gaby get together each July at La Plage. Jasmin will be here next week. She’s spending a fortnight in Nice with her French pen pal.”
    “ Und Gaby had Latin school this summer,” Martina von Mueller added in heavily accented English. “She arrived a week ago.”
    “Latin school?” Rex inquired.
    “Where we speak Latin,” Gaby replied. “I want to study law, so Latin is very important.” The girl’s English was much better than her mother’s.
    “Rex is a criminal lawyer, not an entertainment attorney like Vernon,” Toni explained to Gaby.
    Rex wanted to get back to the subject of Latin school. “ Num Latine ibi cotidie loqueris ?” he asked. Do you speak Latin every day there?
    “ Cotidie et omni tempore .” All day, every day.
    “That’s amazing. And they say Latin is a dead language.”
    “So useful to have a background in Latin for medicine also,” the Austrian doctor remarked.
    “Well, I’d be happy to chat in Latin with you while I’m here,” Rex told Gaby, who appeared pleased by the attention.
    “So, Rex,” Weeks said. “Are you going to be getting into our naturist culture?”
    “Och, I dinna know about that,” Rex stumbled in his embarrassment, his Scots accent thickening in proportion to the alcohol he drank. “Not much occasion to go about wi’ no clothes on back home.”
    “Is it true that it rains all the time in Scotland?” Brooklyn asked. “I played golf in St. Andrews once and it pissed down every day.”
    “Aye, just aboot.”
    “Just like Ireland,” Nora said.
    “Well, don’t be shy, old fellow. We’ll let you keep your sporran on.”
    The table erupted into laughter at David Weeks’ comment.
    “What’s a sporran?” Gaby asked.
    “It’s a Scottish fanny-pack,” said Brooklyn.
    The guests laughed uproariously again. The second course arrived, filling the air with an aroma of savory ribs and spicy seafood. Rex attacked his grilled chicken and rice with gusto.
    “Grand Case, the neighboring town, is the gastronomic capital of the island,” Dick Irving, the Canadian, told him, addressing him for the first time since their introduction. “There are about thirty restaurants packed along the main boulevard.”
    “I passed by there on the way to the resort.”
    “You must have taken the Marigot route from the airport,” Duke Farley said.
    “Aye. The driver was verra informative,” Rex added, slipping deeper into his Scots accent. “It was like having my own personal tour guide. Is Pascal the limo driver too?” he asked, remembering the reference to the limousine in Toni Weeks’ statement.
    “Yeah, but if there’s a scheduling conflict, Greg Hastings, the manager, sometimes drives. A few of us rent Jeeps, but cars get broke into so often on the island we prefer to be chauffeured whenever possible.”
    “Who owns the resort?”
    “Monsieur Bijou,” Brooklyn replied. “He has another hotel and a new club in Marigot, but lately he’s gotten into residential projects. He just opened a luxury condominium complex up the coast.”
    “Marina del Mar,” Paul Winslow said. “He’s got fingers in several pies. It’s thanks to him the police finally pulled their thumbs out and decided to look into Sabine’s disappearance.”
    “Truth is, we’ve gotten nowhere in a week,” Duke Farley exploded. “She couldn’t have just vanished into thin air.”
    The guests looked expectantly at Rex, who cleared his throat. “Aye, well I’ll see what I can do, starting first thing in the morning, but I canna make any promises.”
    Solving the case of the missing actress might prove to be a challenge. An island in the Caribbean was an ideal place