Death in a Beach Chair Read Online Free PDF

use some special attention. She stood up, plopped her straw hat on her head, adjusted her pareo around her waist, and, deciding that she didn’t need shoes, headed back to their cottage.
    It was close to noon and even those guests who ranked sleeping late high on their list of vacation priorities were up and about. Each chair or lounge seemed to be filled or about to be filled, with colorful beach towels, open paperbacks, and half-finished drinks waiting for their occupant’s return. Susan walked slowly. Everything was painted in brilliant colors. But the blue paint couldn’t compare with the hue of the sky. The azure sea sparkled in the sunlight. The palm trees rustled slightly in the sea breeze. An enterprising photographer could have pointed his camera in any direction and labeled the resulting photograph paradise. Susan realized she was completely content. She glanced back over her shoulder. Jed and Jerry were still talking. Kathleen had moved her chair under an umbrella and was apparently absorbed in her book.
    The maid had cleaned up their cottage, and Susan quickly found the notice of spa services available. Massages—Swedish and deep muscle—could be had day and evening. Reservations were required and could be made in the gift shop.
    The gift shop was small, but carried just about all the necessities, from sunscreen to après-sun crème to Solarcaine, as well as lots of luxury items. A tall, elegant black woman was stationed by the old-fashioned cash register.
    “May I help you?”
    “I understand this is the place I make reservations for a massage?”
    “Yes.” She pulled a large leather-bound book from underneath the counter. “Do you prefer a male or a female?”
    “A woman, if that’s possible. Is there someone available this afternoon?”
    “Let me see . . . yes, Lourdes could take you at three. Her specialty is Swedish massage, but if you prefer something different . . .”
    “No, that would be lovely. Where does she give them?”
    “Right in your room. She has portable massage tables. If that’s okay with you, I could make the appointment.”
    “Three o’clock is perfect!”
    “Then you can expect Lourdes at three—or perhaps just after the hour. Sometimes one of her clients keeps her talking and she runs just a bit late. I always say Lourdes knows more about what goes on here at Compass Bay than anyone on staff.”
    Susan smiled. “Then I know whom to ask if I have any questions.”
    The woman laughed. “I said she knows, not she talks. Many famous people come to Compass Bay—musicians, politicians, actors, and such. No one keeps his job if he talks about them to the press or other guests.” The cordial expression on her face vanished, making Susan feel as though she had been caught doing something wrong.
    “I can understand that,” she quickly assured the other woman. “I wouldn’t want anyone talking about what I’m doing. Not that I’m doing anything wrong,” she added quickly. “Or even interesting, for that matter . . .” She realized she was babbling, and the gigantic orange sun hat hanging above the cash register provided a change of topic. “How much is that hat?” she asked quickly.
    Five minutes later she left the store, one hat in hand, another on her head. Having no intention of looking like a hat salesman for a minute longer than necessary, she hurried back to her cottage. Noticing that the door to the cottage Jerry and Kathleen shared was open, she glanced inside. A tall woman wearing immaculately pressed white slacks was leaning over the bed. Susan smiled. The room she shared with Jed had been made up hours ago, but in a resort where the guests stayed for multiple days, housekeeping probably had to be very flexible. She had noticed a couple of maids replacing damp beach towels hung over deck railings with clean, dry ones late last night. This was just what every woman needed, she realized, twenty-four/seven maid service. Her own cottage was sparkling and neat,