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deposit. He’d done this because he’d only booked the rental four weeks in advance when Sabrina had an unexpected cancellation.
    She looked for a mailing address on the e-mails but there was none. The only phone number was for a mobile phone. The bank check was from American Express. There was nothing here that would help her or the police notify Johnson’s relatives about his murder.
    Sabrina grabbed the sparse information she had about Carter Johnson, taking note of the receipt for the propane refill for the gas grill with a post-it stuck to it with a note in her handwriting. She was owed twenty-seven dollars for the refill she had purchased at St. John Hardware during Carter’s visit, when he’d forgotten to turn the tank off and had run out mid-vacation. She knew that tank of propane could cost her a lot more than twenty-seven bucks ifthe cops learned she had been to Villa Mascarpone while Carter Johnson stayed there, especially after she’d lied to them and told them she’d met him only once.
    No one knew except Carter, and he was dead, so it had really been smarter to not mention it. It wasn’t a big deal. All she had done was deliver the filled tank to him. They’d barely talked. She ripped the receipt into tiny pieces and then set fire to them in her sink. Then she ran the faucet full blast, washing away any remains of what could tie her to Carter Johnson.

Chapter Six
    Sabrina cruised down the hill and then up and over several others in the large van they used to pick up guests at the ferry in downtown Cruz Bay, the center of St. John. By the time she arrived, Cruz Bay was bustling as much as any Caribbean island ever bustles. Sabrina had heard about the time some politician thought Cruz Bay needed a traffic light. Apparently, the island came as close to a revolution as it had since the days of the great slave rebellion against the Danish three hundred years before.
    Sabrina circled around the crowded streets that led to the dock where the ferry from St. Thomas arrived and dumped tourists onto St. John several times each day. Although Sabrina appreciated tourism, as it was now her livelihood, she privately thanked the ferry for removing the same amount of visitors off the island on the return trip. Sabrina knew that tourists were essential to the economic survival of St. John, but they were slowly destroying the island. Even here, life had its Draconian choices.
    She found a space and backed in the van, nestling it between two flatbed trucks, converted into Safari trucks by adding benches to give tourists “the best tour” of St. John. Ten Villa’s official meet-and-greet vehicle was a van large enough for the multiple suitcases tourists insisted on bringing, even though on St. John, you could easily survive a week’s vacation with a pair of shorts, a T-shirt, a swimsuit, and flip-flops.
    Sabrina thought of the luggage sitting in Carter Johnson’s jeep, the clothes packed, never to be worn again, and for the first time, she felt sadness sweep over her, followed by a rush of rage. St. John had promised her a new future, not more trouble. Sure, there was some small-time drug dealing. What island didn’t have it? And there had been the occasional break-in. But a murder? On St. John? She felt betrayed. She had fled to and chosen this island as her home, her sanctuary.
    Sabrina was on the verge of tears, a rare good cry, which was not going to be helpful when she had to meet and greet the new arrivals.
    She knew strolling over to Bar None for a quick drink wasn’t an option. She watched herself that way. Drinking was a way of life on an island, probably because almost everyone here had come to escape from somewhere, someone, or something. Sometimes from all three. It was okay to drink enough to be numb but not enough to duplicate the same kind of problems you were trying to leave behind.
    She decided to play a game she and Henry liked to amuse themselves with while they waited for guests to arrive at the