Without a Grave Read Online Free PDF

particulars, but she already knew. Pattie Toler, moderator of the world’s largest party line, knew everything. ‘ Windswept , on Bonefish. You’re the ones who found that stray dinghy last week, right?’
    â€˜Guilty. It fetched up against our dock one morning. Belonged to one of the cruisers in Hawksbill Harbour who was very surprised to wake up and find himself stranded in the middle of the harbor with no way to get ashore.’
    â€˜Except swim,’ drawled her companion.
    â€˜There is that,’ I said, turning to study the speaker more closely. Movie-idol good looks, impossibly white teeth. The kind of mature guy who always gets the girl.
    Pattie slapped a hand to her forehead. ‘Where are my manners? Hannah, this is Rudolph Mueller. Rudy owns the Tamarind Tree Resort and Marina. Been gone for a few weeks. Flew in on Wednesday.’
    â€˜Testing the runway,’ Rudy grinned. He took my hand in his cool dry one and gave it a gentle squeeze. ‘I hope we’ll have the pleasure of entertaining you at the Tamarind Tree some time.’
    â€˜We’ve been meaning to . . .’ I sputtered, my knees suddenly turning to jelly as Rudy’s dark-chocolate eyes augured into mine. ‘My husband and I,’ I stammered. ‘Uh, maybe for our anniversary.’ I’d become a gibbering idiot. Had Rudy peered out his cockpit window and seen me naked? He certainly was giving me the impression he had.
    He still had hold of my hand. ‘We’re soon to open the restaurant, Hannah. May I call you Hannah?’
    I nodded stupidly.
    â€˜We’ve gutted and completely remodeled the old Tamarind Tree. And I’ve hired the chef from El Conquistador in Fajardo.’
    â€˜Fajardo?’
    â€˜Puerto Rico.’
    â€˜Ah.’
    â€˜He starts on Emancipation Day.’
    â€˜Oh.’
    â€˜August first.’
    â€˜Right.’ I couldn’t put two words together to make a sentence.
    â€˜So we’re having a banquet,’ Rudy continued, finally releasing my hand. ‘Prix fixe. Forty dollars. Benicio . . .’ He paused, smiling. ‘Our chef, Benicio Escamilla Ávalos, perhaps you’ve heard of him?’
    I shook my head.
    â€˜Well, no matter. What’s important is that Benicio prepares the best crack conch you will get anywhere.’ He laid a hand on my shoulder.
    An electric charge, I swear, passed from his body into mine. And, damn the man, he knew it. ‘So we can count on you, then? And your husband, too?’ He raised an eloquent eyebrow that hinted at perhaps your husband will fall ill, or be lost at sea, or abducted by aliens, then fortunately we  . . . ?
    Somehow I managed to breathe. ‘We’ll be delighted, I’m sure. And speaking of food,’ I rattled on, finding my voice at last, ‘the conch fritters here are to die for.’ I gestured toward the Cruise Inn and Conch Out’s booth where Cassandra and Albert Sands were scuttling about, catering to the ravenous hordes.
    â€˜The competition,’ Rudy added, although from his tone, it was clear that he didn’t consider the Sands’ modest, home-style Bahamian restaurant any competition at all. Frankly, I’d take Cassie’s fried plantain over any highfalutin Paris-trained chef who whipped up the same dish and put it on the menu as banane frite , but I was polite enough not to say so.
    While the three of us chatted, a young, twenty-something beauty showed up at Rudy’s side, hovering proprietorially. Trophy wife? She was dressed in an ankle-length floral skirt and a bright-yellow tank top that complimented her lightly bronzed skin. Voluptuous raven curls were twisted into a knot at the crown of her head and held in place with a tortoiseshell claw. When the conversation wound down, she touched Rudy’s arm and said, ‘Papa?’ neatly trashing my trophy-wife theory.
    â€˜Qué quieres, mi