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running on the beach in the rain.”
    “Are you kidding? She’s actually jogging in this storm?”
    “She is.”
    “That’s what I call dedication.” Roxanne was Tara Baxter’s cousin. At Geneva’s party, Geneva introduced Roxanne as “the woman of the couple who owns the big pink house, more accurately called ‘the pink palace.’ “I’ve phoned Roxanne a few times and left messages,” I told Victor. “But I didn’t hear back. Understandable. News hounds are consuming most of her time, but I’d like to talk to her about the night I found Tara’s body. I sort of feel obligated.”
    Victor said, “I saw Roxanne on the news sobbing, saying how devastated she was. The reporter was gushing. She told Roxanne she was thrilled when Tara became Miss Florida, the same title Roxanne won ten years before.”
    “What did Roxanne say?”
    “She said she and Tara where first cousins and best friends and she accused police of dragging their feet.”
    “So sad, Victor, but I need to let you go. Times a wasting.”
    “I’m now standing in front of your townhouses.”
    “That was quick.”
    “Your beach neighbor Geneva VanSant is still here. Or at least her Mustang is.”
    “Such a sweet lady.”
    “Seems to be, but I don’t care for her politician husband.” “I haven’t met him yet, but he has good taste. His wife is lovely. And she’s a very talented writer.”
    “Speaking of writers, I see what’s his face? In the unit to the right of yours, walking in his front door like he doesn’t have a care in the world.”
    “Are you talking about Sean Redmond?”
    “I think that’s his name.”
    “I haven’t met him yet, but I’ve read one of his books.” “What kind of books does he write?”
    “The one I read was a murder mystery, set in California on an Indian reservation. In Indio, I think. I wonder if he plans to ride out the storm, too. If so, you won’t be alone on Paradise Isle. Just be safe, Vic, okay? And thanks for helping me out. You’re a true gentleman.”
    “Don’t mention it.”
    After I hung up from Victor, I stuffed a pile of dirty clothes into the washing machine and heard the sound of the postman slipping mail through the front door chute.
     
     
    Chapter Six
     
    Paradise Isle Geneva VanSant’s Beach House
         The ringing phone snapped Geneva VanSant out of the horrible dream about her friend and neighbor Roxanne Trawler. In the dream, Roxanne was dancing barefoot in her house as the monster hid in the closet. Roxanne danced into the closet and the monster attacked her. Geneva rubbed her aching head, hoping the dream portended nothing. Probably my punishment for taking a sleeping pill after hubby Loughton left in the wee hours to catch his plane.
    Geneva stood, stretched and took a deep breath to clear her head. The wind sounded like a chorus of whistling ghosts.
    She noticed the French doors were standing wide open. Probably from the wind or my own carelessness for not securing the doors properly. She walked over and closed the doors as the answering machine announced her mother’s voice, a mixture of Mr. Rogers and Martha Stewart with a southern accent. “Geneva? If you’re there, pick up.”
    Geneva grabbed the phone. “Hi.”
    “Were you asleep?”
    “Was, until you called.”
    “Why aren’t you answering your cell? I’ve called you a zillion times.”
    “I must have turned my phone off.” Geneva said, withdrawing the Nokia from a side pocket of her purse. She turned it on and saw three missed calls: Three from her mother; another from Lilah Sanderford, a fellow journalist; and a “no number.”
    Geneva’s mother said, “You need to keep an eye on that hurricane. It’s moving straight toward Dolphin.”
    “There’s been no evacuation, but I’ll probably be leaving soon.”
    “Probably? Don’t dawdle, Geneva, that thing’s supposed to make landfall tomorrow.”
    “Please, I’m not a child.”
    “You sound grumpy.”
    “No, Snow White, I’m