Cruel Capers on the Caribbean: A Kate on Vacation Mystery (The Kate on Vacation mysteries) by Kassandra Lamb Page A
Authors: Kassandra Lamb
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through there, would he?” Liz asked.
Kate gave that some thought. Maybe, maybe not. He wasn’t as big a man as Rob or Skip, but his shoulders were broader than hers.
Her gut twisted. Slender Clem would definitely fit. She realized she didn’t want to believe it was him. But her denial wouldn’t change reality.
Before she could say anything, Skip sat back and tapped a finger against his lips. “Let’s follow the money for a moment. Clem’s obviously got the most to gain since Cora had changed her will to include him–”
“But would Cora’s husband even know the will had been changed?” Liz asked.
“Not unless Cora told him,” Skip said. “Lawyers aren’t allowed to discuss the contents of wills.”
“She could’ve told her daughter,” Liz pointed out, “who in turn told her stepfather.”
Skip nodded, his expression still thoughtful. “Yeah, but even if the husband knew the will had been changed, he’d most definitely get custody of the daughter if Cora was dead, and he’d then have access to her trust fund, which is probably the lion’s share of the estate.”
“Maybe he was hoping Clem would be accused of her death,” Liz said. “Then the daughter would get the whole estate. But then why have the hit man set it up to look like a suicide or accidental overdose?”
“That might’ve been the hit man’s idea,” Kate said, “to buy him time to get off the ship.”
“Either way, her husband’s got something to gain,” Liz said. “He doesn’t have to spend a lot of money on a custody battle he might very well lose.”
Skip looked at Kate for a long moment, then his mouth quirked into an indulgent smile. “I’ll make a deal with you, darlin’. I haven’t seen Key West before. If you can put all this aside for a few hours and just be a tourist until we hear from Rob, we can go back to the ship early this afternoon and check out Mr. Fredericks some more.”
Warmth swelled in her chest. She pushed aside her niggling doubts about Clem and smiled back at her husband. “I’ll take that deal.”
~~~~~~~~
B y ten-thirty, they’d seen the first attraction on Skip’s list–Harry Truman’s summer home, dubbed The Little White House during his administration. As they walked to the corner of Whitehead and Fleming Streets, they debated the merits of the ranking of U.S. presidents they’d seen there. Kate had bought a copy of the poster that listed the men based on how good a job historians felt they had done while president. She planned to give it to her father, who was a bit of a history buff.
Ahead, a group of people milled around a signpost, snapping pictures. The sign read Mile 0 . They were at the southernmost tip of the continental United States.
Once they too had taken photos of each other next to the sign, they headed up Whitehead Street to the next stop on Skip’s must-see list. Inside Ernest Hemingway’s house, their tour guide described the famous author’s writing habits. He had risen at sunrise every morning and typed away in his study, usually until noon.
The guide quoted a 1958 interview he had given, “‘You write until you come to a place where you still have your juice and you know what will happen next and you stop and try to live through until the next day....’ He also went on to say that the wait until the next day was the hardest part.” She chuckled. “Of course, you probably already know how he handled that wait. Copious amounts of alcohol.”
As they left the grounds, luscious with green foliage and tropical flowers, Kate leaned down to scratch behind the ears of a calico kitten. Like most of the multitude of Hemingway cats, this one had six toes on its front paws. He looked like he was wearing mittens.
They followed in Hemingway’s footsteps down to Sloppy Joe’s Bar on Duval Street, where the author had spent many of his afternoons perched on a barstool.
Kate’s stomach growled. Skip grinned at her and held out his arm in the direction of
Kate gave that some thought. Maybe, maybe not. He wasn’t as big a man as Rob or Skip, but his shoulders were broader than hers.
Her gut twisted. Slender Clem would definitely fit. She realized she didn’t want to believe it was him. But her denial wouldn’t change reality.
Before she could say anything, Skip sat back and tapped a finger against his lips. “Let’s follow the money for a moment. Clem’s obviously got the most to gain since Cora had changed her will to include him–”
“But would Cora’s husband even know the will had been changed?” Liz asked.
“Not unless Cora told him,” Skip said. “Lawyers aren’t allowed to discuss the contents of wills.”
“She could’ve told her daughter,” Liz pointed out, “who in turn told her stepfather.”
Skip nodded, his expression still thoughtful. “Yeah, but even if the husband knew the will had been changed, he’d most definitely get custody of the daughter if Cora was dead, and he’d then have access to her trust fund, which is probably the lion’s share of the estate.”
“Maybe he was hoping Clem would be accused of her death,” Liz said. “Then the daughter would get the whole estate. But then why have the hit man set it up to look like a suicide or accidental overdose?”
“That might’ve been the hit man’s idea,” Kate said, “to buy him time to get off the ship.”
“Either way, her husband’s got something to gain,” Liz said. “He doesn’t have to spend a lot of money on a custody battle he might very well lose.”
Skip looked at Kate for a long moment, then his mouth quirked into an indulgent smile. “I’ll make a deal with you, darlin’. I haven’t seen Key West before. If you can put all this aside for a few hours and just be a tourist until we hear from Rob, we can go back to the ship early this afternoon and check out Mr. Fredericks some more.”
Warmth swelled in her chest. She pushed aside her niggling doubts about Clem and smiled back at her husband. “I’ll take that deal.”
~~~~~~~~
B y ten-thirty, they’d seen the first attraction on Skip’s list–Harry Truman’s summer home, dubbed The Little White House during his administration. As they walked to the corner of Whitehead and Fleming Streets, they debated the merits of the ranking of U.S. presidents they’d seen there. Kate had bought a copy of the poster that listed the men based on how good a job historians felt they had done while president. She planned to give it to her father, who was a bit of a history buff.
Ahead, a group of people milled around a signpost, snapping pictures. The sign read Mile 0 . They were at the southernmost tip of the continental United States.
Once they too had taken photos of each other next to the sign, they headed up Whitehead Street to the next stop on Skip’s must-see list. Inside Ernest Hemingway’s house, their tour guide described the famous author’s writing habits. He had risen at sunrise every morning and typed away in his study, usually until noon.
The guide quoted a 1958 interview he had given, “‘You write until you come to a place where you still have your juice and you know what will happen next and you stop and try to live through until the next day....’ He also went on to say that the wait until the next day was the hardest part.” She chuckled. “Of course, you probably already know how he handled that wait. Copious amounts of alcohol.”
As they left the grounds, luscious with green foliage and tropical flowers, Kate leaned down to scratch behind the ears of a calico kitten. Like most of the multitude of Hemingway cats, this one had six toes on its front paws. He looked like he was wearing mittens.
They followed in Hemingway’s footsteps down to Sloppy Joe’s Bar on Duval Street, where the author had spent many of his afternoons perched on a barstool.
Kate’s stomach growled. Skip grinned at her and held out his arm in the direction of
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