Murder in the Raw by C.S. Challinor Page A

commiserated in an Australian accent. “Plenty more fish in the sea.”
    When nine o’ clock rolled around, Rex went next door and, poking his head into Vernon’s hallway, called out “Hello!” to see if the lawyer had left for his game of racquet ball.
    Hearing no response, he penetrated the cabana and glanced around the living room, which contained little in the way of personal effects other than a stack of CDs and a pile of American entertainment magazines. He opened the door to one of the two bedrooms, to all appearances uninhabited and with the bed made, but when he looked in the wall-to-wall closet, he found a rack full of clothes. For a moment, he doubted these could belong to Sabine. Though stylish enough, most of the dresses did not entirely live up to what he pictured a glamorous young actress would wear.
    He read a label, not recognizing the designer’s name—not that he was an expert on women’s clothes, but he was familiar with Versace and von Furstenberg, and he even remembered Emanuel, the husband and wife team that had made Princess Diana’s wedding dress. Clearly none of these clothes was of that caliber. The size of one dress caught his eye: a six? Surely that was too big for a willowy lass. The bulk of them, he discovered, were twos. Perhaps she had put on weight since the riding photo.
    Or perhaps she was expecting to. What if the chiropractor she was seeing was another sort of doctor? Whatever was going on, Vernon seemed unaware of it. Rex decided to leave the questions for now and continue his search.
    The built-in safe in the closet was unlocked. Rex rummaged through the jewelry, none of it worth as much as he would have expected. A frugal lass , he approved. His son’s Cuban girlfriend could take a leaf out of Sabine’s book. All the same, he felt something was wrong. The items did not match his impressions of their owner.
    Next he searched the bathroom, finding nothing of note, but appreciative of the fragrance of the lemon sherbet bar soap by the sink, provided courtesy of the resort.
    The suite across the hall accommodated only Vernon’s belongings. Little the wiser, Rex headed toward the front door. As he was leaving, the maid, a statuesque woman in her forties with handsome ebony features, approached, rolling her cleaning cart along the path.
    “Okay to go in?” she asked.
    Rex held the door open. “Aye, no one’s home.”
    Afraid she might think he’d been snooping, which in effect he had, he was about to explain his presence.
    “Is maid service to Monsieur’s satisfaction?” she asked.
    “Oh, aye. The cabanas are spotless.”
    Outside, he caught sight of a guard patrolling the far perimeter of the resort. Deciding to keep busy so he wouldn’t think of Moira, Rex crossed the grounds.
    A six-foot wire fence concealed by a hedge closed off the property from the open land beyond, which ended at the dirt road leading to the Sundown Ranch and Butterfly Farm.
    “Mind if I walk with you?” he asked the beefy guard.
    “I seen you round. You dat lawyer from Scotland.” He introduced himself as Winston and said he would be glad to answer any questions.
    “Thank you.” Rex fell into step with him as he toured the outdoor tennis and indoor racquet ball courts. “How many guards work here?”
    Winston informed him there were three, who rotated. He then volunteered the information that he and a younger man called Pierre had been working the night shift when Sabine Durand disappeared.
    “What time did you arrive for work?”
    “Just before six. We went to da front office as we always do. Da desk manager gives us a briefing before we go on patrol to tell us what to look out for. Da Gendarmerie sends reports to da resort about any crime in da area.”
    “Was it quiet that night?”
    “Very quiet. I din’ know what was up till da Canadian man with tattoos come running up an’ say we have to search for da young lady. Den ev’rybody was rushing about. Pierre an’ me went past da