Ode to a Fish Sandwich by Rebecca M. Hale Page B

pile of boulders, assembled during the tenure of the original Delilah, protected the diner and the surrounding area from erosion, but each major storm threatened to wipe out the building. One day, the sea would rise up and sweep the tiny shack into the Caribbean.
    When that time came, the diner would be missed, but not by many. Other than the occasional yacht and a few adventurous sailboats, the out-of-the-way island was off the world’s collective radar.
    It was the type of place where a person might disappear, unnoticed, into the abandoned sugarcane fields, a place where dark deeds might go unpunished—if not altogether unspoken.
    ~
    WINNIE SPREAD A plastic sheeting over her counter as Burt thumped the day’s catch on top. The seventy-five-pound Yellowfin tuna still twitched with life, but its fight had been spent in the water. The ragged tear at the fish’s lip evidenced the mighty struggle it had waged against the fisherman’s line.
    A bulging eye blinked as Burt braced the tuna’s nearly three-foot length with his gloved hands. Squinting to judge the distance, Winnie raised her knife. The blade hovered over the counter, shining in the sunlight, before the chef’s sturdy arm flexed, bringing the knife down with a whistling slice.
    The blade cut through the fish at the targeted location, severing the head from the scaly body, but the anticipated thunk against the cutting board was replaced by a jarring clink .
    “What in the…” Winnie muttered, leaning over the counter.
    Burt released his hold as she reached into the fish and pulled out a small metal object.
    She puzzled for a moment, staring at the sparkling item that had impeded the knife. Then she looked through her window to the man sitting at the picnic table near the beach, casually sipping his rum punch.
    With a grunt of realization, her eyes focused on the narrow strip of white skin at his neck.
    Her expression darkened as she shifted her grip to thumb the knick in the knife blade.
    “Well, doctor. This might be the last fish sandwich—for both of us.”

Chapter 1
White Wally
    WINNIE FIRST LAID eyes on the diligent dermatologist a week earlier, while picking up her children from the afternoon ferry.
    She spied him on the dock with the other resort-bound arrivals, waiting for his luggage to be unloaded from the boat. Even at a distance, he stood out from the crowd—a frail umbrella-waving figure grouped with several tanned physically fit couples.
    As her children clambered down the gangplank, Winnie turned to watch the curiously clad man exit the docking area. Retracting his umbrella, he climbed into the resort’s canvas-topped bus. Unattached to any female companion, he took a seat at the rear of the vehicle, adjusted his floppy canvas hat, and applied another layer of sunscreen to his face and neck.
    “One of these things is not like the other,” Winnie mused as the bus rumbled off down the dirt road, carrying the lonesome dermatologist to his lodgings.
    The resort typically catered to couples seeking a romantic escape. The facility had a strict ‘no children’ policy, and its vacation packages featured spa services, massages, and private dinners for two. It was rare to see guests outside the targeted demographic: late twenties to mid forties, affluent, and paired with a mate.
    Shaking her head, Winnie grabbed the hand of her youngest child and resumed her slow plod back to the diner, never once imagining the events that would be triggered by the doctor’s stay on the island—and his insatiable appetite for fish sandwiches.
    *  *  *  *  *
    THE DOCTOR LOOKED out an open window as the bus wound around the island’s southern perimeter, hugging the rocky shoreline. It was his first trip to the Caribbean, and the lush tropical landscape struck him as utterly foreign. It was completely different from that of his high desert home.
    During the plane ride south, he’d read an excerpt about the island in a guidebook he’d picked up at the