Death in a Beach Chair

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“What is it about the Caribbean that makes everyone feel so sexy?” Jed Henshaw asked, moving a bit closer to his wife and slipping an arm around her shoulders. “The warm, soft air? The sound of the sea? The scent of exotic flowers? The sugary drinks full of rum? Susan? Honey? Susan, are you sleeping?”

It had been a long day. Susan and Jed Henshaw had gotten up before five A.M. to catch their nine-thirty flight from Kennedy Airport to Orlando, Florida. They may as well have slept in. The flight had been delayed for three hours. Missing their original connection to a small island in the Bahamas, they had been lucky enough to find seats on the last island-hopper. It departed long after dinner. Their luggage had missed their flight, which Susan thought was lucky since the taxi that had picked them up at the airport had the distinctive smell of rotting fish emanating from its trunk.

They had arrived at their resort, expecting to find Kathleen and Jerry Gordon, their best friends, checked in and ready to greet them. But what they found was a message left at the front desk: Kathleen and Jerry were having dinner in town. They’d be back late. They’d all meet for breakfast tomorrow morning at nine. Susan and Jed had gone to their little cottage on the beach, washed up, and headed straight back to the bar. They were now sitting there on brightly colored chairs, staring out at the inky Caribbean.

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