Page 29 of Last Ticket to Paradise

“—the other man?” she finished.

He smiled for the first time, a gold front tooth gleaming in the afternoon sun. He leaned toward her. “He left. I told him I’d kill him if he didn’t.”

Georgette stepped back from the strong smell of garlic on the man’s breath, the familiar scent giving her pause. “And my sister?”

Fiso lifted a shoulder and turned back toward his house. Pulling the screen door open, he glanced back at her. “Maybe you’ll be next.”

The screen door slammed, and Georgette stumbled off the porch. No wonder his wife had left him for another man. The chickens flapped around her ankles as she scurried through the yard, birdseed crunching beneath her sandals.

Back over the bridge, Georgette meandered along the riverbank. Loud, adult voices punctuated the air, and Georgette spun around. A couple of children ran shrieking over the bridge, but she didn’t see any adults.

The bushes swayed and rustled, spitting out a man in light khakis and a white shirt. He brushed off his slacks and picked his way along the path. He looked up, his steps slowing.

Georgette waited for the constable to draw up beside her.

He waved. “Hello. What brings you to this part of the island?”

Jake didn’t trust this man. Should she? She hitched her bag up on her shoulder. “Just exploring the river.”

He wagged a bony finger at her. “The river means mosquitoes. You don’t want to get eaten alive.”

She shrugged. “It’s not so bad. Did you hear yelling before?”

His smile stiffened. “A couple of children were playing with matches, and I reprimanded them.”

Those had been adult voices she’d heard. “So, there’s not much crime on the island?”

He started walking toward the road, and she followed. “I’m lucky. The island is peaceful—a few domestic disputes, disturbing the peace, a couple of tourists getting their wallets lifted. No more attacks on you, I trust?”

“No.”

He waved his arm toward the river. “You do seem to wander off the beaten path, Miss...Lawrence, is it?”

She nodded. “I suppose so.” Gesturing to a green and yellow van with a palm tree logo, she asked, “Do those shuttles go into town?”

He smiled broadly. “They do, and if you haven’t had a look around, I highly recommend it. Many new restaurants and shops carrying island souvenirs.”

“Sounds like a good idea.”

They reached the hotel drive, and Georgette hailed one of the vans, already filled with tourists. After she boarded and the van lurched away from the hotel, she noticed that Clive stood on the road, staring after it.

What was he doing in the bushes arguing with someone? And why had he lied about it? Her visit to Fiso LaCroix complicated matters even more. Fiso really believed his wife had been sacrificed in a Palarosa ritual.

And Jamie? Absurd. Modern-day tourists did not get sacrificed in ancient rituals.

Jamie would love this. When she came strolling back into the resort with Jean-Claude—or some other man—on her arm, she’d delight in all the attention her disappearance had caused. Maybe knowing about Hallie LaCroix, Jamie had done it on purpose. That would be in character.

The van’s brakes squealed as it pulled up in front of a gurgling fountain. Everyone clambered out. Whitewashed buildings gleamed at the edges of the square, their blue and red tile roofs rising to peaks. Graceful columns molded into arches over the cobblestone streets. A fruit stall at one corner of the square scented the air with its sweet wares.

Georgette edged along the sidewalk, window-shopping. Alleys off the main square dropped down a few steps and crisscrossed. She peered down one of the alleys. More shops, smaller and less glittering than the ones facing the square.

She took two steps down and continued her window-shopping among the smaller stores. Many of these shops displayed carved wooden Palarosa gods, grinning or scowling, depending on their purpose. The phallic god seemed to be a favorite, his penis proudly erect.

Georgette wended her way through the maze of little streets, the noise from the square receding with each step she took. She stopped in front of a small, dark store, its display window crowded with Palarosa icons, but these were not shining tourist tokens manufactured somewhere else. The dark wood on many of them was chipped and scarred—the grins more maniacal, the scowls more threatening. She laughed at her whimsy, a hollow sound in the vacant street.

She peered through the window at the empty shop and then pushed open the door. A little bell tinkled her arrival. The cool darkness enveloped her, and a heavy musky odor swirled in the air, clinging to her hair.

The beaded curtain behind the counter clicked, and a tall woman in a colorful turban stepped through. “Can I help you find something? A love potion? A spell to ward off evil?”

---