Murder in the Raw by C.S. Challinor

enough to eat on the plane.”
    Gaby could afford to miss a meal, Rex thought uncharitably; not that he could talk. He surveyed the spare tire bulging over the waist of his Bermudas and resolved to lose it by the end of his trip. Salad, grilled meat and fish, he promised himself. No beer.
    “We returned to our cabana at eight-fifteen or so. We didn’t go out again,” von Mueller added, answering Rex’s next question. “We helped Gaby unpack und then we all went to bed.”
    That left Vernon Powell, Paul Winslow, David Weeks, Sean O’Sullivan, and Duke Farley of the male guests, who had all gone diving on July 10.
    A telephone conversation with the captain of the Ocean Explorer later that afternoon confirmed that the dive boat had dropped the men off down the beach by the village just before six, although only Toni Weeks had been able to pinpoint the time of her husband’s arrival: 6:00 p.m. The other wives had been in their bathrooms preparing for Paul’s party. Dick and Penny Irving, who had been on a day excursion to St. Barts, had missed the dinner at The Cockatoo, as had the von Muellers.
    As Rex returned to the beach from the main building, he wondered if anything further might be gleaned from the police report. He would ask Mrs. Winslow to translate it. He saw her, cocktail in hand, in the spot she had occupied that morning, contemplating the cover of People Magazine , which featured a photograph of Sabine Durand’s unforgettable face along with the caption, “Into Thin Air.”

Half an hour before sunset, Rex went back to the promontory he had visited that morning with Paul Winslow. Nine days before, Weeks had seen Ms. Durand heading toward this point at just after six, giving her ample time to return before it grew dark.
    The Weeks, strolling toward the resort, stopped when they drew level with him.
    “Are you going to the crime scene?” Toni asked.
    “I wanted to get a feel for the place when it’s dark.”
    “Night falls like a curtain out here. Don’t get stranded.”
    “I brought a flashlight.”
    “We’ll see you back at the resort,” David said. “Swing by for a drink at The Cockatoo.”
    “Will do.” Rex, impatient to be on his way, walked on toward the outline of rocks before him.
    Standing on the most prominent boulder, he surveyed the darkening expanse of sea. He imagined Sabine standing there as he now was, her white pareo billowing in the breeze. What had she been thinking in those last few moments? Was someone waiting for her behind the rocks? Was it someone she knew? Is that why she hadn’t screamed? If she had, someone might have heard. Any footprints would have been washed over by the tide or else trampled before the police got there.
    David Weeks’ cabana stood at the near end of the row. He was the only person to have seen her on her walk, but anyone who knew her routine could have hidden on the beach until she arrived. There had been a quarter moon that night, according to several statements. At around ten o’clock, the security guards had flashed their lights over the beach looking for a body, but it was not until the next morning when the gendarmes searched the area that the ankle bracelet and scrap of pareo were found. These were the last physical traces of her. The caption from People Magazine played through his mind: Into Thin Air .
    “Where are you, Sabine?” he asked the darkness.
    Silence echoed from the looming cliffs and empty sea, followed by the mocking cry of seagulls. Clambering back down the rocks, he turned toward the resort, consoled by the prospect of a cold beer. Just one, he assured himself, recalling his resolution to drop a few extra pounds.
    At The Cockatoo, he found most of the resort guests in their pareos and wraps gathered at one end of the bar. Sean O’Sullivan sat by himself, staring into the bottom of his tumbler. “ Me oul shagogsha ,” he said when he saw Rex.
    Rex took the stool beside him and ordered a Guinness.
    “A man of taste,”