“That’s the spirit,” Kat said as they walked into a mostly empty pub-style bar just off the restaurant. “Maybe then you can tell me what’s going on with you and the lovely Detective Hernandez?”
“What do you think is going on?” Jessie asked, torn between spilling her guts and keeping her romantic travails private.
Kat paused as the bartender took their orders. Once he stepped away, she leaned in and whispered.
“Usually you two are on the same frequency,” she said. “Even if you disagree on a case, there’s this tether holding you together. This morning that tether looked loose.”
Jessie hadn’t realized it was that obvious. As she tried to find the right words to discreetly convey what was happening, Kat’s phone rang. She answered it, and then listened for several seconds without speaking. Jessie watched the color drain from her face.
“Let me check around,” she said urgently. “I’ll get back to you.”
“What’s wrong?” Jessie asked.
“One of the pieces of jewelry they lent me wasn’t in the case I returned earlier,” she said, sliding off her barstool. “They asked if I might have left it in my casita. I’m going to go look.”
“Didn’t you tag all the pieces?” Jessie asked.
“I removed them all last night so I wouldn’t forget when I returned them.”
“Oh. You want some help?” Jessie offered.
“That’s okay. You have your drink. You seem like you need it,” Kat said. “Also, I prefer to panic alone.”
She darted out of the bar just as the bartender brought over their drinks.
“Usually people wait until after they’ve had their drink to make a run for it,” he noted drily.
Jessie smiled apologetically.
“She just had something she had to take care of,” she explained, grabbing her drink. “Hopefully she’ll be back soon.”
“Not a problem,” he said as his cheeks turned pink. “That actually gives me a chance to ask: are you Jessie Hunt?”
Jessie looked at the guy closer, trying to determine if she should be wary of him. He was tall and good looking with an open smile, sun-bleached blond hair, and a deep tan. His nametag read River and he clearly spent much of his non-bartending time surfing the local waves.
“I am,” she said carefully, putting her drink back down on the bar. “Why do you ask, River?”
“Don’t worry, I’m not hitting on you,” he said, though his eyes suggested that might not be entirely true. “It’s just that I thought I recognized you from being on the news. And when I heard that you were investigating the death of Bridget Newhouse’s husband, I was almost positive.”
“Oh, do you know the Newhouses?” she asked, steering the conversation away from herself as best she could as she picked up her drink again.
“Not him,” River said. “But I know Bridget. She’s a semi-regular around here.”
Jessie had the glass to her lips, about to take her first sip, when she fully processed his words. She put it back down again.
“What do you mean, she’s a semi-regular?” she pressed.
River shrugged.
“Just that she’s around a fair bit, enough that I know her by face and name.”
“But you didn’t see her husband around as much?” she wanted to know.
“I don’t remember ever seeing her with anyone,” River said. “I knew she was married because of the ring and all, but she always came in alone.”
“How often?”
“I don’t know, maybe a couple of times a month, give or take. It’s not like she’s in here every weekend,” he told her, before adding, “Have I said something wrong?”
“No, of course not,” she said quickly so he didn’t pick up on her excitement. “I’m just happy to fill in some background. I’ve actually got to run. Can we settle up?”
River shook his head.
“You didn’t even have a taste,” he said. “Consider it on the house. Maybe you’ll come back later for a fresh one.”
“Thanks,” she said, hopping off the barstool, “maybe I will.”
“At least have one sip before you go,” he insisted, “otherwise I’ll feel insulted.”
“Are you sure you’re not hitting on me, River?” she asked.
His cheeks turned bright red. Jessie imagined how Ryan might feel watching this moment and kind of wished he was. Maybe then he’d know how she felt every time Susannah Valentine got overly friendly with him. Though she doubted she’d be back here, she decided to throw River a bone. After all, the kid was sweet and he may have given her a clue to work with.
“One sip,” she allowed, “at least for now.”
*
Jessie waited at the front desk for the manager to continue his search, doing her best not to appear anxious.
As the older man in the three-piece suit with gelled black hair and a painstakingly trimmed mustache took his time typing her request into his terminal, she again debated whether to call Ryan, and again decided against it. He was busy checking financials and she didn’t want to interrupt him unless she had something worth sharing. Right now, all she had was a hunch.
The front desk manager, whose name was Miles David, printed out several sheets of paper and handed them over to her. Other than dates and charges, most of the other information on the pages was gibberish.
“Can you explain what these codes mean?” she asked.
He looked annoyed at the request but answered anyway.
“They represent services that Mrs. Newhouse was charged for on her various visits,” he said, pointing at different alphanumeric codes. “These are for massages. These are for yoga practice. These are for personal training. And these are for facials, mani-pedis, and the hair salon.”
“And all of these resort visits were solo?” Jessie wanted to know.
“All except the first one a year and a half ago and this weekend,” David explained.
“Okay,” Jessie said urgently. “I need you or one of your clerks to create a key for me on the first page of this list, showing what each code represents. I’ll be back to get it in a few.”
“Ma’am,” the manager replied officiously. “We are quite busy this morning. I can’t promise that we’ll—.”
“This is directly related to the death of a guest on resort property,” she said, cutting him off. “I recommend that you make this a priority, Mr. David. Got it?”
He nodded meekly at the censure. Jessie left without another word. With no golf cart available, she jogged down to Bridget Newhouse’s casita. As she got closer, she tried to decide how best to handle this.
The woman had been a widow for barely twenty-four hours so she needed to tread carefully. After all, Newhouse’s multiple solo trips to a fancy resort could simply be an attempt to get away from the harried life of a busy wife and mother of three young kids. But they also had the definite earmarks of someone who might be having an affair and using the resort as cover. The fact that she never mentioned anything about her frequent trips without her husband wasn’t inherently suspicious. But it was curious.