Free Murder in the Raw by C.S. Challinor Page B

shiny jewelry. No, I don’t wear jewelry, before you ask.”
    “I should hope not! Now, Jacques Cousteau, what can you tell me about tides?”
    “Look, Dad, I’ve got a date in a few minutes.”
    “Just remember who’s paying for your education. Please tell me I’m not wasting my money.”
    He heard his son give a put-upon sigh before launching into his explanation.
    “There are usually two high tides and two low tides every day, right? With a little over six hours between high and low tide. Okay so far? The entire tidal cycle repeats itself approximately fifty minutes later each day.”
    Campbell relayed this information in a bored and superior tone. Rex privately forgave him because the boy was still a teenager and therefore programmed to be obnoxious.
    “When the tide has reached it highest and lowest points,” his son continued, “there’s a brief period when there is no current ebbing or flooding, referred to as slack water. Dad, if you ever went out on boats, you’d know all this.”
    “I’m no sailor—I get seasick. Glad you’re learning something, lad.”
    “Any chance you can send me some money?”
    “I gave you some in Miami.”
    “I know, but Consuela is high and constant maintenance.”
    “Find a lass who’s lower maintenance.”
    “You saw her, Dad. She’s hot.”
    “Get a job then.”
    “Yeah, thanks.
    Campbell was losing his Scots accent and all respect. He would never talk to his grandmother like this and risk getting walloped with her bible. Just a year ago, he had been addressing his father as “sir,” a habit ingrained by his privileged education at Fettes College in Edinburgh. Ah, well, times were changing, and perhaps just as well, Rex conceded, determined not to be a stick-in-the-mud.
    “Take care, son,” he said at the end of the call.
    Standing at the desk in the small office, he whipped out his pad and pencil and made a brief calculation. The shore had been submerged at seven o’clock the previous evening when he reached the promontory. Working backwards by approximately six and a half hours—eight days times fifty minutes—he calculated that the tide would have been out when Sabine disappeared.
    He flipped back through his notes on the guests, beside whose names he had made annotations—further questions he needed to ask, or more information to be gathered on them from other sources. The data on Vernon Powell was spare, to say the least. He was the one guest Rex had not spoken to one-on-one. The general consensus among the guests he’d questioned was that Vernon was jealous and controlling, and prone to fits of violence. Moreover, Rex had promised Winslow that he would try to pry him out of his shell.
    Making this his next priority, he walked up to the second cabana but got no answer to his knock at the front door. He banged louder.
    “Vernon, it’s Rex! I’ve brought your mail.”
    Eventually, he heard the sound of bare feet approaching on the tile hallway, and the door opened a foot wide. Vernon stuck his head out. He was shaved and clear-eyed, but gave off the unmistakable scent of rum. Strains of “If I Were a Rich Man” from Fiddler on the Roof tumbled through the doorway.
    Musicals and opera were not Rex’s cup of tea. He found both to be overly dramatic, not to mention unrealistic, in that people were not in the habit of bursting into spontaneous song in everyday life. If he did that in court, he would be summarily disbarred and committed to a mental institution.
    “Thanks,” Vernon said, taking the day’s mail.
    “I thought we could have dinner tonight.”
    Sabine’s husband paused for a second, and Rex thought he would find an excuse to refuse. “As long as it’s not at The Cockatoo,” he said drily.
    “Can you recommend anywhere?”
    “The California in Grand Case. Good food, great view, and big enough to where we’re not likely to run into any of this crowd.”
    “Right you are. I’ll arrange for the hotel to limo us over at seven, if