Free The Island of Dangerous Dreams by Joan Lowery Nixon Page B

since the weight of the towel would hold me back.
    As fast as I could swim I headed west, rounding the point, glad when I caught sight of the limestone promontory. The tide was up, so I dived more deeply to swim under the arch and from there into the cave. I climbed up on the ledge,took off my fins, and wrung as much water as I could out of the towel.
    Walking gingerly on the rough limestone, I found a perfect niche deep in one of the near ledges. I took off the topaz, trying to keep my eyes from those of the monkey with the sharp golden paws, and wrapped it in the towel. I was taking no chances of having the artifact slip into a crevice in the rock or having some hermit crab scuttle away with it. Firmly I wedged the package into the niche and checked it carefully, finally satisfied that the artifact would be safe.
    I made my way to the edge, tugged on my fins again, and jumped into the water.
    On the way back to the dock I didn’t take time to enjoy the undersea color. I suppose I didn’t even notice it. I was relieved that the artifact was in a place where no one would find it, and reluctant to go back to face the others. The murderer—and it was a pretty sure thing that the judge had been murdered—was still in the house, but none of us had any idea who he could be.
    He
, I thought.
Why do I keep saying “he”?
There were three women in the group who could be suspect. No, two. I knew I wasn’t the murderer, and surely Aunt Madelyn couldn’t be. Benita seemed to be the most upset by the whole thing. She couldn’t be the murderer—unless she was putting on an act, which was entirely possible.
    As I swam I tried to think about each of the people in the judge’s party. None of them looked or acted like a murderer, but one of them was. In movies or on television they cast people withsneaky, ferretlike faces or gorillalike bodies to play the villains, and they have cruel, deep-set eyes. It’s easy to tell the bad guys from the good guys. Why couldn’t life be that easy to figure out?
    I climbed up on the dock, again shaking the water out of my hair, pulled on my shirt, and headed for the house. Benita, wearing a sundress, was seated in one of the wicker rockers on the lower veranda, drinking steaming coffee and fanning herself vigorously as little beads of sweat popped out on her forehead and upper lip.
    “Have a nice swim?” she asked, as though our midnight conversation had never taken place.
    “Great. The water is wonderful.” I paused and added, “You seem to be feeling much better now.”
    “Well, of course I am,” she snapped. “Last night — I suppose that everything seems more ominous at night. Besides, you’re the one who insisted that everything was all right.”
    Maybe I had expected to be thanked for getting up in the night with her and allaying her fears. I should have known better.
    “Where’s your towel?” She put down her cup and looked at me quizzically.
    “I should have brought one,” I began, but she shook her head impatiently.
    “You did. I saw you walk down to the dock about an hour ago, and you were carrying a towel.”
    “Darn!” I said, hoping that she couldn’t see how her question had shaken me. “What happened to it?”
    She shrugged. “It probably blew off the dock. Well, hurry in. You’re not too late for breakfast.”
    Had I dreamed last night? I couldn’t have. “How is Norton feeling this morning?”
    “Norton? I have no idea. He hasn’t come down for breakfast yet.”
    “You were worried about him last night.”
    She blinked with embarrassment. “I shouldn’t have bothered you. Why do problems seem so much worse in the middle of the night?”
    “Is everyone else up?” I asked.
    She sighed. “I don’t know. I really didn’t feel like talking to anyone this morning.” She hoisted herself out of the rocker. “I think I’ll get another cup of coffee. Too much caffeine, but at a time like this, who cares?” She went inside.
    I was still dripping, so I