The Corpse in the Cabana

in my ear. She was dressed in black from head to toe. Even her flip-flops were black. Which was unnecessary since it was broad daylight, but she’d insisted on dressing the part. I never heard of a cat burglar in flip-flops.
“We’re not doing this. I am. You’re standing guard, remember?” It was early the morning after I’d found Natasha’s body, and we were huddled outside her room just beyond sight of the housekeeping cart. It was piled high with clean towels, rolls of toilet paper, and an assortment of cleaning products. The maid was inside room 410, just a few doors down from Natasha’s room, number 415.
“How are we going to get the key?” Cheryl whispered.
“We’re not. I’m going to get housekeeping to let me in.”
She shot me a look of disbelief. “She’s never going to do that. Look at all the crime scene tape. No way is she going to let you waltz in there.”
“You just watch. And stay out of sight.”
She nodded, clearly happy to not be part of the breaking and entering. Well, technically it was only “entering,” since I was going to get in using a key. Totally legit. Well, semi-legit, anyway.
I dashed across the hallway to room 415 and ripped the crime scene tape away from the door. Wadding it into a ball, I stuffed it into the nearest trashcan before dusting off my hands. Straightening my shoulders, I made my way casually toward room 410 and the housekeeping cart.
It would have been so perfect if the housekeeper had just left her key card on the cart. But, of course, that would have been too easy. I peeked into the room to find a small, round woman with graying hair in a thick braid down her back. She was in the middle of remaking the bed, her movements quick and efficient. Around her left wrist was a purple wristband, and from it hung a key card. Now the question was how to convince her to open Natasha’s room for me. If I was lucky, she’d never actually seen Natasha. After all, we’d only been here a couple days.
I knocked loudly on the open door, and the woman started, whirling to face me. She had a wide face and soft, brown eyes. I hoped her temperament was as sweet as her expression.
“Excuse me,” I said, giving her a friendly smile. “I seem to have locked myself out of my room with my keycard inside. Could you let me in?”
She frowned in confusion and said something in Spanish. I frowned, too—my Spanish was more than a little rusty. No way could I rephrase what I’d just said in that language. So, I tried again—in English—adding a few hand gestures to get my point across. Her expression cleared, and she bobbed her head in agreement as I motioned her down the hall to Natasha’s room.
Either she hadn’t seen Natasha before or she didn’t care, because she let me in the room, no problem. I thanked her in Spanish, which was about all of the language I knew, and she gave me a wide smile before disappearing back down the hall into room 410.
I waved Cheryl over. “Okay, the plan. You stand guard. If the cops show up, text me.”
“Why would the cops show up? Haven’t they already been here?” she asked, peering into the darkened interior of the hotel room.
“Of course. But they might have to come back.”
Cheryl’s eyes narrowed. “Wouldn’t they notice their tape was missing?”
Good point. “Sure. But they won’t know who took it down.”
“Unless they dust for fingerprints.”
I rolled my eyes. “Stop being so logical. Just stand guard while I check out Natasha’s room. They could have missed something important.” They did on Murder, She Wrote. Jessica Fletcher would always find the clue, and it would be the key to solving the case.
Probably getting my investigative know-how from a television show wasn’t the best thing in the world, but it was what I had to work with. No way was I letting Detective Hottie lock Cheryl or me up because he was too busy pointing the finger at us instead of hunting the real culprit.
Cheryl hurried back to her hiding place and gave me the thumbs-up. I nodded and entered the room, letting the door close softly behind me. I didn’t throw the deadbolt just in case I had to leave quickly.
Natasha’s room was identical to mine: two rooms connected by a hallway. The first room contained two double beds, just like mine, and the front room had a wide slider door facing the ocean, just like mine. It even had the same gold faux-silk curtains. The only real difference was that the rooms were a little bigger, and there was a very narrow balcony off the slider. Just wide enough for a miniscule bistro table and two ornate wrought-iron chairs. My room only had a Juliette balcony. Which was fine. The weather was too humid to leave the slider open anyway, and I’d just as soon enjoy my morning coffee in the comfort of air-conditioning rather than the glaring sun.
The beds were neatly made. Apparently Natasha didn’t make it back to her room before she was killed. Or, at least, she didn’t make it to bed. The wooden nightstand in between the two beds held a collection of hand creams, throat lozenges, and a stack of paperbacks, all romances. Apparently Natasha hadn’t graduated to e-readers like the rest of us. I perused the titles but found nothing of interest. I’d either read them already, or they weren’t my thing. Not that I planned on stealing from a dead woman, mind you. Not unless it was absolutely essential to the investigation.
The closet contained nine pairs of shoes. Most of them sandals with varying heel heights and levels of sparkle. Several dresses hung neatly from their hangers, and three empty suitcases were tucked back in the corner. I winced at the thought of how much she’d spent on checked luggage, but I guess you can do