Riptide (Sam McRae Mystery 3)

As I tried to establish that I was still in touch with reality, a young woman dashed out from the left side of the house, laughing. She raced across the front lawn. Stumbling but managing to stay upright, she ducked beside a tall shrub near the walkway to the front door.

A young man appeared where she’d emerged and looked around. He wore blue swimming trunks.

The young woman noticed me. She put her finger to her lips.

I looked back and arched an eyebrow, but said nothing. The young woman wore absolutely nothing.

CHAPTER THIRTY

The young man in the blue trunks gave me a curious glance then ventured forth as if I weren’t there. “Denise!” he called.

I glanced sideways at the woman I assumed was Denise. She crouched behind the bush, snickering into her hand.

“Hi,” I said. “Looking for someone?”

The man stopped and gaped at me. Denise stopped snickering and gaped at me. Apparently, people were anxious to show me their dental work.

“Did you see a girl come by here?” the man asked. He crossed the lawn and stood next to me.

“No, I haven’t actually.” I shot Denise a look. She took her cue and bolted. The young man turned and watched her scamper off, her laughter trailing behind her. Her naked derriere waved a merry farewell to us both.

“Okay, I lied,” I said. “Sorry.”

The young man shook his head. “Forget it. She’s just playing her usual games. She’ll come around after she’s had a few …” He did this thing with his thumb and pinkie. Holding them up to his mouth, he tipped them like a drinking glass. Didn’t look a bit like a drinking glass, but I got the idea.

“I’m looking for Marshall Bower, Jr.,” I said.

The young man grinned. He had sky-blue eyes, tan skin and Robert Redford blond hair. “After you lied to me, you’re asking for my help?”

“Now you’re just teasing.” Shameless flirt. Jesus. My breakfast would come up if things continued in this vein.

“Well.” The blue eyes glimmered. “I could arrange an introduction.”

“Really?” I feigned excitement.

He stuck out his hand. “Hi. I’m Marshall Bower, Jr. Who are you and where have you been all my life?”

I paused a moment, then said, “Sam. My name is Sam McRae.”

The pause was to contemplate the pickup line, which was as corny as Kansas in August, as well as the bulge in Junior’s swimming trunks.

I left my scooter near the garage. Junior escorted me to the party, in full swing. Young adults in various stages of undress ran around the rear of the house near the pool and tennis court. Music thumped nonstop from oversized speakers.

I leaned toward Junior and yelled into his ear, “I was hoping to talk to you about your dad’s business, if I could.”

“Business?” He looked at me with a mixture of alarm and cluelessness that signified stupidity. Then, he snapped back into savoir-faire mode. “Hey, sweetheart. Lighten up. This is a party. Have fun.” He grabbed my chin with one hand and squeezed it like a favorite uncle. Yuck.

I wandered through the crowd, taking in all the sights. Boy, these people knew how to party considering it was barely afternoon.

A hog turned on a spit over an open fire pit. The crowd pressed in on me. Drinks were being served from a fake tiki hut by white-jacketed black men. A brunette in a bikini drank a radioactive orange concoction and swayed dangerously close to a koi pond. Silicon melons poured from her top. One woman lit up a joint and offered it to me. Mighty tempting, but I declined. My grip on reality was tenuous enough as it was. I didn’t need drugs to loosen my hold.

In all the hubbub, I lost Junior and had to hunt for him. I found him with a group hunched over a rattan table snorting a line of what looked like cocaine. I didn’t know people did cocaine anymore.

Although I stood about twenty or thirty feet away, Junior spotted me. “Hey, there you are!” He jumped up and bounced to my side in two leaps.

“About your dad’s business,” I started.

Suddenly, his arms wrapped around me.