At five-thirty Rex awoke with a start. Jumping off the bed, he stumbled onto the back patio and dialed his mother’s number in Edinburgh. It was so quiet outside he could hear the lapping of waves on the powdered sand beyond the grayed-down colors of the predawn.

“Mother!” he almost shouted when her voice answered. “I got your message to call. I tried late last night.”

“How are ye, Son? You sound croaky. Are ye coming down wi’ something?”

“I just got up. I’ve been worried sick—”

“Nay, lad, it isna bad, I dinna think.”

“What isn’t?” Rex asked, experiencing a meteoric rise in his blood pressure.

“It’s about Moira—”

“You heard from her!”

“A letter arrived.”

“What does it say?”

“Well, I didna open it! It’s addressed to you.”

“Oh, fer goodness’ sake, open it, will ye?” Rex said, emotion thickening his Scots accent. His hand on the cell phone started shaking. He gripped it more tightly.

“Are ye sure?”

“Mother,” he said in a stern voice. He heard the tearing of paper at the other end of the connection and then a lengthy pause. “Is it a long letter?” he asked.

“Noo, it’s just that …”

“What?” His mother’s reticence alarmed him. Perhaps Moira had uncharacteristically added some intimate language to her missive, and his mother was standing by the phone in the hall, stricken with shock. Sex was never a topic of conversation in the house.

“She’s run off!” his mother finally said in disbelief.

“Run off where?” Moira was already in Iraq. How much farther could she run?

“Run off wi’ another man!”

“Who?”

“His name’s Dillon. He works for a paper in Sydney.”

“Mother, read me the letter.”

“Well, I shall, but it’s shameful. She writes, ‘Dearest Rex, please forgive me for not writing before. I tried so many times, but it was not easy to say what I had to, and the pressure of work here is enormous, as you know. More on that later. I’ve met someone. We didn’t mean for it to happen, but it’s God’s will. He pulled me out from under a pile of rubble. Through the smoke I saw a pair of blue eyes peering at me with concern and—’”

“That’s enough. I get the picture.”

“Aye, it reads like a Barbara Taylor Bradford novel. There’s no even a return address. So, anyway, what’s it like out there in the French West Indies?” his mother asked, attempting to distract him from the bad news.

Rex got a hold of himself. “There are bays and inlets with white sand beaches and palm trees,” he replied without enthusiasm, averting his eyes from the blaze of yellow just now breaking through the amber sky. “It’s straight out of Treasure Island. The food is mostly spicy or French, sometimes a mixture of both.”

“It sounds so exotic. What about the people?” His mother always wanted to know about people.

“The islanders have gentle features and happy dispositions.”

“I canna be surprised they’d be happy the way you describe the place. What is there to do?”

“Just about any water sport, horseback riding, shopping.” Rex thought it best not to mention the naturist attractions and risk getting a sermon.

“I am sorry about Moira.”

“Aye, but I knew it couldna be good news after so long. It’s still better than finding out she got kidnapped or blown up.” Just barely.

“What about that nice woman who called from Derby? The one you met at Christmas at Swanmere Manor? She sounded so pleasant on the phone.”

“Helen d’Arcy. She sent me a postcard saying she’d be stopping on St. Martin next week for the day. She’s on a Caribbean cruise.”

“Well, I’m glad aboot that. I have to say I’m verra disappointed in Moira Wilcox. Running off wi’ a photographer! The ones on TV look so scruffy. And she’s so straight-laced. I just canna credit it.”

“It’s different out there, Mother. There’s a war going on.”

“I suppose you’re right. And I’m glad you’re taking it well. When are ye going to bring Helen to tea?”

“I’ll have to see how things go when I see her.”

“It may all turn out for the best,” his mother said cheerfully. “Have you been in touch wi’ Campbell?”

“We spoke yesterday. He sends his love.”

“I wish the lad would write more.”

“He probably would if he could e-mail you.”

“E-mail! At my age.”

His mother could not even fathom the television remote, and so Rex refrained from extolling the convenience of computer technology. Imagining her in front of a laptop was as incongruous as picturing a robot taking tea at a table set with his mother’s lace doilies.

“Reginald?”

“Mother?”

“Reread the Gospel according to Matthew, chapter eleven, verses 28 through 30. It will make your suffering easier to bear.”

“Aye, Mother.”

However, in the event, he did not resort to the scriptures. Leaving Brooklyn’s phone on the counter, he strode back through the sliding glass doors in a frigid blue fury. The sand felt hard and cool beneath his pounding feet. He barely noticed when he stood on a burr. The beach, deserted and devoid of the vibrant color of later morning, looked unwelcoming, but the water was just beginning to glimmer with promise. He ripped off his briefs, abandoning them on the shore, and splashed into the sea as fast as the resistance of the water permitted.

We didn’t mean for it to happen, but it’s God’s will.

Moira’s echoing words infuriated him. How many times had he heard “God made me do it” as an excuse in court? God must be incensed by all the stupid feeble excuses dumped at his feet. Rex swam parallel to the beach, his strong strokes tugging the sea out of the way as he furiously blinked the salt from his eyes. When he reached the promontory, he U-turned under the water and returned the way he had come, using his cabana as a landmark, the vigorous exercise gradually driving all meaningful thought from his brain.

Och, that’s better, he thought, flinging his upright legs through the shallows to where his cotton briefs lay unceremoniously tossed on the sand. Realizing he had forgotten his towel, he used them to brush off the excess moisture from his body. He spotted Paul and Elizabeth on their patio at the third cabana and gave a peremptory wave before hurrying back to his place, loosely holding the underwear in front of his privates.

After rinsing off under the outdoor shower, he went inside to shave, and then lingered over a Sudoku puzzle while drinking his coffee. The puzzle took longer than usual since his mind kept wandering back to Moira. He still had trouble believing the news.

Brooklyn wandered onto the patio in his bathrobe, yawning and stretching. He looked even better with dark stubble, Rex noticed with envy. His own chin sprouted ginger hairs and he had bedhead first thing in the morning.

“There’s coffee in the pot,” he informed Brooklyn.

“Thanks. Did you get your news?”

“Aye, nobody died but me. My girlfriend left me for another man—a photographer from Down Under.” Rex reported the facts and even managed to make them sound humorous.

“Good on ya, mate,” Brooklyn commiserated in an Australian accent. “Plenty more fish in the sea.”

When nine o’ clock rolled around, Rex went next door and, poking his head into Vernon’s hallway, called out “Hello!” to see if the lawyer had left for his game of racquet ball.

Hearing no response, he penetrated the cabana and glanced around the living room, which contained little in the way of personal effects other than a stack of CDs and a pile of American entertainment magazines. He opened the door to one of the two bedrooms, to all appearances uninhabited and with the bed made, but when he looked in the wall-to-wall closet, he found a rack full of clothes. For a moment, he doubted these could belong to Sabine. Though stylish enough, most of the dresses did not entirely live up to what he pictured a glamorous young actress would wear.

He read a label, not recognizing the designer’s name—not that he was an expert on women’s clothes, but he was familiar with Versace and von Furstenberg, and he even remembered Emanuel, the husband and wife team that had made Princess Diana’s wedding dress. Clearly none of these clothes was of that caliber. The size of one dress caught his eye: a six? Surely that was too big for a willowy lass. The bulk of them, he discovered, were twos. Perhaps she had put on weight since the riding photo.

Or perhaps she was expecting to. What if the chiropractor she was seeing was another sort of doctor? Whatever was going on, Vernon seemed unaware of it. Rex decided to leave the questions for now and continue his search.

The built-in safe in the closet was unlocked. Rex rummaged through the jewelry, none of it worth as much as he would have expected. A frugal lass, he approved. His son’s Cuban girlfriend could take a leaf out of Sabine’s book. All the same, he felt something was wrong. The items did not match his impressions of their owner.

Next he searched the bathroom, finding nothing of note, but appreciative of the fragrance of the lemon sherbet bar soap by the sink, provided courtesy of the resort.

The suite across the hall accommodated only Vernon’s belongings. Little the wiser, Rex headed toward the front door. As he was leaving, the maid, a statuesque woman in her forties with handsome ebony features, approached, rolling her cleaning cart along the path.

“Okay to go in?” she asked.

Rex held the door open. “Aye, no one’s home.”

Afraid she might think he’d been snooping, which in effect he had, he was about to explain his presence.

“Is maid service to Monsieur’s satisfaction?” she asked.

“Oh, aye. The cabanas are spotless.”

Outside, he caught sight of a guard patrolling the far perimeter of the resort. Deciding to keep busy so he wouldn’t think of Moira, Rex crossed the grounds.

A six-foot wire fence concealed by a hedge closed off the property from the open land beyond, which ended at the dirt road leading to the Sundown Ranch and Butterfly Farm.

“Mind if I walk with you?” he asked the beefy guard.

“I seen you round. You dat lawyer from Scotland.” He introduced himself as Winston and said he would be glad to answer any questions.

“Thank you.” Rex fell into step with him as he toured the outdoor tennis and indoor racquet ball courts. “How many guards work here?”

Winston informed him there were three, who rotated. He then volunteered the information that he and a younger man called Pierre had been working the night shift when Sabine Durand disappeared.

“What time did you arrive for work?”

“Just before six. We went to da front office as we always do. Da desk manager gives us a briefing before we go on patrol to tell us what to look out for. Da Gendarmerie sends reports to da resort about any crime in da area.”

“Was it quiet that night?”

“Very quiet. I din’ know what was up till da Canadian man with tattoos come running up an’ say we have to search for da young lady. Den ev’rybody was rushing about. Pierre an’ me went past da rocks. Was too dark to see anyting, but dere wasn’t no body. Next morning I had to stay until da po-lice come.”

“Who found Mr. Powell’s cell phone?”

“I did, over by da rocks.”

“Did you see Pierre on patrol?”

“We walk a circle in different directions. One goes front of da cabanas, other goes down da beach, an we meet up in da middle an continue. Ev’ry five rounds, we stop for a cigarette an’ rest for a while.”

“Where do you take your cigarette break?”

“Back of da Cockatoo, by da kitchens. After ten, we get a meal. I was goin’ over dere when I heard about da missing woman.”

When Rex spoke to Pierre, who was on guard at the front entrance, the shy youth repeated everything his colleague had said, though less eloquently. He hadn’t understood whom they were looking for until he saw the papers and recognized Mlle. Durand from the resort.

“Any strange goings-on in the last couple of weeks that you remember?” Rex asked.

Pierre shook his head, a blank look on his face. Rex thanked him and went inside the main building, where he was pleased to find a message from Thaddeus waiting for him at the front desk. At last. He asked Danielle if he might use the phone in the back office to call London.

“This could be important,” he said.