Death in a Beach Chair by Valerie Wolzien

always suggesting we try something new, but he says when you like something you stick to it. He has a point, of course. Best not to be disappointed when you’re on vacation.
    “Sit down and I’ll order us something to drink,” she continued as they reached the second floor. “It’s foolish to risk dehydration in the tropics.”
    “Thanks,” Susan murmured, looking around. “This is fantastic,” she said honestly.
    “Yes, the large cottages are quite roomy, and, of course, the view from the balcony is incomparable.” Ro nodded toward the open plantation shutters, which revealed a second-story porch facing the sea. “Go on out and have a seat. I’ve gotta use the little girl’s room, and I’ll be right with you.”
    Susan wandered onto the porch and sank down in one of the pair of batik-covered wicker lounges. A substantial glass-topped trunk of woven straw was the only other furniture. A couple of back issues of The New Yorker and Bon Appétit had been flung down beside a worn paperback thriller. On the other lounge a pigskin binocular case lay open, containing what Susan suspected were very high-powered spyglasses. She was still staring at them when Ro returned.
    “Bird-watching,” Ro stated flatly, seeing Susan’s interest. “My husband says it relaxes him. Can’t imagine why watching a bunch of flittery little birds would relax anybody, but you never really know with people, do you? Even if you’re married to them, you never really do know.”
    Susan agreed that this was true and then tried to change the topic. “You seemed . . . at least, I thought you knew something about Allison’s murder.”
    Ro moved the binoculars and sat down across from Susan. “I know quite a bit about Allison. And some of it just might have to do with someone killing her.”
    “Oh, you should tell me. I . . .” Susan hesitated. She didn’t want to sound foolish, but decided she had no real alternative but to go on. “I have helped the police solve a few murders in the past.”
    “That’s what I understand. That’s one of the reasons I came to you when I heard about the murder.”
    “How did you know about—about what I’ve done?” Susan asked.
    “Why, Allison herself told me about it just the other day when we were sitting around the pool.”
    “Allison told you?”
    “Yes, she said that you had come up with the identity of a murderer when the police had been quite unable to do so, and done it more than once. I must say, that from what she was saying, Hancock, Connecticut, must be a terribly dangerous place to live—so many murders! Is it very near New York City, dear?”
    “Not really.” Susan didn’t waste any time defending her hometown. She knew exactly how close her upper-class affluent suburb was to New York City; it was nearly in another world. The New York Times didn’t report on the things that happened within Hancock’s confines unless a famous or infamous person was involved. And Susan didn’t know any celebrities—either dead or alive. If Allison had known what had been going on in Hancock, Connecticut, in the years since her sister had died, she had made an effort to do so.
    “Well, Allison made living there sound very exciting.”
    “But Allison—” Susan didn’t finish her sentence. She didn’t know this woman at all. She should be more careful about what she said. “What did she say about Hancock?”
    “Oh, that’s not important right now, is it, dear? What’s important now is keeping your friend out of jail. I must admit that while we have done extensive sightseeing on the island, we’ve never visited the jail, but this is a poor island. They don’t educate their children beyond age ten. I cannot imagine that their expenditures on prison facilities are anything like adequate.”
    “Jerry would never kill anyone,” Susan insisted.
    “I’m sure you’re right, dear. That’s why I felt it so important that we talk immediately. You see, I think we should get our stories