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  When Lizzie Mancini booked her honeymoon to the secluded Blue Bay Beach Resort on the small Caribbean island of Camus Caye she thought it would be relaxing to spend the week at an isolated couples-only retreat. But that was before she knew she’d be honeymooning sans groom. Touring alone, dining alone, and worst of all, having to explain to the resort’s thirty other guests why she was staying in the bridal suite alone—Lizzie was dreading it. But it still beat the alternative, eight more days hibernating in her empty apartment feeling sorry for herself because her fiancé dumped her at the altar.

  Then Lizzie meets Michael, a gold-chained antiquities dealer who offers to play her husband for the week no strings (or sex) attached. The plan works perfectly until Lizzie spends the night with scuba instructor Jack, and Michael’s body washes up on Blue Bay’s pristine shore. Lizzie quickly becomes Polizia Nationale’s number one suspect and the only way she can prove her innocence is to solve Michael’s murder herself.

  HONEYMOON FOR ONE

  By

  BETH ORSOFF

  Copyright © Beth Orsoff, 2010

  Cover design by Julie Ortolon. Cover Illustration © Koun/Bigstock.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, transmitted, or stored in a database or retrieval system, using any means or method now known or hereafter devised, without the prior written permission of the copyright holder.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Other Books by Beth Orsoff:

  Romantically Challenged

  How I Learned to Love the Walrus

  For Steve

  Chapter 1

  “HOW EXACTLY IS AN emery board supposed to help me break out of jail?”

  “I don’t know,” Jane said. “It’s what they always smuggle into prisoners in the movies.”

  At that moment I wanted to throttle Jane, but since I was on the inside of a jail cell and Jane was on the outside, it was unlikely to happen. “A metal file,” I hissed. “Not a paper one!”

  “Where was I supposed to get a metal nail file in the middle of the night? You know they don’t let you carry that stuff on the plane anymore. Terrorists could use it as a weapon.”

  And I could use it to kill you. But then I’d really never get out of this mess. While I was only being falsely accused of murder, there was still hope.

  I moved from the louvered window, with its layers of chicken wire marring what otherwise would’ve been a beautiful view of the Caribbean, and sat back down on my make-shift bed—a beach chair covered with a towel. The only other accoutrements in my cell, which until a few days ago had been the police station’s storage room, were two metal file cabinets, a ceramic bowl filled with semi-clean water, a half used bar of soap, and a bucket for after-hours emergencies. During the day, the police officers were kind enough to accompany me to the bathroom. It wasn’t much cleaner than my bucket, but it had the benefit of indoor plumbing. Welcome to the Camus Caye police station and temporary women’s prison.

  Jane and I froze. We’d both heard it. Something that sounded like metal scraping against rock. Jane, who was standing on an overturned garbage can so she could reach the window of my cell, pushed her face as close as she could to the chicken wire without actually touching it. Despite her revulsion at my accommodations, she looked like she wanted to join me on the inside.

  I moved back to the window so we were face to face through the mesh.

  “What was that?” Jane whispered.

  Before I could answer, the scraping switched to a rustling from the edge of the clump of bushes separating the police station from the café next door.

  “Oh my God,” Jane said. “What if it’s a murderer or a rapist?”

  “Lurking outside the police station? It’s probably an animal looking for food.” Hopefully a very small, vegetarian animal.

  “That doesn’t look like an animal to me,” she said, staring at the tall shadowed figure moving towards us.

  The figure stopped just outside the pool of light emanating from Jane’s keychain flashlight and tossed his weapon onto the ground.

  “Lizzie,” Jane whispered, as if the figure standing five feet away couldn’t hear her, “he’s got a machete. He’s going to slit our throats.”

  Before I could point out that if he really intended to slit our throats, he’d probably still be holding the machete, the figure spoke.

  “You ladies need some help?”

  Chapter 2

  LET’S BACK UP. NO, I didn’t kill anyone. Yes, I’m in jail. And no, the dark figure with the machete didn’t slit our throats. But this would all make a lot more sense to you if I backed up farther.

  Believe it or not, a mere ten days ago my biggest problem in life was that I had to go on my honeymoon alone. That and the fact that I’d been ditched at the altar. Although technically speaking, it wasn’t actually at the altar. My ex-fiancé at least told me the night before the wedding that he really wasn’t the marrying type after all.

  You would think that after five years of dating, the last two living together, he could’ve come up with a better excuse than that. But that’s all he said, over and over again, as I first laughed (I really thought he was punking me), then screamed so loud I was surprised the neighbors didn’t call the cops (“fucking son of a bitch” seems to stand out in my mind), and ultimately cried. That’s when he grabbed his suitcase, which the SOB had packed that afternoon while I was out buying edible underwear, and left.

  Obviously the wedding was off, but I refused to cancel the honeymoon. I’d spent months reading travel magazines, debating the pros and cons of every tropical destination, until Steven, Mr. I Don’t Care As Long As You’ll Be Wearing A Bikini, and I settled on Belize. Once we’d chosen the country, I bought three guidebooks and read each of them from cover to cover (even all that boring stuff about the history of the place that no one ever reads) to determine where to stay for maximum luxury, privacy, and range of activities. After narrowing it down to five potential regions, I spent weeks on-line reading reviews of every hotel, restaurant, and tour operator in the area. This was supposed to be the best vacation of my life, damn it. I was not letting all of that time, money, and energy go to waste just because Steven decided he wasn’t the marrying type after all.

  But that didn’t mean I was looking forward to it. Besides my depression over losing my friend and lover, my humiliation at having been dumped practically at the altar, and the massive blow to my ego, the Blue Bay Beach Resort only hosted a maximum of eighteen couples per week. While all of that individual attention was a selling point when I thought I’d be vacationing with my new husband, it now meant further humiliation. Besides eating every meal alone and taking every tour alone, I’d be spending my days explaining to the hotel’s thirty-four other guests and two-to-one ratio staff members why I was staying in the bridal suite alone. Assuming anyone would even talk to the only single girl at the couples-only resort.

  I was dreading it. But not enough to cancel the trip. Besides, thinking about the warm Belizean sun tanning my shoulders while I waded into the gentle aquamarine waters of the Caribbean Sea was the only time I’d stopped crying the last three days. And yes, I did memorize that line from the hotel’s brochure. But even Jane thought I was better off reading the Belize guidebook over and over again then Steven’s wedding vows, which in his haste to leave me he’d left sitting on top of our dresser. Of course I already knew what they said—I’m the one who wrote them. What can I say, Steven begged me to. He’s an accountant who can bar
ely scribble a grocery list.

  “Do you think that should’ve been a clue?” I asked Jane, my best friend and almost maid of honor.

  Jane grabbed the drink from my hand and set it down on the empty table next to us. I didn’t care. I was sucking on ice anyway. I motioned for the waitress to bring me another vodka mojito. Since Jane and I were two of only three patrons in the bar conveniently located just outside the security gate at the American Airlines terminal, the service was exceptionally good.

  “Lizzie, you need to stop drinking.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re going to a foreign country. You have to keep your wits about you.”

  I looked at my watch. It was almost midnight. “I’m not going to be there for another ten hours. The vodka will have worn off by then.”

  I was prepared for Jane to launch into her lecture on the perils of foreign travel, one I’d heard many times before, but instead she leaned in and whispered, “Don’t turn around, but the drug dealer at the bar is heading this way.”

  Naturally, I turned around anyway. I’d noticed him when Jane and I had walked in, but only because he was the only other customer.

  I turned back to Jane. “Why do you think he’s a drug dealer?”

  “Did you miss the gold chain?”

  I looked back again as the man tried to balance a beer bottle and a cocktail in one hand, and his jacket and carry-on bag in the other. He was on the short side, with a caramel complexion, a full head of dark gelled hair and, based on the tufts sticking out from the top of his black polo shirt, a hairy chest too.

  “I could be wrong, but I don’t think wearing a gold cross automatically qualifies someone as a drug dealer. And you’re supposed to leave the racial profiling to Homeland Security.”

  “Being vigilant is not racial profiling. Look how nervous he is. He’s checked his watch ten times in the last ten minutes.”

  “Maybe that’s because he doesn’t want to miss his flight.”

  “Hi,” the drug dealer said, now standing next to our table. “I’m Michael.” He extended his hand, which held both his beer and my cocktail.

  “Thanks Michael, I’m—” and before I could grab the drinks from him, the glass tipped over, spilling my mojito all over the table, and his beer down the leg of his khaki pants.

  “Shit!” he said, then “Excuse me.”

  The waitress was there in an instant with napkins and a wet rag. “I’ll just bring you a fresh one,” she said, and smiled at me as she wiped up the spill.

  I didn’t want company. All I wanted was another drink. But I didn’t want to be rude either, so I asked Michael to join us. When he turned around to pull over a chair from the next table, Jane gave me a death stare.

  “What?” I mouthed.

  She shook her head. I swear sometimes Jane was worse than my mother. She finds disaster lurking around every corner.

  Chapter 3

  THE WAITRESS BROUGHT ME another drink, which Michael insisted on paying for, then said, “Let me try this again. Hi, I’m Michael Garcia.”

  “I’m Elizabeth Mancini,” I replied, shaking his outstretched hand, “but everyone calls me Lizzie. And this is Jane Chandler.”

  Jane offered Michael a half-smile and a limp handshake, and he graciously accepted both.

  “So where are you going, Michael? I assume you’re not just here for the drinks,” I added before taking a sip.

  “Belize,” he replied.

  “What a coincidence! So am I.” Okay, maybe I shouldn’t have ordered that third cocktail.

  “I know,” he said and smiled, showing off his very white teeth. “I saw your guidebook.”

  Jane kicked me under the table, but I ignored her. There was nothing nefarious about him knowing my destination. My Lonely Planet Belize was peeking out from the front pocket of my beach bag, which was doubling as my one carry-on item. It would’ve been surprising if he hadn’t seen it.

  “Are you staying on the mainland or one of the Cayes?” I asked.

  “Camus Caye,” he said.

  “You’re kidding! Me too.”

  Jane gave me a meaningful look complete with arched eyebrows. “What a coincidence,” she said in a tone that might have sounded friendly to the untrained ear, but definitely wasn’t.

  “Not really,” I replied, looking directly at Jane. “As you know, Camus Caye is Belize’s most tourist-friendly island.” Jane should know. She was the one who highlighted the passage in my Best of the Caribbean issue of Travel magazine. I never even owned a highlighter before I met Jane.

  Michael looked from Jane to me, then took another swig of beer.

  “Which hotel?” I asked. I knew them all.

  “Tortuga Inn.”

  I hadn’t heard of that one. It must be a budget hotel. But I knew tortuga. “That means turtle! You’re staying at the Turtle Inn.”

  Jane pulled the half empty glass from my hand and replaced it with her bottle of water. “Drink it,” she commanded.

  “Habla Espanol?” Michael asked.

  Jane snorted.

  “Not really,” I said, ignoring her. “I just know a few words.”

  “I’d be happy to show you around the island if you like. Both of you,” he added, smiling at Jane.

  “I’m not going,” Jane said at the same time I said, “But I thought they spoke English in Belize.” I was sure I’d read that somewhere.

  “They do,” he said, “officially. It’s just not the same English we speak here. But if you stick to the tourist areas you’ll be fine.”

  I was going to ask how many kinds of English there were, but Jane beat me with, “Do you travel to Belize often?”

  I could see her switching into interrogation mode. I always told her that she should’ve been a prosecutor instead of a professional organizer. Not that she had to “be” anything, since she lived off her trust fund anyway.

  “No,” Michael said, “but I spent a year there working on an archeological dig.”

  “You’re an archaeologist?” He didn’t look anything like Indiana Jones and he wasn’t carrying a bullwhip, but I suppose in real life they never do.

  He shook his head. “Anthropologist.”

  Jane and I nodded as if we understood the distinction—we didn’t, or at least I didn’t.

  Before Jane could follow up, we heard the boarding announcement for flight number 607 to Dallas with continuing service to Belize City and the three of us stood up to leave. Michael swung his knapsack over his shoulder and reached down for my beach bag.

  “That’s okay,” I said. “It’s not that heavy.”

  “Please,” he said, “it would be my pleasure.”

  Jane rolled her eyes and I tried not to swoon. It’s not that I was attracted to Michael, I wasn’t. Between a slick Latin lover and a clean cut all American, I’ll always choose the all American. Maybe it was because of my own dark coloring—I’d inherited my features from my Dad’s side of the family. He used to tell me I looked like a young Sophia Loren. Hah! Sophia Loren minus the big boobs, the smoldering eyes, and the long, shapely legs. Basically that leaves me with dark hair, olive skin and hips but no bust (unless I’m wearing my push-up bra). So even though I wasn’t attracted to him, I still appreciated Michael’s attention.

  Jane grabbed my beach bag from Michael’s hand and blindly reached inside. “I just need to get something, a personal item.” He looked bewildered, so Jane added, “a feminine personal item.”

  “Oh,” Michael said, and took a step back as if he could’ve caught a disease merely by being in the presence of such a product.

  “Lizzie, why don’t you come with me to the ladies room.”

  “But they’re already boarding.”

  Jane pulled my ticket out of my hand. “You’re in row eight. You’ve got plenty of time.” This from the woman who would fake a limp so she could board the plane with the First Class passengers.

  I turned to Michael. “It was very nice meeting you and thank you again fo
r the drink.”

  “It’s not goodbye,” he said, holding up his own ticket. “I’m in row nine.”

  “Then goodbye from me,” Jane said, grabbing my arm. “And I hope you have a lovely trip.” Then she marched me across the hall into the women’s restroom before Michael could respond.

  “What was that about?” I yelled as soon as we’d rounded the barrier wall. “I don’t have your tampons.”

  “I had to say something. He was holding your bag.”

  “And that’s a problem?”

  “For one thing, you’re not supposed to let strangers have access to your luggage. That is specifically against airline regulations. And second, you have no idea what he could slip into your bag when you’re not looking. For all you know, he could be a dope smuggler and he wants to use you as his mule.”

  Those words would be ridiculous coming out of anyone’s mouth, but when being delivered by a five foot two, blonde wearing pearl earrings and a sweater set, they were laughable. For the sake of our friendship, I tried not to. “You think he’s smuggling drugs into Belize? I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure the drug trade flows in the opposite direction.”

  “It could happen. You don’t know.”

  “He’s an anthropologist.”

  “And criminals never lie.”

  I was about to tell her to stop being so paranoid when the final boarding call for Flight 607 blared over the P.A. Instead I grabbed my beach bag and hugged her. “I’ve got to go, but I promise I’ll be careful.”

  “I’m serious Lizzie,” she said, hugging me back. “You’re traveling alone in a foreign country. You need to keep your guard up.”

  “If I don’t leave now, I won’t be traveling anywhere,” I said, releasing myself from her grip. “But I promise.”

  “And no drinking,” I heard her shout after me as I rushed through security.

  Fat chance of that happening. I was on my honeymoon.