Something's Guava Give, page 1
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Books. Change. Lives.
Copyright © 2022 by Carrie Doyle
Cover and internal design © 2022 by Sourcebooks
Cover illustration by Patrick Knowles
Sourcebooks, Poisoned Pen Press, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Poisoned Pen Press, an imprint of Sourcebooks
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
sourcebooks.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Doyle, Carrie, author.
Title: Something’s guava give / Carrie Doyle.
Description: Naperville, Illinois : Poisoned Pen Press, [2022] | Series:
Trouble in paradise! ; book 2
Identifiers: LCCN 2021003846 (print) | LCCN 2021003847 (ebook) | (paperback) | (epub)
Subjects: GSAFD: Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3604.O95473 S66 2022 (print) | LCC PS3604.O95473
(ebook) | DDC 813/.6--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021003846
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021003847
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Excerpt from It Takes Two to Mango
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
To May (Merecias Gandela), who is the best!
Chapter 1
Plum Lockhart stepped through the narrow door and felt heavy, gray cobwebs wrap around her shoulders. As she squirmed to brush them off, she inhaled a strong stench of mildew. The air was stifling, heavy with heat and ripe with neglect. She squinted through the darkness, afraid someone might be lurking in the corners, but could see only murky shadows. Her heartbeat quickened.
She spun around, unable to see the person behind her.
“Hello?” Plum asked, her voice echoing around her. “Anyone there?”
“Yes,” came the whispered response.
“What godforsaken place have you taken me to?” Plum demanded of her colleague Lucia, who had accompanied her into the dilapidated villa. “I can’t see a thing, and if I hadn’t known you were following me, I would have assumed I was being hunted down by a serial killer.”
“Cálmese,” retorted Lucia, who flicked on the light switch. “There. Better?”
Plum blinked and glanced around the foyer, which had a grimy, linoleum floor and mushroom-colored walls that might have originally been a cool white. The light fixture above them was coated with a dense layer of dust, and a cracked mirror hung over a small console table with a broken leg.
Plum shook her head at Lucia, who was giving her an assured look from behind the thick lenses of her glasses.
“Decidedly not better,” said Plum. “This place is horrible.”
Lucia clucked and broke into a wide grin. “We both know that if anyone can improve and renovate this villa, it’s you. And besides, you always love a challenge.”
Plum didn’t disagree. She was incredibly competent. But she had always considered this a secret strength, like a superpower. Yet this small, sixty-year-old grandmother had discovered it after they had only been acquainted for four months. Perhaps Plum was more transparent than she had realized.
Plum sighed. “All right, show me around.”
Lucia smiled mischievously. “I thought you would never ask.”
As the tall, redheaded American followed the short, gray-haired Paraison through the unkempt villa, Plum marveled at how much her life had changed. At this time last year, she had been editor-in-chief at the glamorous Travel and Respite Magazine, based in New York City and jet-setting around the globe on fabulous trips to five-star hotels. When that all came crashing down, she made what she assumed would be a temporary move to the small, Caribbean island of Paraiso, taking a job at Jonathan Mayhew’s eponymous travel agency at Las Frutas Resort. But life wouldn’t stop throwing curveballs, so the previous month, she had ultimately (and impulsively) launched her own villa broker agency: Plum Lockhart Luxury Retreats.
“This place is a dump, Lucia,” marveled Plum, peering out a filmy window that overlooked an overgrown courtyard. The shaggy ground was littered with rotten guava that bore deep, brown spots. The neglected gum tree’s bark sported a creeping fungus, and the drooping leaves were curled anemically.
Lucia shrugged. “We need inventory. It’s April, one of the busiest months here. We have three new clients very eager to find a place for Easter break.”
A splashy article in the Market Street Journal by Plum’s former coworker and on-and-off friend, Gerald Hand, had generated hundreds of queries, and she was now furiously working to secure more properties to manage, hence the visit to the squalid house, marketed as Villa Tomate.
“I suppose it is a good problem to have,” said Plum, taking in the fractured surfaces and peeling paint.
“It is,” insisted Lucia. She pulled out a notebook and began jotting down a to-do list.
“The name is kind of pathetic,” said Plum. “All of the villas have fruit names, and this one has tomato?”
“Tomato is a fruit.”
“Technically. But most people consider it a vegetable.”
“I consider myself a twenty-five-year-old blond with an hourglass figure, but that doesn’t make it true,” replied Lucia.
Plum smiled. When she started her agency last month, she had been thrilled that Lucia agreed to join her (especially since it riled their former unappreciative employer, Jonathan Mayhew, and his deputy, Damián Rodriguez, who was Plum’s nemesis). Plum had even offered to make her a full partner, but Lucia had owned a hardware store for years and had no interest in incurring the headaches that came along with running a business. Instead, she accepted a role as “director” (Plum was big on titles) and would work for a salary with commission. The arrangement suited both of them perfectly, as Plum did enjoy the glory of being the boss. But she also fervently admired her colleague’s clarity of thought, decisiveness, and clear outlook.
“We’re going to need to send in those people who clean up crime scenes in order to get this place ready,” said Plum.
“Don’t be dramatic.”
“Never dramatic, always practical.”
“Hurry up and tell me what you think you will need. We have a three o’clock meeting with Giorgio Lombardi back at the office.”
“What?” yelped Plum. “Why is that at the office? We’ve only just moved in, the place has boxes everywhere, it’s like we are living out of it…”
“You are living out of it.”
“I know that, but it’s about images and perception,” explained Plum. “We need Giorgio Lombardi to support our agency, and if he thinks we’re some Podunk, low-rent operation run out of a town house, he will be dissuaded.”
“We are a low-rent operation run out of a town house,” said Lucia. “But don’t worry. He knows it is temporary, that you lost your housing when you left your previous employment and that this was all we could find for both office and residence at such short notice.”
“Why couldn’t we meet him at a restaurant?” moaned Plum. She folded her arms.
“Because we don’t have the budget for all these fancy meals right now,” Lucia admonished.
“That’s what people do in New York.”
“We’re not in New York.”
“No, we are certainly not,” lamented Plum. “And the town house is a disgrace.”<
“Don’t worry, he’s a man. He won’t even notice the decor.”
* * *
When the handsome and suave Giorgio, sporting an expensively tailored, lightweight suit, entered her office and glanced around the room, Plum could swear she saw his nostrils flare in disgust. It was fleeting, though, and when he greeted her, he oozed charm.
“Plum Lockhart,” he said in a suave Italian accent. He was in his sixties, with graying dark hair slicked back like a movie star, and smooth, tanned skin. A strong odor of masculine cologne oozed from his pores. He clasped her hand between both of his and squeezed. “It is so nice to meet you. They were not wrong when they said you were the image of a movie star.”
Plum’s pale skin flushed a deep crimson, but she remained businesslike. “You are too kind, Giorgio,” she responded crisply. “I must apologize for our temporary quarters. We were inundated with work as soon as I announced the formation of my company, so I had no time to search for appropriate offices.”
“It is no problem,” Giorgio replied warmly, although his wary eyes darted toward the garish pieces of framed art that adorned the walls. Plum made an immediate note to throw them in storage.
After they settled into chairs, and Lucia had brought them coffee and some of her tasty coconetes cookies, Plum ended the perfunctory niceties and got down to business.
“Giorgio, I know that you control a vast number of villas at Las Frutas, and I would love the opportunity to represent them. My firm has the most discreet and well-heeled clientele on the island, and they are ideal renters for even the most discriminating landlord.”
The last part was complete rubbish; Plum had no idea who her clients were, as she had just opened her firm, but power was perception, she knew from the vast number of marketing classes she had watched on YouTube.
Giorgio smiled, revealing unnaturally white teeth. “You must know that we have a relationship with Jonathan Mayhew, your previous employer.”
“I do know that,” said Plum. “But his star employees—myself and Lucia—have departed his agency, and I venture to say it is in a precarious state.”
“Perhaps,” said Giorgio. “But as you know, I am merely the president of the Fruit Corporation. The residences are the property of Alexandra Rijo, the owner of Las Frutas Resort.”
“I did know that,” said Plum. “I have yet to meet her, but I hear wonderful things.”
“I’m sad to say she has not heard wonderful things about you,” he said.
“What do you mean?” asked Plum defensively. She sat upright in her faded-yellow armchair.
“Mrs. Rijo knows everything that happens on the island of Paraiso, and especially in her resort. And she has heard that you are friends with Carmen Rijo, the villainess who stole Alexandra’s beloved husband, Emilio, out from under her, who wrecked her family and thieved part of her inheritance, and who is therefore her sworn enemy.”
Giorgio took a sip of his tea, keeping his eyes locked on Plum’s as he did so.
Plum bit her tongue. She had to tread delicately. She would not consider herself friends with Carmen Rijo, but through some deception and scheming, she had been able to establish a working relationship with Carmen after exorcising the woman’s enormous mansion of “evil spirits.” The grateful Carmen had allowed Plum Lockhart Luxury Retreats to represent a few modest villas as a reward. Plum could not afford to alienate Carmen (especially since she was one day hoping to lease Carmen’s mansion, which was the marquee house on the island), but she knew that Alexandra’s rental properties were far superior, and she was itching to control them.
“I absolutely understand Alexandra’s concerns,” began Plum diplomatically. “But I customize my agreements with all of my homeowners, and I can assure you I would endow Alexandra with the most generous contract that I have ever made.”
Giorgio nodded. “I understand the implication. And Alexandra will be very interested to know that she is getting a better deal than the second wife…”
“I didn’t say that,” insisted Plum.
“But you implied it. And that is very good. I will bring her this information.”
Suddenly Plum was alarmed. If it got back to Carmen that she had given Alexandra a better deal, things could get dicey for Plum. “I hope you will use your discretion.”
Giorgio rose and smiled smugly. “I always do.”
Plum felt disconcerted when he left, and she walked over to Lucia’s makeshift desk, which was really a card table set up in the corner of the room. Her own card-table desk was across from it.
“I think that went well, don’t you?”
Lucia released a deep sigh. “You better hope that Alexandra doesn’t go crowing to Carmen that she’s getting more money out of you. It will be one more arrow in their vicious battle.”
“She wouldn’t do that, would she?” asked Plum with alarm.
“There is no love lost between them, so yes, I think she would.”
Plum tried to shrug it off. “I’m not worried.”
“Suit yourself.”
Before they could continue, Plum’s cell phone rang, and she quickly answered. It was Gerald Hand, calling from New York.
“You need to do me a favor,” demanded Gerald, without even offering a greeting.
“Well, hello to you too,” said Plum.
“This is important. My assistant, Arielle Waldron, is staying down there at the hotel with a friend. She’s having an issue, and I need you to go troubleshoot.”
“Me? Why me?”
“Ah, you’re too fancy now?” he sneered. “Don’t forget who wrote that glowing article on you and got you all that business.”
Plum bit her tongue in an effort to control her terse retort. It was true, she did owe him. His article about her agency in the Market Street Journal had put her on the map.
“Why do you even care what happens to your assistant on vacation anyway?”
“Normally I wouldn’t give a rat’s ass,” Gerald confessed. “But the brat’s father is the owner of the publishing company I work for, and I’ve got to kiss her butt until she gets bored and quits or gets married to some poor sucker.”
“I see.”
“Yeah,” he said. “And she is trouble. But you can handle difficult people—I mean, you worked with me, right?” he teased.
“True,” she said.
“So, quick like a bunny, please go sort this out.”
He hung up without waiting for a response.
Chapter 2
Plum maneuvered her golf cart under the canopy of palm trees and down the floral-scented road that cut through the center of Las Frutas Resort. The former sugar plantation’s five thousand acres accommodated a hotel, twenty-five golf villas, two hundred houses of varying shapes and sizes, twelve tennis courts, a shooting range, a polo field, several dining options, and two spectacular golf courses. All of this was perched on the edge of the glistening turquoise Caribbean Sea.
Plum slowly traversed speed bumps and carefully avoided flocks of bikers heading to the beach and mused about how much her pace had slowed since she had moved to Paraiso. She had been impatient in the past and now considered herself completely relaxed and easygoing, although Lucia still accused her of being high-strung. She congratulated herself on adapting to a quiet life of seclusion in the tropics. In the past, a small-country life would have been an abhorrent concept to her; today, she embraced the opportunity to start anew. Ahead, Plum saw a dark patch in the road and screeched her golf cart to a complete stop. This caused the large sedan that had been tailgating her to also lurch to a halt.
Plum alighted from the vehicle and made her way over to the dark patch, which was a turtle crossing the road. Turtles were a source of pride on the island, and every local—as Plum now considered herself despite her brief tenure on Paraiso—knew their preservation was imperative.
“Stop blocking the road!” yelled the man in the sedan, who had a sweaty face and a cigar hanging out of the side of his mouth.
“I need to make sure this little guy makes it to safety.”
“And I’ve got a life to lead,” he sneered and pressed on his horn.
Plum gave him her most withering look and stretched out her arms so no one could pass and waited until the turtle traversed the street. The odious man in the sedan treated her to a litany of profanity as she did so, but she held firm. When the coast was clear, he whipped by her, narrowly missing her with his car, and raced toward the hotel. Plum shook her head. Tourists were the worst. And he was probably from New York, she thought, noting that they were the rudest of all vacationers, while conveniently forgetting that she herself was a New Yorker who had only lived on the island briefly.
