I could hear the angry voices much more clearly from here, and I took a step closer to the open window, crouching down on the grass beneath it. I could now make out nearly every word that was being said, and I quickly discerned that there were just two people in there—a man and a woman.

“…considering what’s happened today,” the man was saying, “that you’d lay off. Just lay off for one day. But no. Not you. The old tricks just keep coming.”

“Look who’s talking!” the woman replied, her words tinged with a slight accent that sounded vaguely Hispanic. It wasn’t the Italian lilt of Angelina; this was a different accent, a different voice. “The master of dirty tricks. Don’t tell me it wasn’t you who put those dead roses at my door.”

“Here you go again. Sidra, do you really think anyone believes you when you make these ridiculous claims? Anyone?”

“Your father believed me.”

“My father’s dead.”

“And isn’t that just so convenient for you?” she retorted.

The man gasped.

Then there was a long, weighty silence. I held my breath, wishing I could chance a peek through the open window. I heard no movement or speech, but after a while the man spoke in a soft, controlled voice.

“I won’t even dignify that with a response.”

More silence, and then the woman spoke.

“I’m changing the locks on the cabana. Carlos is starting to have nightmares.”

“If he’s having nightmares,” the man responded furiously, “it’s because of all the crazy ideas you’re putting into his head!”

I heard a door open and then slam shut, and I quickly glanced in the window to see the back of a head of curly grayish hair. The man, Derek, was standing in the center of the room, facing the door, fists clenched at his sides.

Silently, I moved away from the window, wondering why Wendell Smythe’s death could possibly be “convenient” for his son. I headed around back, hoping that the woman, Sidra, was going now to the cabana. As I rounded the far corner, I heard the back door open, and I hurried along the building so that I “accidentally” almost collided with her.

“Excuse me!” I said, taking a step back. She looked at me, startled, her face a study in agony. In spite of the red eyes and wet cheeks, she was strikingly lovely in an exotic sort of way. Her features reminded me of old portraits of Spanish royalty; she had dark, almond-shaped eyes, straight black hair, and a perfect olive complexion.

“Sorry,” she said with the same slight accent I had heard through the window. “I wasn’t looking where I was going. Who are you?”

“I’m a houseguest here,” I said, watching as she swiped angrily at the tears on her face. “Are you okay?”

“It’s just…the death and all,” she said. “It’s been a difficult day. I’m sorry.”

With that, she continued onward in the direction she had been heading. I turned and watched as she circled around the pool toward the cabana—a large, understated building with a row of French doors facing the pool. She opened the door on the end, stepped inside, and pulled it tightly shut behind her.