DETECTIVE VINCENT knew that Walter Wyatt, the manager of Cinnamon Bay Plantation, resented his presence. Tourism in the Islands was already in a state of decline. But Vincent had a job to do, and the thin, balding police officer seemed determined to do it. His eyes stared resolutely into Wyatt's as he said, “I am aware that your guests haven't come to Cinnamon to be interrogated. But a murder has been committed here. And I have to assume that the murderer either was or still is at your hotel.”
“I understand that, but I trust you will be as discreet as possible. The occupancy rate is only seventy percent right now. If you drive away many of the guests, and stir up things so much that others won't come, the owners might decide to close the place down.”
“Neither of us wants that to happen. But I have a crime to solve. And that will involve making inquiries of those who were near General Decker the night of his death. I would like you to announce to your staff that some of them can expect to be questioned as well. Now if you will excuse me.” Inspector Vincent turned on his heel and briskly strode from the manager's office.
Franklin Vincent was the lone detective on the small police force at Cruz Bay. Murders were not in his normal line of work. He was more often to be found investigating