"Then why did he go in at all?" Remington questioned as the man's wife appeared from the shadowed path that led to the second bungalow.
"Hello?" she called out. "This is a private beach-"
Remington rose to look at the woman as Laura answered nervously. "We're you're neighbors," she explained, pointing up the beach. "The next bungalow over. We decided to take a walk and-"
The woman's eyes widened in shock as she saw the man lying between them. "Harvey?" she called. "Oh my God! Harvey?!" Dropping to her knees, the woman began to sob piteously. "What happened?"
"We don't know," Laura said. "We found him here, like this. Someone should call the authorities," she said, looking pointedly at Remington, and motioning for him to go on. He turned back toward their own bungalow, obviously against his wishes.
Laura knelt beside the still sobbing woman. "Mrs.- I'm sorry, I don't even know your name."
"Dawson," the woman said. "Muriel Dawson."
"Mrs. Dawson, my name is Laura Holt-Steele. May I ask- why was Mr. Dawson doing swimming by himself at this time of the evening?"
"He always swims down here at night," Muriel explained. "He's a-" she paused. "He *was* a strong swimmer. We were going to come for a walk too, just as you and your husband were doing, but- I didn't feel well, and told him to have his usual swim and I'd rest. He said he was just going to go in for a moment and come back to make sure I was all right, maybe to coax me down here to watch him-" she began to cry again. "I decided to surprise him-"
"You hadn't been married long, had you?"
"No. Only a couple of weeks. Harvey said he couldn't take time away from his job for a honeymoon when we married- even though I told him that he could give up the job. But Harvey insisted," she said, reaching out to smooth a lock of Harvey's dark hair. "He said he didn't want people to think he'd married me for my money. What am I going to do, Mrs. Steele?" she whispered. "I waited a long time to get married, until I found someone I could trust. And now-"
"It'll be all right, Mrs. Dawson," Laura said soothingly, putting her arm around the older woman. "It'll be okay."
***
Remington jogged to the bungalow and called the local police, informing them that someone had been murdered at the Paradise Lodge, on the beach beneath Bungalow Six. He felt frustrated at not being able to give them a name, but promised that he would be there when they arrived to show them the body.
He hadn't liked the idea of leaving Laura alone on a deserted beach with a woman who might have been a murderer, but he hadn't wanted to argue about it with the man's widow/murderer standing right there putting on a performance that would have earned an Academy Award.
Once he was sure the police were en route, Remington jogged back down the path to rejoin Laura and the still crying woman. "I called the police," Remington announced as Laura helped the woman to her feet.
"The police?" the woman questioned.
Laura gave Remington a quelling glance as she explained. "It's standard procedure, Mrs. Dawson. They'll inform the coroner. I'm going to take Mrs. Dawson back to her bungalow," Laura informed Remington. "I'm sure you won't mind waiting here for the police to arrive?"
"Are you sure it wouldn't be best for you to stay here?" Remington asked. "I mean - I'm sure the authorities will want to question her."
"Then they can come up to the bungalow," Laura pointed out. "The poor woman's husband is dead, and she needs to lie down somewhere."
Remington ran a frustrated hand through his hair as he watched the two women disappear down the path. Turning back to the man still lying on the damp sand, he knelt and did a cursory examination. Nothing out of the ordinary, he decided. To all appearances, it certainly appeared that the man had simply gotten caught by the undertow and drowned before being washed up on shore.
But that didn't make sense, either, Remington decided. A person who drowned didn't usually wind up back on shore that quickly, did they?
His thoughts were interrupted by a group of people coming onto the beach, led by the hotel manager and a slightly built, dark haired man wearing a white suit.
The manager, Mr. Riansi, also slightly built, but with a fringe of white hair around his head, looked dismayed. "Mr. Steele. What happened?" he asked.
The white suited man surveyed the area as the question was asked, frowning. "It is obvious. Mr. Dawson is dead." His dark eyes lifted to Remington. "So you are the great American detective Remington Steele. I have heard a great deal about you."
Remington allowed himself a moment to preen a bit. "Really? I hadn't realized my fame had spread this far a field, Mr.-"
"Inspector," the little man responded almost automatically. "Chief Inspector Inoue. I try to keep up on such matters, even if we are a bit backwater here on Paradiso Island." He was all business again as he knelt beside Dawson's body to begin a more thorough examination. "There would appear to be no outwards marks, no sign that anything more happened than drowning."
"He was murdered, Inspector," Remington declared, drawing a shocked gasp from the Mr. Riansi.
"And what makes you believe this?" Inoue questioned, still examining the body and surrounding area.
Remington recounted the conversation that he had overheard earlier in the day. "And if you had never met Mr. Dawson before, how do you know that it was he whom you heard making these plans to kill his wife?" the Inspector questioned.
"I heard him again- at the restaurant as he and his wife were leaving," Remington continued. "I recognized the voice- and they were discussing taking a stroll on the beach."
"Apparently Mr. Dawson decided to swim rather than stroll," Inoue said in a thoughtful tone.
"Where is Mrs. Dawson?" a panicked sounding voice asked. Both Remington and Inoue turned to look at Mr. Riansi. The manager was looking out at the ocean, as if fearing that Mrs. Dawson might still be out there.
"My wife took her back up to the bungalow," Remington explained, indicating the path leading to the Dawson's bungalow.
Mr. Riansi sighed with relief. "Thank goodness. I will go and check as to her condition," he said, and then turned toward the path as well.
The Inspector frowned and looked up and down the beach before calling one of his men over. "I want you to take some men and go up and down the shoreline, looking for footprints in the sand leading away from the tide line."
The policeman nodded sharply and returned to his comrades.
"You and your wife found Mrs. Dawson here when you arrived?" Inoue asked, drawing Remington's attention from watching the searching policemen.
"Uh, no. There was no sign of anyone else when Laura and I arrived. Mrs. Dawson came down the path a few minutes later."
Inoue knelt to the body once more, and then rose, nodding at the men who had been hanging back. "You can take him now. Have the coroner do a full autopsy. I want to know precisely why he died." Turning back toward Remington, Inoue indicated the path that Mr. Riansi had taken. "Why don't we discuss this with Mrs. Dawson?"
"Inspector, I don't intend to tell you how to do your job, but- it's possible that Mrs. Dawson discovered her husband's plan and struck first-"
"Why don't we withhold any speculation until after the autopsy on Mr. Dawson's body is complete, Mr. Steele?" Inoue suggested. "After you," he said, still indicating the path.
With a sigh, Remington started up the path toward Bungalow Six.
***
Muriel Dawson was lying on a chaise in the main room of the bungalow, a cold cloth pressed to her forehead, listening to Mr. Riansi's sympathetic words when Remington and Inspector Inoue entered.
"I am terribly sorry, Miss Everson," he was saying.
"Dawson," Muriel corrected, glancing at the rings on her left hand as tears gathered in her huge blue eyes.
"Forgive me," Mr. Riansi apologized. "After so many years-"
"I know," Muriel sighed, lifting her gaze to where Remington and the policeman stood. "Inspector Inoue," she said. "Thank you for coming."
"I could do no less, Mrs. Dawson," Inoue stated, taking the woman's hand when she held it out toward him. "Is there someone we can call? Your doctor, perhaps?"
"No," Muriel said. "There's no one. I have some pills-" she looked at Laura. "In the bathroom cabinet. They're sleeping pills. I just want to go to sleep so that I can wake up from this horrible nightmare. Is he- really dead?"
"I am afraid so," Inoue confirmed, releasing Muriel's hand as Laura returned with the pills and a glass of water. "And I am also afraid that I must ask you a few questions."
"Questions?" Muriel asked, her eyes widening even further as she handed the glass of water back to Laura. "Thank you, Laura."
"Why was Mr. Dawson swimming at this time of the evening? Was he not aware of the undertow?"
"Of course he knew about it," Muriel said. "But Harvey was a very strong swimmer. I think he enjoyed taking a chance with that undertow, truth be told." She managed a sad smile. "Harvey liked taking chances. That's one reason I loved him."
"But - you and he had just returned from dinner, had you not?"
"Yes. But we had coffee after- it was nearly an hour since we'd eaten. That was one thing that Harvey was always very careful about," Muriel mused. "Makes no sense, does it? He's unafraid of a dangerous undercurrent, but swimming too quickly after eating terrified him."
"Why didn't you go out with him, Mrs. Dawson?" Remington asked.
Muriel blinked at his question. "I can't swim," she replied. "I know it's silly, having grown up here on the island as I did, but- I never was able to learn."
"You grew up on the island?" Remington questioned, looking at Laura, who seemed unfazed by the news.
In fact, it was Laura who answered. "Her father used to own Paradiso Island, dear," she said pointedly. Rising, she held out her hand to the Inspector. "I'm Laura Holt-Steele," she told him.
Remington suddenly remembered his manners and told her, "Inspector Inoue of the local police."
Inoue smiled at Laura. "Mr. Steele's partner- and wife," he commented. "I have heard excellent things about you, Mrs. Steele. Almost as much as I have heard about your husband."
Laura's smile revealed her surprise as his words. "You've heard of me?"
"Of course," Inoue told her. "You are as much a part of Remington Steele Investigations as your husband, are you not?"
"I wouldn't be able to do it without her, Inspector," Remington noted. "How soon will you have the autopsy report?" he asked. Laura glared at his insensitive question.
Muriel gasped softly, her confused look regarding Laura and Remington's being somehow famous supplanted by surprise at Remington's words. "Autopsy?"
"Standard procedure in this type of case, Mrs. Dawson," Inoue assured the woman before answering Remington's question. "Tomorrow afternoon, most likely. But I don't think that we will find anything to surprise us." He took Muriel's hand again. "I will speak to you tomorrow." Glancing at Mr. Riansi, he said, "I trust you have someone who can stay with her for the night?"
"We can do it," Laura offered, but Muriel, obviously beginning to feel the effects of the sleeping pills, waved her hand in dismissal.
"No. You've done enough already, Laura. Thank you for being so kind."
"I'll have a maid come over and stay," Mr. Riansi told them as he picked up a telephone.
"It wouldn't be any trouble," Laura assured Muriel, but the woman shook her head.
"Enjoy your time with your husband," she murmured. "You never know when-" her lips began to tremble again.
"If you need me, I'm just next door," Laura reminded the distraught woman.
"We'll walk you out, Inspector," Remington told Inoue.
In the car park, an officer was waiting with the Inspector's vehicle. "You seem to know Mrs. Dawson well, Inspector," Remington noted.
"As Mrs. Steele explained, Muriel Everson Inoue was born on Paradiso when it was owned by her father, Martin Everson. He sent her to school in Europe when she was sixteen, and she did not return but for a brief visit when her father died ten years ago. At that time, she turned the island back over to the locals and began to travel. When the hotel was opened, this bungalow was reserved for her use upon which she decided to visit, which was infrequently."
"Her husband wasn't a local, then?"
"No. Mr. Dawson was not from Paradiso," Inoue said, smiling. "I have never been interrogated before, Mr. Steele," he told Remington. "It is a - surprisingly strange feeling. One that I am not at all certain that I care for."
Remington managed a tight smile as Inoue turned his dark eyes on Laura. "Tell me, Mrs. Steele, do you share your husband's belief that Mr. Dawson was murdered?"
Laura looked at Remington before her eyes slid away. "I-I haven't decided what I believe yet, Inspector," she answered.
Inoue's eyes moved from her back to Remington, and he extended his hand. "I will be in touch, Mr. Steele."
"Thank you, Inspector," Remington said, shaking Inoue's hand, and then watched as Laura shook the man's hand as well before he got into his car.
As the taillights disappeared into the darkness of the road beyond, Remington indicated the path that would take them back to their own bungalow. "After you," he said in an abrupt tone of voice.
Laura looked at him. "What's wrong?"
He took her arm and moved toward the path. "I just don't relish being made to look as thought I don't know what I'm doing," he responded.
"What are you talking about?" she wanted to know.
"You might have tried to show a bit more enthusiasm back there. 'I haven't decided yet'. Talk about damning a person with faint praise," he muttered, releasing her arm.
"The woman's husband had a tragic accident," Laura said. "The last thing she needs is for people to start accusing her of causing it!"
Remington stuffed his hands into his pockets and looked at the ground as he walked. "No one is accusing her of anything. Yet. Laura, I know it sounds crazy. But I know what I heard. Something in here," he pointed to his chest, "is telling me that someone murdered Harvey Dawson."
"Remington-"
"I thought we'd come farther than this, Laura," Remington told her as they moved onto the front porch of the bungalow. "I thought you'd finally come to accept that my instincts are as good as yours when it comes to things like this." He opened the front door and entered, leaving Laura to follow him inside.
He went to the back door, looking out over the darkened path that they had gone down such a short time ago. When Laura's hand touched his back, he tensed. "I do trust your instincts," she assured him. "But- I think you might be - well - " she hesitated, looking for words. "I mean, we've both been working sixty hours a week to clear the backlog of cases that built up while we were in Ireland. We're both tired and - well, you still haven't fully dealt with Daniel's death-"
"Don't patronize me, Laura," Remington ground out. "I've settled with Daniel's death. And we've both had three days to relax since our arrival." He turned and grasped her wrists in his hands. "I know what I heard. Someone killed that man, and I'm going to prove it- with or without your help." Releasing her wrists, Remington passed her and went into the bedroom, where he removed his shirt and then sat down on the edge of the bed to remove his shoes and socks.
He didn't look up when Laura entered the room. He rose from the bed and took off his pants, then got into bed, pulling the covers over him and turning off the light. Lying on his side, he faced away from Laura's side of the bed, but heard her go into the bathroom for a few minutes.
When she came out, she slipped beneath the covers and moved closer. When her arm slipped around his waist, Remington remained stone still. "I'm not in the mood, Laura," he said in a controlled voice that left little room for compromise.
Laura exhaled loudly, and moved away, muttering something about his being stubborn and pig-headed. She punched her pillows, and then yanked the sheet toward her. Finally, she shifted closer to him, her back against his.
Remington moved closer to the edge of the bed, away from her. Laura moved again, closer still. Realizing that he had no more bed left, Remington sat up and grabbed his pillows, picking up the light cotton comforter from the end of the bed as he rose.
"Where are you going?" Laura asked.
"The sofa," he responded. Tossing the pillows onto the too-short couch, Remington lay down, trying to make himself as comfortable as possible. Tomorrow, he'd find a way to prove to Laura that he hadn't imagined overhearing Harvey Dawson plotting to kill his wife- and that someone, whether Muriel Dawson or someone else, killed Harvey Dawson first.