Which is when I found Keith.

I’d crashed into his tree.

It wasn’t a palm tree, by the way. The jungle here was full of regular, non-palm trees of maybe a zillion different varieties. This one looked like a normal tree—the sort that has a thick trunk, branches starting about ten feet up, and normal-sized leaves instead of fronds.

Keith was a little higher than the first set of branches.

All I saw, at first, was the bottom half of a naked man dangling almost directly above my face.

I pulled my trunks on, fast as I could, then got out from under him.

He was up there so high that I couldn’t see enough of his face to recognize him. There was no doubt in my mind, though. This was Keith. He’d lost his flip-flop sandals. He’d also lost his trunks. What he still wore was his bright green, blue and yellow Hawaiian-type shirt. It was fluttering in the breeze up there. And he was swaying just a bit from side to side.

I was pretty sure he’d been hanged, even though I couldn’t make out the rope.

Suicide didn’t seem real likely.

Which meant someone had done this to him.

I got the hell out of there.

Connie was down near the shore, stretched out on the sand. Sunbathing, maybe asleep.

I went back to my journal, and here I still am.

I’m still pretty shaky. This stuff is barely legible. It isn’t every day you run into a murder victim. He was a nice guy, too—unlike Prince Wesley.

Now we’ve got two dead husbands. And two widows.

Poor Kimberly. It’s sure going to be tough on her.

I could keep it to myself about finding the body, but that won’t really solve much. I mean, it’s not like Keith got lost in the jungle and if we wait around long enough, eventually he’s going to turn up. All he’s likely to do is rot.