Yes, I wanted to sleep, too.

And, yes, the medallion made it possible for me to withstand the sun, but the golden disk didn't take away the burning desire to lay down, close my eyes, and die all over again. Because that's how sleep often felt to me: a mini- death.

I am so very, very weird.

But I was also here only for the weekend. It was Friday afternoon, and coming on evening. I had tonight, tomorrow and all of Sunday to solve this crime. Our flight back to civilization was Monday morning.

Lots to do, I thought. Too much to be laying around and snoozing.

I pulled out the one thing every good investigator needs: my clipboard with my case notes. Yes, I'd already been making notes on this one. Lots of them. Knowing I had only a few days to prep for this case meant that I needed names and pictures. I looked at my list now of the many names, some of which had thumbnail pictures next to them. I had drawn lines attaching the names to various family members.

For now, they were just names and pictures and slightly squiggly lines. The deceased in question was George Thurman, or Grandpa George. The name had a certain ring to it. Yes, he sounded important but - but from what I was gathering, he didn't act it. He was a recluse at heart who loved his family.

Although he was known for his generosity to charities, he rarely, if ever, opened up his home to outsiders.

His home was his safe haven, his escape.

And now, his tomb.

George Thurman had had two sons and a daughter, all of whom now ran the family hotel empire. An empire that was very much kept in the family. Much like his home, where only family members were invited, the business was the same: only family members were appointed to important roles. For now, it was the eldest son, Junior Thurman, who was the president. The youngest son, August, was the vice-president. Other important roles went to brothers and sisters, uncles and aunts, nephews and nieces. George's wife, Ellery, had long since passed.

By all accounts, the family was uberrich. The two sons' own daughters were often found in tabloid magazines. One of them had even made a sex tape. I'd refused to watch the sex tape. For now.

Yes, I knew I needed to be thorough...but eww.

From the next room, I heard Allison mumble something in her sleep. The mumbling then turned into loud snoring. I got up and shut her bedroom door, just as she let out a short, sharp snort.

Nice.

Back in the living room, I looked some more at my notes. The deceased in question, George Thurman, had long since retired, handing the corporate over to his oldest son. That had been, according to my research, nearly ten years ago. So, power couldn't have been a factor.

Money, maybe.

Undoubtedly, George had left untold millions behind, bequeathing them to who knows who. The potential to inherit millions of dollars might be a motivating factor.

But to sons who were already wealthy?

That didn't ring true.

I made a note to follow up on the disbursement of the inheritance, who got what and how much. But I suspected this was a dead end. Then again, what did I know? As for me, the most I could leave my own kids was a mortgage in which I was almost upside down. That and a minivan and, maybe, a few thousand dollars in petty cash.

I need to get my shit together, I thought.

I went back to what I knew of George Thurman's death. As I did so, I got up from the leather couch and moved over to the front door, where I stood in the doorway and looked out across the manicured grounds. There were four bungalows, and untold numbers of guest rooms in the mansion. Enough, surely, for twenty or thirty people to stay comfortably.

There was the pool behind the main house. There was a fence around the pool, which was a good idea with all the grandkids. There was also a balcony directly above the pool, a balcony that led off to one of the rooms.

Had he been pushed? Had he fallen in? According to the autopsy, there had been no alcohol in the old man's system, nor any drugs. George hadn't had a heart attack, either, nor a stroke. In fact, there had been no evidence of foul play of any type. His death had been ruled an accidental drowning.

George Thurman had been 79 at the time of his death. Too old to remember how to swim? Hell, how does one accidentally drown, anyway?

I didn't know as I gazed out over the sun-drenched backyard, as the shadows of evening encroached.

Time to get to work.

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