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It was the same thing I thought, namely that it simply wasn’t fair, pretending to be a nasty kidnapper and then coming out and revealing oneself as a mere reporter.

“So we’re still no closer to discovering who’s behind these kidnappings?”

“Not an inch closer,” I agreed.

“Too bad,” he said with a sigh.

For a moment we were both silent. On the water, Odelia was going under, having fallen off her skis for the third time. Surprisingly, Joanna was actually the only one who’d managed to stay upright so far. Must be all those books she balanced as an accountant. Clearly worked wonders for her sense of equilibrium.

“Maybe Harriet and Brutus will have better luck,” said Dooley.

“I doubt it,” I said. “I don’t buy Gran’s theory about the seductresses being behind this whole thing. No, the real culprit will be on this island, and so far I haven’t a clue who it could be.”

“It could be Clint Bunda himself.”

“But why? Why would Clint abduct his own contestants?”

“Maybe he collects them?”

“Collects them?”

“Well, some people collect stamps or baseball cards or comic books. Maybe Clint is the kind of man who collects reality show contestants?”

It was a thought, of course. Though it’s a lot harder to collect women than it is to collect stamps or baseball cards or comic books. Not to mention illegal. Then again, it takes all kinds of people to make the world go round, so maybe Dooley was onto something.

“Let’s take a closer look at his room,” I suggested therefore. Frankly there’s only so long you can watch people falling into the water and having to be rescued by the Chippendales.

So Dooley and I made our way to the staff villa, and entered unnoticed. The villa was pretty much emptied out, most of the technical crew at the waterfront, making sure the candidates’ escapades were captured in technicolor and perfect surround sound.

Once upstairs, we found that Clint had closed his door. We quickly found a workaround, though: we snuck into a neighboring room, and proceeded onto the balcony. Just like the first floor it was of the wraparound variety, and we easily moved from room to room, this time having more luck, as people tend to leave their windows open in these hot climes.

And it was as we arrived on the fourth balcony that we hit pay dirt. Actually we hit upon the producer himself, taking a nap on his balcony, his hat draped over his eyes.

So we snuck into his room and started our silent inspection. Unfortunately I didn’t find anything to raise a red flag that this man was our man: no strange communications or discarded messages indicating Clint had a secret and highly illicit hobby.

I even hopped onto his desk to inspect his laptop, but ended up scrolling through an endless list of emails, finding nothing particularly incriminating except a penchant for off-color jokes.

And just when I’d opened his Facebook, a knock sounded at the door, and Dooley and I quickly scooted under the bed.

“Mr. Bunda!” a voice called out. “Mr. Bunda, sir!”

“Grmbl,” was the response from the balcony. Moments later the big guy came stumbling in, still sleepy, and opened the door. “Oh, it’s you,” we heard him say, and I snuck a look from underneath the bed. It was a skinny, pale-looking guy with pockmarked face I thought I’d seen before. Oneof the technicians.

“There’s a problem with one of the feeds,” said the guy.

“Feeds?” grumbled Clint with the air of a man who’s just been roused from a relaxing slumber. I knew just how he felt, having been in the same position many a time myself.

“The feed from Jackie Copley’s bedroom,” said the techie. “It cuts in and out.”

“Well, then fix it,” said Clint irritably. “They’re all out on the water right now, so you better fix it before they get back.”

“It’s just that…”

“Just what?”

“What if Miss Copley walks in just as I’m fixing the cameras?”

“Ask Frank to go with you. Tell him to wait outside and watch out for Jackie. Tell him to whistle if she walks up.”

“Whistle, sir?”

“You do know how to whistle, don’t you, Rick? You just put your lips together and blow.” And to show what he meant, he proceeded to give us a demonstration. A copious amount of spittle proceeded from his lips, hitting his technician, but no sound came.

“I don’t think he knows how to whistle, Max,” said Dooley.

“No, I don’t think so either,” I said, thoroughly amused by the scene.

“Maybe I’ll tell Frank to make the sound of a bird, sir,” said Rick, who wasn’t convinced by this botched demonstration.

“Do whatever you like,” grumbled Clint.

“Do you know an indigenous bird, sir?”

“What kind of bird now?”

“Indigenous to these parts, sir? We don’t want to draw suspicion by making the sound of a bird that doesn’t inhabit these islands, sir.”

“Oh, go to blazes!” Clint barked, and slammed the door in the techie’s face, thus ending the conversation with the kind of finality the producer of a hit show likes to see.