Scott McKinney called me himself. One of the guests had taken a tumble. Since Manus McKinney, Scott’s father, had converted their villa and its twenty private acres on the Gulf of Mexico from a tax-and-maintenance nightmare to a resort—a destination—three guests had died. Men in their eighties. Coronaries. This time it was a woman. Young. Forties, Scott thought. Royal palms line the access road from the highway to the villa, an extravagant example of Mediterranean architecture officially named the Villa Jamil: pink stucco walls, balconies, terraces, arches, red terra-cotta roofs. The security gate was down. That’s unusual on Sundays, especially