Murder in Paradise?

Last May, 29-year-old Claudia Kirschhoch vanished from a Jamaican resort. All she left behind were questions: What happened to her and why can't anyone--the local police, her parents, the FBI--find out?

* Seated at a table overlooking the pool, Claudia Kirschhoch languidly speared chunks of pineapple on her plate. It was the perfect start to another balmy day in Jamaica, and as Claudia relaxed over breakfast on her hotel restaurant's patio surrounded by lush palm trees, it seemed hard to believe that this jaunt to paradise was actually a business trip. Twenty-nine-year old Claudia was a New York City editor' for Frommer's Travel Guides--a dream job for the adventurous, dark-haired beauty. "It's incredible," Claudia had earlier marveled to her dining companion, freelance writer Tania Grossinger. "I write, edit, travel, and get paid for it!"

The women were in Jamaica quite by accident. Their press junket, sponsored by the resort chain Sandals, was supposed to have been to Cuba but was abruptly canceled during a layover in Jamaica's Montego Bay. Sandals was instead hosting the writers at its Beaches hotel in Negril. Claudia, a savvy and experienced traveler, had been disappointed by the change in plans but was determined to make the best of it--after all, there were worse places to be stranded than in Negril, a gorgeous vacation spot that lures sun-worshipers from around the world. Upon her arrival, Claudia had called her Frommer's supervisor to report her whereabouts. She'd also called her parents, who were relieved to learn of Claudia's new itinerary--they'd been concerned that Cuba might not he the safest place for American tourists.

At Beaches, Claudia quickly bonded with Tania, 63, and the two women spent a good deal of time together over the first few days, lounging on the beach under thatched-palm sunshades and eating at the hotel's restaurants. But upbeat, curious Claudia was also anxious to leave the hotel grounds and had fearlessly been exploring Negril on her own. In fact, one night after she and Tania had met for drinks at the hotel bar, Claudia left with one of the bartenders, a Jamaican native, to see a reggae band at an open-air seaside night-club frequented by both locals and tourists. The following day, Claudia flashed Tania her wry, apple-cheeked smile and admitted that she and the bartender had smoked marijuana and gone skinny-dipping.

It was May 27, 2000, the third morning of Claudia's eight-day voyage, and she was having a final breakfast with Tania, who was returning to the States. Lingering over coffee, they discussed Claudia's plans to hang around Negril for two days, then go to Montego Bay and Kingston to scour record stores for hard-to-find reggae albums. Finally. the women hugged goodbye. They promised to keep in touch. "I had every expectation that we'd see each other again," says Tania regretfully.

Claudia set out for the beach wearing a multicolored bikini and a cover-up. She had her room key, Walkman, sunglasses, and probably the notepad she always carried to jot down her thoughts. She was spotted that afternoon strolling along the shoreline, where the turquoise Caribbean waters lapped serenely at the sand. It was the last time anyone would see her.

Six days later--a clay after Claudia was supposed to be back in New York--hotel security unlocked her room and found her belongings still there, just as she had left them. Her parents hadn't been able to reach her in New York and had called the hotel to check on her. Her bed had not been slept in, her clothes were neatly packed in her luggage, and her passport, plane tickets, cash, and credit cards were locked in her room's safe-deposit box. It looked as though Claudia had merely stepped out for a moment. But she wouldn't be back. Claudia Kirschhoch had vanished without a trace.