Afoot on St. Croix (Mystery in the Islands) (15 page)

The Rumors

AFTER SUCH A
scandalous beginning, Mira and Kareem’s relationship was bound to be the target of gossip and rumor. Among the members of the otherwise quiet and secluded Muslim community, the topic was too tempting to resist. While Kareem received his fair share of criticism, the bulk of the speculation revolved around Mira.

Had she married Kareem for his money? Was her religious conversion sincere? What had happened to her first husband? And why did he never visit his children?

Adding fuel to the fire, in recent years, Mira had begun to venture farther and farther afield from the community’s safe confines.

She made frequent outings to Christiansted, where she was reportedly sighted wandering through the clothing boutiques, trying on jewelry and otherwise perusing the merchandise. While her kids were at school or the community child-care center, she flew day trips to St. Thomas and San Juan, usually returning with shopping bags stuffed full of new purchases. She was always properly covered in a veil and a flowing black cloak, but the solo excursions still drew interest and, in some quarters, vigorous disapproval.

Of course, the most intense scrutiny came from Mira’s former clients, the community women who now envied her voluminous—and apparently ever-growing—wardrobe. Despite the women’s endless angling for an invitation to Mira and Kareem’s luxurious villa and a tour of its countless walk-in closets, few had ever been inside. The secrecy only deepened the intrigue surrounding Kareem’s mysterious wife.

At any social gathering, the most pressing behind-the-scenes question was posed by the female guests.

What was Mira wearing beneath that
abaya
?

•

FOR THE MOST
part, Kareem took all this in stride. He enjoyed the attention that focused on his beautiful wife; it fed into his already healthy ego. He soaked up the adoration and disregarded the negative, writing it off as petty jealousy. He took confidence in knowing that, upon entry into any given room, his presence and that of his wife were immediately noted.

Kareem dismissed without worry the fact of his wife’s previous marriage—or at least, he valiantly tried to do so. He had welcomed Mira’s two older children into his home and gladly paid their tuition at the private community school.

While there was no doubt that Elena and Hassan received preferential treatment, Kareem tried his best to be a good father to his stepchildren, particularly since their biological father had apparently fallen out of the picture.

But the stepchildren, now teenagers, had never warmed to Kareem. They were emotionally distant and stiffly polite, wordlessly unaccepting of his role in their lives.

•

MIRA NEVER SPOKE
of Charlie, and Kareem preferred not to ask. As far as Kareem knew, the ex-spouses had no contact—and that was just fine with him.

In the nearly ten years of their marriage, the topic had been inadvertently broached only once. Kareem had suggested taking the family to St. John for a short weekend vacation. He had never been to the tiny island, but he’d heard its national park beaches were well worth the trip.

He’d read the look on Mira’s face the instant he made the proposal. Silently, she shook her head. It was the tiniest of movements, but the communication conveyed volumes.

“Then again”—Kareem had shrugged, quickly backtracking—“they say it gets awfully buggy over there. Why don’t we just go to Cane Bay instead? That’ll be much more convenient.”

Mira smiled her relief, and Kareem internally vowed never again to mention St. John.

The next time he had a private moment in his office, he pulled out a local map. He sized up the distance between his island and that of the ex-husband, taking comfort in the forty-mile buffer of sea between them.

• • •

KAREEM SET DOWN
his morning coffee and gently helped Hassan off his lap. He smoothed out his slacks and straightened the tie over his collared shirt. He was dressed to precision, despite the island heat.

“Well, Mira, I’m off,” he said, reaching for his keys. “I’ll be at the Frederiksted store again today. I’m going to have to stay onsite for another week or so. I want to make sure everything’s running smoothly before I hand things over to the new manager.”

Mira smiled serenely as he kissed her on the cheek.

Kareem had tried to dismiss his concerns about where she’d been the previous evening. He had vowed long ago not to let the community’s gossip and innuendo affect him.

But beneath that outer shell of confidence a seed of doubt was growing.

The excuse she’d given him had been blatantly false. He knew she hadn’t been with another female friend from the mosque.

He had smelled the whiff of cigarette smoke on her breath when she finally came home. He’d seen the aversion in her eyes when she complained of a headache and retired to the bedroom.

Much as he steadfastly ignored the swarm of whispers that constantly surrounded his wife, he couldn’t help but hear the latest rumors that she’d been sighted on the Christiansted boardwalk several times over the last couple of months, going in and out of the Comanche Hotel.

Some had even speculated that Mira had been secretly rendezvousing with her first husband and that he had flown down from St. John on the seaplane to meet her.

It was more than Kareem could bear to contemplate, but he couldn’t tamp down his niggling suspicions.

Ten years was a long time for jealousy to fester.

•

KAREEM SLIPPED ON
his coat and walked toward the foyer.

“I’ll be home after six,” he said, stopping for a last look back at the kitchen.

She nodded and then turned to clear the breakfast table.

Pulling open the front door, Kareem stepped out into the damp morning heat. As he crossed the driveway to his car, his handsome face pinched with worry.

He desperately hoped she would be there when he returned.

The Morning’s Entertainment

CHARLIE BAKER CRAWLED
out of Umberto’s boat, carrying the green shoes but still wearing the dress.

He’d politely declined the opera singer’s offer of his spare pair of running shorts and cutoff T-shirt. One whiff of the other man’s clothing had convinced Charlie he was better off in the green dress.

Besides, he didn’t have much time left before the early morning seaplane departed. He suspected he would find his wallet, ticket, and, most important, his regular clothes in the room on the top floor of the Comanche Hotel. That’s where Mira had left his personal items after their last two meetings, when she’d pulled the same stunt on him.

Obviously, the gas mask hadn’t provided any deterrent to whatever mechanism she’d used to render him unconscious.

He glanced down at the dress and groaned. He’d been a fool to get caught up in her tricks—
again
.

“What in the heck is that woman up to?” he muttered bitterly.

And where, he wondered with renewed frustration, were his kids?

•

AFTER SCAMPERING DOWN
the pier and across the boardwalk, Charlie ducked behind the sugar mill bar. With a quick glance at the empty serving station, he set off across the rough concrete and coral path that skirted the courtyard, hoping to avoid the bartender’s notice.

A trilling whistle told him he’d been unsuccessful.

Grimacing, Charlie looked back to see the bartender holding a crate of supplies at the mill’s rear entrance. The man had a whimsical expression on his face as he stared at Charlie’s outfit.

Charlie shrugged and offered a glib explanation, one perfected by his two previous experiences with wearing a dress in downtown Christiansted.

“I had a wild night.”

The bartender nodded his approval. As he carried the crate inside the mill, he called out over his shoulder.

“Next time, send me an invite!”

•

GRUMBLING UNDER HIS
breath, Charlie resumed his determined march to the Comanche Hotel.

Halfway down the path, he spied the old hag, gripping the handle of her shopping cart like a walker. She was in a narrow alley on the opposite side of the courtyard, easy to miss where she stood motionless in the shadows.

He paused, self-consciously smoothing the wrinkled folds of the dress, as the woman tilted her head to look at him. Her yellow eyes glinted mischievously; her thin lips curled into a shrewd smile.

Charlie had the impression that she knew exactly why he was dressed in this manner.

•

SHRUGGING OFF THE
old woman, Charlie continued along the paving stones leading to the tunnel beneath the pavilion. The rough surface caused even Charlie’s toughened soles to send out tender shoots of pain, but he refused to consider putting on the high heels. He would have walked on bloody stumps before resorting to that contingency.

With relief, he rounded the corner into the alley that ran in front of the hotel. He was just fifty feet of smooth pavement away from the entrance. Maybe he could sneak inside without running into anyone else.

But as he approached the hotel’s front doors, a couple of taxi drivers peeked around the alley’s far corner. Word of the curiously dressed man in the green dress had apparently reached the taxi stand on the next street over. The men’s eyes widened at the spectacle as Charlie trotted down the alley.

“Got to make sure everyone’s thoroughly entertained,” he said with a wry wave to the onlookers.

•

AT LAST, CHARLIE
pulled open the hotel’s glass door and stepped into the reception area. Panting, he approached the front desk.

The woman seated behind it yawned as she looked up. Her expression instantly transitioned from one of boredom to startled concern.

“What happened to you?” she demanded warily.

Before Charlie could answer, she shook her head and held up a hand, palm facing outward. “No, no. That’s okay. I don’t want to know.”

“I seem to have lost my room key,” Charlie said, a touch of sarcasm in his voice. “It’s number seventeen.”

Raising her eyebrows, the woman reached into a drawer and pulled out a spare.

“Do you have ID?” she asked sternly.

Charlie stepped back from the desk and motioned down to the dress.

“I seem to have misplaced my purse.”

“Hmph,” she said, grimly looking him up and down. Reluctantly, she slid the key across the desk toward him.

“There’ll be a charge for that.” She paused and rolled in her upper lip before adding, “Just like last time.”

Charlie grunted wearily. On top of everything else, Mira had the nerve to book the room under his name.

“Put it on my bill.”

The Governor

THE SEAPLANE FLOATED
at its dock in the Charlotte Amalie harbor, bobbing in the water as it waited for the first passengers of the day to board the early morning flight from St. Thomas to St. Croix.

Adjusting his dark aviator sunglasses, the pilot climbed into the narrow cockpit and began his preflight ritual. He quickly scanned the dashboard’s numerous dials and gauges. Then, he opened his regulatory notebook and began checking off the required list of instrument readings.

A moment later, he looked up from the console as a group of heavyset men in suits and ties marched down the pier toward the plane. They presented their boarding passes to the steward monitoring the loading process and began tromping over the gangplank. The craft sank several inches as the men climbed into the passenger cabin.

Muttering, the pilot reached for a dial positioned beneath the fuel gauge, adjusting the craft’s weight settings.

The Governor and his entourage packed a full load.

•

AFTER COMPLETING HIS
preflight check and assuring himself that the plane was ready for operation, the pilot picked up a handheld radio receiver and adjusted the channel to the frequency for the hangar operator at the Christiansted harbor.

“Hey, Chuck,” the pilot said, pressing on the receiver’s transmission button. “This is Charlotte Amalie.”

He cleared his throat, preparing to pose the same dreaded question he asked every morning.

“What’s the status on the lobster hunter?”

• • •

THE GOVERNOR EASED
his substantial rear end into the seaplane’s tiny passenger seat. Sucking in his breath, he wrapped the seat belt across his bulging middle and secured the buckle. With a grunt, he shifted his weight, trying to find a more comfortable position. The seaplane was a convenient, if painfully compact, form of transport.

Settling in for the short flight, the Governor leaned his head against the seatback and mentally reviewed the day’s itinerary.

He had several business meetings scheduled for his visit to St. Croix, most of them obligatory glad-handing sessions with various economic interests. He’d done thousands of similar meetings during his four-and-a-half-year tenure in office—and he’d found each and every one of them tedious.

The Governor let out an involuntary yawn. He depended on his aide to take notes during these predominantly one-sided conversations and to prompt him when he needed to speak up or pay attention. He generally occupied himself with eating (these get-togethers almost always involved some type of food) or sleeping (he’d mastered the technique of dozing with his eyes half-open).

He felt a semi-conscious snooze coming on already. The mere thought of all that endless chitchat made him both drowsy and hungry.

But as the seaplane began to motor away from the dock, the Governor shook off the yawn and dismissed the daydream of his coming breakfast. He needed to focus on his upcoming public appearance.

The main purpose of his St. Croix trip was to attend the afternoon’s Transfer Day celebrations, commemorating the anniversary of the sale of the Danish West Indies to the United States.

As the headlining speaker, the Governor faced a difficult task. He would have to strike a delicate balance to avoid offending any of the disparate viewpoints in the crowd.

The event was being held at a restored Danish plantation in the rain forest north of Frederiksted, with several hundred spectators expected to attend. The audience would be evenly split between the Governor’s West Indian constituents (many of whom traced their ancestry back to relatives once enslaved by Danish colonials) and a number of Danish tourists (many of whom traced their lineage back to the enslavers).

•

THE GOVERNOR STROKED
his round chin, reflecting on the upcoming festivities. Transfer Day, he mused wryly. He could think of few milestones less appropriate for celebration: the historical convergence of two competing occupiers, neither of which had treated his homeland with the respect it deserved.

The islands were sold to the Americans in 1917, after years of lukewarm negotiations. By the time the transaction was finally completed, the Danes had been trying to unload their Caribbean colony—and its corresponding financial burden—for over fifty years.

The world sugar market had long since declined, rendering the islands’ agricultural economy unsustainable. With few viable trade connections remaining between the territory and its European landlord and maintenance costs growing by the month, the Danes had been eager to find a buyer.

American interest in the Caribbean territory was based primarily on its strategic geopolitical value. Given its close proximity to the Panama Canal, the Virgin Islands were seen as a possible site for a future naval station.

The United States waivered on the potential Virgin Islands purchase through several administrations before at last agreeing to acquire the territory for $25 million. An unverified rumor that then-rival Germany had placed a bid on the property was the tipping point that pushed the sale through.

Members of Congress were soon hit with a serious case of buyer’s remorse. The speculations over Germany’s intentions were at best overstated, if not out-and-out lies. Moreover, days after the sale was completed, the United States formally entered World War I, and the country’s foreign policy shifted to focus squarely on Europe. The Virgin Islands’ strategic military benefits never came into play.

Meanwhile, the mounting costs for necessary infrastructure improvements to roads, hospitals, schools, freshwater conservation, and sewage treatment facilities caused many in Washington to see the acquisition as a boondoggle.

The hostile sentiments from Congress were relayed down to the islands and quickly reciprocated. Although the Islanders had initially welcomed the U.S. purchase, they soon became disillusioned with their new landlords. Instead of the much-vaunted American democracy the residents had been expecting, they were subjected to continued autocratic rule.

Immediately following the transfer, the U.S. territory was set up under the administration of the navy, with a series of naval officers serving as the appointed governor. Virgin Islanders were given no say in the matter.

Over time, the islands’ governance shifted to the Department of the Interior, and a legislative assembly with democratically elected members gradually evolved. But it would be 1970 before the people living in the US Virgin Islands were allowed to choose their chief executive officer. To date, they had no vote in the U.S. presidential election.

•

THE GOVERNOR FOLDED
his hands over his rotund belly and sighed tensely. The mental review of the day’s historical backdrop hadn’t made him any more enthusiastic about his upcoming speech.

His aide had been working on the address for weeks, and the text had been thoroughly vetted by the Governor’s numerous advisors and consultants. He was equipped with the right words; he just had to execute the delivery.

His brow furrowed as he considered the expected audience.

The Danish delegation would be headed by the country’s U.S. ambassador and his wife, who had flown down from New York for the event. But while the Danes were sending a top-level diplomat, the official representative from the U.S. government would be notably absent.

The islands’ elected congressional delegate had backed out at the last minute, blaming a legislative emergency up in DC. An unpaid intern had been nominated to attend in her place.

Since the VI’s representative was allowed only limited participation in the U.S. Congress, the Governor couldn’t imagine what contingency could have arisen to prevent the woman’s appearance, but he didn’t hold the dodge against her.

The Governor chuckled ruefully. He would have gladly passed off his duties to an intern if he’d thought he could get away with it.

•

THE SEAPLANE PULLED
away from the pier and rumbled across the water, slowly gaining lift as it picked up speed. With the plane rising into the sky above Charlotte Amalie, the Governor glanced out the nearest oval-shaped window and looked across at the white-painted Government House on the hill above the harbor.

Beyond the inherently touchy nature of the Transfer Day celebrations, this trip would be fraught by an additional layer of complication, difficulties that he would encounter on an entirely different front. He was leaving his home base, an area where he enjoyed a relatively high approval rating, and headed into far more fractious terrain.

The Governor rubbed his forehead. He wasn’t thinking about the spear fisherman who had been terrorizing the seaplane’s water runway in the Christiansted harbor for the past several weeks—although the rogue swimmer was somewhat emblematic of the problem.

The island of St. Croix was a minefield of easily discharged emotions, and the chief executive of the territory was the largest target, both literally and figuratively, upon which to lob complaints.

•

SANTA CRUZ HAD
always been a troublesome place to govern. Ever since 1493 when the native Carib gave a working over to Christopher Columbus and his Spanish crew at Salt River, the island had taken great pride in its orneriness. Its residents had never been amenable to extraterritorial rule, be it French, Danish, American, or Thomasian.

Being the most recent offender, St. Thomas bore the brunt of the current grudge.

It didn’t help matters that the bulk of the territory’s tourism traffic focused on St. Thomas and, to a lesser extent, St. John.

A popular cruise ship stop and vacation destination, Charlotte Amalie had several blocks in its downtown district dedicated to duty-free shopping, with stores specializing in fine jewelry, watches, and perfume—all located within a short walk of its deepwater port.

In addition to the frequent cruise ship activity, St. Thomas boasted several full-service resorts. A number of commercial flights from the States made the island an easily accessible getaway, so a high percentage of the American tourists flying into the territory booked rooms on the Rock.

A short ferry ride away from Charlotte Amalie, St. John laid claim to a huge national park, whose beaches, most notably the one at Trunk Bay, were ranked among the best in the Caribbean. While St. John had far fewer options for overnight accommodations, it saw a high volume of daily traffic from St. Thomas, both in terms of long-term visitors and day-tripping cruise ship passengers.

Comparatively speaking, St. Croix was an afterthought, a barely visible line on the horizon, with fewer flights, generally less luxurious accommodations, and limited public-beach access. Seaplane arrivals to the Christiansted harbor were greeted by a towering electrical plant eyesore; commercial flights landing at the island’s interior airport couldn’t help but fly over the massive oil refinery that dominated the southern shoreline.

Saddled with being both distant and different, Santa Cruz had developed an innate resentment toward its sister Virgin Islands.

If it couldn’t be beautiful, it could at least be belligerent.

Crucian voices were among the loudest of those pointing out that the West Indians living on the islands at the time of the transfer hadn’t been asked to verify the territory’s sale to the United States. Several even likened the subsequent governing arrangement to a new form of slavery. Others used this historical fact pattern to argue for the granting of Native Rights (tax exemptions, land redistribution, and public office requirements favoring those who claimed heritage back to residents from the islands’ original transfer).

That the territory’s chief executive was now an elected position had done little to temper the perceptions of inequality and injustice.

Indeed, it was not unusual during public meetings—particularly those held on St. Croix—for the Governor to find himself lumped together with his colonial predecessors in criticisms of corruption and ineptitude.

•

THE GOVERNOR SIGHED
with resignation. Of all this, he was well aware. He looked down at his wedding ring. He was, after all, married to a Crucian.

His wife would be joining him at the Danish plantation later that afternoon. She’d flown down a few days earlier so that she could spend time visiting with her family. They would all be dining together that evening.

At the thought of his in-laws, the Governor let out an audible groan. That was just what he needed to top off the day—a whole clan of contentious Crucians.

He glanced through the plane’s side window. It was a short flight, and they would be landing shortly. The first shadows of the Christiansted shoreline were already starting to appear in the distance. Assuming the spear fisherman didn’t cause them to capsize upon landing, he would be strolling down the Santa Cruz boardwalk within the next half hour.

The Governor was an easily recognizable figure, particularly when accompanied by his suited entourage. He would likely run into several constituents on his way to his first meeting.

He expected a frosty reception.