Afoot on St. Croix (Mystery in the Islands) (16 page)

A Morning’s Surveillance

GEDDA STOOD IN
the alley alongside the gravel courtyard behind the Comanche Hotel, watching the morning unfold. Her gnarled hands gripped her shopping cart’s rusted metal handle as she tracked the pedestrian movements along the boardwalk. Her gaze soon focused on the line of small boats moored off the pier that jutted into the harbor near the sugar mill bar.

The boat tied to the pier’s fourth slot rocked in the water as a short man in a green dress peeked out its rear cabin door.

Two curious dachshunds and a bemused opera singer looked on as Charlie Baker crept onto the boat’s back deck, trying to estimate how fast he could run the length of the pier, across the boardwalk, and down the path to the Comanche.

With a here-goes-nothing shrug, the cross-dressing contractor set off at a sprint, the hem of the dress swinging at his knees. He slowed near the sugar mill bar, pausing for a brief exchange with the bartender. Then he goose-stepped onto the rough path circling the courtyard.

As Charlie reached the lower edge of the swimming pool, he noticed the old woman standing in the alley, and for an eerie moment, the two exchanged stares.

Gedda gummed the gaps in her lower jawline, sucking on the toothless openings. Her hollowed cheeks sank into her gaunt face; her yellow eyes glittered in the shadows.

Charlie fiddled nervously with the dress’s fabric before dropping his gaze and scurrying along the sharp-edged paving stones that led beneath the hotel’s pavilion.

Gedda smiled as she watched him disappear down the passageway. Her dry lips parted to release a cackling snort.

In her opinion, he was starting to get the hang of wearing those dresses.

•

GEDDA HOBBLED OFF
down the alley toward the King Street taxi stand where the drivers had begun to gather.

Her left foot dragged across the pavement, a dull scraping sound that, together with the cart’s squeaking wheels, amplified the notice of her arrival, but the men paid her no attention. Settling into their folding chairs, the drivers pulled foil-wrapped breakfasts out of paper bags and dug into both their food and the day’s gossip.

Gedda’s crippled body swayed to and fro as she listened to the drivers’ hushed voices, filtering through their commentary for any tidbits of interest.

The Governor’s pending arrival was briefly touched upon, generating several jealous remarks about the private limousine service he and his team would be using to convoy across the island to the Transfer Day ceremonies. A few of the men speculated on the whereabouts of Emmitt, who was conspicuously missing that morning, and wondered if the tall Crucian had scored a freelance driving job with the limo company. The suggestion set off another round of grumbling.

The conversation then turned to the cruise ship that had just docked off the island’s west shore. There was a fair amount of commiserating about the fickle nature of cruise ship passengers and the unfortunate logistics of trying to lure them across the island to Christiansted. The drivers wondered if the man from Nevis was having any luck picking up riders at the Fredriksted pier. They admitted they would feel foolish if he wound up bringing a full load of passengers to the boardwalk.

With those topics exhausted, the rest of the conversation focused on the morning’s chicken count. After several minutes of good-natured ribbing and more than a few crude poultry jokes, they began placing the day’s bets.

Gedda waited as the men called out their wagers. Then she smiled knowingly.

Despite their enthusiasm, she didn’t think any of the drivers would hit on the winning number, meaning the pot would roll over to the next day.

She suspected the Nevisian driver would still manage to clean them out when he returned the following morning.

•

HAVING FINISHED WITH
the taxi drivers, Gedda meandered out the alley and down the sidewalk toward the national park’s green space. After circling the Scale House, she crossed to the boardwalk’s eastern terminus. With stiff, stilted movements, she hobbled down the wooden walkway, which was starting to see more action as the shoreline came alive.

The staff at the rainbow-decorated diner had just finished hosing down its concrete floor. The waitresses bustled about, wiping down tabletops and laying new place settings. Several sunburned Danes began wandering sleepily in from the attached hotel for the breakfast service.

A few doors down, the spear fisherman splashed out of the harbor. Carrying his spear and snorkel in one hand, a wire cage holding his early morning lobster catch in the other, he walked down the boardwalk toward a seafood restaurant. The chef, who stood outside negotiating with a group of sailors for a haul of fresh tuna, beckoned to the snorkeler, inviting him to bring the lobster over for inspection.

•

AS THE SPEAR
fisherman strutted soggily past, the sugar mill bartender poured the last bag of ice into the chests behind his counter. Resting his back, he leaned against the mill’s coral-rock wall and stared out at the harbor. His soppy gaze centered on a large sailboat and its female captain, a woman with dirty-blonde hair and sun-kissed skin.

His girlfriend was hard at work readying her ship for the day’s snorkel tour to Buck Island. She’d kicked off her flip-flops and left them on the dock. Barefoot, she scrambled about the boat, expertly adjusting its sail and riggings.

She wore a pair of cutoff jeans and a loose-fitting top over a bikini swimsuit. As she bent to secure a knot around a cleat mounted to the boat’s topside, the shirt slipped off her left shoulder, revealing a nautical tattoo that spread across the center of her upper back. The detailed black-ink design depicted a ship’s helm overlaid with an anchor.

The bartender sighed, staring at the beautiful tattoo—but failing to appreciate its significance.

He was but a temporary fixture in her life. She was forever partnered to the sea.

Oblivious to his dispensable status, the bartender reached for a paper cup of coffee and took the last cold swig, swallowing the liquid with lovesick gusto.

He called out cheerfully at the hag as she passed his station.

“Morning, Gedda.”

•

SHAKING HER HEAD
at the young man’s foolishness, Gedda pressed on.

About a hundred yards away, she spied the Governor’s heavy suited figure plodding out of the seaplane hangar. He was accompanied by his ever-present entourage of aides and advisors. Bodyguards flanked the front and rear of the procession, wireless transmitters feeding into their ears, an arsenal of weaponry strapped to their waists.

The boardwalk’s morning bustle screeched to a halt as the Governor marched past, a ripple of upturned faces gawking at the territory’s senior politician.

There were a number of icy stares, a couple of muttered curses, and a scattering of nodding glances.

Only the spear fisherman stepped forward to offer the Governor a wet handshake.

•

GEDDA BUMPED HER
creaky cart toward the vacant structures near the boardwalk’s west end. The dance club’s abandoned shell stood disturbingly empty. The coconut boys had not returned the previous evening for their share of the pork chop leftovers from the brewpub. They’d last been seen riding in the bed of Nova’s pickup truck, headed for the other side of the island.

After pondering the unoccupied porch steps for several seconds, Gedda parked her cart near a pile of trash outside the club, removed one of the plastic bags from the carriage compartment, and began hobbling back along the boardwalk.

She needed to find a ride to Frederiksted.

The Market

KAREEM PARKED HIS
car on a quiet side street, a few blocks off of Strand, Frederiksted’s main waterfront thoroughfare.

Stepping out of his shiny black sedan, he flicked a button on his keychain to engage the lock and started off down a cracked sidewalk. The peekaboo view of the sea revealed a massive cruise ship anchored beside a sizeable dock that extended fifteen hundred feet into the water. Squinting, he could just make out the clumped masses of hundreds of tiny human figures ambling about the boat, as well as a few smaller clusters that had begun the long walk to the shore.

A good sign for commerce, Kareem concluded as he turned a corner and strolled toward the address for his newest grocery store.

•

FREDERIKSTED WAS A
tiny town, no more than a small village, with less than a thousand people living within its city limits. The main streets ran parallel to the shoreline; most of its economic activity revolved around the transiting cruise ships.

An important cultural marker, Frederiksted was the site of several significant historical events, milestones that epitomized the island’s feisty nature and headstrong independent spirit.

In 1848, the town was the location of a popular uprising that eventually forced the territory’s colonial governor to declare emancipation for the entire Danish West Indies. Thirty years later, it was the starting point of the Fireburn riots, a violent laborers’ revolt stemming from the onerous terms of post-slavery work contracts. The riots resulted in the burning of much of the town as well as several plantations across St. Croix.

Despite its importance to the island’s heritage, modern day Frederiksted suffered from its secondary stature. The town’s colonial-era buildings were in a general state of disrepair. Its brick red fort compared poorly with the yellow ochre one in Christiansted. Graffiti marred the exterior walls; water drainage had damaged the structure’s interior.

In recent years, multimillion-dollar improvements to the waterfront had created a deepwater port (along with the mammoth pier) to attract passing cruise ships. Unfortunately, that initial effort hadn’t been matched with long-term maintenance. Many of the public light fixtures in the shoreline area were inoperable or had pieces missing; parts of the decorative chains that lined the main walkway were broken. The casual observer couldn’t help but notice the multiple signs of vandalism and the general sense of slide.

Nevertheless, with the ship in dock, colorful tents displaying all manner of souvenirs and trinkets dotted a pavilion area on the shore next to the dock. A number of hopeful vendors had set out their wares, but so far, the shoppers were few and far between.

A handful of the ship’s passengers snorkeled off the end of the pier, and the occasional curious pedestrian wandered down to the vendor pavilion and Strand Street’s row of waterfront stores. But for the most part, those seeking to explore St. Croix would take off in taxi vans or on guided tours, quickly leaving Frederiksted behind.

•

A FEW BLOCKS
inland, the narrow streets sloped gently upward. With its jaw-dropping views of the sea, the area could have been a Caribbean gem, but beyond the shoreline’s cruise ship facade, the neighborhoods turned steadily seedy. Cracked and crumbling facades were overlaid with overgrown weeds, scattered refuse, and the occasional abandoned vehicle. In the constant island heat, it didn’t take long for infrastructure to deteriorate.

Ever the optimist, Kareem viewed Frederiksted as a unique business opportunity. He saw himself at the forefront of the town’s transition into a showcase tourist destination. He envisioned pedestrian-friendly neighborhoods with island-themed boutiques, restaurants, a few parks, and even a museum. If only a portion of his planned development was enacted, he reasoned, it would bring about a dramatic economic upturn to the area.

It was against his nature to contemplate a deeper decline.

•

AS KAREEM APPROACHED
the grocery store’s gated front entrance, he glanced warily up and down the empty street before feeding his key into the lock of the door’s iron-welded fronting.

The Frederiksted store was the newest of his grocery properties. The rest were located toward the center of the island, in the residential regions surrounding Christiansted.

He was excited about his latest venture. He’d negotiated an excellent deal on the building’s lease, and it had taken only minor refurbishments to ready the space for use.

Granted, there had been several muggings and a few shootings in the area since the shop opened. The security alarms that monitored the building’s perimeter were triggered on a nightly basis, and his employees had recorded more than the usual number of shoplifting incidents.

But despite these drawbacks, the surrounding community had responded well to the new store, appreciating its convenience and variety of goods. There was little direct competition within Frederiksted’s underserved neighborhoods. The local police had stepped up their patrols, giving at least the impression of increased security, and with a high turnover of merchandise, the shop’s profitability had already exceeded that of his other locations.

Feeling smugly satisfied with his investment, Kareem pulled open the door and stepped inside. The potential safety issues were well worth the risk, he thought, recalling the latest balance sheets.

•

AFTER RELOCKING THE
door, Kareem began his morning inspection. He walked the aisles, checking that the goods on the shelves were in order, dust free, and optimally positioned.

As he surveyed the store, the click of an automatic switch signified the start of the building’s air-conditioning unit. A low humming noise was soon followed by a blast of cold air, which funneled out of a metal grate mounted on the ceiling.

Kareem looked up, noting with approval the machine’s power and efficiency. He’d had excellent service from the company that leased him the equipment. The man with whom he had originally set up his account had been promoted, so most of his contact had been with the replacement representative, but he still found himself occasionally thinking of the original installation manager—if for reasons other than air-conditioning.

Kareem stared up at the ceiling vent, reflecting.

He credited Adam Rock with helping him meet Mira.

•

HIS INITIAL REVIEW
complete, Kareem slipped behind the cashier counter and into a small office. After hanging his suit jacket in a closet, he removed an apron from a peg on the wall near the door and strapped it around his waist.

The staff would begin arriving in the next ten minutes; the shop would be cooled and officially open for business within the hour.

Kareem turned to gaze at a pegboard mounted above a small but neatly organized desk. Wanting to ensure a successful launch of the new facility, he had been working in the Frederiksted store for the past month. Since he had temporarily moved his home office to this back room, he had taken a few minutes to personalize the space.

Several pictures had been pinned to the pegboard, most of them depicting members of his family. There on the top left was Elena, with her curly pigtails and mischievous green eyes. Adjacent was a photo of Hassan, striking a serious pose that conveyed a maturity well beyond his tender years.

His stepchildren, a teenaged girl and boy, occupied a third photo. Even in the still shot, Kareem could sense the reserve in their eyes.

At the center of the collage, Kareem had pinned a picture of his wife. Mira wore a dark cloak over her shoulders, and a veil covered the top of her head, but the black fabric had been pulled back around the edges of her face, revealing her high cheekbones, pale skin, and distinct American features.

As Kareem stared at the center picture, the confidence he’d felt upon entering the store began to slip away.

Much as he tried to distract himself with his business duties, he couldn’t help but worry about his secretive spouse—and what she’d been up to the night before.