Afoot on St. Croix (Mystery in the Islands) (17 page)

Pack Your Bags

MIRA WAITED UNTIL
she heard Kareem’s car backing down the driveway; then she peeked out the villa’s front window for a last look. She watched through the blinds as her husband carefully reversed the car into the street and turned it toward the community’s gated exit. Pressing her forehead against the glass, she caught a quick glimpse of his head and shoulders before he drove away.

As the vehicle disappeared into the morning’s humid haze, a light moisture glistened in her eyes—the effects of a wistful good-bye, but something less than a fully formed tear.

Mira sighed tensely, wishing for a cigarette.

This was not a step to be taken lightly. She was leaving a man she’d lived with for almost ten years, terminating a marriage that had been, for the most part, peaceful and strife-free.

A moment of reflection was in order.

Glancing up at the arched ceiling above the window, she thought of all the things she was giving up: the beautiful home, its lavish furnishings, and the five enormous walk-in closets.

Then she smiled, surprised at her utter lack of regret. Those items no longer held any allure to her.

The seclusion and stability had had its benefits, but she’d grown bored of the restrictive lifestyle. Her constant trips to Christiansted and the neighboring islands were proof enough of that. As for poor Kareem, she’d lost interest in him long ago.

She was ready to turn the page and enter her life’s next chapter.

•

SHAKING HER HEAD,
Mira wondered why it had taken her so long to make the break. Her second marriage had lasted almost twice as long as the first. A great deal of inertia, she supposed, had built up over the last decade.

Yet once the dam began to crack, water began seeping through, and it wasn’t long before the entire wall crumbled.

The plan for today’s departure had come together suddenly. She had made the decision after just a few minutes’ deliberation. But the restless mood and the need for change had been growing for months.

Looking back, she could trace the first inklings of the transition to the fiasco with Charlie and the sequence of events triggered by her oldest daughter.

She sighed, remembering. The girl had caused her no end of trouble.

Mira was lucky that her contact at the seaplane terminal had alerted her to Charlie’s booking last Thanksgiving. It had taken every last ounce of her creativity and wile to quash her daughter’s shenanigans, but she had managed to negate the crisis and, in the meantime, exacted a modicum of revenge.

At the mental image of her ex-husband clad in a green dress and heels, Mira’s smile broadened into a triumphant expression.

That was all over now, she thought with a chuckle. In just a few hours’ time, she and her four children would be leaving this island.

After this adieu, Mira had no intention of ever coming back to Santa Cruz.

• • •

ELENA SPRINTED INTO
the room, hollering at full voice. “I’m not going to school today. I tell you, I am not going . . .”

“No,” Mira interjected, turning away from the window and stepping briskly toward the kitchen. “No, you’re not.” Her gaze moved from Elena to the other children, who were still seated at the breakfast table. “None of you are.”

All four looked up at her in startled puzzlement as she clapped her hands together and instructed energetically.

“Each of you, pack a bag. Just the essentials. Your toothbrush and a couple changes of clothes. Maybe a toy or two. We’ll be getting on the seaplane, and they have strict luggage limits.”

After a moment of stunned silence, Hassan was the first to speak.

“Where are we going?” he asked, his face evoking a serious inquiry.

Mira had anticipated this response.

“It’s a surprise,” she said with a wink. “You’ll have to wait to find out.”

Hassan was not placated. “What about Pappa?” he asked, perplexed. He pointed at the door. “He just left for work.”

Mira pursed her lips. “He’ll be joining us later,” she replied, assuring herself that this was a necessary lie.

“But . . .” Hassan sputtered.

“You ask too many questions, dear,” Mira said, gently patting him on the head. Then she snapped her fingers. “Chop-chop. You all had better get moving.”

As the seated children rose from their chairs, Mira gave her oldest daughter a meaningful look.

“No funny business. We’re leaving at noon.”

An Early Departure

WORDLESSLY, THE TEENAGE
girl joined her siblings in the wild rush to pack for the surprise seaplane trip. As she hurried down the villa’s tile-floored hallway, she felt her mother’s eyes upon her back, a sharp piercing stare. With great relief, the girl slid into her bedroom at the end of the corridor and shut the door.

Not wasting any time, she quickly changed out of her pajamas and into a T-shirt and shorts. Kneeling in front of her closet, she dug through a pile of rumpled clothing until she unearthed a loaded backpack. The bag had been ready for quite some time, just waiting for this moment to arrive.

Mira may have only recently decided to leave Kareem, but her oldest daughter had been planning her escape for months.

•

SCOOPING UP THE
pack, the girl stood and turned to take a last look around the bedroom she’d occupied for almost ten years.

Her gaze paused on a white-painted dresser with flower-decorated knobs. The surface was cluttered with a teenager’s typical trinkets: pastel-colored notepads, pens with plastic cartoon figures affixed to the ends, hair barrettes, and an assortment of cheap jewelry. None of these items caused her to linger.

She turned toward a twin bed whose length was pushed up against the far wall. The sheets were still unmade, and the bright-pink comforter was crumpled into a heap at the foot of the mattress. On the floor below lay a matching pink throw rug whose plush fabric was topped with a scattering of books and a mismatched collection of shoes.

The room’s decor had been picked out almost entirely by her mother. Few of the furnishings held any appeal to the daughter.

Pink isn’t even my color, she thought with disdain as she snatched a colored pen from the dresser and slid it into her backpack.

•

A MIRROR HANGING
on a nearby wall caught the girl’s reflection as she surveyed her soon-to-be-abandoned belongings.

The teenager bore a far closer resemblance to her father than her mother. She had inherited Charlie’s sturdy, short-statured build; Mira’s delicate, refined features were missing or had yet to develop. The girl’s hair was a wild tumble of brown curls, cut into a pixie style that she wore loosely clipped in a barrette—that is, she did when her head wasn’t covered by the community-regimented black scarf.

The daughter tossed her head indignantly. Unlike her mother, she had never seen any benefit to the community’s confining dress code. She felt as if she had spent her whole life hiding beneath a cumbersome black cloak.

That was another element of her past that she would not miss.

•

HER GOOD-BYE COMPLETE,
the girl crossed to the window by the bed. Scooting over the rumpled sheets, she wrapped her hands around the window frame’s bottom edge and shoved upward, creating a three-foot opening.

Glancing furtively at the bedroom’s closed door, she tossed her backpack through the window and watched it fall to the ground. With grunting effort, she slid her body through the hole and eased herself over the ledge.

She was just about to release her grip when she heard her mother’s distinctive footsteps tapping down the hallway outside the bedroom.

The girl sucked in her breath as the steps drew nearer. If she were caught now, it might be weeks before she got another chance. She needed at least five minutes of lead time before her mother discovered her disappearance.

Dangling over the ledge, she listened as the footsteps stopped—and then pivoted toward the master bedroom. The diminishing
clap
was soon muffled by the closing of yet another door.

Exhaling, the daughter grinned an impish smile—and let go of the ledge.

•

AFTER DROPPING TO
the ground behind a row of bushes, the girl hefted the backpack onto her shoulders. Then she reached beneath the nearest bush for a small satchel that contained several items she’d retrieved earlier from one of her mother’s closets.

In addition to a packet of money from her mother’s secret stash, the items included the girl’s cell phone, which her mother had banned from her possession after the events of last Thanksgiving.

Clutching the satchel to her chest, the teenager slipped through the greenery, rapidly moving away from the villa and into the forest surrounding the community’s compound. Seconds later, she uncovered a moped that had been hidden in the underbrush. Hopping on, she cranked the engine and sped off toward Frederiksted.

She was determined to at last meet up with her long-lost father.

This time, there was nothing her mother could do to stop her.

The Note

THE GREEN DRESS
bouncing as he chugged up the stairs, Charlie finally reached the top floor of the Comanche Hotel. At the end of the hallway, he turned the key in the lock to room seventeen and pushed open the door. Dashing inside, he quickly scanned the room for his belongings.

Given the number of visits he’d made to the place since last Thanksgiving, the layout was painfully familiar.

There was the triangular-shaped ceiling, the wooden floors, the windows cut into the roofline . . . and the distinct aroma of Mira’s sweet perfume.

Choking, Charlie sucked in his breath, trying not to inhale any of the scented air. Despite the failure of his mask equipment to prevent his most recent incapacitation, he was still suspicious of the flowery fragrance.

He marched across the room to the bed, where his clothes had been folded and neatly stacked next to the pillow. His worn combat boots were on the floor by the nightstand. The shoes stood side by side, in perfect formation, as if patiently awaiting his return.

Charlie scrambled out of the green dress and quickly pulled on his camo shorts. He slid a hand into his rear pocket, confirming the location of his wallet. Scooping up his ponytail holder from the nightstand, he wrapped the elastic band around the back length of his hair. He re-strapped his watch to his wrist and checked the reading on its face.

He’d have to hurry if he was going to make his flight to St. Thomas.

This was typical of his recent run of luck, he thought as he threw his T-shirt on over his head. The seaplane was one of the few modes of transportation in the Caribbean that, weather permitting, actually kept to its schedule.

Popping his arms through the shirt’s arm holes, he reached for his baseball cap, the last item of clothing on the bed.

But as he scooped up the cap’s brim, he uncovered a small envelope that had been tucked beneath.

His name was written in pink-colored ink on the envelope’s front side.

“Charlie Baker,” he read out loud, puzzling. He felt certain this wasn’t Mira’s handwriting.

The envelope crinkled as he wrestled open the flap and slid out the sheet of paper folded inside.

After skimming the paragraphs written on the paper, he sat down on the bed, instantly forgetting the impending seaplane departure.

He put on his cap, fiddling with the brim as a stunned expression settled across his face.

He reread the note, slowly this time. Then, he folded the paper and returned it to the envelope. Standing, he slid the envelope into his front pants pocket next to the return plane ticket and thoughtfully rubbed his chin.

“Guess I’m not headed home this morning after all.”

The Entourage

THE GOVERNOR WIPED
his hands together, trying to remove the fishy smell from his handshake with the spear fisherman.

“Hand cleaner, sir,” his aide offered, quickly reaching into his coat pocket for a plastic vial.

“Thank you, Cedric,” the Governor said with a sigh. He held out his hands while the aide squeezed a dollop of alcohol-formulated gel into his palms.

The Governor made a sour face as he squished the slippery substance between his fingers.

“The things I do for this job.”

•

HAVING RID HIMSELF
of the worst of the fishy aroma, the Governor strolled down the boardwalk toward the open-air diner on the first floor of the coral-pink hotel, the location of his first meeting, and meal, of the day.

As usual, he was surrounded by his entourage. Such was the nature of his office. He rarely found himself alone.

It was a strange, often claustrophobic, existence, one to which he’d never truly adapted. He couldn’t escape the constant presence of others, some looming, some furtive, some filled with nervous energy.

His life lacked a certain stillness that he feared he might never regain.

•

THE NERVOUS ENERGY
belonged to Cedric, the Governor’s eager assistant.

A trim, well-dressed individual, Cedric was the only person the Governor had ever known who could keep a starched shirt and tailored suit unwrinkled in the humid island heat. He was neat, efficient, and ruthlessly organized.

While not in any way small in stature, Cedric’s medium build was dwarfed beside the Governor’s bulky frame, which is where he hovered—seemingly day and night.

Cedric was the Governor’s right-hand man. He kept track of the politician’s endless appointments and carefully managed the logistical details of every engagement, but that was only a minor part of the aide’s duties.

Having closely studied local politics for the last ten years, Cedric was a walking encyclopedia of both substantive public policy issues as well as the thorny political nuances that underlay even the most banal of administrative decisions. He could provide a succinct micro-summary on any given topic, rattling off relevant names, figures, and statistics at a moment’s notice—and he was often asked to do so in the minutes before the Governor entered a meeting.

As a natural outgrowth of his detail-oriented character, Cedric was the designated worrier of the team. It was a role the Governor was happy to delegate; he’d grown heavily dependent on the young staffer’s ceaseless updates and reminders.

The Governor had enough on his mind these days, he reflected as he gazed at the empty and abandoned lots along the boardwalk, much more global concerns that demanded a great deal of his mental focus. Sometimes, he felt as if the fate of the entire territory were resting on his shoulders. And so, in an odd way, Cedric’s fretting and anxiety gave the Governor a much-needed sense of peace.

He chuckled to himself. At this point, he was helpless to navigate breakfast without Cedric’s guidance on each food item’s caloric intake, fiber content, and blood sugar impact.

•

CEDRIC WAS THE
only member of the entourage whose presence the Governor truly welcomed. The rest, he could easily live without—and that included the lumbering shadows of his bodyguards.

The Governor found it impossible to tell the beefy men apart. He’d long since given up remembering their names. He simply called them all Brutus.

The security shifts were manned in pairs. While the faces changed every few hours, the mercenary bodies always remained the same: men with thick, solid hands that looked as if they could chop through concrete, bulging chests that appeared capable of deflecting bullets, and steely, unemotional eyes that made the Governor worry that if an enemy were to offer the right incentive, they might be swayed to turn against him.

The Governor risked a timid, sideways glance at the closest bodyguard. The man stared grimly ahead, his gaze sweeping the horizon for potential threats.

On his next step forward, the Governor veered slightly toward Cedric. Suppressing an inner shudder, he glanced down at his watch, wondering when the next shift would take over—and knowing that the next team of Brutus and Brutus would be just as intimidating as the one that came before.

•

AS MUCH AS
the Governor disliked the bodyguards, he loathed the last contingent of the entourage even more.

The remaining seats on the seaplane that morning had been occupied by members of the Governor’s cabinet. Given Transfer Day’s high profile within the territory, almost all of his appointed staff would be attending the afternoon’s event.

The lone exception was the Lieutenant Governor, who, following protocol, had stayed behind on St. Thomas. He had been allowed to move from his adjoining office space into Government House while the rest of the cabinet was off-island.

The Governor rolled his eyes. They’d been gone just over an hour, but the man was probably already passed out on the carpet in his office. Despite Cedric’s efforts to secure the main liquor cabinet, the Lieutenant Governor always managed to find a way to open it, particularly when left unsupervised. After this two-day trip to St. Croix, they would have to completely restock the bar.

Other than his proclivity for fine rum, the Lieutenant Governor was harmless enough, especially compared to the rest of the lot.

The Governor cast a second sideways glance, this time directed at the motley crew of conniving backstabbers and hangers-on who made up the rest of his cabinet. The members of this troublesome group were the bane of his existence and, in truth, far more likely to do him harm than a rogue bodyguard.

With a wistful sigh, the Governor envisioned the day when he would retire from public office and give all of these unsavory characters the heave-ho.

He watched as the cabinet members fanned out across the boardwalk, eager to squeeze in their own round of meetings prior to the departure of the official convoy to the restored plantation on the west end of the island where the Transfer Day ceremonies would be taking place.

With a grimace at the nearest Brutus, the Governor ran his hands across his plump waistline and turned to Cedric.

“Right, then. Where’re we headed for breakfast?” He rubbed his stomach. “I’m starving.”