Afoot on St. Croix (Mystery in the Islands) (18 page)

The Stakeout

“I GOTTA TELL
you, Currie. I’m so hungry right now, I could eat my right arm off.”

Mic sat on the floor of a boarded-up house in downtown Frederiksted, leaning against a grimy wall, gripping his slim—and loudly rumbling—stomach. Currie knelt beside him, staring through a crack in the front window’s outer covering. From there, he had a perfect, if narrow view of the grocery store across the street.

“I can’t stop thinking about those pork chops we missed last night,” Mic moaned. “I’ve eaten them in my head so many times, you’d think I’d be stuffed already.”

He closed his eyes, recalling the imagined meals.

“First time, I had them grilled, medium-rare with a nice ring of seared fat around the edge.” He nodded his head, humming his approval. “Next, I ordered them dipped in beer batter and dunked in the fryer.” His eyes cracked open, and he pointed a slender finger at the ceiling. “Those were quite tasty, my friend. A highly recommended preparation.”

He smacked his lips as if savoring the fictional food.

“Then, for variety, I tried them slow cooked and slathered with barbecue sauce . . .”

“Stop it, Mic. You’re killing me,” Currie cut in, exasperated by the stream of images.

No sooner was the phrase out of his mouth than he realized his poor choice of words.

The pair exchanged somber stares and then fell back into silence.

•

MIC AND CURRIE
had spent a long night in the boarded-up house. After Nova dropped them off there the previous evening, they’d been tasked with keeping watch on the grocery store across the street until the proprietor arrived to open it for the day’s business.

Theirs was no longer a voluntary assignment. The gun from the truck’s front seat had been put to full intimidating use. When the pickup arrived in Frederiksted, Nova had parked behind the house and forced them inside at gunpoint. They’d been locked in the building, without food or water, for the duration of the evening.

Just a half hour earlier, Nova had returned with their final instructions. The door was now unlocked, but he was monitoring their position from a hidden location somewhere nearby. He’d been clear about the ramifications should they fail to follow through on their mission.

“You’ll do exactly as I tell you—or else,” he’d said, waving the gun from one man’s chest to the other.

Ever inquisitive, Mic quickly piped up. “Or else what?”

Currie gulped as Nova glared menacingly at his friend. Then the bully aimed the gun at Mic’s thin neck.

“Or else you’ll end up like the last fool who dared to disobey me,” Nova said, jerking his head toward a heap of discarded clothing in the far corner of the room.

Mic shuffled over, nudging the pile with his toe. His face suddenly flashed with recognition.

“What? You did in Frosty?” he sputtered, incredulous. Then he turned to look back at Currie. “You know, I always wondered what happened to that dude.”

•

MIC RESUMED A
low-level muttering about his pork chop fantasies as Currie continued to monitor the grocery across the street.

The store had obviously been recently renovated. It was the newest-looking establishment on the block, if not the whole of Frederiksted. The walls were painted bright green, and crisp white edging detailed the sparkling-clean windows. The protective metal cage surrounding the front door showed no signs of wear or rust.

Mustering his limited literacy skills, Currie studied the banner stretched across the store’s roofline. The bold-typed English words were underlined with smaller font of curving Arabic text.

Currie leaned away from the splintered sill and rubbed his stubby chin.

“Well, Mic. We’ve really stepped in it this time.”

•

EVEN WITH HIS
geographic range restricted to Christiansted, Currie had picked up on the recent increased immigration of Middle Eastern nationals to St. Croix—as well as the related objecting undercurrent. Despite the Muslim community’s self-imposed seclusion, its growing numbers were beginning to draw attention.

The group’s primary interaction with the rest of the island was through its expanding commercial enterprises. A sizable portion of the grocery stores and gas stations on the island were now owned and run by a prominent Saudi clan.

Currie had overheard numerous conversations about the topic on and around the boardwalk, among the shopkeepers, the taxi drivers, the refinery workers, and the local fishermen—none of it positive.

However, no faction viewed the matter more grievously than his fellow West Indians, who saw the Arabs’ economic success as unwanted—and unwarranted—competition.

Currie thunked his chin worriedly.

He suspected he and Mic were about to become unwitting casualties in this brewing societal conflict.

•

A MOTION ON
the street brought Currie’s attention back to the storefront. Cramming his face against the crack in the window, he watched a well-dressed Saudi man approach the store, unlock the front gate, and step inside.

With his eyes, Currie followed the man as he walked through the shop, inspecting the shelves and occasionally pausing to straighten the merchandise. After a few minutes, the man appeared satisfied with the setup and disappeared into a rear area, separated from the showroom.

Wiping the sweat from his brow, Currie pulled back from the window and glanced down at a timepiece Nova had strapped onto his wrist.

They were to wait until eleven o’clock, broad mid-morning daylight, to make their move.

With a cruise ship docked three streets over and the Governor entertaining his Danish guests at the Transfer Day ceremonies less than a mile to the north, he and Mic had been ordered to walk into the store and rob the cashier.

Currie shifted his weight, wrestling with his conscience. Yes, they had been known to steal an odd item or two, but they typically took things that no would ever notice were missing: a spare fishing net with a couple of holes in it from the dive shop, a stained dish towel from the brewpub’s laundry pile, or a couple of coconuts from a grove of trees in a nearby residential neighborhood.

Of course, according to Mic, that last category wasn’t really theft—they were
liberated
coconuts.

Currie managed a weak smile as his gaze fell to the revolvers lying on the floor beneath the window.

They were unloaded, which was just as well. Neither he nor Mic knew how to use a gun.

Unfortunately, Nova was supremely adept with weaponry, Currie thought with a nervous gulp.

He wiped the sweat from his brow and returned his attention to the crack in the window.

He’d gotten them into a real mess, and they were running out of options.

•

A GASTROINTESTINAL GURGLING
from the floor interrupted Currie’s concentration.

“That was me eating oven-roasted pork chops,” Mic offered by way of explanation.

“Can you try to focus?” Currie replied sternly. “We’re in a lot of trouble here.”

“I don’t want to die on an empty stomach.”

With a despondent sigh, Mic raised himself to a standing position. He wandered back across the room to the discarded clothing and bent over to inspect the pile.

“Do you think Frosty left behind anything good to eat?”

• • •

A FEW BLOCKS
over, an unmarked van pulled into the pavilion area on the shoreline next to the Frederiksted pier. After a short pause, an old woman limped out of the side passenger door. The van sped off, leaving Gedda standing on the curb.

She’d made the journey from Christiansted using the island’s informal transit system, which operated at a level beneath the licensed taxi drivers, who mostly catered to tourists, refinery workers, and the occasional businessman.

Manned by privately owned vehicles, the unofficial transportation network stopped at designated pickup points across the island. While unmarked, the spots were well known to locals. It was an efficient means for residential passengers to get around the island, and the fare was less than one-tenth the price charged by the regulated taxis.

Her left leg dragging across the pavement, Gedda crossed the main thoroughfare and began hobbling up the sloping side streets toward Kareem’s grocery store.

She hoped she wasn’t too late. She didn’t want to miss all the action.

A Power over Men

CHAOS REIGNED IN
the bedroom shared by Elena and Hassan.

Lampshades had been turned askew, and toys were strewn from one end to the other. Half of the clothes hangers were turned sideways on the closet rod; the rest were scattered randomly across the floor. A white-painted dresser stood with a portion of its drawers pulled open, while others had been completely removed and were resting on the floor.

The place was totally upended. Clothes had been flung in every direction. The Winnie the Pooh wallpaper—firmly attached to the underlying plaster—was the only feature that appeared untouched by the tornado.

A pair of suitcases lay open in the middle of the mess, but few items had been added to their compartments.

The source of all this destruction stepped out of the closet to perform a dance in the center of the room, a whirling dervish maneuver that involved the flinging of additional clothes, for visual effect.

Elena accompanied her jig with a tune she’d made up for the occasion. The only words to the song were “I am not going to school today.”

•

MEANWHILE, HASSAN SAT
on the edge of his bed, a concerned look on his face. He held his favorite teddy bear in his arms, the one item he was determined to bring along on the trip. He had otherwise ceded control of his suitcase to his sister.

There had been a disturbing lack of detail about their upcoming excursion, Hassan mused. Their mother had been far too vague about their intended destination. The situation was causing him great unease.

What if the Comanche didn’t know where to find him?

As Elena finished her dance routine and shifted her efforts to a less energetic form of mayhem, Hassan crossed his short legs, one over the other, and repeated the question that had been troubling him from the outset of his mother’s sudden trip announcement.

“But—
where
are we going?”

His sister tossed her head informatively.

“I’ll tell you where we’re going, Hassan. We’re going to a place called”—she threw her arms wide as if holding a banner—“this is not a school!”

She tossed a sundress into the air to emphasize the point.

Hassan ducked the dress on its downward trajectory.

“But—
how long
are we going to be gone?”

“The longer, the better,” his sister replied. She bent toward one of the dresser drawers that had been laid out on the floor. “Better take lots of underwear.”

Pondering, Hassan reached through a pile of clothing to uncover the night-light closest to his bed. Unplugging it from the wall, he carefully set it and the teddy bear inside his suitcase.

• • •

DOWN THE HALLWAY,
inside the master bedroom, a much calmer scene was unfolding. Mira walked slowly across the tile floor, quietly contemplating her pending departure.

She had dozens of things to do before the taxi van came to take them to the seaplane hangar, including her own bag to pack, but she needed a moment to focus her thoughts.

Even for a woman who was prone to impulsive action, she found herself feeling a little overwhelmed by her recent decision. It was no small feat to swoop out of town with four children in tow.

They would keep the luggage to a minimum, she reminded herself. That would simplify the process. There would be plenty of time to buy new things once they were situated in their next household.

And besides, she thought as she glanced across the room, she didn’t want to carry any unnecessary remnants of this life into the next.

Her gaze paused on a framed photo sitting on the dresser. The shot had been taken at the reception for her second wedding. She and Kareem stood, hand in hand, beaming at the camera, while sparkling confetti fell through the air around them.

She stared at the just-married-Mira’s face, a ten years younger version of her current self. Then she shifted her focus to the mirror mounted above the dresser.

Time had done its best to wear her down, but she’d kept its forces at bay. Expensive face cream had helped to fend off wrinkles. Regular hair-coloring treatments had covered up the few gray strands that had crept into her golden-brown locks.

Her third wedding photo wouldn’t look that much different than the second, she concluded proudly. She still possessed the mystique of beauty.

Mira returned to the photo, this time looking at Kareem. The picture had captured a gleam in his eyes, a shine of pure bliss. He was about to marry the love of his life. At that moment in time, he clearly considered himself to be the luckiest man on the planet.

Mira smiled smugly to herself.

She had always had a power over men.

Santa Cruz

AS MIRA STOOD
in the villa’s master bedroom, confidently assessing her middle-aged looks, her future prospects, and the regret-free end of her second marriage, she let her thoughts drift momentarily to concern.

Despite her self-averred powers of persuasion over the male gender, things hadn’t always worked out the way she’d planned.

She had miscalculated once before.

•

MIRA WAS STILL
a young girl when she learned how to turn male brains to mush. With her sweet smile and bewitching green eyes, no toy or doll was beyond her reach. There was no treat or special privilege she couldn’t finagle. Even the most sensible, discerning men fell under her spell.

As she grew older, she refined her skills, perfecting her techniques. Simple gestures, she discovered, could have a profound impact. A casual flirtation could yield hefty indulgences.

With her maturing expertise, the bounty from her bevy of male suitors began to pile up: fine clothing, fancy dinners, expensive salon treatments, and—her most prized category of present—high-end shoes.

By the time she met Charlie, Mira had thoroughly mastered the art of male manipulation. Having sampled a merry-go-round of boyfriends, she was on the hunt for a permanent mate. She picked him out of the (albeit limited) crowd of northern Minnesota’s available bachelors and set her sights on reeling him in.

In the successful building contractor, Mira had found the perfect husband: a malleable man, pliant from head to toe, with plenty of resources to meet her fashion and accessory needs.

At the outset, it seemed like a good match. Mira had Charlie pinned firmly under her thumb. He occasionally squirmed from the pressure, but he never really complained. For five years, he catered to her every whim, no matter how frivolous or expensive.

Mira thought she had Charlie safely secured—until the day she ran up against a force more magnetically mesmerizing than herself.

Santa Cruz.

•

FROM THE GET-GO,
Mira and Charlie’s trip to St. Croix was an unsettling anomaly in their Mira-centric relationship. Charlie wasn’t one for spontaneity, and he rarely made substantive decisions without first consulting his wife.

This behavior hadn’t come about by accident; it was the intentional result of years of Mira’s careful guidance and training.

So the day Charlie came home from work and announced he’d booked a Caribbean vacation, her surprise was one of far more shock than pleasure.

What had come over him? What could have inspired such an abrupt purchase?

Mira tried to dismiss her unease as she packed her bags and ushered the children onto the plane. But the moment the family landed on the island, her intuition started ringing out alarm bells.

Her control had begun to loosen. Her plodding puppet was starting to cut his strings.

•

THROUGHOUT THAT WEEK
of family vacation, Mira’s anxiety only grew.

It was as if the tropical climate had planted some rogue independent spirit inside her previously compliant husband. He was missing—or ignoring—all of the obedience cues that had once been so effective.

Just after breakfast on the first full day of their stay, Mira paused by the concierge desk at a counter that displayed pamphlets detailing the resort’s onsite spa offerings. Contemplating a luxurious day of pampered massage while Charlie watched the kids, she gazed longingly at the display, draping her elegant arm across the counter as she sighed loudly to draw her husband’s attention.

But Charlie merely walked past with their daughter riding piggyback on his shoulders, their young son toddling on the ground, gripping his father’s hand.

Ten feet later, Charlie turned and nodded for his wife to follow.

“Come on, Mira,” he called out enthusiastically. “We’ll be late for the Buck Island snorkel sail.”

•

CHARLIE’S SPUNKY STREAK
was more than a one-day burst of initiative. Throughout that week on St. Croix, he continued to organize all sorts of island-themed adventures for the family. Almost every day, they were busy with one activity or another—and Mira’s extensive bag of tricks failed to have any influence on the decision-making process.

“Hey, hon,” he announced one morning while Mira was lying in bed, dreaming of a quiet day at the pool. “I’ve booked us on a rain-forest tour. Get this, they’ll take us in jeeps over to the other side of the island, and then in the forest, we’ll stop at a farm with beer-drinking pigs.”

“You did what?” she exclaimed, immediately pulling herself into a sitting position.

Charlie grinned, misconstruing her mortified stare. “I know. Where else are we going to see a bunch of pigs drinking beer?” He grabbed her hand and pulled her up from the bed.

“They drink it right out of the can!”

•

THE MOST STUNNING
turn was yet to come.

They were headed for the airport, the long week—to Mira’s view—finally over, when Charlie voiced the fateful proposal.

“Mira, hon, what do you say—why don’t we move to St. Croix?”

Her throat clenched as her jaw fell open. She gripped the handle to her suitcase, wordlessly apoplectic in her refusal.

No. Absolutely not. Had he gone completely mad? The protesting thoughts flooded her head.

Then Mira saw the look on his face, and she swallowed her objection.

She had never met a muse more dazzling or beautiful than herself, but she recognized the symptoms.

She had been bested.

By an island.