Afoot on St. Croix (Mystery in the Islands) (19 page)

The Lean-To

THE MOVE TO
St. Croix powered forward under its own steam, sweeping Mira along with it. She had no time to regroup, no workable strategy to defeat it.

Charlie put the Minnesota house on the market as soon as they returned home from the vacation. Mira tried to sabotage the first showing, leaving the children’s toys and other random articles scattered about the place—to no avail. The property fell almost immediately under contract, as if even the real estate gods were conspiring against her.

With the closing date rapidly approaching, the family began a mad dash to prepare for their permanent transfer to the Caribbean. They could only afford to ship a fraction of their furniture, so Charlie sold the heaviest pieces through adds in the local paper. Mira watched, tears silently streaming down her face, as some of her most treasured possessions marched out the door under the care of new owners, never to be seen again.

The contents of the kitchen cabinets were similarly pared down. Only a small collection of essential dishes and appliances would make the trip. The rest, they auctioned off at a yard sale or donated to charity.

Each day, more pieces of Mira’s life were broken away, scattered to the wind.

The voluminous walk-in closets emptied as cardboard boxes swallowed up what remained of her belongings. Everything she knew, the home she had carefully assembled, the material fixtures that had framed her existence, were quickly dismantled.

At the end of the month, Mira climbed into Charlie’s pickup truck for the bumpy ride from Minnesota to Miami. For more than seventeen hundred miles, the family drove south, their two screaming kids crammed into the cab’s rear seating area. Hot and harried, they finally arrived at the tip end of Florida’s peninsula.

Holding her daughter’s hand, Mira watched the truck roll onto a shipping vessel for the last leg of its voyage.

It was too late to turn back now.

She would have to begin again.

•

AS SOON AS
they arrived on St. Croix, Charlie rented a car to drive them out to their new island home. Eager to get the transition under way, Charlie had insisted they move forward with the real estate transaction while still in Minnesota, so they had purchased the property based on the realtor’s descriptions, sight unseen.

About fifteen minutes east of Christiansted, Charlie steered the car off the main road and parked it in a gutted gravel driveway next to a rusted mailbox that was only halfway attached to its mounting post.

Mira sat stiffly in the front passenger seat, hoping against hope that this wasn’t the right address and that he had simply gotten lost. But alas, Charlie bounded out of the driver’s-side door, providing the dreaded confirmation.

“Can you believe it?” he’d asked jubilantly. “Look at this place. What a steal!”

Mira could still remember the sight of Charlie in his combat boots, tromping across the cactus-strewn lot, pacing off an area for an in-ground swimming pool.

Distant waves crashed in the background as her husband climbed up onto the roof of the lean-to and excitedly described all of the building’s wonderful renovation possibilities.

Mira had looked out across the bleak acreage, numb with shock.

It had been so much worse than anything she could have ever imagined.

•

THE LEAN-TO WAS
located on a large plot of land not far from Point Udall, a pillar-stone marker on the easternmost rim of the island and, consequently, the United States. The house’s cracked front porch looked out across a blustery landscape, the most inhospitable place Mira had ever seen.

While St. Croix’s northwest quadrant featured lush rain forests, here, the arid environment supported only low lying brush, dotted with a variety of cacti and yucca plants. A nonstop wind further blunted the rugged terrain.

In those early days, Mira had spent hours on that porch, staring at their dry, parched acres and, beyond, the Caribbean Sea, which stretched out, flat and forbidding, for as far as the eye could see.

She had hated that sea—hated its lapping shorelines, its white-capped waves, and its deep alluring blue. The mere sight of it caused her to seethe with anger.

But even worse than the water was the island it surrounded.

Santa Cruz.

She blamed that rotten spit of land for everything that had been taken from her: her well-ordered life in the States, her perfect two-plus-two family, and her precious walk-in closets.

Most of all, she hated it for seducing her husband and turning him against her.

•

FOR WEEKS AFTER
they moved into the lean-to, Charlie came home tired and frayed, his every nerve pinched with stress. He had always been a quiet, serious man, but never had he turned so completely inward.

It was disconcerting for Mira, becoming so secondary in importance, subject to his struggling business—and worse, this wretched island. She was used to performing against a blank landscape, not being overshadowed by it.

She had once been in love with Charlie, or at least in love with the thought of him. But with each passing day, her resentment grew, and her feelings toward him became increasingly muddled.

During the long hours while her husband was at work, Mira started gathering up the kids and slipping into town. The three of them spent hours walking along the Christiansted boardwalk, playing in the buildings outside the old Danish fort—anything to escape the ghastly crumble of the lean-to.

It was on one of those outings that she encountered Adam Rock, then a junior sales rep for his air-conditioning company.

Rock had suggested a way for her to gain some financial independence. It had been his idea for her to set up the clothes shopping service for the Muslim community’s women. And it was his connections within the community that had led her to the villa the night she first met Kareem.

•

MIRA LIFTED HER
suitcase onto the bed and began filling its compartment with clothing. Her face, which had darkened while remembering all this sad life history, regained its optimistic smile. She tamped down the niggling questions at the back of her mind.

She had made the right decision, she thought with assurance.

She could trust Adam Rock.

Ten years ago, he had helped her find a solution to her problems—he was doing the same now.

The Breakfast Meeting

THE GOVERNOR PAUSED
in the middle of the boardwalk, waiting for his aide to brief him on their first meeting of the day.

“So, Ced. Who’s our lucky breakfast date?”

Cedric riffled through a clipboard stacked high with handwritten notes and computer printouts relating to the day’s itinerary, his demeanor unusually flustered. His brown skin took on an anxious pallor as he looked up at his boss.

“Ahem, sir,” he replied with a gulp. “You’re meeting with a high-level executive from an air-conditioning company. He’s one of their top salesmen.” He glanced down at his notes for clarification. “In the Caribbean region.”

“Cedric,” the Governor asked, exasperated. “Why in the name of all that is good and holy am I meeting with an air-conditioner salesman?”

The aide blanched further. “His name is Adam Rock, sir.” He tilted his head suggestively, as if insinuating a hidden meaning.

The Governor’s brow furrowed.

“Adam Rock?” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Never heard of him.”

“It’s about that . . . that other matter, sir,” Cedric replied uncomfortably.

The Governor immediately snapped out of his complacent stance.

“I thought we had that resolved,” he said sharply, leaning toward the aide to shield his voice.

One glance at Cedric’s worried face told him differently. Clearly, the matter had become un-resolved.

“Oh.”

The Governor paused, wondering which of his scheming cabinet members had outmaneuvered him—and which one he would pass the blame to if the underlying imbroglio came to light.

“How unfortunate.”

• • •

THE CRAB LIVING
in the boulders at the edge of the rainbow-decorated diner looked up as the hostess led a group of five men, four of them imposing plus one smaller by comparison, toward the back of the seating area.

The Governor’s bodyguards peeled off for the counter by the bar, where they could both eat and monitor the perimeter, while the three remaining men greeted each other, formally shook hands, and then moved toward the crab’s table.

From the safety of his boulder, the crab ogled up with interest at the Governor, his assistant, and the air-conditioner salesman.

The waitress took the men’s orders and returned minutes later with orange juice and coffee. An uneasy chitchat floated back and forth across the table as the men sipped their drinks. In the crab’s assessment, the purpose of the conversation was more for the men to size up one another as opponents than to convey any substantive meaning.

Before long, plates arrived, piled high with food, and the trio began to eat.

Generous expense accounts and nonstop business meals had given the Governor and the salesman sizeable girths. The pair dug into their food, edgily eying one another like a pair of torpedo-shaped fish angling for the next piece of raw meat. The nervous pecking of the aide explained his trim physique.

Midway through the meal, the salesman paused, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and took a long slurp of coffee. Then he put forth his proposed quid pro quo, tossing it across the table as if it were a lure on a line, tethered to a barbed hook. The Governor glanced over at his aide, seeking the smaller man’s counsel, before grudgingly agreeing to the salesman’s pitch.

The breakfast ended shortly thereafter. As the party disbanded, the crab crept cautiously out from behind his boulder.

He couldn’t help thinking that the two large men who had been sitting at his table were far more fearful predators than the tarpon lurking in the nearby lagoon.

A Change in Plans

IN ROOM SEVENTEEN
of the Comanche Hotel, Charlie Baker laced up his boots, gathered his backpack, and prepared to leave. Still pondering the note that had been hidden beneath his cap, he tossed the green dress and shoes into a trash bin and started down the maze of stairs to the hotel’s first floor.

The woman at the front desk raised a skeptical eyebrow as he approached her station.

“Ready to check out?” she asked stiffly.

He shook his head, still marveling at Mira’s cheek, once more leaving him with the bill after dumping him unconscious at the fort.

“No, I’m going to need to stay another night,” he replied. Then he paused, reflecting on the handwritten note. “Is it possible for me to keep the same room?”

•

A FEW MINUTES
later, Charlie tromped down the boardwalk toward the seaplane hangar, giving the warped boards an extra
thump
with each stride. It was a relief to have his feet back inside his heavy-duty combat boots. His arches still hurt from being crammed into the high-heeled shoes while he was unconscious.

Outside the rainbow-decorated diner, he passed a pair of heavily armed men surrounding a suited gentleman he recognized as the territory’s governor. He gave the armed men an extra four feet of cushion space as he circled around them; then he continued down the boardwalk and turned in to the seaplane hangar.

Beyond the security gate, he could see the plane floating at its dock. Passengers were already dumping their luggage into the bins for undercarriage storage and climbing up the gangplank into the plane’s narrow cabin.

“You’re just in time,” the attendant monitoring the gate said as Charlie approached the service counter. “I didn’t think you were going to make it.”

Charlie shifted his backpack to his left shoulder and leaned over the counter. He recognized the attendant as the man he had seen pushing the luggage cart on his arrival the previous afternoon.

“I’ve got to reschedule. Can you book me on a flight out tomorrow?”

The attendant looked down at his computer screen. After scrolling through a few pages and punching several buttons, he replied, “Yes, it looks like I can seat you on the flight leaving at the same time in the morning.” He cleared his throat. “For a small fee.”

As Charlie reached for his wallet, the attendant glanced up mischievously. “Did you find the woman in the green dress?”

The man grinned at the blush rising on Charlie’s cheeks.

“I heard she was walking around town less than an hour ago.”

Bert

CHARLIE EXITED THE
seaplane hangar, eager to put as much distance as possible between himself and the mocking baggage clerk. Striding up the boardwalk, he pulled the note with the pink writing from his pocket and once more read the message, studying the address listed near the bottom.

“I’ve got to get to Frederiksted,” he muttered, tapping the note against his leg.

The taxi drivers who parked along King Street next to the park seemed like his best option. Charlie proceeded up the walkway toward the taxi stand, but halfway along the shoreline, he paused at the line of boats docked across from the sugar mill bar.

It’s worth a try, he reasoned with a shrug.

As Charlie strode down the pier, Umberto emerged from his boat’s galley holding a cup of coffee.

“Hey, Bert,” Charlie called out. “You got a ride?” He grunted a clarification. “I mean, other than the boat?”

The opera singer flinched at the nickname, but if it bothered him, he didn’t voice a complaint.

“Where do you need to go, Mr. Baker?” he asked politely.

“The other side of the island,” Charlie replied, jerking his head toward the west. “Place just north of Frederiksted.”

He folded the letter over so that Umberto could see the address.

Umberto read the information and then gave Charlie a curious look.

What an odd little man, he thought. First, there was his bizarre escapade at the Danish fort. Now, he was following pink handwritten instructions toward Frederiksted. What could possibly explain this strange sequence of events? The opera singer couldn’t help but be intrigued.

“Hop in,” he said. “I can take you to the cruise ship dock. It’ll be about a mile’s walk from there. You can walk or catch a cab on the Frederiksted side.”

Charlie took a wide step away from the boat, nearly falling off the pier in the process. “Oh, that’s okay. I’ll just take a taxi from here.” The mere idea of motoring to the other side of the island in the small watercraft made his stomach turn green.

He glanced up at the sky. A dark ribbon had begun to form across the eastern horizon. The approaching rainstorm would only add turbulence to an already sure-to-be bumpy boat ride.

“No, no,” Umberto entreated, waving Charlie onboard. He lifted his lawn chair from the rear deck and folded it up. “I insist.”

Warily, Charlie shuffled back across the pier to the boat. Gripping Umberto’s outstretched hand, he stepped over the boat’s railing and onto the deck. He was immediately greeted by the two wiener dogs, whose tails wagged as if welcoming an old friend.

Umberto quickly untied the moorings and lifted the securing lines from the pier. He reached into his pocket for a pair of keys and jingled them in the air.

“Andiamo?”

With a resigned shrug, Charlie assented and followed Umberto through the boat’s galley to the steering compartment at the front.

“All right, let’s go.”

As the boat puttered out of the harbor a few minutes later, Charlie looked over at the opera singer and asked weakly, “You got a bucket?”