Afoot on St. Croix (Mystery in the Islands) (22 page)

The Walk-In Closet

THE PREVIOUS FALL,
Jessie spent weeks searching the villa for her mother’s stash of hidden records and correspondence. It was a lengthy, drawn-out process. The search times were limited to rare windows of opportunity in the afternoons when Jessie was home from school and Mira was away on errands.

Mira and Kareem’s living space had long been declared off-limits to the children, so that became Jessie’s logical target area. Through the years, she and her siblings had explored every other inch of the house. If her mother had concealed something within the home relating to her separate bank account, it had to be located beyond the doors to the master bedroom, likely in a spot where Kareem wouldn’t accidentally stumble across it.

Mira’s many walk-in closets were the easy point of focus.

Over the course of several hunting sessions, Jessie waded through endless hangers of clothing: blouses, skirts, and dresses of every imaginable color, fabric, and length.

A tomboy at heart, she couldn’t begin to understand her mother’s fixation with fashion. She plowed through several windowless cubicles without coming across a single item that even remotely struck her female fancy. More important, she failed to identify any clues to her mother’s secret life.

At long last, Jessie reached the closet at the far end of her mother’s boudoir, a room devoted entirely to shoes. Row upon row of racks displayed her mother’s size-seven sandals, flats, heels, and boots—all of them, in Jessie’s opinion, impractical for island wear.

On the wall behind the racks, stacks of empty shoe boxes rose almost to the ceiling. It was a daunting task, but Jessie began a methodical review of each individual box.

One by one, she fished the box out from its column and lifted the lid to check the interior contents. Then, to make sure she didn’t inadvertently disrupt her mother’s organizational system, she slid the box back into its specific slot.

Jessie cycled through the first twenty boxes, finding all of them empty. She was about to dismiss the rest when she noticed a green square on the upper left of the stack that appeared slightly out of alignment with the others.

As soon as she lifted the box from its column, she knew she was onto something. It was noticeably heavier than the previous containers, its cardboard edges more worn. The contents shuffled as she tilted it toward her.

A quick peek beneath the lid confirmed her suspicions.

“Now, we’re getting somewhere,” she had sighed with relief.

•

THE GREEN BOX,
along with several of those surrounding it, contained a trove of data. In the ensuing weeks, Jessie returned to the shoe closet multiple times. On each occasion, she gathered more information.

Ever since her parents’ divorce, her father had been sending child support payments north to Minnesota. Her mother had apparently convinced the local postmaster there to re-package the letters and forward them to her on St. Croix. All this time, she realized, her father had been under the impression that they were living up in the States.

As Jessie read through nearly a decade’s worth of correspondence, she grew increasingly angry. How could her mother not have passed on the birthday cards, the little Christmas packages, and the endless requests for pictures and phone calls? How could she have deprived her daughter of access to her father, who, it turned out, was living just a short distance away?

And then Jessie paused, reflecting on a more perplexing question.

How could her father have let her mother get away with it?

•

SO IT WAS
with wary caution that Jessie set about devising a way to contact Charlie.

She located his business listing using the Internet on a computer at her school—her online access at the villa was restricted and closely monitored. Then she sat on Charlie’s contact details for days, pondering how best to use the information. She stared at her father’s cell-phone number for so long, it became permanently committed to her memory.

It was the discovery of the St. John newspaper article that finally pushed her to action. After seeing her father’s grainy black-and-white image in the article’s attached photo, she decided on her first approach.

Posing as her mother, she called Charlie’s phone.

When the man’s voice answered on the other end of the line, it took every bit of self-restraint for her not to shout, “It’s me, Daddy.”

But she kept to her script, inviting him to meet up with the family on St. Croix for Thanksgiving.

•

IT HAD BEEN
a brilliant plan, Jessie reflected as she stood in the middle of the Transfer Day crowds, watching a group of Danish tourists head toward the estate house for a tour.

But even the most cunning strategies could be derailed by unexpected interventions.

Jessie hadn’t counted on her mother being such a skilled tactician.

Nova

JUST OVER A
mile south of the Danish plantation, the tiny town of Frederiksted put its best foot forward to greet the cruise ship docked at its pier.

Despite the dark clouds looming in the sky, several artists set up booths along the shoreline pavilion and optimistically laid out their goods. Strand Street shop owners threw open their doors, hoping to catch a passing day-tripper or two.

At a diner a half block inland from the pier, a worker unfolded a sandwich placard on the sidewalk, touting the day’s breakfast special.

Inside the diner, a well-toned man with a beautiful face plopped down at a counter in front of a plate piled high with bacon, eggs, sausage, and potatoes. Sides of buttered toast and fruit salad ringed the plate, along with a tall glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice and a mug of hot coffee.

Nova leaned back on his stool and loosened his belt, preparing to dig into one of his favorite meals.

He sighed with contentment. His day was off to a fabulous start.

•

LIFE WAS GOOD
for the man known around the island as Casanova.

Lady Luck, it seemed, had always favored him. From birth onward, fortune routinely fell into his lap, opportunity crossed his path with frequency, and success was achieved without effort.

He lived a life of reckless confidence, pushing beyond both legal and societal limits. He had no need for caution or restraint. Nothing could harm him.

He was untouchable—by flying bullets, jealous girlfriends, or the futile attempts of the police to restrain his growing criminal empire.

Despite the serious matter on his schedule that morning, he was relaxed and fully at ease.

Nova smiled up at the waitress bashfully watching him from the opposite side of the counter as he scooped his fork into the heap of scrambled eggs. He gave the girl a sly wink, a thank-you for the extra-large portions on his plate.

And, of course, he was laying the groundwork to ask for her phone number on his way out the door.

•

JUST AS NOVA
stuffed the loaded fork into his mouth, his cell phone signaled an incoming call. A thumping reggae ringtone blasted into the diner, disrupting a pair of cruise ship day-trippers at a nearby table.

Swallowing, Nova brought the phone to his lips. “Hello?” he mumbled through the remaining food in his mouth. He reached for the orange juice as he listened to the speaker on the other end of the line.

After a few seconds, he cut in impatiently. “Stop your worrying. Everything’s fine.”

He glanced up at the clock on the diner’s back wall. “The patsies are in place. It’ll all go down at eleven.”

•

IRRITATED BY THE
interruption, Nova hung up the phone and returned to his breakfast. He dove into the sausage, slicing off a chunk of the spicy meat and stuffing it into his mouth.

He thought briefly of his two psychological captives in the boarded-up house around the corner. Mic and Currie had been half-starved and desperate when he’d checked on them earlier that morning. He chuckled. That was just the way he wanted them. At any rate, those two would be out of their misery soon enough.

Nova had left the door to the house unlocked—he didn’t want to chance being seen in the vicinity of the place in the minutes before the two men tried to hold up the grocery store. He wasn’t worried about the pair running off. The coconut boys were scared silly. They weren’t going anywhere until the appointed time.

All Nova had to do was sneak around to the rear of the store and wait for Mic and Currie to bungle their way inside. He tapped the sidearm strapped to his left ankle beneath his pants leg. Once they set the robbery in motion, he would finish things off with his newly acquired, soon-to-be-disposed-of pistol.

He scooped up a mouthful of potatoes.

But first, he was going to enjoy his breakfast.

Pork Chops

KAREEM STOOD IN
the center aisle of the Frederiksted grocery store, discussing stocking options with a West Indian woman who he was training for the shop’s management position.

After screening through several applicants, the woman had been by far the best candidate for the job. A smart, practical individual, she was earning a degree from the local college while raising two young children.

In the week since her hiring, Kareem had been impressed by her dedication and motivation. She always arrived at work a few minutes early, and during her shifts, she constantly bustled about the store, never needing prompting or oversight.

His star employee, however, appeared to be distracted that morning. He couldn’t figure out what was wrong with the woman. The store had been open for just over an hour, and there had been only light foot traffic, so it wasn’t a case of circulating customers diverting her attention. Something else, it seemed, was drawing her focus from the matter at hand.

“I thought we might expand the variety of boxed cereal,” Kareem said, trying again to capture her interest. He pointed at a line of packages. “My charts indicate a high turnover rate on this brand over here. If we moved it up to an eye level shelf and added a few more varieties, I think we might see a profit increase.”

“Hmm-mm,” she replied absentmindedly.

Kareem had just about given up on the discussion when he noticed his employee looking over the aisle toward the street.

Following her gaze, he saw two scraggly-looking men scurrying toward the store’s front door.

The pair looked haggard and hungry. Kareem sighed, empathetic.

And then his eyes narrowed in on the black metallic object the shorter one carried in his left hand.

•

MIC AND CURRIE
scurried across the street, nervously looking up and down the block for signs of Nova. Their captor’s unseen presence was sorely felt—despite the fact that he was still seated at the diner eating breakfast a few blocks away.

Believing that Nova’s bullet-filled gun was aimed squarely at them, the frightened pair dared not point their feet anywhere other than the grocery store’s entrance.

“He’s watching us,” Currie muttered, gripping the unloaded weapon in his sweating left hand.

“I can feel his eyes on me,” Mic agreed with a skin-shaking shudder.

The vibrating motion was more than Mic’s loose-fitting shorts, resting on his slim hips, could take. His gun slipped from the waistband and clattered to the ground, skidding across the pebble-strewn asphalt.

The clanging sound of metal on rock echoed through the morning air.

The coconut vendors froze in their tracks, paralyzed with fear. The men stared in horror at the errant weapon lying on the far side of the street—then they slowly raised their line of sight to the shopkeeper standing in the grocery store doorway.

Trembling, Currie waved his shaking gun at Kareem. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He couldn’t bring himself to make the demand. He didn’t have it in him. He wasn’t cut out for armed robbery.

His partner had no such qualms.

Mic’s hoarse voice hollered across the ten-foot distance.

“Give us all of your pork chops!”

•

KAREEM TOOK IN
a deep breath and issued a calm smile. He didn’t discount the danger of the situation, but he and his security team had handled far worse. He’d pressed the alert button on the cashier counter on his way to the front door. A number of armed guards and, hopefully, the police, would be arriving within minutes.

In the meantime, he sensed he might be able to defuse the confrontation on his own.

Cautiously, Kareem raised his hands in front of his chest, a submissive gesture.

“Please, gentlemen. I do not wish you any harm.” He nodded at the sign above the storefront. “But this is a Muslim-owned store. We do not sell pork.”

Mic sighed, crestfallen. Then his eyes lit up with the inspiration for another request.

“What about French fries?”

Currie slapped his forehead with his free hand and muttered grimly.

“We’re doomed.”

• • •

FROM AN ALLEY
at the end of the block, Gedda watched the encounter between the shopkeeper and the coconut vendors with amusement. She giggled to herself, pleased that her boardwalk friends had inadvertently avoided a Nova-masterminded annihilation. Their inability to tell time had given them a full hour’s jump on their tormentor.

As sirens wailed in the distance, she turned back toward the shoreline and began hobbling to the main road. She would have to get a move on if she was going to make it to the Transfer Day ceremony in time for the speeches.

The Chicken Charm

THE NEVISIAN TAXI
driver finished skimming the day’s newspaper and folded it neatly on the surface of a picnic table located on the Frederiksted shoreline near the cruise ship pier.

He hadn’t found any new information within the daily’s pages, but, then again, he hadn’t expected to. He had picked up the paper only out of boredom.

Draining his second foam cup of coffee purchased from a kiosk by the pavilion, he gazed out at the cruise ship and the ring of snorkelers swimming at the end of the pier.

“Worthless interlopers,” he said with a despondent sigh.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wrinkled dollar bill and a handful of change. As he counted out coins for a third cup of coffee, the radio in his van began to crackle.

“Hey, Nevis, you catch any fish yet?”

Jumping up from the table’s bench seat, the driver returned the money to his pocket, hurried over to the van, and reached through the open front window for the radio’s receiver.

“Emmitt, man. Don’t jinx me.” He tossed the receiver through the window and slid into the driver’s seat. “It’s early yet.”

A third voice joined the conversation.

“Emmitt—where you at? You still driving around in that Cadillac?”

A defensive grunt came from Emmitt’s end of the line. “Get off my back, Seymour.” He groaned bitterly. “I’m sitting in it right now, waiting for the Ambassador and the missus to finish their walk along Cane Bay. Then I’m taking them on to Transfer Day at the Danish plantation.”

“Hey, Emmitt, how come you never drive me around in that nice-looking car of yours?”

“Can it, Seymour.”

The man from Nevis broke in. “Say, Seymour. How’re my chickens doing?”

Emmitt voiced his immediate objection. “Nevis, you can’t place a bet if you’re not working the alley. That’s the rule.”

“Keep your knickers on, Emmitt. I don’t have any money in today’s game. I placed an informational bet. No money on it, just my pride. I didn’t want my chicken karma to run cold.”

Emmitt smacked his disapproval. “I don’t like it. Not one bit.”

Seymour sniped back, “And I don’t like you parading around town all hoity-toity in that slick sedan. Nevis, what was your number on the chickens?”

The driver gazed out his cracked windshield with a smile. He’d been the outsider of the group since his arrival six months ago. It was nice to hear the other drivers beat up on someone else for a change.

“I talked to Lady Jemima this morning before I left,” Nevis said slyly. “She assured me she’d keep five of her brood.”

Seymour made a satisfied popping sound with his mouth.

“Nevis, that chicken done led you astray. I’m watching her strut across King Street right now, and all I can see is four little birds behind her.”

Nevis tapped his worn steering wheel, his fingers drumming out a casual cadence.

“Check your eyesight, Seymour. I’m certain she’ll have five.”

There was a shuffling of footsteps as the drivers in the alley scurried to confirm the count. Finally, Seymour returned to the mike.

“Curse you, Nevis.”

Emmitt blew out a frustrated sigh.

Nevis grinned triumphantly.

“You all should be nicer to my Jemma.”

•

THE MAN FROM
Nevis reached up and tapped a trinket hanging from his rearview mirror. A flat piece of metal crudely forged into the shape of a bird swung back and forth on its beaded chain. He watched the trinket sparkle in a flash of sunlight that had broken through the clouds. His chicken charm had never failed him.

“’Course, you could help me out here with some riders,” he admonished the iron bird.

Just then a loud banging sounded against the van’s metal siding, the thunderous pounding of four human hands desperately trying to open the passenger door.

Startled, Nevis dove behind the steering wheel. Then he peeked up, confused, as a fistful of dollar bills flew through his driver’s-side window.

“Please, sir, you’ve got to give us a ride.”

Nevis poked his nose up far enough to see two men reflected in his left-side mirror. The terrified pair looked vaguely familiar. He was pretty sure he’d seen them around the Christiansted boardwalk.

Another wad of cash was tossed over the window ledge.

Grimacing up at the chicken, Nevis flicked the control button for the passenger-door’s lock and said steadily, “Okay, boys, hop inside.”

Mic and Currie scrambled into the back of the van. Currie leaned toward the driver, his face ashen with fear.

“We need to get off of Santa Cruz—as fast as possible.”

Nevis sputtered his objection. “Does this look like a boat to you?”

“Please, sir. You’ve got to get us out of here. He’s going to kill us.”