Afoot on St. Croix (Mystery in the Islands) (23 page)

Unmet Friends

EMMITT JUMPED OUT
of the air-conditioned sedan and rushed around to open the rear doors for the Danish Ambassador and his wife, who had just returned from their stroll along Cane Bay.

“Did you enjoy your walk, sir?” Emmitt asked politely, trying not to notice the sand on the bottom of the Ambassador’s shoes as the man stepped into the car. There went yet another rule from the handbook that had been broken that morning.

“It was fabulous, Emmitt,” the Ambassador replied with a pleasant smile. “Just fabulous.”

Emmitt returned to the driver’s seat and quickly set the car in motion, pulling back onto the road from the shoulder where he’d been parked.

He checked his watch. Grimacing, he pushed down on the gas, sending the car zooming along the north shore. There wasn’t time for any more stops, no matter how many throat-clearings or verbal suggestions emanated from the car’s backseat.

If the Ambassador arrived late for his speech, this would likely be Emmitt’s last sedan-driving gig.

•

NOT FAR PAST
Cane Bay, the shoreline grew rocky and steep. Quickly rising, the road twisted into a series of hairpin turns. As the sedan gained altitude, white foam could be seen on the waves crashing against the boulders below.

Emmitt clenched the steering wheel, racing around the sharp corners as fast as he dared.

The Ambassador appeared not to notice the increased speed.

“If you don’t mind, Emmitt, I’d like to practice a little bit of my speech,” he said cordially.

Emmitt leaned into another tight turn. “Not at all, sir.”

“The title is ‘A Stranger Is Just a Friend That You Haven’t Yet Met.’ It’s based on a quote by the famous American entertainer Will Rogers.”

His focus trained on the road, Emmitt issued a noncommittal grunt.

“The idea is to capture the historical connection between Denmark and the Virgin Islands,” the Ambassador continued. “To encourage a renewed friendship between our two countries.”

“Hm-mm,” Emmitt replied, tensely checking his watch. The car had just summited the top of the hill and made the turn south. If he kept up their pace, they might still get to the event on time.

“I think there’s a great opportunity here to increase our business and tourism ties, close the distance between us.” Beaming broadly, the Ambassador tapped the top edge of Emmitt’s seat. “And turn strangers into friends.”

•

THE AMBASSADOR CONTINUED
to practice his speech as the sedan sped toward the western terminus of Centerline Road.

“This is Frederiksted,” Emmitt announced curtly, breaking into a momentary pause in the backseat colloquy. As the sedan circled the waterfront, he scanned the shoreline, hoping to find an empty taxi van parked by the pier, waiting for riders.

He let out a muted grumble when he saw that the picnic table where the drivers regularly waited was vacant.

The Ambassador looked up from his speech notes. “What’s that, Emmitt?”

“I said, ‘It’s looking like a good cruise ship day, sir.’”

•

THE SEDAN POWERED
up the shoreline north of Frederiksted and soon turned on the inland road leading to the Danish estate. Emmitt breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of the last straightaway before the curving entrance.

“Those are mahoganies, aren’t they?” the Ambassador asked, pointing out his window at the tall trees lining the road.

Seeing Emmitt’s nod, he leaned toward his wife. “I read that the native mahogany is a slow-growing tree, which creates a dense wood. They make fine furniture from it throughout the Caribbean.”

“That’s fascinating, dear,” she replied in a placating voice. She tilted her head inquisitively as she stared out the window. “What about that elevated pipe running along the other side of the trees, Emmitt? It must have been quite a bit of work to put that together. Was that used for irrigating the cane fields?”

“Yes.” Emmitt answered succinctly. There was a long moment of silence as he considered his next comment. He had made it through the discussion of the soldiers at the Danish fort, the Ambassador’s upcoming speech, and numerous other sensitive political issues without offending his clients.

But on this last point, he felt compelled to speak. It was a matter of personal pride and defiance.

“My ancestors helped lay that pipe.”

“You see, Emmitt,” the Ambassador chimed in. “Look at how much you and my wife have in common. Just over the course of this car ride, I feel like we’ve gone from strangers to friends.”

Fled the Coop

NOVA DRAINED THE
last sip of orange juice from his glass and pushed away from the counter at the Frederiksted diner. Patting his full stomach, he reached into his pocket for his wallet. He pulled out several bills and placed them next to his now-empty plate, leaving a hefty tip for the cute waitress, who had written her phone number on his check.

Pleased with the prospect of a future date, he glanced up at the clock on the diner’s far wall and headed out the door.

He had just enough time to get into position.

•

FIVE MINUTES LATER,
Nova slunk into an alley that passed behind the rear of the grocery store. He looked carefully up and down the narrow passage, but the area appeared empty. With one last glance over his shoulder, he stepped into the store’s rear doorway, pulled a black cotton ski mask from his pocket, and tugged it on over his head.

Bending to one knee, he pulled up his pants leg and slipped the pistol from its ankle holster.

Still in his crouched position, Nova placed an ear against the door and listened for an indication that Mic and Currie had approached from the front.

The shop inside was silent.

Nova waited for ten long minutes, but the alley remained quiet—and the stifling mask grew hotter and more uncomfortable. Despite the cloud cover overhead, beads of sweat began to run down his cheeks, soaking the cotton fabric.

Finally, he yanked off the mask. Cursing, he banged the side of the weapon against the doorway’s concrete stoop. The coconut boys had either chickened out or lost track of time.

Either way, Nova thought, bitterly thumping the gun against his thigh, he was going to inflict a beating.

•

NOVA STORMED AROUND
the building and across the street. No longer concerned about being seen, he tromped over to the boarded-up house and pounded his fist against the front door. The splintered wood panel slammed inward, revealing its unoccupied interior.

Charging inside, Nova quickly confirmed that Mic and Currie were gone.

He was going to have to take care of this job on his own. His face darkened into a pitch-black rage.

“You two had better start running,” he muttered furiously. “I’ll cover every inch of this island if I have to, but I’m going to track you down. You’ll rue the day you crossed Casanova.”

• • •

JUST A FEW
miles north, a beat-up taxi van with a cracked windshield and a chicken-shaped trinket swinging from its rearview mirror drove along the coast. The van rumbled over a rutted road that ran beside the edge of the impenetrable rain forest. Several minutes earlier, the vehicle had passed the mahogany-lined turnoff for the island’s interior. It was headed toward even more rugged territory: the island’s northwest coast.

Dark clouds swirled the sky as the van reached the end of the road and came to a stop. Two men jumped out the passenger-side door and sprinted headlong into the brush.

Arms and legs flailing, Mic and Currie managed to orient themselves onto a narrow trail, a mostly forgotten path leading to the shoreline below the island’s historic Maroon Ridge.

Branches reached in from either side, grabbing at their clothes, scratching their hands and faces. Sharp rocks tore into the calloused soles of their feet. Their muscles burned as they gasped for air.

But neither man dared slow his pace.

They were running for their lives.

Transfer Day

THE GOVERNOR CLIMBED
reluctantly out of his air-conditioned limo and lumbered toward the white-tented area in front of the Danish estate house, where the Transfer Day ceremonies would soon be starting. A greeting line of local dignitaries waited for him beneath the tents, each one eager for their chance to hobnob with the territory’s chief executive.

With Cedric hovering by his elbow, the Governor began the obligatory round of handshaking.

“Maddie Nelson, chairperson of the Landmark Society,” Cedric whispered as they approached a tall West Indian woman in a yellow dress and a matching flowered hat. “That’s the organization that put all this together.”

“Miss Nelson,” the Governor boomed with confidence. “You’ve done a wonderful job on today’s event.” He motioned at the surrounding crowds. “What a great turnout.”

After a polite thirty-second exchange with Miss Nelson, the Governor turned to greet the next person in the receiving line. Cedric leaned in with his briefing.

“Jackson Hayes,” the aide said quickly. “Ran for one of the legislature’s St. Croix seats in the last election. Missed the cutoff by two hundred and fifty six votes. Likely to make it into the senate next go-round.”

“Mr. Hayes,” the Governor gushed, warmly clasping the man’s hand. “So good to see you. You should stop by Government House next time you’re over on the Rock.”

Mr. Hayes was allotted a full minute of chitchat before Cedric ushered the Governor toward a ruddy man in a three-piece suit.

“Gerard Kohlschreiber, one of the refinery plant managers,” Cedric whispered. He paused and added cautiously, “There are rumors that the company has plans to shut the place down.”

Scowling testily, the Governor muttered under his breath, “Over my dead body—”

But he cut off his rant at the sight of a burly man with a boyish face who had just strolled into the tented area.

“What’s
he
doing here?” the Governor asked through a clenched teeth smile.

Cedric peeked over his boss’s shoulder to see the air-conditioning salesman lumbering through the covered seating area near the podium.

•

WHILE THE GOVERNOR
worked the VIP line—and tried to ignore the presence of Adam Rock—other guests participated in guided tours of the estate house.

The stone building no longer functioned as a primary residence, but the place had been carefully preserved, with family heirlooms, antique furniture, and black-and-white photos presented in carefully roped-off displays.

Charlie Baker fell in among a dozen elderly Danish women who were following a docent into the first-floor living area. Having searched for his daughter on the festival grounds without success, he had decided to try the estate house.

As Charlie looked in vain for a dark-haired teenaged girl, he found himself swept from the living area into the kitchen. The tall women packed in around him, blocking his view. Some of them towered almost twelve inches over the rim of his baseball cap. He stood on his tiptoes, trying to see over the tops of the shortest gray heads, but he was unable to make out much beyond the rack of pots and pans shelved across the upper far wall.

“Uh, excuse me, ladies,” he said as the crowd shifted to the next room. “I think I’d better try to find the exit.”

His meager pleas were either not heard or not understood. With the docent and the women chattering in their native Danish tongue, his voice was lost as white noise.

Charlie tried to turn back toward the entrance, but another set of similarly tall and verbally incomprehensible women had filled in behind his group. There appeared to be no easy way for him to duck out. Sighing with resignation, he shuffled forward as the women funneled up the central staircase.

•

A HALF HOUR
later, Charlie emerged from the tour’s end point, breaking free of the Danish women as soon as he cleared the threshold of the house’s back door. He stretched his arms and rubbed his shoulders, relieved to be free of the interior’s claustrophobic confines.

Midway through the tour, he had managed to maneuver to the front of his group. While he hadn’t been able to interpret any of the docent’s discussion, he had seen more than his share of teacups, homemade toys, and faded Danish photos. As for elaborate lace doilies, he had received a lifetime’s worth of viewing.

Shaking his head, Charlie stepped into a small garden that wrapped around the rear of the house—none the wiser on the estate family’s history, but far closer to his daughter than he’d been in almost ten years.

A Near-Miss

JESSIE SLIPPED THROUGH
the thick forest behind the Danish estate house, quietly circling to the small garden where the tour terminated. After following her father to the house’s front entrance, she had decided to hang back when he entered with the group of Danish women.

She stared up at the two-story stone structure, waiting for Charlie to reappear. Over the past centuries, the building had survived the tropical extremes of humidity, hurricanes, and drought. Today, she mused as yet another large group exited, the house was weathering an onslaught of an entirely different nature.

The place was literally crawling with Danish tourists.

•

AS THE MINUTES
dragged by, Jessie maneuvered behind a blind of wide palm fronds. From this concealed position, she had a clear vantage of the garden.

An endless parade of pale and pinkened Danes continued to file out of the estate house, but there was no sign of Charlie. If the women’s appreciative tones were any indication, the cultural exhibit was a great success, but she couldn’t imagine what her father was doing inside all this time.

Fearing he had retreated out the front door, Jessie was about to return to the other side of the house when Charlie finally leaped through the rear doorway. Quickly separating himself from the rest of his tour group, he threw his arms in the air, as if he’d been liberated after a lengthy confinement.

She suppressed a giggle at his antics and took a tentative step forward. She was now at the edge of the greenery, cloaked by a layer of leaves, but within easy earshot of her father. She wanted to speak, to alert him of her presence, but she hesitated.

She watched as he adjusted his baseball cap and tugged on his ponytail to straighten its knot. Then he reached into his pants pocket and pulled out the note she had left for him in the attic room at the Comanche.

This was the moment for which she’d been waiting. All of her scheming from Thanksgiving to March had been aimed at creating just this type of scenario. Despite her mother’s continued foiling of her attempts, she had persevered.

At last, there he was, only a few feet away, searching for her as if he hadn’t spent the last ten years in complicit abandonment.

But still she held back, studying his face as he reread her pink-ink handwriting. He looked up and stared into the dense forest, almost as if he sensed her presence.

Then, scowling in frustration, he jammed the paper back into his pocket.

As Charlie crossed to the side of the garden, passing within inches of her hidden location, she couldn’t quite bring herself to call out to him.

Jessie stood silent in the trees as he exited through the gate and walked away.

•

A NARROW STRIP
of greenery formed a permeable barrier between the estate’s manicured grounds and the wilds of the island’s northwest interior. The teenage girl lingered in the leafy border region, one foot planted on civilization’s outer rim, the other drifting dangerously close to the jungle’s hazardous realm.

Jessie rested her hands on her hips, pondering which path to take next.

She had left the villa that morning with no intention of returning. After everything she’d learned about her mother over the course of the last several months, she was determined to sever all ties with Mira. She had pinned her hopes on reuniting with her father and living with him on St. John.

But now, she wasn’t so sure.

As she considered her options, the surrounding vegetation curled forward, stealthily moving in on her. The edge of the storm swooped down toward the plantation, sending a gust of wind through the trees. Branches began to bend and sway, twisting toward the lonely teenage girl as if they were acting under their own volition.

It’s the Goat Foot Woman, Jessie thought with a nervous smile, recalling the fairy tale she’d passed on to her half sister.

“If you leesen, you can hear hur, creak-ing through duh trees . . . crackeling een duh branches . . . rust’ling through duh leaves . . .”

Another gust caused a tree carrying dried pods of seed to rattle and shake. The commotion masked a set of approaching footsteps, a human’s flat-soled tread matched with a goat’s rigid cloven hoof.

The sight of the errant girl hiding in the greenery had drawn a treacherous creature into the woods. The opportunity of an isolated prey presented a lure so tempting, he was powerless to resist. The plastic prosthetic had been discarded at the forest’s edge, allowing the beast to traverse the rough terrain with a goat’s nimble traction.

While unaware of the advancing peril, Jessie somehow felt a growing sense of unease. Anxiously, she drummed her fingers against the riveting sewn into the waist of her shorts. As the breeze swirled through the forest, she found herself murmuring the words she’d taught Elena.

“Hur spirit’s oldah dan dah jumbies . . . oldah dan dis island . . . oldah dan tyme eet-self.”

The creature moved with stealthy expertise, rapidly honing in on his target. Despite having eaten a large breakfast at the rainbow-decorated diner earlier that morning, he was ravenous for something more substantial, more fulfilling—like the chewy cartilage of human toes.

Jessie continued the mantra, her lilting voice rising with the wind.

“She wuz here ’fore dah Danes, ’fore dah French, ’fore dah first Spanish slave tradas. She wuz wit duh Car-ib at Salt Reev-ah when Christ’pher Columbus came a-shore.”

An involuntary shiver raked through her body.

“Dah Goat-foot Wo-man, she helped dem Car-ib carve up a man from dat Spanish crew. They strung ’eem up ova a fire an’ cooked ‘eem on a stek.”

The creature’s eyes seethed with intensity as he closed in on his meal.

“Tha’s where she first gut duh taste fer hoom-an flesh.”

A strong hand reached out for the girl’s shoulder, the muscular fingers curving in anticipation of the soft human form . . .

But a sigh of intense disappointment shook the forest.

The grip fell inches short as Jessie stepped from the bushes and followed her father out the garden’s side gate.