Afoot on St. Croix (Mystery in the Islands) (27 page)

Afoot on St. Croix

THE RAIN SOAKED
the Christiansted boardwalk for several hours, the storm lasting into late afternoon. It was a slow day for tourists, and the brewpub opted to postpone their regular crab race for tomorrow’s sunnier weather.

Inside the pub’s near-empty eating area, an Italian opera singer waited for his “to go” order of pork chops and French fries. Umberto had just gassed up his boat for a short trip to St. Thomas. He planned to leave, with his two extra passengers, early the following morning.

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THE NEXT DOOR
down, at the sugar mill bar, the writer sat beneath the eaves, listening to the bartender mope about his now-former girlfriend. Earlier that day, the sailboat captain had dumped him for a scuba diving instructor.

“Apparently, this other guy has an apartment with air-conditioning . . .” he moaned despondently.

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OBLIVIOUS TO THE
rain, the salesman strolled past.

“Never underestimate the importance of proper ventilation and cooling,” Adam Rock mused upon overhearing the bartender’s lament.

He continued down the boardwalk toward the seaplane hangar, rolling his suitcase behind him. He had a ticket on the day’s last flight out.

Whistling softly to himself, he strummed his ample belly.

For the first time in months, he could honestly say that he wasn’t hungry.

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AT THE RAINBOW-DECORATED
diner, the chef emerged from the kitchen with the day’s scraps. Hefting his bucket, he marched up the bridge overlooking the lagoon. He swung his bucket over the railing, but the water remained eerily still. The tarpons’ dark shadows circled lethargically, without interest, in the shallows below.

Peering down through the rain, the chef noticed a faint reddish tinge to the water. And then, in the muddy sand at the bottom of the lagoon, he spied the remnants of a shredded black cloak and a woman’s green high-heeled shoe.

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GEDDA BUMPED ALONG
the boardwalk pushing her rusted cart, taking careful note of all these activities.

Not far from the lagoon, she peered inside the restaurant to where Charlie Baker sat eating a slice of key lime pie at a table with four youngsters, two of them his teenage children.

At the sound of the incoming seaplane, the old woman turned toward the harbor, watching as the aircraft circled the shoreline, its pilot scanning the water runway for signs of the spear fisherman’s snorkel.

Her voice cackled into the rain.

“Children ain’ nuttin but an appetizer.”