Afoot on St. Croix (Mystery in the Islands) (3 page)

The Sweepstakes

A FEW MINUTES
later, the seaplane pulled into its slip by a metal hangar on the power-plant side of the harbor. A crew member jumped out and secured the plane’s riggings to the pier. Turning, the man grabbed a wooden gangplank from a heap of supplies stacked on the dock, and, with a grunting heave, propped it against the plane’s open side door.

Charlie Baker was one of the first passengers to unfold himself from his cramped seat and scramble out onto the walkway.

He was a small man, shrunk down in size like a tiny lion, miniature, but not petite. His calloused hands bore a workingman’s perma-dirt stain, the irremovable grime that sinks into the grooves of the skin, immune to the cleansing effects of soap or detergent.

Charlie had on his regular work attire of heavy-duty combat boots, cutoff camouflage pants, and a white T-shirt. He kept his unruly dark hair tied back in a ponytail and tucked beneath a worn baseball cap bearing the logo for his construction firm.

He looked as if he were ready to strap on a tool belt and step onto a building site, but this wasn’t a business trip. He had no current construction projects on St. Croix—for the past ten years, he had done everything he could to avoid the island.

Despite his physical appearance, this was a personal visit.

As Charlie stomped his feet against the concrete, shaking out the kinks, he gazed across the Christiansted shoreline to the boardwalk that ringed the water’s edge.

The rest of the passengers started to file past as Charlie stood there on the landing, staring at a place that was both familiar and yet strangely foreign, the landscape of a recurring dream that had gradually morphed into a nightmare.

It was here where his first ill-fated Caribbean odyssey had led him, just over a decade earlier.

This was the place where his life fell apart.

• • •

IT HAD ALL
started up in his home state of Minnesota.

Born and raised in the Midwest, Charlie had worked through his mid-thirties to build a thriving construction business in a little lakeside town not far from the Canadian border.

With financial success came increased marital eligibility. The once-solitary bachelor met and soon after married Mira, a delicate beauty, generally considered the most attractive woman in their sprawling rural community.

(She was also one of the most pampered and spoiled females in the region, but Charlie managed to overlook that trait during their brief courtship and engagement.)

Two children came in quick succession, and the growing family moved into a large house in an upscale neighborhood, complete with a wide lawn, an in-ground swimming pool, and most important—to Mira, anyway—several expansive walk-in closets.

Theirs was, for the most part, a happy existence. Charlie spent long hours at his construction sites, but he was a natural craftsman, and he enjoyed his job. Meanwhile, Mira seemed content with the semi-affluent lifestyle that Charlie’s business income provided. She treated herself to weekly pedicures, bi-monthly salon visits, and frequent shopping trips to high-end boutiques in Minneapolis and St. Paul.

As the marriage reached its five-year mark, however, Charlie became increasingly aware of his wife’s spending habits, which seemed to grow more extravagant by the day. He tried several times to bring up the subject of budgetary constraints, to no avail. Whenever he attempted to steer the conversation toward the issue of financial limitations, Mira would flash him a sweet smile, swish her long honey-brown hair, and kiss him softly on the cheek. Somehow, the topic never reached a proper discussion.

As the bills continued to mount, Charlie grew less and less enamored with his beautiful wife, but he was helpless to defend against her winning charms. Resigning himself to the situation, he simply took on more work to make up for the monetary shortfall.

He and Mira might have gone on like that for years, a dysfunctional, economically ruinous union, gradually sliding toward the inevitable breakdown and divorce.

Who knows? They might have found a way to amicably coexist until their children were grown and sent off to college. Perhaps, they might even have made it to their golden years, aging into a peaceful détente before gently drifting off, one after the other, into the great unknown.

But that didn’t happen.

One gray frostbitten winter, Charlie fell prey to temptation.

•

THAT JANUARY, NORTHERN
Minnesota’s public broadcasting station ran a sweepstakes fund-raiser. The contest featured several Midwestern-themed items and events, including a pair of football tickets to a Vikings home game, a dinner theater performance for two in the Twin Cities, and a family pass for a daylong moose safari. But the grand prize of the affair—and the main topic of conversation at truck stops and coffee shops across the broadcasting area—was a tropical vacation featuring a week on St. Croix.

Charlie tried his best to avoid the nonstop chatter about the island giveaway. He was a practical man, he told himself. Everything a person might need or want could be found right there in northern Minnesota. He had no desire to visit exotic Caribbean locations. There was no reason to mar his often wet and chilly reality with the fanciful distractions of sun and sand.

That resolution lasted right up until the final day of the fund drive.

•

AFTER A PARTICULARLY
arduous roofing job that had required Charlie to harness himself to a steep incline through several hours of frigid wind and sleet, he climbed into the cab of his truck, cranked the engine, and turned the heater’s dial to its highest setting.

The radio came on with the engine. Charlie had been listening to the news when he parked the vehicle earlier that morning, and in his haste, he had forgotten to punch the off button before he pulled the key from the ignition.

Despite the fund-raising jabber that immediately filled the truck’s cab, he couldn’t bear to take his hands away from the heater long enough to hit the volume knob.

As Charlie pressed his frozen digits against the heater vents, the voice of a well-known travel personality boomed out of the truck’s speakers.

“The lucky winner will be treated to six days and five nights at a beachside resort on the gorgeous island of St. Croix . . .”

The sound of crashing waves swept through the transmission background while the voice described the prize details: resort lodging in a luxury villa on a golf course overlooking the Caribbean Sea, meals provided by a five-star restaurant with a reputation for tropical delicacies, and endless activities for families with children of all ages.

“You’re killing me,” Charlie moaned, his frostbitten fingers burning from the blast of the heater’s hot air.

More waves swept through the truck’s interior as the singsong sales pitch continued. Outside, the sleet turned to hail, peppering the truck’s metal hood with popcorn-sized pellets. It was more than he could take.

Charlie reached for his cell phone and made a call—not to the radio station to sign up for the sweepstakes—but to a travel agent.

•

“PACK YOUR BAGS,
honey,” he told his wife when he got home from the work site. He threw his hands in the air, as if capitulating. “We’re going to the Virgin Islands!”

The Air-Conditioner Salesman

THE OTHER PASSENGERS
began filtering out of the seaplane hangar as Charlie stood on the pier staring forlornly at the Christiansted shoreline.

The salesman who had occupied the adjoining seat approached the pile of luggage that had been removed from the plane’s underside storage compartment and removed his two items, a roll-around suitcase and a leather satchel. After extending the suitcase’s retractable handle, the salesman swung the satchel’s strap over his shoulder and nodded to Charlie.

“Later, pal,” he said before heading toward the hangar exit.

Charlie issued a cordial grunt and waved an absentminded good-bye.

•

IN THE FIRST
spot of shade, midway across the secured loading zone, the salesman paused to loosen his tie and unbutton his shirt collar. He brushed his hands over his slacks, trying to smooth out the wrinkles, but the creases he’d ironed that morning had already collapsed in the humid island heat. He held up his suit jacket, which he’d neatly folded and placed on his lap when he’d boarded the seaplane in St. Thomas. Despite the care, that garment hadn’t fared any better than the slacks.

Grumbling good-naturedly, the salesman stuffed the jacket into his leather satchel. He pulled a handkerchief from his pants pocket; then he wiped the cloth over his wide forehead and flushed cheeks, which were already shiny with sweat.

The Caribbean was a fantastic sales territory, both in terms of commission and scenery, and none of his colleagues would be sympathetic to his complaints about the weather. Nevertheless, in heat like this, the salesman preferred to stay within range of a finely tuned air conditioner.

It had been several years since his last visit to St. Croix, but, in his experience, that particular amenity tended to be somewhat lacking on the island.

I suppose that’s why I’m here, he thought, wryly cracking his knuckles.

The salesman worked for a company that manufactured an array of top-of-the-line air-conditioner units. The firm’s global enterprise had captured over a third of the world’s artificial cooling market and was poised for increased growth in the Caribbean.

“If ever a place was in need of my services,” he concluded, once more wiping his brow, “this is it.”

Then he paused, mentally clarifying his assessment. He had other matters to attend to on this visit, issues unrelated to air-conditioning. There was a gleam in his eyes as he amended, “I think it’s fair to say St. Croix is ready for
all
my services.”

•

OUTSIDE THE HANGAR,
the salesman paused to get his bearings before veering left onto a sidewalk that fed onto the boardwalk. If he remembered correctly, his hotel was located somewhere off the main concourse.

The bright sun shone on his round, rugged face, glinting against its end-of-day, gray-flecked stubble. He was a large man, soft around the edges, but not grossly overweight. His bulky, once-athletic build had begun to succumb to the slow droop of middle age. A gameness in his left leg caused him to walk with a slight limp—an old sports injury, he told anyone who asked.

The salesman reached the sidewalk’s merge with the boardwalk, and he stopped to flex a sore spot on his ankle. Then, resuming his pace, he lifted his suitcase rollers over the bump and set off toward the main tourist area.

The wheels on the luggage case bumped across the rough wooden surface, the uneven rhythm a match to the lurch in his gait.

•

A SHORT WHILE
later, the salesman parked his luggage in the shade of a covered bench located near the boardwalk’s midpoint. Unzipping his leather satchel, he pulled out a half-drunk bottle of water. As he guzzled down the remaining liquid, he gazed out at the harbor and the collection of boats moored inside its protective reef.

A sprawling cay lay about a hundred yards offshore, a pretty little stretch of sand and palm trees. The cay’s curving beach was open to the public, serviced by a tin-roof bar and a kiosk that rented out chairs and umbrella stands. The rest of the tiny island was occupied by a private hotel, most of whose structures were nestled behind a natural blind of blooming vegetation. The hotel’s guests were treated to a unique view of downtown Christiansted, one that helped offset the dated furnishings. The accommodations, like many in and around the boardwalk, appeared to have been built or last renovated in the 1970s.

The cay’s quaint resort was long overdue for an air-conditioning overhaul, the salesman thought, taking a mental note as he watched a dinghy motor toward the boardwalk with a load of the cay’s visitors. He might just have to work a little of his persuasive magic and convince the proprietor that it was time for an upgrade.

He squeezed the empty water bottle in his hand, causing the plastic container to crinkle loudly. Convincing new clients to make a purchase was rarely a problem. Finding money in their accounts to pay for the expenditure, however, was another thing entirely.

He counted the number of hotel guests on the dinghy and smiled optimistically. It was certainly worth a trip out to the cay.

Humming to himself, the salesman dug around inside his leather satchel and removed a packet of papers containing a printout of his itinerary.

After checking the name of the hotel listed on his travel documents, he turned his back to the water and scanned the signs of the businesses fronting the shoreline.

“There it is,” he said, locating a coral-pink block-shaped hotel that was, thankfully, less than a stone’s throw away from the shade of his covered bench.

He shifted the satchel’s strap to the opposite shoulder and grabbed his suitcase handle.

“Boy, am I ready to kick off these shoes.”

•

SWEATING PROFUSELY, THE
salesman stepped inside an open-air diner built into the hotel’s first floor. He’d been unable to find a boardwalk entrance to the hotel, but after craning his neck around the side of the building, he’d decided to check for access through the restaurant.

The place had wood framing painted indigo blue and decorative accents in a rainbow of bright colors—the style was comfortably worn, classic Caribbean chic. A parrot-shaped lawn ornament perched on the diner’s outer railing, but it was a poor day for catching a breeze. The bird’s wide nylon wings stood immobile in the late-afternoon heat.

At this short segment of the boardwalk, the sea passed beneath the wooden walkway, forming a small lagoon that lapped at a row of boulders built up around the diner’s edge. An arched footbridge skirted the pool of water, providing access to the main thoroughfare.

For those seated at the plastic tables positioned along the restaurant’s open wall, the sailboats floating in the harbor appeared almost within arm’s reach. The thriving crustacean community that lived among the rocks was far closer than that.

A speckled brown crab scuttled across the diner’s wet concrete floor. Huddling beneath one of the boulder-side tables, the crab watched as the air-conditioning salesman rolled his luggage around the hostess stand and past the bar to a wide hallway leading into the hotel’s inner courtyard.

•

HAVING FINALLY FOUND
his way inside the hotel, the salesman proceeded directly to the reception desk. With relief, he leaned over the counter toward the receptionist.

“Good afternoon,” he said, his voice a deep charming pitch. “I believe I have a reservation for tonight. The name’s Rock. Adam Rock.”

The West Indian woman behind the counter smiled placidly in return.

“Welcome, Mr. Rock,” she said as she began clicking keys on a bulky computer console.

The salesman laid a heavy hand on the counter, trying to wait patiently for his room. A gold ring on his left hand clinked as he rolled his palm against the surface. He tilted his head to look at the courtyard’s covered ceiling, grateful for the shade.

“Ah,” the woman murmured after a few minutes typing. “There you are.” She glanced up from the screen. “Have you been to St. Croix before, Mr. Rock?”

“Not for a long while,” he replied, stroking his chin. “It’s been about ten years, I believe.” He nodded toward the courtyard’s far wall. “I stayed at the Comanche back then.”

“We’re happy you chose us this time,” the woman said politely, once more preoccupied with the computer.

At long last, she selected a room key and handed it over the counter to the salesman. “Well, Mr. Rock, I hope you enjoy your stay.”

The salesman grinned slyly as if contemplating a joke that had just played out inside his head.

“Yes,” he said, twirling the metal rod in his fingers. “I’m sure I will.”