Afoot on St. Croix (Mystery in the Islands) (4 page)

Blame It on Rick

CHARLIE BAKER SCOOPED
up his backpack from the pier, the last piece of luggage remaining beside the now-empty seaplane, and slid the straps over his shoulders. Setting off toward the hangar exit, he pulled down the rim of his frayed baseball cap to shield his eyes from the sun’s bright glare.

The grimy construction contractor plodded halfway across the loading zone and then paused. His thoughts were still trapped in the memories of that first holiday week on the island—a glossy blur of happy images whose recollection had soon turned bittersweet.

•

SQUINTING IN THE
distance, Charlie found the easy marker of the windmill tower near the boardwalk’s midpoint. His gaze then shifted a short distance to the right, stopping on a large hotel painted a distinctive coral pink and the open-air diner built into its lower waterfront level.

His kids, he remembered, had loved the frozen key lime pie at that rainbow-decorated diner. He and his family had eaten there so many times during their vacation that the waitstaff had begun to recognize them on sight.

“Another round of key lime pie!” the hostess would holler back to the kitchen as soon as they stepped up to her stand.

The kids had enjoyed the dish’s presentation almost as much as the actual treat. The cook would drizzle a sweet raspberry sauce over each of their plates, creating a happy-face design around the rim of the piecrust.

Sighing in remembrance, Charlie removed his wallet from the rear pocket of his cutoff camo pants. Reaching into the billfold, he pulled out a faded photograph of two youngsters grinning over their empty plates, both mouths smeared with bright-red raspberry sauce.

Still staring at the photo, his thoughts turned to the kids’ other favorite boardwalk pastime. After wolfing down large helpings of key lime pie, the family would often walk down to the brewpub to watch the afternoon crab races.

Charlie smiled to himself. He could still hear the children’s shrieking voices, squealing with delight as they rooted for their chosen crab to cross the circled chalk line ahead of the pack.

Of course, the family had also enjoyed the island’s other tourist activities. They’d taken the obligatory sailboat snorkeling cruise to Buck Island, a nature preserve about a mile offshore. On another day, they’d driven to Point Udall on the island’s east end, just so they could say that they’d been to the United States’ easternmost edge. Each excursion had been memorable, but, hands down, Charlie’s favorite outing had been a jeep tour through the rain forest to visit a farm with beer-drinking pigs.

When they weren’t otherwise occupied, they’d gone to the beach at Cane Bay, a sandy stretch on the island’s north shore with excellent snorkeling. A tree house–styled restaurant just across the road had served the best conch fritters he’d ever eaten.

It was the beach time that had doomed him, Charlie reflected ruefully.

With every minute of sun-drenched bliss, his dread of Minnesota’s cold, wet winters had grown. As the day of their departure neared, the thought of all those frozen rooftops waiting for him back home had been more than he could bear.

Sometime during that vacation week on the island, his Midwesterner’s instinctive practicality had deserted him. Intoxicated by the sunshine and the warm, clear Caribbean waters, he’d begun to consider the once unthinkable.

The morning of their return flight, Charlie had posed the fateful question to his wife.

“Mira, hon, what d’you say—why don’t we move to St. Croix?”

•

ONCE DECIDED, THE
move quickly built its own momentum.

The house in Minnesota sold within weeks, leaving little room for second thoughts or reconsideration. A yard sale and a lengthy ad in the local newspaper’s classifieds section took care of the minivan and several pieces of furniture that were too large to ship. The family packed what remained into Charlie’s pickup and drove south to Miami.

At Florida’s southern port, the truck was loaded onto a transport vessel. From there, the family hopped a flight to their new island home: a flat piece of arid land on St. Croix’s northeast shore.

The plot was a fantastic bargain—or so they’d been told by their real estate agent.

The land featured thirteen rolling acres complete with a stunning sea view, an overgrown vegetable garden, and a bare-bones lean-to with a leaky roof and inoperable plumbing.

•

A COMPLETE RENOVATION
and expansion of the new residence was at the top of Charlie’s to-do list, its priority lying just beneath the successful transfer of his construction business to St. Croix.

He and Mira envisioned a lavish estate, complete with a wide veranda off the master bedroom and a terraced swimming pool for the kids. Together, they’d drawn up a variety of potential house plans and excitedly discussed furnishings and decor.

But as aspirations for the new house ballooned out of control, the family’s financial prospects began to rapidly diminish.

Charlie was experiencing, firsthand, the difficulties of island commerce.

•

ON THE SURFACE,
there appeared to be no reason why Charlie’s construction business wouldn’t succeed on St. Croix. There was no shortage of projects in need of his skills and expertise, and, with his stellar Minnesota references, he quickly accumulated a long list of clients, many of them expats or vacation homeowners, eager to engage his services.

There was a reason, however, for the island’s backlog of long-hoped-for and uncompleted projects.

No matter if the property was in downtown Christiansted, north along the picturesque coast, or out in the residential wilds of the East End—each undertaking inevitably became mired in a monumental struggle with local bureaucracy, the idiosyncrasies of Crucian culture, and, last but not least, the black hole of “island time,” meaning that any stated time was never the actual time that anything ever occurred.

•

FOR BETTER OR
worse, the Caribbean has always been an inherently laid-back place. Throughout the centuries, numerous colonial empires and countless sugar-trading enterprises have struggled against this immutable trait, to no avail. It is an unavoidable consequence of the environment. Regardless of the might of the opposing force, nature has her way in the tropics.

Where a bitter cold might spur a body to action, if for no other reason than to generate much-needed warmth, the Caribbean’s sweltering heat caused the exact opposite response. Human self-preservation dictated the necessities of dark sunglasses, loose-fitting clothes, and slow measured movements.

On any given day, one could generally expect transport delays of twenty minutes to an hour. A dinner reservation might wander several ticks of the clock. Afternoon excursions often drifted into sunset tours.

In construction-related matters, the time differentials were far greater. Projects were frequently pushed back weeks, months, or even years. Many were never completed at all; they were simply left, exposed and decaying, in the wearing humidity. The rubble of these half-finished structures stood as a warning to newcomers with oversized ambitions.

It was a caution that Charlie had failed to heed.

•

FOR CHARLIE, THOSE
first few months on the island were a maddening period of wrenching adjustment. As his deadlines lagged further and further behind and his cash flow trickled to a halt, the meager nest egg the family had brought with them to the island started to run out.

With bills piling up and his business foundering, Charlie began scrupulously evaluating every purchase, weighing the merits of even the tiniest of expenditures.

He spent hours each night studying his financial spreadsheets, calculating and re-calculating the family’s monthly budget. The price of groceries, gas, electricity, and water—everything, it seemed, save the oxygen in the air—cost so much more than he had anticipated. Each line item weighed on his conscience, tormented his sleep, and pushed him deeper into a desperation-driven depression.

And so, as Charlie’s stress intensified and the family’s financial predicament grew more and more tenuous, the promised renovation to the leaky lean-to and its rustic plumbing suffered its own “island time” deferral.

• • •

CHARLIE STARED ACROSS
the shoreline at the Christiansted boardwalk, thinking back to that cold winter day in Minnesota and the sound of the waves emanating from the truck’s radio as he’d warmed his hands by the heater.

“Rick Steves,” he muttered, recalling the name of the celebrity travel show host who had emceed the public broadcast station’s sweepstakes.

Charlie lifted his baseball cap an inch off his head and smoothed the sweaty hair beneath. Ramming the hat back down over his forehead, he concluded bitterly.

“I blame it all on Rick Steves.”

•

IF HE’D KNOWN
how it all would end, would he still have made the leap?

It was a question he didn’t want to answer; guilt prevented an honest response. Ten years later, the truth was still too painful to admit, but Charlie blamed only himself for the events that happened next.

The Shoes

A BAGGAGE ATTENDANT
pushed a cart full of checked luggage toward the loading zone for the next outbound flight.

“You going to stand there all day?” he hollered at Charlie.

With a startled grunt, Charlie tucked the faded photo back into his wallet. Cramming the wallet into his pocket, he stepped toward the gate. “I was just leaving.”

The attendant mashed his foot down on the cart’s metal brake, as if he had suddenly remembered something.

“Hey, weren’t you here the other week?” he demanded and then nodded his own response. “Yeah, I remember. You were the guy asking about that nice-looking lady with the long brown hair . . . the one in the green dress.”

Charlie paused near the hangar exit and shrugged.

The attendant leaned over the top of the luggage cart.

“So—did you find her? Or are you still on the hunt?”

Charlie shifted his weight, visibly uncomfortable. His cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “Both, I suppose,” he muttered grimly.

The attendant let loose a loud guffaw as Charlie quickly turned and stepped through the gate.

“Well then, sir,” the man said, smirking as if he knew the reason for Charlie’s embarrassment.
“Wel-cum back to San-ta Cruz.”

Still chuckling to himself, he released the brake and shoved the luggage cart forward.

“Wel-cum back to San-ta Cruz.”

•

SANTA CRUZ.

The island’s original Spanish designation was commonly tossed about in the local lingo. It was a nuanced way for Crucians to distinguish themselves from the tourists, the island’s large number of transient refinery workers, and the “Statesiders” (anyone newly arrived from the continental United States). The amusing confusion that the term generated among the uninitiated was seen as an added bonus.

Crucians were nothing if not proud of their heritage, which they saw as distinctly different from that of the Thomasians—residents of St. Thomas, aka “the Rock.” (The tiny island of St. John was too small to merit comparison or even a nickname.)

The Santa Cruz title evoked the essence of the island’s colorful history. The name was officially bestowed by explorer Christopher Columbus—right before a member of his crew was abducted by the local Carib Indians, fricasseed, and served for lunch.

At least, that’s how the story was commonly recounted on modern-day St. Croix.

While warm and welcoming to the majority of its visitors, the island had a long history of disposing of unwanted guests.

•

“SANTA CRUZ,” CHARLIE
repeated miserably as he left the hangar. “That’s what did me in.” He shook his head and sighed wearily. “I bet that poor Spanish fellow never saw it coming.”

After a moment of reflective silence, he added bitterly, “I know I didn’t.”

• • •

FOR THE FIRST
couple of months after their move to St. Croix, Mira was surprisingly understanding of the family’s financial predicament. She seemed to comprehend the gravity of their situation, and she claimed to be fully committed to their new casual, beach-oriented, low-maintenance lifestyle.

Mira told Charlie not to worry about his business struggles. This was nothing but a minor bump in the road, she assured him. They would make do until things turned around. She vowed to live a life of shopping austerity—temporarily, at least.

For a few short weeks, Charlie unclenched, a wee tiny bit, and he let go of some of his stress. After a concerted combination of strong-armed politicking and dogged determination, he began to make progress on a few of his construction projects. He even dared to think he might muddle through after all.

But just as that faint glimmer of hope appeared on the horizon, the dark shadow of the past returned to snuff it out.

•

WHILE FULL-SCALE RENOVATIONS
to the lean-to were on hold, Charlie had installed a few minor improvements to make the living space more habitable. Using a series of freestanding partitions, he sectioned off an enclosed area to use as the master bedroom.

In one corner, he fashioned a makeshift closet, complete with hanger bars and shelving. This allowed Mira to unpack some of her things and to arrange her clothing in the way to which she was accustomed. It brought a small sense of normalcy to the otherwise dysfunctional household, and Mira joyfully set about decorating the new room.

Unfortunately, as Mira started to reassemble her extensive wardrobe, a number of new items began to appear.

A flowery print dress sneaked its way onto a closet clothes hanger. A seashell-themed charm bracelet crept into the jewelry box on the dresser. A colorful scarf slithered into a cabinet drawer. A perfume bottle with an ocean-icon label mysteriously infiltrated the medicine cabinet.

Charlie, for whom one handbag or pair of shoes looked exactly the same as the next, was at first unaware of Mira’s relapse into shopping addiction. He was so caught up in his own problems, he was oblivious to the toll the family’s dire financial straits had taken on his wife.

It wasn’t until he received his credit card statement at the end of the month that he finally caught on.

That night, Charlie calmly confronted her. He was a stoic man, not prone to outbursts or emotional displays, so he broached the subject as dispassionately as possible.

“Mira,” he said, carefully placing the bill on the kitchen table, “is there something you’d like to tell me?”

Tears immediately welled up in her eyes. “Oh, Charlie. It’s not what you think.” Gulping, she glanced down at the bill. Then, slowly, she returned her gaze to his.

“Don’t worry,” she said, brushing her hair away from her face. “I’ll take care of it.” She averted her eyes, this time staring at the floor, and let out a dry sob.

“I just couldn’t bear to step foot in that stinking Porta Potty one more time,” she said plaintively. “I had to go shopping.”

Charlie nearly choked on the lump that swelled up in his throat. This was all his fault. He was the one who had brought them to the island. They should have never moved down to the Caribbean. They should have never left Minnesota.

But even then, in that moment of guilt and despair, he knew his sentiment of regret lacked sincerity. The lure of the tropics was already far stronger than the draw of the north’s stability.

“Let’s just give it a few more weeks,” he said, swallowing at the assurance he knew was a lie. “If we can’t make it work, we’ll pack it in and head back to the States.”

“Okay.” Mira sighed pitifully as he put his arms around her.

Charlie winced at the earnestness in her voice.

“I promise. It won’t happen again,” she pledged vehemently. Then she flashed her simple smile. “Not until you’re back on your feet.”

•

IN THE FRAGILE
balance of human emotions, insecurity and doubt are far more lasting emotions than that of remorse.

For the first few days after his heart-to-heart with Mira, Charlie fought a mighty struggle with his conscience. He cursed himself for being a suspicious man. He desperately wanted to believe his wife—and yet, some inner demon deep within his tortured mind persistently conspired against her.

Every moment they spent together became a test of trust.

Was that a new dress or one from her existing wardrobe? That wraparound skirt she wore on their outing to the beach . . . it looked familiar—or was it? Had he seen that necklace before? Those earrings? He couldn’t be sure. He nearly drove himself mad with questioning.

One thing he knew for certain: he wouldn’t be fooled a second time.

•

CHARLIE SOON FOUND
himself making regular trips into Christiansted’s shopping district. He paid several lengthy visits to the area, intent on becoming an expert in women’s fashion.

Armed with a notepad and pencil, he conducted a thorough and methodical survey of all the clothing boutiques in the island’s main town, creating a list of their available inventory. He studied each dress, handbag, and pair of ladies’ shoes, writing down a description along with the item’s corresponding price tag.

Then, every night after his wife had gone to sleep, he sneaked into her closet with a penlight to check for any new purchases.

For weeks, nothing pinged his radar. His tiny light failed to illuminate any out-of-place items. He began to feel foolish, but he continued his vigilance. He couldn’t stop himself; he was obsessed.

Because Charlie was so avidly searching, he eventually found something that verified his suspicions—critical, damning evidence that confirmed his worst fears.

•

IT WAS LATE
one evening, near midnight, when the discovery occurred. After several hours of tossing, turning, and lying awake worrying over a construction-related matter, Charlie had at last crawled out of bed and removed his trusty penlight from his work tool belt.

Taking care not to wake Mira, he crept across the bedroom’s concrete floor to the closet. After stepping inside, he flicked on the light and began his nightly surveillance.

There, in a dark corner, behind the long tail of a trench coat, he spied something that made his blood run cold with fear and loathing.

It was a pair of three-inch-high emerald green heels.

He instantly recognized the open-toed shoes. He’d been fretting over the fate of this particular set of footwear ever since it had gone missing from the storefront of a prominent King Street shop the previous afternoon.

“It’s the s-s-seven hundred dollar pair of shoes!” he gasped out loud, nearly apoplectic with shock.

The volcano, slow to erupt, blew its stack in spectacular fashion. Forgetting that his wife was fast asleep in the next room, Charlie repeated the phrase he’d shouted when he first realized someone on the island had purchased the pricey item. His indignant voice rumbled through the lean-to.

“Who would pay seven hundred dollars for a pair of shoes?!”

•

THE NEXT MORNING’S
breakfast was a silent affair. Mira refused to look at her husband, much less speak to him.

After Charlie left for work, she packed her bags. She took the children with her to the airport, and the group boarded the first available flight to Miami.

It would be ten long years before Charlie would see them again.