Afoot on St. Croix (Mystery in the Islands) (5 page)

Wisdom

NOT FAR FROM
the seaplane hangar, near an empty lot where chickens scavenged among the trash and weeds, Gedda stood slumped over the handles of her rusted shopping cart. To the casual observer, she appeared to be half-drunk, half-asleep, or perhaps a little of both—regardless, no one was particularly interested in assessing her condition.

In reality, her senses were keenly attuned. Her body, conditioned from years of rum consumption, had already burned off the earlier shot from the sugar mill bar. Her yellowed eyes cracked open the tiniest of slivers as she watched the hangar doorway, where the most recent seaplane arrivals were exiting the secured loading zone.

She waited, her gaze sifting through the passengers until the last one finally walked through the opening: a scruffy little man in cargo boots, T-shirt, and cutoff camo shorts.

“Char-lee Bak-ah,”
Gedda said with a seedy stare.
“Ah, dere you are.”

•

GEDDA HUNCHED HER
thick neck down into her shoulders as Charlie strode purposefully out of the hangar and turned left toward the boardwalk. Her dry lips rolled inward, gumming what little remained of her
whittled-down teeth.

Charlie seemed confident in the day’s mission; his expression was firm and resolute. He glanced at the hag’s crippled form as he walked past, tapping the brim of his cap in greeting.

But ten steps farther, he paused, appearing to hesitate. His face began to soften, as if he were reconsidering his game plan. He reached down to the return ticket stuffed inside his pants pocket, his fingers fiddling nervously with the top edge.

Muttering to himself, Charlie stopped and stared out at the harbor, his emotions now clearly conflicted.

After a long pause, he checked the time on his watch. Then he took in a deep breath and continued, this time far more tentatively, down the boardwalk toward the Comanche Hotel.

Gedda shuffled after him, pushing her cart out of the empty lot and onto the walkway’s wooden boards.

“Oh, Char-lee,”
she whispered softly.
“You shudda nevah complain’d about dem shoes.”

The Comanche

HASSAN RODE ON
his mother’s hip, one hand wrapped around the folds of her cloak, the other clutching the edge of her headscarf, as she crossed the gravel courtyard to the rear entrance of the Comanche Hotel.

His free-spirited sister had already slipped free from their mother’s grasp. Elena ran ahead, skipping down the crumbling path that circled beneath the hotel’s elevated pool and second-floor pavilion.

“’
Ey
, Elena, come on,” the mother called out in frustration, struggling to keep up. It was difficult to maneuver over the rough ground in her high-heeled shoes. “Hassan, you’re going to have to walk,” she said briskly. Disentangling the boy’s fingers from the cloak’s dark fabric, she set him down and secured her hand firmly around his.

The woman glanced up in time to see her daughter disappear into a covered walkway that ran beneath the side of the pavilion.

“Elena, wait!”

The woman sucked in on her teeth, shaking her head with disapproval. Hassan gasped as his arm jerked forward, but his protesting cry went unheeded.

“She’ll be the death of me, that girl.”

•

THE MOTHER TEETERED
down the path, vigorously tugging Hassan along behind her.

The surface soon transitioned from a composite of coral and concrete to a layout of uneven paving stones, further impeding the woman’s progress. Ducking beneath a low-hanging branch, she pushed aside an overgrown fern and peered anxiously down the narrow walkway. She pushed the folds of the scarf away from her face as she searched for signs of her wayward daughter, but the passage was empty.

The belligerent
honk
of a delivery truck sounded from the next street over, and the woman rushed forward, her heart in her throat.

Hassan winced as one of the fern fronds whipped back and slapped him in the face.

•

A MOMENT LATER,
the mother rounded the corner at the end of the covered passage and entered an alley that serviced, on one side, the hotel’s main entrance, and, on the other, a small convenience store. Hassan in tow, she chugged up to the store’s open doorway.

Just inside, she found her daughter’s curly pigtails bouncing in front of a rack of candy bars.

“Elena,” the woman panted, her anger tempered with relief.

Smiling cheekily, the girl turned toward her mother and pointed at the rack.

“Momma, I’m hungry.”

•

AFTER A LENGTHY
negotiation over the selection of two candy bars, one for each child, the mother finally managed to herd her charges across the alley toward the hotel.

Heavy wooden hurricane doors surrounded the front entrance. The hinges had been loosened so that the flat boards could be propped against the building’s stone-wall exterior. Just above, a balcony ran along the outside of the second floor, casting shade onto the porch and providing much-needed cooling for the reception area inside.

Ushering the children over the threshold, the mother stepped briskly into the reception area and crossed to the front desk.

“Hello, how are you?” she asked the man seated on the desk’s opposite side, trying to effect a courteous tone as she quickly addressed the required pleasantries.

Crucian culture demanded the conversation begin with a respectful greeting. She was in a hurry, but the momentary delay would be well worth the desk clerk’s willing cooperation.

With effort, the woman stifled her impatience as she waited for the man’s measured reply.

“Fine,” he said stiffly. There was a long pause. “Thank you.”

She smiled politely and then launched into her request.

“I made arrangements for your child-care service this afternoon . . .”

•

BUILT IN THE
mid-1700s, the Comanche Hotel was one of the oldest buildings on St. Croix. The ground floor of the four-story estate house was comprised of brick and rock; the upper levels transitioned to a covering of wood siding. The roofline followed a typical Danish-colonial design, with the shingles wrapping over the eaves and extending down around the top floor’s cornered windows.

There had been numerous add-ons and renovations over the years, a tug-of-war between the growing town and the hotel’s need for waterfront access. As Christiansted grew up around the original estate house, the hotel complex expanded toward the boardwalk. The balcony attached to the exterior of the main building’s second level connected to a footbridge that stretched over the alley and led to the pool and pavilion. These newer structures featured views of the harbor and easy access to the boardwalk.

In its guest brochures, the hotel claimed to have served as the childhood home of Alexander Hamilton. Details, however, of exactly when that occupancy occurred and for how long were difficult to nail down. Much like the island of his youth, the founding father’s early history was shrouded in myths and half truths.

•

THE HOTEL’S FRONT
desk was located in a front sitting room of the original estate house, perhaps explaining the reception area’s improvised arrangement and furnishings. The front desk, a massive mahogany piece, sat in the corner farthest from the door. It was flanked by a decoratively wound rattan chair, a sturdy wooden side table, and a pineapple-shaped lamp.

Off to the side, in front of a shuttered window, stood a tall wooden statue, presumably the hotel’s namesake Comanche—although the figure bore little resemblance to the Plains Indians of the American Southwest.

Instead, the carving appeared to be a caricatured cross between an aborigine Carib and a Spanish conquistador.

•

THE MOTHER WAITED
while the desk clerk called the maid who would be providing the requested sitting service. He wiped his brow as he waited for the phone line to be answered, glancing apologetically across the desk for the stifling heat.

Screens covered the room’s open windows, but no breeze filtered in from the alley outside. A slow-churning ceiling fan offered little respite, while a freestanding fan rotating in the corner of the room served only to flutter the papers stacked on the desk. Modular air-conditioning units were available in the individual guest suites, but such cooling mechanisms were expensive to run—and not a luxury afforded the front-desk staff.

•

ENERGIZED BY THEIR
candy-bar sugar rush and seemingly unaffected by the heat, Elena and Hassan stood in the middle of the reception area, finger-poking each other behind their mother’s back as she leaned over the front desk, anxiously awaiting word on the sitter.

A large fly droned, buzzing between the children. Elena swatted at the bug; then she turned toward her brother.

“Hassan,” she said, officiously wagging her finger. “When she comes for you, when she hauls you off to her lair, you’ve got only one chance to escape being eaten.”

“Eaten? Who’s going to eat me?” he demanded, bristling at the suggestion. He crossed his arms in front of his tiny chest and then added, somewhat meekly. “And what’s a
lair
?”

Elena issued a haughty, matter-of-fact response. “Don’t be silly. I told you before. The Goat Foot Woman is out there looking for little children to eat, and you’re just her type.” Her expression softened as she noticed his confused face. “The lair is where she locks up the children she’s kidnapped. It’s a top-secret location. Nobody knows where it is.”

With a sympathetic smile, she patted him on the shoulder. “Sorry, Hassan. It’s only a matter of time. You have to be prepared.”

The boy resisted, giving his sister a suspicious sideways glance. “How do you know all this stuff?”

Elena tossed her pigtails indignantly. “I learnt it in school, of course.”

Hassan hesitated. He didn’t like to give his sister any more leverage over him than she already possessed. And he certainly didn’t want her thinking she knew things he didn’t.

But, as Elena had explained to him numerous times, the preschool he attended each morning wasn’t the same as the “real” school where she was enrolled.

What if his sister was right? He didn’t want to miss out on any valuable information, especially if he
did
happen to find himself captured by the Goat Foot Woman. That was a frightening and downright disturbing proposition.

Finally he assented. “Okay, go ahead,” he said, sighing wearily. “Tell me.”

Elena’s green eyes sparkled with mischief. “Once she’s trapped you in her lair, and she’s about to slice you up and eat you, there’s only one way you’ll make it out alive.” She held up her index finger, pointing it at her brother’s nose. “Just one.”

Hassan sucked in his breath, and his lower lip began to tremble. His earlier disbelief had fallen away. He was now fully engaged in the story.

Elena paused, watching Hassan’s face turn blue from lack of oxygen. She waited until he looked as if he were about to pass out; then she swung her finger toward the wooden statue standing against the wall by the front desk.

“You have to call on the Comanche. He’s the only one the Goat Foot Woman is afraid of. He’s the only one who can save you.”

Hassan released his pent-up breath. With a raspy gasp, his chest heaved as he refilled his lungs.

“He’s been hunting her for years,” Elena said, wrapping her arm around Hassan’s shoulders and turning him to face the statue. “Each night, the Indian comes to life. The wood becomes flesh, and real blood pumps through his veins. He jumps off that perch and walks right out the front door. They say he roams the streets of Christiansted, searching for the Goat Foot Woman. If she catches you, he’s the only one who can rescue you.”

Hassan’s eyes stretched wide, and his mouth gaped open. He stared up at the statue, taking in every detail of its peculiar, rigid figure.

The red-stained wood and broad facial features were those of a native Carib, but the clothing carved onto the body was that of a Spanish conquistador. A draping tunic layered with armor covered the statue’s torso; shiny epaulets capped its shoulders, and a domed helmet rested on its head. On the statue’s lower half, puffy, pleated pants fed into pointed boots that featured swooping, upturned toes.

Elena watched with a big sister’s conspiring zeal as Hassan apprehensively surveyed the Comanche statue. The little boy swayed back and forth, leaning in for a closer look and then recoiling away, his curiosity overwhelmed by surges of repulsion.

The statue’s menacing expression was far from reassuring. Eyeballs the size of eggs bulged out from the skull. Stringy black facial hair extended from swollen cheekbones and loose-hanging jowls.

Midway down the torso, the figure’s muscular hands gripped a long staff, holding it in the air like a club that might be swung at the next guest who dared to check in to the hotel.

With a shudder, Hassan turned and whispered to his sister. “Are you
sure
he’s the one who’s supposed to save me?”

•

BEFORE ELENA COULD
answer, a plump West Indian woman with shiny brown skin entered through a side door. The mother turned from the front desk.

“Okay, you two,” she said, bending toward her children. “You’re going to stay with this lady while I go to my meeting.” She gave her daughter a stern stare. “Don’t give her any trouble.”

The maid smiled and nodded toward the wooden ceiling. “Come with me, little ones. We have some toys in the office for you to play with.”

Elena charged up the stairs, eager to check out the stash of playthings. The heavyset maid hurried after her, panting as she tried to keep up. Hassan dutifully followed the pair, but as he neared the second-floor landing, he stopped and turned to look back.

Squatting at the top of the steps, the boy peered down through the side railing’s wooden slats to the reception area below. He wanted to get one last glimpse of the Comanche, just in case he needed to call on the statue’s rescue services at some point in the future.

After a long moment of squinting at the statue, Hassan nearly fell off the step in surprise. Anchoring his feet to the ledge, he returned his gaze to the first floor, rubbing his eyes in disbelief.

He could have sworn the Comanche’s square head had rotated, ever so slightly, so that its bulging eyeballs were staring right at his mother.