Afoot on St. Croix (Mystery in the Islands) (6 page)

Paradise Lost

CHARLIE BAKER TRUDGED
down the boardwalk, his worn combat boots thumping across the wooden pathway as he headed toward the sugar mill tower and the turnoff for the Comanche Hotel.

He’d been back to St. Croix twice in the last few months, but he was still struck by the changes.

This was a different island than the one that had enchanted him on that first visit ten years earlier, he thought, glancing at the row of businesses—and empty lots—along the Christiansted shoreline. The decaying downtown district bore little resemblance to the amusement park fun-land he thought he remembered. This wasn’t the location that had inspired his impulsive move to the Caribbean. Or had he been that deluded?

The Danish fort still glowed from its outcropping at the far end of the harbor, but the downtown area seemed to have lost much of its luster. The boardwalk’s wooden planks had splintered from the sun’s blistering wear; the surrounding shops had suffered from a decade’s worth of persistent economic downturn.

Across from the seaplane hangar’s exit, he’d seen a homeless woman standing in the middle of a junk-strewn field. The old hag had stared at him as she gripped the handle of a rusted shopping cart that was, itself, loaded with rubbish.

A few steps later, Charlie had walked by an abandoned nightclub that had once blasted its music across the harbor into the wee hours of the morning. The establishment had changed hands several times, falling into greater disrepair with each new owner. The empty shell was now occupied by a pair of vagrant coconut vendors, whose entreaties Charlie had casually waved off.

What’s happened to this island, he wondered, sadly shaking his head.

To be fair, Charlie conceded with a sigh, his perspective had shifted. These days, everything felt different to him, regardless of location. His time in the Caribbean had made him harsher, wiser, and far more cynical.

It now took more than warm weather to impress him.

•

A DECADE HAD
passed since Mira had packed up the kids and left him on that lonely thirteen-acre plot on St. Croix’s east end. Charlie had spent most of the intervening years on St. John, a much smaller island about forty miles to the north.

The least populated of the three main holdings within the US Virgin Islands (the territory also included a small handful of tiny islands and cays), St. John boasted dozens of pristine beaches and a national park that encompassed over half of the island’s landmass. An isolated location with relatively little crime or commercial development, St. John had become a favorite holiday retreat for many Americans.

High-end villas now dotted the hillsides above the main town of Cruz Bay, creating a collage of dramatic coral stone archways, sun-soaked balconies, and infinity-edge swimming pools that overlooked the Pillsbury Sound.

Charlie knew the intricate details of almost every one of those buildings, their foundations, floor plans, lot slopes, and rooflines—because the majority of the structures had been built by his construction company.

•

CHARLIE LANDED HIS
first St. John contract a few days after Mira’s departure.

His client was an expat landowner who had already hired and fired three previous contractors before offering the job to Charlie. The project would require him to abandon several half-finished (i.e., stalled out) construction sites on St. Croix. It was a gamble, but he’d decided to take the risk. In his view, he had nothing left to lose.

Using every last trick he’d learned during those first frustrating months in the Caribbean, Charlie threw himself into the new project. He moved his base of operations to St. John and rented a cabin at the national park’s Cinnamon Bay campgrounds. He spent every waking hour either walking the job site or on the phone to inspectors and regulatory agents. If a telephone call didn’t work, he took the ferry over to St. Thomas and planted himself in the obstructing bureaucrat’s office until they had reached a compromised solution. Money, he found in the more difficult instances, was almost always the compromise that led to the solution.

After paying out bribes—or, depending on your perspective, additional fees—to over half of the government agencies in the territory, Charlie managed to bring that first St. John project to completion. A flood of new contracts followed, and before long, he was managing a large crew of both permanent and day laborers who were fully occupied year-round, six days a week.

Cut off from his family, immersed in his business, and thrown into the distinct culture of a much smaller island, he slowly pulled himself back from the financial—and emotional—brink.

•

WHILE CHARLIE REMAINED
busy on St. John, he sent a few of his workers back to St. Croix to tear down the lean-to. In its place, they built a basic but functional villa that he began renting out by the week, mostly to the local oil refinery’s visiting executives and traveling upper management.

Using that rental income, Charlie eventually transitioned out of the Cinnamon Bay cabin and into a cinderblock house on an inland hill not far from Cruz Bay. The house had a leaky roof, faulty plumbing, and at times, it seemed there were more insects living inside the place than out. But the selling feature was a functional wraparound porch with northern views of Jost Van Dyke and the western edge of Tortola. Each night, he retired to the porch, curled up in a hammock, and watched the sunset.

Charlie was kicked back in that swing one evening, sipping a cold beer, when he discovered a packet of divorce papers, which had arrived in that day’s mail. Hands shaking, he pulled open the envelope’s flap and removed several stiff sheets of paper stamped with legal letterhead. Scanning the communication, he sucked in his breath, as if reeling from a blow to the gut.

The request for the marriage’s formal dissolution had arrived a year to the day from Mira’s sudden flight to Miami.

•

CHARLIE SPENT A
long night in the hammock, staring out across the top of the dense forest that surrounded the porch. Beyond the jungled hillside stretched a black sea and, in the distant horizon, the twinkling lights of Tortola. Above it all hung an impossibly distant moon, a glowing all-knowing orb.

He pulled out his wallet and removed the key lime pie photograph of his kids. The picture was already crumpled and worn from constant reference. Too much time had passed since he’d seen his children and held them in his arms.

Over the course of the last twelve months, his previous life had slipped away, ebbing like the tide into a gray oblivion.

The dedicated family man who’d traveled to St. Croix for that fateful vacation had slowly disappeared. He’d spent one too many nights sitting outside the local dive bar drinking with St. John’s resident crop of expats. He’d lost a part of himself in the tropical haze and rum-induced stupor.

More significantly, he’d lost access to his children.

•

CHARLIE STAYED OUT
on the porch until early morning, rocking back and forth in the hammock. With the sun’s rise, he finally returned inside. Red-eyed and exhausted, he reluctantly signed the agreement, accepting the stated alimony and giving Mira full custody of the kids.

Every thirty days, he dutifully sent a check north to Minnesota, but for nine long years, he had no substantive contact with his family.

Over time, Charlie carved out a niche for himself in St. John’s luxury villa market. He became the go-to guy for high-end properties with potentially tricky approval features. Despite the global recession, there was a constant flow of newcomers willing to shell out big bucks for their own private island paradise.

Charlie was happy to take their money, but he took little joy in the prospering of his business.

He’d long since given up on his idea of paradise.

The Coconut Trade

THE TWO COCONUT
vendors stood in the entrance to the abandoned nightclub, watching as the last passenger from the afternoon seaplane passed their station without stopping. It had been a long hot day, and they had little to show for their efforts.

“Well, Mic,” the shorter of the duo said with a weary nod at the lone dollar the Dane had given them earlier, “looks like we’re eatin’ out of the Dumpster again tonight.” He put his hands on his hips and tapped his bare foot against the concrete. “I really thought this idea was a winner. It should have worked out much better than this.”

His lanky partner leaned against a concrete column. “Aw, don’t beat yourself up ’bout it, Currie. Nobody appreciates fresh produce anymore. They’re lettin’ these kids grow up eatin’ way too much junk food.” He patted his lean stomach. “Speaking of which—I would kill for a basket of French fries right about now.”

Currie chuckled. Mic had a voracious appetite. He’d eat anything he could get his hands on, but generally speaking, the greasier the better.

“Hey, Mic. What’s the special on the board at the brewpub tonight?”

Mic lifted his head and sniffed the air. The bridge of his nose wrinkled; his nostrils flared. After a moment of intense concentration, he announced his findings.

“Grilled pork chops,” he said, smacking his lips with anticipation. “Hey, Currie. We’d better get our order in to Gedda so she saves us some good cuts.”

Currie grinned up at his friend. Mic’s dinner-menu predictions were almost never wrong, but he didn’t rely entirely on his olfactory skills. Currie knew Mic sneaked into the brewpub’s kitchen each morning to see what would be on the evening special.

Mic stepped away from the post, stretching his long legs. “I think I’ll take a side of garlic mashed potatoes with my chops,” he said as he bent over to pick up his ragged T-shirt. After shaking the dust from the garment, he tugged it on over his head. “And a fried pickle.”

Currie threw up his hands in protest. “Stop! You’re making me hungry!”

•

A BEAT-UP TRUCK
pulled into the alley behind the abandoned nightclub. Mic and Currie turned as the driver, the vehicle’s lone occupant, flashed his lights and tapped the horn.

The man who stepped from behind the wheel had a sturdy muscular build, the physique of someone who ate three square meals a day—and none of them out of the refuse pile.

The coconut vendors nodded a wary welcome. The newcomer was a regular on the boardwalk, although he rarely traveled solo. He was usually accompanied by a few thuggish friends and several scantily clad women with bright garish makeup. No one knew his real name, but everybody called him Nova, short for Casanova. He was a beautiful, brawny man—and his reputation with the ladies was known throughout the island.

“Mic, Currie,” he called out, motioning for the men to join him at the truck.

The pair looked quizzically at each other, surprised that Nova knew their names and even more shocked that he wanted to speak with them.

After a mutual shrug, Mic and Currie walked over to the parking area.

The trio leaned against the pickup’s dented hood for a few minutes of casual conversation before Nova got down to business.

“So, you fellas wanna make some real money?”

Currie cleared his throat and cracked his knuckles. He tilted his head, yawning as if he were weighing the proposal against his other (nonexistent) options. It was a carefully performed act, one in which Currie took great pride. He was the designated negotiator for his team.

“What kinda money?” he asked, slowly scratching his round chin with a stubby finger, trying to mask his keen interest.

Nova chuckled at the poorly veiled posturing. “More than you’re making selling stolen coconuts,” he replied with a cynical grin.

“Hey, hey,” Mic cut in, strutting back and forth like an offended rooster. He wagged his finger in Nova’s face. “These aren’t stolen, my friend. Oh, no. They’re
liberated.
This here’s freedom fruit, I tell you.” He strung out the next phrase, emphasizing each syllable.
“Re-vol-ution-ary co-co-nuts.”

Rolling his eyes, Currie pushed Mic out of the way. All the earlier talk about pork chops had woken the hunger in his belly. It was time to cut to the chase.

“What’ch you want us to do?”

Nova’s handsome face broke into a shining smile. His dark skin gleamed in the late afternoon sunlight, the near-perfect complexion hiding the shadows beneath.

“I’ve got a job for you two over in Fred’sted.” He gestured to the truck’s rear cargo bed. “Hop in.”

Mic and Currie looked at each other, communicating with their eyes. The decision took only seconds to reach.

“We’ll do it,” Currie said eagerly. The two men ran back to the club entrance to scoop up their supply of coconuts. One by one, they fed the green balls into a mesh bag they’d lifted from the dive shop at the opposite end of the boardwalk.

“Mic, don’t forget that one over there,” Currie cautioned, pointing to a dusky corner of the nightclub where the last coconut had rolled.

As Mic scrambled after the rogue fruit, Currie called out sarcastically.

“It’s your fault it’s run off like that.
Ya’ve given it cra-zee notions about its in-de-pen-dence.
”

Self-Sufficient

TEN MINUTES LATER,
Mic and Currie sat beside each other in the bed of the pickup truck, their backs leaning against the rear of the cab as it bounced over the pothole stricken pavement.

After winding out of Christiansted’s thicket of one-way streets, the truck merged onto Centerline Road, the slower of two east-west arteries that ran across the length of the island.

The alternative route, Highway 66, provided the primary access to the airport, circumnavigating the island’s main commercial center, and boasted the highest posted speed limit within the US Virgin Islands. While traffic had to slow for intermittent stoplights, stretches of the road were marked up to fifty-five miles per hour.

Currie preferred Centerline’s more leisurely option. He rested an elbow on the truck’s left side railing, taking in the sights. Without transportation of his own, it had been over a year since he’d been to the other side of the island—or, for that matter, outside of Christiansted. He and Mic had been sleeping on benches in the park beside the Danish fort for the last month and a half.

The truck passed a spattering of grocery stores, gas stations, and fast food restaurants offering burgers and fried chicken; then the road transitioned to a more rural, residential mix.

Mahogany trees at least two hundred years old lined the thoroughfare, cooling the ground below. The spreading limbs reached high over the pavement. In places, the branches on either side almost met in the middle.

Currie gazed up at the greenery, taking comfort in nature’s protective canopy. He sighed, enjoying the scene. For all its problems, this island was his home, the only one he had ever known.

•

LIKE MOST CRUCIANS,
Currie was a fiercely independent, self-reliant individual. It was a trait that had been passed down through the generations, one that was firmly imprinted on the modern day mind-set.

The temperament had its roots in the colonial era, when St. Croix was the workhorse of the Danish West Indies, producing the bulk of the territory’s sugar export. The barrels had been traded for a range of commodities, from mercantile to foodstuffs, providing everything the island’s residents needed to survive the Caribbean’s harsh, humid climate.

Over the years, St. Croix gradually transitioned away from that agricultural foundation. Sugar distillation and oil refinery facilities moved in, providing steady jobs, a reliable source of power, and, most important, a free flow of rum. Crucians took great pride in their island’s economic diversity, particularly the development of its non-tourism-related industries.

Of all the Virgins, Santa Cruz was the least reliant on the ever-fickle vacation business. At least a third of its residents were employed, either directly or indirectly, by the mammoth refinery on the island’s south shore. Another third found work in the wide-ranging government sector. Tourism swept up the remainder.

This much-touted diversity and perceived self-sufficiency, however, belied an economic base that was far more fragile than the numbers let on.

Currie gazed out at the island as the pickup bumped along. They passed numerous landmarks from his life, familiar sights that were in equal parts pleasing and painful to behold.

In the hard luck of his twenty-seven years, he had worked on the bottom rungs of all three of the island’s economic sectors. He had failed miserably in each one, multiple times over.

•

CURRIE TILTED HIS
head back, letting the hot breeze hit his face. His thoughts shifted to the nebulous work assignment waiting at the end of the pickup ride.

As a rule, he generally preferred self-employment. After many aborted attempts to fit into the regular workforce, he found he got into a lot less trouble if he rowed his own boat. He hoped he and Mic hadn’t made a mistake throwing in their lot with Nova.

As the truck braked for a stoplight, Currie peeked through the cracked glass in the pass-through window at the back of the cab.

He watched as Nova drummed his hands against the steering wheel, impatiently waiting for the signal to change. The radio was tuned to a local reggae station, the volume turned to its highest bass-thumping setting.

Nova didn’t seem to notice Currie’s head looking through the back window—or the coconut vendor’s eyes sliding toward the black canvas bag that lay on the passenger seat.

With the release of the light, Nova pounded the gas pedal, and the truck surged forward. The sudden momentum combined with the jolting
bump
of yet another pothole caused the mouth of the bag to slide open—revealing the heavy metal handle of a gun.

Currie quickly returned his gaze to the truck’s back bed. Weaponry was not an uncommon sight on the island; the populace of Santa Cruz was heavily armed.

But still, it gave him pause.

From the right side of the truck bed, Mic rubbed his stomach and hollered over the roar of the engine. “Hope we make it back to Chri’sted in time for the pork chops.”

Currie smiled his response, hoping Mic didn’t pick up on his anxiety.

He was beginning to think they might have bigger problems to worry about than missing dinner.