Afoot on St. Croix (Mystery in the Islands) (8 page)

The Room at the Top of the Stairs

GLOWERING WITH DETERMINATION,
Charlie set off on the path to the hotel. Looking up over the pavilion’s roofline, he could see the row of windows on the fourth floor of the hotel’s main building and the corner room where he and Mira had met the previous Thanksgiving.

The event was still burned in his memory. Details from the November encounter flooded his head, even as he tried to focus on the rendezvous ahead.

•

THE SEAPLANE HAD
made a relatively uneventful landing in the Christiansted harbor that day. The spear-fishing snorkeler had just begun his battle for control of the runway, and the arriving aircraft had avoided the errant swimmer with only a minor swerve.

Charlie had stepped out onto the seaplane’s concrete pier, full of hope and optimism. He could hardly believe that after ten long years, he was at last going to see his children.

He had invited Mira and the kids to stay at the rental villa, which he’d cleared of tenants for the week. There would be plenty of space for each of them to have their own room, and, he’d reasoned, it would provide a nice private location for the reunion.

When he’d landed in Christiansted, however, Charlie had found a message on his phone from his ex-wife asking him to instead meet her at the Comanche Hotel.

It was an odd choice, he’d thought. If she’d changed her mind about the villa, there were several full-service resorts on the island that would have been a better fit in terms of room size and amenities for the kids.

Nevertheless, he had dutifully trotted down the boardwalk to the sugar mill bar and taken the right turn along the concrete path that circled the gravel courtyard.

Trusting Mira, Charlie now realized, had been his first mistake.

As he continued down the same path, each step bringing him closer to yet another confrontation, he vowed not to repeat that error.

•

AFTER SKIRTING THE
lower side of the raised swimming pool, Charlie traversed the line of paving stones that led to the covered walkway beneath the second-floor pavilion. Passing through to the opposite side of the short tunnel, he turned onto the narrow alley that ran in front of the entrance to the Comanche Hotel.

Seconds later, he paused outside the reception area. Reaching for the glass door’s brass handle, he steeled himself for entry. He glanced at the wood paneling of the storm covers propped against the building’s stone walls, sucked in his breath, and pulled back on the handle.

The man sitting behind the reception desk looked up as Charlie marched sternly inside.

“Mister Baker,” he said with rigid formality. “Welcome back. We’ve been expecting you.” He slid a pair of keys across the dark surface of the mahogany desk. “In case you don’t remember, the green one is for the second-floor access to the guest area. The brass one is for the room.”

The clerk nodded at the ceiling. “She’s waiting for you upstairs in number seventeen.” With a curious smile that Charlie tried to ignore, he added, “It’s the one all the way at the top of the stairs.”

“I remember. I remember,” Charlie replied warily as he snatched up the keys. It was the same room as before, he thought nervously. Shifting his backpack on his shoulders, he asked, “Did she have any kids with her?”

The man’s dark face was frustratingly oblique.

“I’m sure I couldn’t say, sir.”

Grumbling, Charlie turned and began the long climb to the top floor. Halfway up the first flight of steps, he stopped and looked down over his shoulder—not at the desk clerk, but at the statue standing on the far side of the room.

Charlie stared for a long moment at the Comanche’s wooden figure and shuddered.

“I always feel like that crazy bugger is watching me.”

•

CHARLIE CLOMPED THE
rest of the way up the stairs to the second floor and took a left down the exterior balcony. Using the green access key, he navigated through a locked door into the secured guest area.

The hotel’s upper floors were decorated in a nautical theme. Oil paintings depicting ocean landscapes hung from wainscoted walls painted in light yellow and cream. Refurnished side tables with intricately carved legs displayed glass light fixtures fashioned out of inverted hurricane lamps.

It was a pleasant, comforting scene, if a bit rough around the edges. Here and there, nicks marred the wooden furniture; the occasional crack or chip could be seen in the glass mirrors mounted onto the walls. A small seating area overlooked a tropical garden that was overgrown and in need of a good pruning. The hotel, like many businesses in downtown Christiansted, was struggling for its economic survival.

Charlie rounded a corner and continued up a wide staircase to a similarly furnished third floor. Midway down yet another hallway, he approached the last flight of stairs, this one so steep and narrow that the steps resembled those of a ladder.

“All the way to the top,” Charlie said with a grimace as he gripped the railing and began the final ascent.

•

A MOMENT LATER,
Charlie reached the fourth floor, the attic level. The curving roof above him cut in on either side, creating a tight, claustrophobic space.

The rubber soles of his worn combat boots creaked across the wooden floorboards as he proceeded to the end of the main corridor and a pair of doors, which were positioned diagonal to one another in a triangular-shaped corner.

A square placard affixed to the facing of the door on the left marked it as number seventeen.

Charlie didn’t need the signpost. Over the last six months, he had stood in this same spot before—more times than he now cared to count.

Whipping off his backpack, he dug inside its main compartment and pulled out a painter’s respirator mask. Stretching the mask’s back strap over his baseball cap and around the base of his skull, he positioned the plastic centerpiece over his nose and mouth. Short disc-shaped canisters protruded from either side of the contraption, each one containing a filter designed to capture toxic particulates in the air.

Grimly sucking in his breath, Charlie slid the brass key into the lock.

“Here goes nothing.”

•

CHARLIE PUSHED OPEN
the door, poked his masked face inside, and glanced around.

Like the rest of the hotel’s attic level, the room had a steeply sloped ceiling that rose at its center to a series of sharp points. Windows cut into the roofline provided a view over downtown Christiansted and, beyond, a small blue slice of the harbor.

There was a double bed, fitted with a cream-colored spread that had been overlaid with a dainty lace detailing. A flowered rug lay across the open space just beyond the door, and a wardrobe had been positioned against the tallest wall.

Charlie’s gaze briefly skimmed over the furnishings. He took only a quick glimpse out at the exterior vistas. His primary focus was trained on the woman standing in the center of the room.

“Hello, Mira.”

Mira

MIRA STOOD IN
the middle of room seventeen on the top attic floor of the Comanche Hotel, watching as her ex-husband edged tentatively through the doorway.

Oh, Charlie, she thought, feeling momentarily sorry for him. Why do you keep coming back here?

She had received confirmation from the seaplane operator that he’d been booked on that afternoon’s flight, but she was still surprised that he had actually shown up. Given the outcome of their last two meetings, not many men would have risked making a third appearance.

But there he was, all five foot two inches of him, valiantly pursuing the search for his children—ten years too late.

•

TILTING HER HEAD,
Mira cast her gaze over the man whose stocky figure had once been so familiar. Their last two encounters had been brief, and she hadn’t taken the time to study him closely.

He was dressed in his regular construction clothes. The wardrobe was the same as the day she’d first met him at a little truck-stop diner up in northern Minnesota: a plain white T-shirt, ragged around the edges, and cutoff camo pants, fitted loose around the waist.

There on his feet were the beat-up combat boots. She let out a barely audible sigh. How many identical pairs of those boots had he worn through the years?

She turned her attention to the painter’s mask that Charlie had strapped over his face. Presumably, he thought this precaution might prevent a repeat of the outcome of their two previous meetings. He had concluded—erroneously—that it was some noxious component of her perfume that had rendered him unconscious.

That won’t help you a bit, she thought, trying not to laugh at his stern expression.

Charlie Baker. You always were such a stubborn man.

•

MIRA TOOK A
few steps toward her ex-husband, carefully measuring her stride as she decreased the distance between them. She stared at his masked face, taking in the details. There were little signs, here and there, of the wear ten years of aging had done to his body.

He still wore his hair long and tied back in a ponytail, but touches of gray had started to lighten the strands near his temples. Crow’s-feet had begun their inevitable march across his upper cheekbones. His shoulders, while still sturdy, curved ever so slightly inward.

Overall, she thought, sizing him up, he’d held together well. Such a shame things hadn’t worked out between them.

It had ended so suddenly, his usefulness to her.

•

MARRIAGE, MIRA REFLECTED,
was a fragile balance, a teeter-totter of give and take, a symbiosis between benefactor and provider. Her relationship with Charlie had grown shaky long before they left Minnesota; the move to the Caribbean had only widened the expanding gulf between them.

Every day on the island, it seemed, her husband had drifted farther from her grasp. She had worked for weeks to regain his attention, all the while fearing she might never reel him in again.

Just as the marriage reached a tipping point, Mira met someone else—a better-funded suitor, flattering and attentive, who promised a return to the stability and quality of life she had once enjoyed.

The blowup over Charlie’s endless snooping through her closet had been the last straw. That was the point where she had shifted her allegiance.

It was a sad affair, but in the end, she’d had to dispose of him.

Like a worn out pair of shoes.

Beware the Woman in the Green Shoes

MIRA CONTINUED HER
slow measured approach, sauntering across the room toward her ex-husband. The flowery fog of her perfume swilled the air as she reached up and pulled out her hair clip, releasing her long mane to drop down past her shoulders. With every step, her silk dress creased against the curves of her slender figure. The soles of her green heels tapped seductively against the wooden floor, a hypnotically repeating cadence.

“The shoes,” Charlie gurgled beneath the mask. He pointed indignantly at her feet. “You’re wearing the shoes.”

Mira nodded a silent confirmation, continuing her steady pace until she stood mere inches away from him. With her sizeable height advantage, she towered over her ex-husband. It was a mismatched standoff, the Amazon and the troll.

Charlie glared sternly up at her, his eyes watering from the concentrated scent of her perfume. The stringent smell burned his nasal passages, searing his lungs. His sinuses began to clog, and he choked into the mask.

He staggered sideways, overcome by dizziness. He veered toward the door, a desperate attempt at escape, but his wobbly legs crumpled beneath him, and he slumped to the floor.

Helpless, he watched as Mira’s fuzzy form bent over him.

She lifted the brim of Charlie’s baseball cap and slipped her hand around the base of his neck to tilt his head upward.

“Where are the kids?” he demanded weakly as she gently lifted the mask from his face.

In the far reaches of his numbing mind, he picked out the scents of breath mints mingling with cigarette smoke as Mira leaned toward him and planted a perfect lipstick imprint on the center of his forehead.

•

FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER,
Mira knelt on the floor next to Charlie’s unconscious body. Reaching for his wrist, she held her index finger against his skin and quietly checked his pulse.

Seemingly satisfied with his vitals—or lack thereof—she rose to her feet. Returning to the wardrobe, she removed the cloak from its hanger and wrapped it around her body, covering the green dress. She wound her long locks into a tight bun at the nape of her neck and fastened the clip around it. Then she turned to the scarf, floating the fabric in the air to shake out the folds before spreading it carefully over her head.

The heavy mascara and lipstick she’d applied earlier were already gone, removed with several damp tissues from the bathroom. With her pale face once more framed by the black cloth, she appeared slightly tired and drawn. The only external sign of her previous glamour was the pair of open-toed shoes, which peeked out from beneath the cloak’s bottom hem.

After a last glance around the room to check that she’d gathered all of her belongings, Mira slid the strap of her purse over her shoulder and gingerly stepped over the motionless body heaped on the floor by the door.

Glancing at her watch, she walked into the hallway and locked the door behind her.

As she started down the narrow ladder-style stairs, she gathered the folds of the cloak, holding the hem off the ground to avoid tripping on the steps.

On the descent, she gazed down at the strappy green heels—the shoes that had led to the dissolution of her first marriage and the initiation of her second.

Funny how an inanimate object could cause such a dramatic change in lifestyle, she thought as she reached the third-floor landing. Before the cloak swished to the ground, she stretched out her leg to take one last look, angling her foot to admire the stylish detailing sewn into the leather.

Every so often, Mira reflected, it pays to be impulsive.

•

THIS SAME MANTRA
had been enthusiastically adopted by her youngest daughter.