Island Blues (3 page)

Chapter Five

The woman with the cornrows stood up as her young friend left, and then subsided back into her seat, shaking her head. Her handsome face was drawn with lines of worry, and she fiddled with the polished wood beads around her neck.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Sabrina asked, swiveling in her seat so she faced the other woman.

“I'm not sure anybody can help at this point,” said the woman, and sighed. “But thank you for asking. I'm Patti Townsend, by the way.”

She was about fifty, and wore a vivid crimson dress, splashed with black, gold, and green, and accented by an array of stylish hand-made jewelry. She looked like she was comfortable in her own skin, though this contentment may have been hard won. She wore the battle scars of hard work and sorrow around her eyes and mouth.

“I'm Sabrina Dunsweeney. It's nice to meet you, Patti. Where are you from?”

“Is it so obvious I'm a tourist?” Patti laughed and looked down ruefully at her outfit. “I suppose it is. I'm from Cincinnati.”

“Cincinnati! Patti,
I'm
from Cincinnati. I live here now, but that's where I came from.”

Patti looked delighted, and stood up to clasp Sabrina's hand. “I'm always happy to meet someone from home.”

They chatted about Cincinnati for a few minutes, until Sabrina noticed it was nearing two-thirty.

“Oh! I wish I could stay to talk with you, Patti, but I'm supposed to be somewhere right about now.”

Patti said she needed to be somewhere as well, and they agreed to try to get together later and talk. Feeling fortified with her nice prawn appetizer, and the smile on Patti's face, Sabrina went back inside the lodge in search of the meeting room.

A man, well-dressed and scruffily attractive, was speaking as she reached the doorway. “What is the matter with you, Gilbert? You're getting sloppy, you know that? You've been acting like a chicken with its head cut off ever since we got here. You need to get it together, man!”

There were three people inside the room, and two of them looked up as Sabrina came in. The third, older man, wearing a bright yellow dashiki and a long beard, did not seem to notice Sabrina's entrance.

“Yes, did you need something?” The scruffy, attractive man looked up at Sabrina.

“Didn't you see the do-not-disturb sign? This is a private meeting, miss!” snapped the man who had been acting like a chicken with its head cut off. At the moment, dressed in an unfortunate olive-green suit and squatting in his chair, he looked more like a disaffected toad than any type of poultry.

“I am looking for Gilbert Kane,” said Sabrina in a clear, firm voice. “I presume that you are he.” She fixed her stern gaze on the toad. It was not in a former schoolteacher's nature to tolerate rudeness, no matter how uncomfortable she felt.

“Yes? What did you need?” The toad, a.k.a. the headless chicken, a.k.a. Gilbert Kane readjusted his attitude and smiled with what looked like painful effort. It was not a very convincing smile. He would not be a handsome man at the best times, and right now large sweat stains were spreading under his meaty arms and his muddy eyes bulged behind thick glasses.

“I am Sabrina Dunsweeney, Comico Island's Ombudsman.”

No one laughed, for which Sabrina was grateful.

“And what does that mean, Sabrina?” This from the attractive man who was radiating puzzled charm. His dark blond hair was mousse-spiked and fashionable, and his square chin was adorned with a two or three day growth of hair, trimmed into the shape of a triangle.

“I was appointed to work as a liaison between Comico Island's visiting guests and the local islanders. I understand you're having a problem?”

“Yes, we have a problem! I've talked to every official on this island, including that woman at the welcome center.” A whiff of distaste crossed his face. “Anyway, this after it was clear that nobody was going to do anything to address our concerns.” Gilbert popped a few discreet pills into his mouth and as an afterthought offered his hand to Sabrina.

“I understand you booked through Vicki Carroway at Paradise Vacations.” Taking his hand, Sabrina found it cool and squishy, and she resisted the urge to wipe her hand on her skirt.

“I can't believe how that woman talked to me!” Gilbert sounded truly flummoxed by Vicki's rudeness.

“Why don't we start from the beginning? Tell me about yourselves, and what brought you to Comico Island.”

Gilbert seemed to be calculating whether brown-nosing or belligerence was in order. His glance took in the few people gathered around the doorway and he made his decision. “Please sit down, Sabrina.” His attempt at a schmoozy smile was unconvincing, more suited to a prostate exam. “We have a few minutes before our meeting begins. We are the—”

“I'm Michael Siderius.” The good-looking man thrust an aggressive hand at Sabrina, cutting off Gilbert's words. “I'm the president of Hummers International. Gilbert is our spokesman.” This with a dismissive nod toward Gilbert, meant to put him in his place. Gilbert did not seem inclined to be put anywhere. “This is my father, Joseph.” Michael nodded at the man in the yellow dashiki by the window. “You'll have to excuse him, he's been tapped into the Hum for a long time now.”

Michael apparently deemed this explanation enough, and Sabrina nodded in befuddled acknowledgement as the older man turned his stare on her. She felt the irrational urge to back away from the force of his gaze. The color of his eyes was very ordinary, a nice, medium brown, but it was the
way
he looked at her that made Sabrina want to turn away with a nervous laugh. The stare was probing, personal, though impersonal at the same time, like a doctor who touches you in the most intimate manner while thinking about yesterday's golf game.

Joseph turned away to look back out the window, and Sabrina exhaled with relief. What a spooky man.

“Perhaps you can explain a bit more about your group,” she managed to say. “I'm afraid I've never heard of you.”

“Hummers International Incorporated was founded by my father to bring together those rare, special people who hear the Hum. Only a small percentage of people hear the Hum, so it's important that they have a forum in which to talk with other people who share their gift.” Michael reeled off the speech with practiced ease.

Joseph rose to his feet and began moving about the room, trailing his fingers across the windowsill and the podium. As Joseph approached Gilbert, the stolid man stepped back, a strange expression crossing his face. Joseph brushed by him, and Gilbert visibly shuddered.

“Most people say the Hum sounds like a diesel motor idling right outside their window. It's louder for some than for others, of course. No one experiences it the same,” Michael was saying. Joseph went back to his chair by the window.

“But what
is
the Hum?”

“The voice of the universe,” Gilbert said.

A conversation stopper if ever there was one. What exactly does the universe have to say?
All this cosmic dust is starting to chafe my nether regions?
Sabrina thought about that for a moment and then asked, “Do you hear it?” She directed the question at both Michael and Gilbert.

“Good Lord, no,” Michael burst out and then reddened. “What I meant to say—”

“He means only the very special hear the hum,” Gilbert interjected smoothly. “Our meeting is about to start, so we need to hurry this along. We have come to Comico Island because of its isolation. Several times a year we do a retreat with a few of our most talented members, the ones who Master Joseph has agreed to train in the proper management of their gift. We were unhappy with our last location, so we decided to try Comico Island. Our most pressing need is privacy, which Vicki Carroway at Paradise Vacations promised us.” Gilbert leaned forward and knocked his knuckles on the table. “We've only been here a couple days and already we've been disturbed at our rituals! This isn't acceptable, do you understand?”

“I understand.” Sabrina nodded with what she hoped passed for competent professionalism. “I will see what I can do.”

“Thank you, Sabrina, we appreciate your help. We have important work to do here, and we cannot be interrupted!” Gilbert said the words with force, but his attention was on the people filtering into the room. Michael had gone to stand by Joseph and was holding his father's wrist.

As Sabrina left the room, she saw that Michael's eyes were closed, his head tipped toward the ceiling as he mouthed silent words. Joseph continued to stare out the window, indifferent to the touch of his son's hand.

***

“Short of setting guards around their meeting spot, I can't promise them privacy,” Matt Fredericks said when Sabrina found him in the lobby at the front desk. “They say their meetings have to be held outside, but how am I supposed to guarantee complete privacy under those circumstances? I've done everything I can do to try to accommodate them.” He looked pained, as if it physically hurt him not to be able to make a guest happy. “I could strangle Vicki for doing this to us. It's not the first time, either.”

“Then why do you let Vicki book groups for you?”

“If I didn't, I wouldn't get any groups.” Matt was morose. “It was much better before she got here. All the hotels, bed and breakfasts, and rental companies fended for themselves, and we did fine. But Vicki set up shop on the island and cornered the market on booking Comico Island vacations. Her company is in all the good magazines and when you search on Comico Island on the Internet, her company comes up in the first ten spots. Everybody is going to her, especially when she started promising discounted rates to the guests. Some of us held out for a while, but the bottom line made it necessary to pay her exorbitant commissions and give her the discounted rooms just to stay in business.”

“How terrible!”

“You see, I can't even complain about what she's done with the Hummers. She's got me over a barrel.”

“Where do the Hummers hold their sessions now?” Sabrina needed to be practical if she was going to accomplish anything.

“We have a picnic spot on the other side of the island. It's hard to find unless you know where it is, so we've been driving them there in golf carts. The first day they were there, a young couple stumbled in on them. Mr. Kane and Mr. Siderius have been yelling ever since.” His frown turned automatically to a smile as a guest wandered through the lobby.

“Is there nowhere else you can think of that would be more private?”

“Short of dropping them off by boat on one of the spoil islands, no, I really can't think of anything.”

Sabrina raised an eyebrow.

“Yes…we
could
do that. Why didn't I think of it?”

“You did,” Sabrina pointed out.

“What a marvelous idea! We'll take them by boat to Goat Island and no one will disturb them. It's perfect! Thank you, Sabrina!” Matt picked up the phone and began punching numbers.

Sabrina headed for the door.

Her work here was done.

Chapter Six

“Lima, it was so easy! I talked to everyone involved, listened to what they had to say, and we came up with a solution that's going to make everyone happy. I think I might be able to do this! I have some ideas that should really help things around here.”

Lima liked to see Sabrina radiant with excitement. It was a far cry from the way she had been looking the last couple of months. He couldn't help but worry just a tad, though. Sabrina always meant well, she did, but sometimes things just snowballed out of her control when she got enthusiastic.

“It sounds like you done good, Sabrina.” Lima just hoped things worked out as well as Sabrina expected, though eighty years of hard living told him that things seldom did. And his young friend didn't need any more disappointments just now.

The front porch of Tubb's General Store was deserted as dusk began stalking through the streets of the island. From where they sat they could smell dinner cooking in various houses and restaurants down on the harbor front. Not ready to go home to his dark, empty house, Lima wondered how he could talk Sabrina into having dinner without her offering to cook for him. She did so love to cook.

Bicycle Bob, who had been dozing on the bottom step, sat up and looked around in fuzzy puzzlement. Bicycle looked like a twelve-year-old who had done a forty-year Rip Van Winkle on his way to a pick-up baseball game, and taken to drinking upon waking to drown his confusion. He adjusted his baseball cap, which had fallen back on his peppered brown hair, and wiped in absent disinterest at his dirty tee-shirt and shorts. He took a drink from his paper-bagged bottle, and got to his feet without looking at Sabrina and Lima.

“Bicycle, you look like a befuddled billy goat,” Lima called, but Bicycle didn't respond as he mounted Trigger, his bright yellow beach bike, and pedaled off toward the harbor where a blanket of crimson and orange had been thrown across the water.

“Did you hear someone put in a bunch of old change at the change genie over on the mainland dock? Bunch of quarters from the nineteen twenties, Davey said. Clogged up the machine good and the man who changes it was hopping mad.”

“Nineteen-twenties change? That's odd.”

“Weeell, the nineteen twenties, that was the time to live on Comico Island, let me tell you.” Lima sat back in his chair. “I don't remember much about it, of course, but I've heard the stories. There was so much liquor being run off our coast that some mornings the shores were littered with bottles from rumrunners who had hit an oyster bar in the dark at high speed. Every man, grandmother, and kid who had a boat went angling for burlap bags of liquor every chance they got.

“Kenneth Fredericks and his high-falutin' Shell Lodge were bringing in some of the biggest names of the day. The twenties were like the sixties in a way, you understand, people going through a rebellious phase and having a good time doing it. Of course, a lot of people died too, from drinking bad liquor, or at the very least they went blind.

“Here on the island, the islanders were loving it. They were so poor that their only entertainment was when the preacher came to town every month or so and saved their souls and cut their hair. So, they were happy to make some money off of Fredericks and his crony David Harrington, who had built a house on the island just to use for smuggling. And the police did well as long as they knew how to look the other way. Sheriff Fitz Mitchell had that down pat—Fredericks and Harrington helped get him elected Sheriff of Teach County, which was right difficult for somebody living on Comico Island, and he had to show his appreciation somehow.”

Lima continued his reminiscing, until Sabrina said, “Lima, I'll cook you dinner to celebrate my day's success.” She got to her feet and looked at him in invitation. Lima thought fast.

“You've worked hard today so why don't we go to Walk-the-Plank Pub for dinner? Of course, I wouldn't dream of insulting you by offering to pay,” he added hastily, “but we can go French.”

“Dutch?”

“Whatever.”

***

Lava colors glimmered and glowed across the surface of the water as the sun sank in a fizzle of clouds. Across the darkening sky, uneven lines of birds headed toward their night roosts, a few stragglers struggling to catch up.

The ruthless pull of instinct to find a place to roost for the night was making the seagull uneasy. Anxious squawks betrayed his indecision, but he was unable to pull his attention away from the man on the beach below. He was hungry, and humans on the beach sometimes meant food. The man might throw bread high up into the air, and the seagull would swoop down and snatch i, right before it hit the water.

Feeling a gust of wind, he adjusted his wings, and then had to flap hard as his loose, useless leg upset his balance. No matter how hard he tried, the broken leg would not tuck up under his body like the other one. It was no longer easy to catch the small fish and skittering crabs that were his mainstay, and he was hungry.

With a plaintive, mewling cry, he circled closer to the beach, his beady eyes fixed on the man lying on the sand. The man lay very still, and the seagull swooped down even closer, seeing something glittering beside him. A fish? The man did not move as the seagull hovered, contemplating. Did he smell blood? The seagull was unsure, as his sense of smell was erratic.

Something rocketed toward him and the seagull flapped his wings to get out of the way, almost crashing into a tree in his awkward haste. He looked up and saw the osprey coming back toward him, screaming in a piercing voice that this was his, his, his, and the seagull pulled away from the beach without looking back. There was no arguing with an osprey.

The sun was down, and oily dark was spilling across the water. Leaving the dead man behind him on the beach, the hungry seagull flew off into the night.