Afoot on St. Croix (Mystery in the Islands) (20 page)

The Danish Ambassador

FARTHER UP THE
shoreline on the northeast side of Christiansted, the Danish ambassador and his wife were finishing a late breakfast. Surrounded by starched white tablecloths, gilt-edged porcelain, and silver place settings, the pair sat on a verandah at a luxury resort, one of St. Croix’s finest accommodations.

The resort’s restaurant was positioned at the highest point of the property. A line of arched openings had been cut into the length of a wall, providing an expansive view of the sea.

With a rolling multi-acre golf course, numerous tennis courts, its own private beach, and a full-service spa, the resort was a favorite for weddings, honeymoons, and anniversary getaways. A carefully crafted veneer created the convincing facade of a tropical paradise.

Highly regarded in the travel industry, the resort was regularly featured in advertising targeted to North American audiences. Through the years, it had even been featured in numerous public radio sweepstakes for local stations throughout the United States, including northern Minnesota.

After a week of pampering at this prestigious locale, it was not uncommon for vacationers to consider a permanent move to the island.

•

THE AMBASSADOR LAID
down his fork and neatly wiped his mouth with a linen napkin. He gazed out at the panoramic shoreline, taking in the sweeping view of the sea. A pristine beach ringed the water’s edge, the sand framed on its opposite side by a border of carefully manicured greenery. Blurred in the distance, he could just make out the quaint buildings of downtown Christiansted.

A recent appointment, the Danish politician was making his first trip to his country’s former island colonies.

He was a pale powerful-looking man with a square jawline and thick gray hair streaked with shiny strands of silver. Suitably distinguished for his position, he was dressed in a three-piece suit, silk tie, and hand-stitched leather shoes.

Crooking his pinky finger, the Ambassador picked up his morning cup of tea and politely sipped the last swallow of the warm brown liquid. The day was off to a marvelous start, he thought with a reserved sigh.

His wife noted the subtle signal. They had been married for more than twenty years. Throughout the length of that time she had devoted herself to being an expert companion. Her husband, she sensed, was ready to depart for their day’s activities.

A similar age as her spouse, the wife had a slim build, feathery gray-brown hair, and a delicate bone structure. She wore a simple yet classy dress of a muted color, belted around the waist. It was paired with panty hose, sensible heeled shoes, and a string of pearls. Her role was to complement her husband, not to outshine him.

She swallowed the last piece of melon on her plate and looked across the table expectantly.

“Is it time, dear?”

The Ambassador had already gauged the hour from a clock mounted on a nearby wall. Nevertheless, he angled his wrist and gently tugged back his sleeve to check his watch, a jewel-encrusted, multi-armed Swiss contraption.

“I’m afraid so. Such is the life of a traveling diplomat.” He gave his wife an indulgent smile. “There’s no rush, sweetheart, but I believe the driver will be here any minute now.”

•

SHORTLY THEREAFTER, THE
Ambassador and his wife strolled out through the hotel’s front reception area. Mural-painted walls evoked a romantic Mediterranean air, a theme that continued through the lobby to the tiered stone fountain in the middle of the circular front drive.

The property had originally served as one of the island’s oldest sugar mill estates, and remnants of that era were still readily apparent, most notably in the truncated windmill tower just off the main entrance.

Since the conversion, the hotel had hosted numerous high-profile diplomats and politicians along with several famous athletes and Hollywood entertainers.

This week, of course, the rooms were filled with a high concentration of Danish guests in town for the Transfer Day celebrations.

As the Ambassador and his wife crossed the lobby, they paused briefly to chat with some fellow Europeans who were admiring the hotel’s art and decorations. But the husband soon ushered his wife down the polished steps to the front drive.

The ride from the airport the previous evening had been through darkness. He was eager to get his first daytime view of St. Croix.

•

EMMITT SAT IN
a black sedan in the resort’s pull-through driveway, waiting for the Ambassador and his wife to emerge from the reception area.

He’d been called in at the last minute to substitute for the scheduled driver who had come down sick. Over his regular taxi driver shirt and slacks, he wore a borrowed black jacket that was two sizes too big. He’d only recently managed to get his name added to the chauffer company’s roster, and this was his first official gig.

As Emmitt tapped the steering wheel, admiring the stitching on the leather cover, he spied his likely clients descending the resort’s front steps.

The pair looked almost regal as they approached the fountain in the center of the drive. The Ambassador raised his hand and issued a well-practiced wave, the motion apparently meant to signal the driver.

“That had better be the Ambassador,” Emmitt muttered under his breath as he opened the driver’s-side door.

“I can’t imagine anyone else would be parading around like that.”

•

EMMITT CLIMBED FROM
behind the wheel and stepped forward to make his greeting.

“Mr. Ambassador, sir,” he said, trying to effect a professional manner despite the loose coat flapping about his waist. He nodded toward the woman. “Missus Ambassador.”

The Danish pair appeared not to notice his ill-fitting jacket—if they did, they were too polite to let on.

Emmitt opened the door for the wife and then rushed around the car to do the same for the husband.

“How long will it take us to get to the plantation where they’re holding the festivities, Emmitt?” the Ambassador asked as he slid into the rear passenger seat.

“Not more than a half hour, sir. I shouldn’t think.”

“We have some time before the event then,” the Ambassador replied cheerfully. “Can you give us a little tour on the way? Show us a bit of the island. My wife and I have never been here before.”

“Certainly, sir,” Emmitt said, swallowing uneasily. He’d been given strict orders about the route he was to take to the plantation, but as he glanced in the rearview mirror at his distinguished passengers, he sensed he was following the right protocol.

At least, he hoped he was. After a week of chicken-gambling losses, he needed the money from his new driving duties.

•

THE SEDAN SOON
reached the outskirts of Christiansted. Emmitt kept the car’s speed as close as possible to the twenty-five-mile-per-hour speed limit, hoping that the Ambassador and his wife wouldn’t notice the potential detour.

Emmitt had no intention of stopping in town. So far, he had managed to keep his freelance employment a secret from the other drivers, and he wanted to keep it that way for as long as possible. He could just imagine the jeers he would receive when they found out.

But as the car passed a sign marking the outer city limits, he heard a suggestive throat-clearing from the backseat.

“Christiansted? That’s the main town, isn’t it? Why don’t we take a quick swing through there, Emmitt?”

“Of course, sir,” Emmitt replied dourly.

Maybe the King Street taxi drivers would all be taking a mid-morning coffee break, he thought, and the alley would be empty.

Emmitt sighed wearily.

That seemed highly unlikely.

•

AS THE SEDAN
crawled through Christiansted’s regular morning traffic, Emmitt slunk low in his seat, pulled his cap down over his forehead, and kept his eyes fixed firmly ahead.

Despite his efforts at disguise, it was impossible for Emmitt to ignore the men in the alley rising from their foldout chairs to stare at him. There was no getting around it now; his cover was blown. As the sedan entered the King Street curve, the phone in his front shirt pocket began to vibrate with incoming text messages, but before he could turn off the device, the Ambassador’s wife screamed from the backseat.

“Oh! Watch out for those chickens!”

Emmitt mashed down on the brake, narrowly avoiding an energetic youngster that had jumped out in front of its mother. The hen and her line of chicks strutted safely around the sedan’s front wheel—as the men in the alley eagerly leaned forward to count the surviving number.

“That’s the old Danish Fort there across the park, isn’t it?” the Ambassador asked, less concerned than his wife about the poultry’s welfare.

“My, it’s an impressive building,” he said, patting his wife’s knee. She was still turned sideways in her seat, looking back at the chickens. “It really gives one a sense of the past, doesn’t it?” He called up to the driver, “My wife had ancestors stationed at the fort, back in the day.”

Emmitt gripped the wheel a little tighter, and a few tense lines formed around the corners of his mouth. This extra driving job was quickly turning out to be more than he had bargained for.

“You should take the tour while you’re here,” he managed to say in an even-toned voice.

“They’ll give you plenty of information about your ancestors.”

Timing Is Everything

MIC AND CURRIE
were growing restless inside the boarded-up house across the street from Kareem’s grocery store. It had been a long night without food or water, and the stress of their impending criminal activity was weighing heavily on them.

“Is it time yet?” Mic asked hoarsely, his throat dry.

Currie glanced down at the cheap wristwatch Nova had left with him. They were to stage the holdup at exactly eleven o’clock—or face the consequences.

“No, not yet,” Currie replied, his throat similarly parched. He lifted his shirt and wiped it across his sweating forehead.

Mic sighed in frustration. “You know that thing you told me not to talk about?”

Currie gave his friend a reproachful stare. After Mic’s umpteenth mention of the missed pork chops, Currie had declared a moratorium on any further food discussion. The topic was simply too painful for words. They were both becoming weak from lack of sustenance.

“I know, I know,” Mic said, holding up his hands, palms outward. “But just in case you were wondering.” He swung his right arm down to point at his stomach. “I’m still hungry!”

•

CURRIE STARED WITH
intensity at the watch face as he propped himself against the street-facing wall.

“Eleven o’clock,” he murmured wearily. “Eleven o’clock.”

“Remind me again,” Mic said, looking over Currie’s shoulder. “I can never get this right. The long hand means the hour, and the short hand means the minute?”

Currie closed his eyes, trying to think. His nutrient-starved brain took a moment to process the statement. He waved his finger in the air, as if manipulating an imaginary clock in his head.

“No, it’s the other way around.”

Mic stared up at the ceiling, his face contorted with concentration. “So, the short hand means the minute, and the long hand means the hour?”

There was another long pause as Currie puzzled, brow furrowed.

“No, no, you’ve still got it wrong. The long hand means the minute, and the short hand means the hour.”

“Right,” Mic said dubiously. Returning his gaze to the watch on Currie’s wrist, he tilted his head sideways. “What about the third one?”

“Which one?”

“The one that swings around faster than the others.”

“That’s the second hand.”

“Second to what?”

Currie groaned with exasperation.

“How did you ever get by without me?”

•

INSIDE THE BOARDED-UP
shack, the heat was rising, and with it, the stench from the pile of ragged clothes left by Nova’s last victim. Currie’s footing grew increasingly unsteady; his head began to swim.

Time was either dragging or racing. At this point, it was impossible for him to tell which.

Nova lurked somewhere outside with his gun, watching and waiting. They were surely headed to prison for this stunt—assuming they made it out of the grocery store alive.

Currie gulped a dry swallow and once more looked down at the watch. His hands shook, making the watch harder to read, but one of the wand points was clearly approaching the eleven mark.

He sighed in desperation. Their time had run out. They’d better get a move on.

Somberly, he handed Mic the extra unloaded gun. Nodding grimly, Mic slid the weapon into the waistband of his shorts and followed Currie to the door.

Currie turned the rusted handle, half expecting it to still be locked. Part of him would have preferred to stay barricaded in this room rather than embark on the unpleasant task before them.

But with a loud creak, the door swung open, letting in a blinding ray of sunlight.

He looked back at Mic and waved his gun’s muzzle toward the opening.

There was no turning back now.

•

AT PRECISELY NINE
FIFTY
FIVE
, the erstwhile coconut vendors exited the boarded-up building across from the grocery store. Blinking in the bright sunlight, they staggered into the street.

Shielding his eyes with his hand, Mic gazed at the wide array of foodstuffs visible through the iron bars that protected the store’s front windows.

“Hey, Currie.”

“Yeah, Mic.”

“Forget the cash. We’re going to steal some food.”

The Motorboat

UMBERTO’S MOTORBOAT BOUNCED
across the water, skirting St. Croix’s north coast on its way toward Frederiksted. The opera singer stood at the wheel, his hair whipping wildly off his forehead, his cutoff T-shirt flapping in the wind.

The two dachshunds lay calmly on the floor at their master’s feet, their tongues lolling out of their mouths. Even as the boat ran across waves that caused it to rock dramatically up and down, the pair looked completely relaxed.

The boat’s fourth passenger was not faring nearly as well.

A few feet away from the dogs, Charlie crouched queasily beside a plastic bucket. His face had lost all color; every lurching roll brought him closer to losing the contents of his stomach.

Suddenly, a strange sound rose above the rumbling of the motor.

Charlie looked up, incredulous.

Umberto had begun to sing.

Another rolling pitch brought him back to the bucket.

“I should have taken the taxi.”

•

CHARLIE’S CHURNING STOMACH
caused him to miss the entrance to Salt River, and he was still bucket-occupied when they motored past scenic Cane Bay. During a short window of intestinal stability, however, he surfaced long enough to see St. Croix’s rocky northwest shoreline, the most inaccessible portion of the island.

Umberto stopped singing to point out Maroon Ridge, the rugged area where, during the colonial era, runaway slaves had hidden in caves and other secluded encampments to escape recapture. A number of the fugitives set sail from the treacherous coast in hopes of reaching the freer territories to the north.

Charlie managed an appreciative nod at the historical information—and at the temporary pause in Umberto’s singing, the latter of which, unfortunately, soon resumed.

Turning, Charlie stared at the foaming line of waves that trailed behind the boat. The sun was still bright overhead, but dark clouds had filled the eastern horizon. The spreading mass billowed across the sky, as if the weather were chasing after them, saving up its ammunition of moisture to pound upon their heads.

“Wretched Santa Cruz,” he muttered to himself.

And with that thought, Charlie returned to his bucket.

•

“WE’RE ALMOST THERE,”
Umberto hollered down to his prostrate passenger as the boat finally rounded St. Croix’s northwest curve and headed south toward Frederiksted.

Gripping the railing, Charlie pulled himself into a standing position.

The rocky landscape had softened into a sandy shoreline, along which a road could be seen, circling the island’s edge. Not far down the coast, the road forked, sending off an inland branch down a mahogany-lined thoroughfare that disappeared into a thick forest.

As the motorboat approached the tiny town, the behemoth cruise ship docked at the pier grew larger in size, dwarfing the adjacent structures. A metropolis on water, the smooth white walls rose up like a mobile skyscraper.

Umberto scaled back the engine as the boat entered the shallow water, a minnow in the shadow of a whale. He peered up at the cruise ship, his focus narrowing on the security personnel patrolling its outer perimeter.

“I’m afraid they won’t let me pull up to the pier,” he mused, searching the beach for an alternative place to dock.

“You get this thing anywhere close to land, and I’ll jump out and swim for it,” Charlie replied, emptying the contents of the bucket over the side into the sea.

•

UMBERTO GUIDED THE
motorboat as close as he dared to the Frederiksted shoreline. Then he flipped a ladder over the boat’s side. Reaching for his backpack, Charlie waved good-bye.

“Thanks for the ride, Bert.” He gripped the railing and swung a foot over onto the ladder’s top rung.

“It was my pleasure.” The opera singer smiled apologetically. “More mine than yours, I’m afraid.”

With a grimace, Charlie clambered the rest of the way onto the ladder. He looked down into the water, sizing up the depth.

“We can wait for you?” Umberto volunteered. He found himself more and more intrigued by the activities of this strange little man.

“Not necessary,” Charlie replied swiftly. He took a step lower, easing his booted foot into the water.

“You’re meeting someone?” Umberto asked, trying to prolong the conversation.

Charlie shifted his weight uncomfortably before answering. “My daughter.”

“She’s the one from the note?” Umberto prodded.

Charlie grunted affirmatively. “She asked me to meet her at the Transfer Day ceremonies.”

He released one hand from the ladder and reached into his pocket for his wallet. Unfolding it to access the contents, he removed the faded photo, tattered around its edges, of two children posing in front of their just finished plates of key lime pie.

“She’s the one on the left,” he said, holding it out for the opera singer to see.

Umberto raised his eyebrows.

“She’s awfully young to have written that note.”

Charlie fiddled with the brim of his cap. “She’s a lot older now than when that picture was taken.”

He sighed, anticipating the coming recrimination. “Ten years older.”

•

UMBERTO AND THE
dachshunds watched as Charlie waded through the water, holding his backpack and wallet over his head. He eventually slogged, dripping, onto the beach. As he reached the side of the road, he shook out his lower half, wiggling one leg after the other in the air. Flapping the wet sides of his pants, he squished the residual liquid from his boots.

Then he pulled down on the brim of his cap and set off toward the Danish plantation, leaving a trail of wet boot prints behind him.

Umberto tapped his chin, trying to imagine the story that had led the stocky man to that day’s bizarre events.

After a moment’s reflection, he issued his assessment.

“Fascinating.”